11. Nick

ELEVEN

NICK

Did he get what he wished for? News at eleven.

There was a gleam in Doug's eyes that Nick was quickly learning meant there would be trouble, and it was probably trouble for Nick.

"Shall we?" Doug said, his tone innocent. "You go ahead of me. That way, if I fall, I'll be able to grab onto you."

"This way, Mr. Swanson, Mr. Sedgewick."

Filled with trepidation, Nick followed Ginny toward the portal.

"Wouldn't it be weird if it really did lead to a different dimension?" Nick said over his shoulder. "And handy, much easier than driving or flying."

Nick didn't hear Doug's response clearly, but it was something about picking the wrong door and Outer Mongolia.

"Is there an Inner Mongolia?" Nick asked. He'd wondered before and meant to look it up but always forgot. He was probably going to die never knowing if there was an Inner Mongolia. Or if space aliens thought humans were the aliens. The chicken or the egg? Who was the real alien?

Doug poked him between the shoulder blades. "Keep moving, Sedgewick."

Soundlessly, the door opened and a smiling Ginny motioned them to pass through. Nick peered around, trying to memorize everything he was seeing. Doug hadn't said as much, but he figured observing was his job while Doug played with the sharks.

The VIP room proved to be smaller than the previous two gaming areas. There were just six large felt-covered tables, spread far enough apart to give plenty of room for the servers, other staff, and visitors to walk between them. As Nick had suspected, the only game was poker.

After the last few days, what Nick knew about poker had expanded to fit on top of a plastic chip.

"You're at table three, gentlemen," Ginny said, leading them to one of the tables closest to the tiny stage.

Great, they were going to get a full blast of Velvet Elvis. Tonight, he was dressed a bit more vintage, fifties and early sixties. His hair was a little more carefree, the signature lock flopping across his forehead. More Rat Pack, less Liberace.

"Can I put in a drink order for you?" she asked.

After ordering a vodka soda, Nick looked around at the rest of the table and the people sitting at it. There were four players plus Doug, with room for two more. The dealer, whose name tag announced him as Mr. Theodore, stood in the pilot's seat in the center. The position probably had a real name but Nick had no idea what it was. He wasn't playing, after all, just taking up space. Observing.

"Player in," Mr. Theodore said.

Was Theodore the dealer's first or last name? A question Nick might never learn the answer to. Without speaking again, Mr. Theodore dealt Doug and the other four players seven cards each. Nick watched but also listened to Velvet Elvis perform.

His first song was Nothing But a Hound Dog . The song—Nick knew because he stored random facts in his head—had not, in fact, been stolen from Big Mama Thornton, no matter how Velvet Elvis had introduced it, but instead from Freddie Bell and the Bell Boys, who'd opened for Elvis in Vegas early in 1956. Nick wished he stored more useful information in his memory bank, but odd facts it was. The stage lights brightened and focused on the performer while the lighting in the rest of the room dimmed slightly.

"Let me know if you need anything else." A nameless waitperson set their drinks down on the felt-topped table and moved to the next group.

Nick took in the rest of the room and players. He'd watched high stakes poker on TV and this was supposed to be high stakes poker, but was there something off about it? After a few minutes, he realized that there was no tension in the room. When he'd watched on TV, all the players were intent and focused. These players seemed relaxed, almost sleepy.

He glanced over at Doug. Doug's eyes were not shut, but they were definitely lowered.

Velvet Elvis started singing Are You Lonesome Tonight? , which wasn't Nick's favorite. He shifted in his seat, wishing he could get up and walk around. He felt twitchy and uncomfortable again, like he'd sat on an anthill. The dealer tapped the table with his index finger and each player flipped a card in turn.

Nick kept one eye on Mr. Theodore, who seemed alert enough. Minutes later, four of the players laid down their hands and an older woman on the far side of the table smiled and dragged the chips toward her. She looked familiar. It took Nick a minute to place where he'd seen her before, but then he remembered. She was the one who hadn't had to wait in line on their first visit to the club. Whoever she was, she was a real VIP.

