Mind Scrambler Read Free

military-to-real-world clock conversions in my head: We were meeting Burdick at 3:30 PM.
    â€œThe stenographer will arrive at sixteen-hundred hours.”
    Four.
    â€œWe should have ample time to take his deposition and rendezvous with Miss Landry.”
    â€œI told Katie I’d do breakfast with her tomorrow at nine.”
    â€œThat should not pose a problem. I have the court reporter on deck for eleven, should we or the prosecuting attorney have follow-up questions.”
    â€œBurdick’s cool with sticking around town till we’re all done?”
    â€œRoger that. Apparently, Mr. Burdick is not very fond of my father.”
    I could relate. I met the guy once. Joe “Six-pack” Ceepak has that effect on people.
    â€œPerhaps,” said Ceepak, “Mr. Burdick would enjoy seeing the show with us.”
    â€œHe might. There’s a two-drink minimum.”
    â€œOne can always order orange juice or seltzer, Danny.”
    Yeah. Seven bucks for bubble water. Viva Las Vegas.
    â€œIt’s fifteen-ten now. Official check-in time was posted as three PM .” Ceepak always knows all the rules. “Shall we take our bags up to the room?” he suggested.
    â€œSure.”
    We both packed pretty light for our overnight trip. I tossed together a gym bag with clean underwear, socks, and a shaving kit. I had planned on buying a fresh T-shirt for the bus ride home. Something like
I Got Lucky in AC.
    â€œWhat floor are we on?” Ceepak asked.
    â€œTen,” I said. “The elevators are way over there.”
    To get to our elevator bank, we needed to hike five miles across a minefield of slot machines.
    By the way—you don’t have to yank down on a handle to send the cherries spinning anymore. You just sit on a stool and bop a button. The new-style machines don’t pay out coins, either. They issue “credits” on a slip of paper. It’s a lot like getting a gift receipt at Wal-Mart. If you miss the sound of tumbling quarters when you hit the jackpot, not to worry—hidden speakers simulate the plink and clink of cascading coins in full stereo surround sound.
    â€œDanny?” Ceepak head-gestured up a lane between two rows of nickel-slot machines sporting a Cleopatra theme. These bad girls had five spinning reels, instead of the more traditional three, and about twenty different lines zigging and zagging across the pictograms of pythons and sphinxes and alligators and Nile river fruit that must’ve meant something to the cranky Italian grandmothers feeding the machines their debit cards.
    â€œThird machine on the left,” Ceepak muttered. He saw something. Something besides flashing lights and twirling hieroglyphics. He gave me a slight head bob so I’d see it, too.
    Young dude. Pretending to pick up something off the floor very close to a stool where a white-haired lady—who looked a lot like George Washington on a day when his wooden teeth were giving him splinters—sat, eyes fixated on her spinning blurs and flashing lines.
    â€œPurse,” Ceepak whispered.
    I nodded.
    â€œAccomplice.” He tilted his head slightly to the right.
    Across from the guy rummaging around on the floor, another guy was opening up a gym bag. I figured the guy working the “oops, I dropped my nickel” scam on the carpet was supposed to snag the handbag, then toss it off to his accomplice, who’d stash it in his Adidas tote and hightail it out of the casino.
    â€œCover me,” Ceepak said as he stepped forward.
    Unfortunately, we didn’t bring our sidearms with us on the busso I knew any covering I did would have to involve fisticuffs, wrestling, or martial arts—three things I really should spend some time learning about some day.
    Ceepak waited. Until the doofus on the floor made his move and grabbed hold of the shoulder straps to the lady’s handbag.
    â€œFreeze!” he shouted—almost loud enough to be heard over