Mr. Theodore dealt another round and Elvis began to sing Can't Help Falling in Love . This was Nick's favorite Elvis song, but he wasn't enjoying it. Velvet did a fine cover, but Nick found himself shifting in his seat. Something felt wrong, off, and he couldn't figure out what.

A few minutes later, after Doug had lost yet another round—not at all a 007-type poker player—he poked him in the side.

"We need to get out of here," Nick whispered.

"Can't. I have to finish the game."

"I'm telling you we need to leave."

"Nope." The word was spoken with finality.

"I'm going to go find a restroom."

He moved to get up, but the dealer shot him a baleful look. Doug grabbed his suit jacket, forcing him to stay put. Fine .

But he knew something was wrong; the back of Nick's neck was extra twitchy. Goose bumps formed on his arms as if he was cold, but he wasn't. He was genuinely disturbed by something he couldn't put a name to. He couldn't shake the impression that something very, very weird was happening. But if Doug wasn't ready to leave, there was no way Nick would be able to drag him away.

The play ended with the senior citizen winning again. Mr. Theodore cracked open a fresh deck of cards, shuffled them, and began dealing hands to each player. Doug didn't even look at the dealer. None of the players looked at him. Which, okay, Nick found that odd.

Obviously, the players were supposed to be concentrating on the cards in their hands, but this was more than that. Or less. Nick wasn't sure which. All he knew was that something was wrong and Doug was ignoring his warnings.

He'd just about decided to cause a scene when Elvis abruptly stopped singing and the lights went up just enough to make players blink. Nick's attention had been on Mr. Theodore again, who, he was shocked to note, was wearing earplugs. Why was the man wearing earplugs?

"Games are finished for the rest of the evening," said a voice over the sound system.

Nick looked around, but whoever was speaking wasn't in the room. Curiouser and curiouser.

Doug set his cards down and looked at Nick for the first time in a very long hour.

"What?" asked Nick. "Why are you looking at me like that? Can we just get going already? This place is giving me the creeps," he added in a hiss.

Somewhat reluctantly, or at least it seemed that way to Nick, Doug rose to his feet.

No one stopped them as they successfully made their way back through the rooms to the street outside, which Nick had been half afraid wouldn't happen. He felt like they were escaping something , he just didn't know what. He didn't try talking to Doug, he was just happy to get out of the gambling den. He'd be even happier to never return.

Doug pivoted and headed back toward their hotel. Nick's feet hurt, reminding him they'd tramped all over suburban Vegas once already today. He wanted to ask if they were catching a ride, but Doug still seemed off. Maybe whatever was bothering him would wear off in a few blocks.

Silently, they kept walking, dodging late-night partiers and drunken bachelors and bachelorettes. Finally, Nick couldn't stand it anymore.

"What was going on back there?" he asked.

"What?" Doug asked, turning his head slightly to look at him while he still death-marched them to the hotel.

"Something weird happened back there and I want to know what it was."

"Nothing weird happened except at the end. I was winning for the first time and they called the damn game."

"Okaaay. My bad. I didn't realize you were a big poker player."

"I'm not." Doug moved to the side for a crowd of giggling girls. Women.

"So, why does it bother you that they stopped the game?"

"It just did."

"What did you think of Velvet Elvis?"

"Meh, he was alright."

They'd almost reached the fountain and it must've been about to go off because about a thousand people were pressed up against the balustrade across the street. Nick did not want to be around people right now or see the majestic fountain spout and dance to music. He wanted to be back in the hotel room where it was quiet and have his shoes off. Everything was too loud.

And Doug, whether he admitted it or not, was acting oddly.

In their not-a-suite hotel room, Nick immediately kicked off his loafers and breathed a huge sigh of relief. On the other side of the room, Doug had toed off his shoes and was peeling off black socks.

"So, you don't think anything weird happened at The Ace of Clubs?" Nick asked again.

Doug looked over at him and shook his head. "Not that I noticed."

"You were awfully intent on that game."

"As you would say, ‘duh.'"

"Something was going on. I can't explain how I know or what it was, but something was wrong. And why was the dealer wearing earplugs? They all were, I checked."

"Can't say."

While Doug had been ignoring him and walking, Nick had been thinking, going over what he'd seen while sitting there largely ignored by everyone.

"I think there's something up with that Elvis."

"Elvis," Doug said with a smirk, "is dead. Even with my poor senior memory, I remember that."

"Ha, ha, ha." Getting to his poor, sad, sore feet, Nick stripped out of his suit and hung it back up. "This thing needs to be cleaned for real if you're going to make me wear it again."

"We'll send it out tomorrow."

Ugh. Tomorrow.

"Back to Elvis," Nick began. "When we were at Nitti's, I noticed that there were actually people asleep in their chairs. Yes, they were toddlers, but even with my limited experience with toddlers, they do not politely go to sleep in restaurants. They scream and yell and make their parents' lives miserable."

"I'm listening."

"Tonight at the club, in that room." Nick stopped, then started again. "When we first got there, people were playing like I'd seen before. They weren't loud or anything, but, you know, there was chatter and stuff between hands."

"Stuff," Doug repeated with a sly and irritatingly sexy grin.

"Quit it." He had to tell his cock to calm down or he'd never be able to communicate. "Just listen for a minute."

"It's hard to listen when you are lecturing me in your sexy boxers with your dress shirt unbuttoned like that."

Nick looked down at himself and smirked. He'd kind of forgotten he'd been undressing. Was Doug melting toward him just a little?

"Look, Mr. Agent Man, focus on my words, not my hot body. Marvin-Elvis does something. When his act started, things got really quiet and it wasn't because people were being polite."

While Nick was talking, Doug continued undressing as well. He was down to his cotton boxers when Nick finished speaking. Boy oh boy, was Doug sexy. It was, in fact, very hard to concentrate when Doug was fully naked—he stripped down to nothing, and Nick's train of thought left the station.

"I, uh, right." Totally derailed.

Grinning, Doug fisted his erect cock and pumped it a few times. Nick's rose to the occasion.

"Um, good idea. We should get some sleep and continue the conversation in the morning."

Nick opened his eyes. Once again, he was wrapped around Doug Swanson like a honeysuckle. Or some kind of vine anyway. But this morning he wasn't thinking about more sex—well, he had been, but he'd set the thought aside—he was still pondering what had happened last night.

While he'd been sleeping, his brain had been working overtime. What if Velvet Elvis, with his silky deep voice so much like the real Elvis's, could do something… occult with it? What if he did have some kind of subpar power and used it for evil instead of good?

Maybe it wasn't evil to make toddlers fall asleep in a restaurant so others could enjoy their meal, but it probably was morally gray to make gamblers so sleepy that they weren't paying much attention to what they were doing. To what kinds of bets they were making and how much they were winning or losing.

If this was the case, why hadn't his voice affected Nick? Even if Doug wasn't ready to admit it, Nick knew he'd been affected by something—if it hadn't been Velvet Elvis's doing, who or what was it? Maybe he hadn't been as sleepy as the guy one table over last night, but he'd been acting out of character.

"What are you thinking about? I can practically feel your brain spinning." Doug's chest rumbled under Nick's cheek.

"Last night. I have a theory about Elvis. I don't know if it has anything to do with why SPAM agents are being offed but"—he tapped Doug's taut stomach and then traced his treasure trail—"it's possible."

"Spill."

Rolling over to lie on his back, Nick laid out his absolutely unsupported hypothesis that Velvet Elvis was up to something. Or that The Ace of Clubs and he were in cahoots somehow.

Doug followed up with the important question. "If that's the case, why weren't you affected?"

"Hear me out." Nick was talking to the popcorn ceiling, which was much easier than having to ignore the skeptical expression on Doug's face. "It's kind of a curse, but sometimes things that generally make other people sleepy, like Benadryl, make me hyper. Last night, I felt like I had bugs crawling over my skin, couldn't sit still at all. Maybe my body chemistry just reacts differently?"

"I don't remember being sleepy or tired," Doug said.

"What do you remember?" Nick was curious.

"Not much, to be honest, which makes me think you could be onto something. We were escorted into the back room and ordered drinks that I don't remember drinking. The dealer dealt me in and next thing I knew, the lights came up and everyone was leaving."

"You played at least three hands. We were there for over an hour."

"That's interesting. We need to see if SPAM has Velvet Elvis on their radar because I've never heard of him. Did you see the porkpie hat guy?"

Nick nodded. "Yes, but not at the club. I wouldn't have noticed him except for that hat and the fact that he dresses like an old-time gangster. But he was in the crowd of people at the fountain last night when we passed by."

"You're sure?"

"As sure as I can be."

"Hmm."

Doug rolled off the bed and padded to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The shower water turned on. He was debating whether a shower-sex-ambush was in order when Doug's cell phone hummed from where it sat on the desk. Nick stepped over to look at the screen. He couldn't help it, it was automatic.

April: Check in

The bathroom door opened and Doug emerged.

"April pinged you." Nick felt guilty about looking at the phone. But hell, he was a SPAM agent too.

"Damn. I was hoping we'd have more to tell her."

Doug quickly got dressed. Casual again today, jeans and a plain, navy blue t-shirt.

"Are you going to get dressed or do you want to stand there naked while we talk to April?"

Rolling his eyes, Nick turned and dug through his suitcase for something to wear. Eventually he decided on a pair of Bermuda shorts and a light blue polo shirt. Hopefully, he wouldn't blind anyone with his pale skin.

"Do we have any sunscreen?"

"Sun—what?" Doug scowled and shook his head. "No. Get your ass over here and we'll see what April has to say."

Nick crowded in on the edge of the office chair, as close to Doug as possible.

"Really?" Doug asked dryly, shifting so he wouldn't fall off.

"Just call her back already."

April picked up the video call on the first ring. Just like when he'd interviewed, there was a silhouette in place of an actual person.

"Swanson and Sedgewick, checking in," Doug said.

"I see. Report."

"Nick," Doug said, "why don't you fill April in?"

"Who, me?" Nick mouthed as he pointed at himself.

Doug poked him in the side. "Yes, you. You're the one with the theory."

By the time Nick was done sharing his idea with April, he was clammy with sweat and certain that the first words out of Agent April's mouth would be: you're fired.

"Good work, Agent Sedgewick."

Nick blinked. He now understood what "knocked over with a feather" meant. Because that was how he felt. If Doug's solid body hadn't been there to surreptitiously lean against, Nick would've fallen off the chair.

"You've heard of this Velvet Elvis?" Nick asked. "What about the porkpie hat guy, do you know anything out about him?"

"We have indeed heard of Velvet Elvis."

"What do you know?" asked Doug.

"When Velvet Elvis sings at a certain pitch, he can make people drowsy or even put them to sleep. We don't know much more since he wasn't on our radar until recently. He definitely uses his subpower for his personal benefit. And we suspect he's working alongside someone else."

"He didn't affect me," Nick said. "It was almost the opposite. I wanted to get out of there. It was a lot like drinking ten cups of coffee. Felt like ants were crawling across my skin."

"That's interesting, Agent Sedgewick. Perhaps you have some kind of natural immunity."

"After three days, Agent Sedgewick and I have found nothing helpful, just more confusing facts. One known dead agent, the others still missing, and the Nitti's lead on Agent Carroll proved to be a dead end. Yesterday, we visited the scene where Schoenhut was found."

"Did you learn anything?"

"Unless the coffin happened to be handy, Schoenhut didn't die there. Do we know how he died yet?"

There was a silence before April spoke again. "At this point, which is early days, it appears that Agent Schoenhut died in his sleep."

Nick looked at Doug. Doug looked aghast. Nick mouthed, "What?"

"Pardon me? Died in his sleep?" Doug was clearly astonished by the suggestion. "He was what, thirty-five? And in great health. Did he always sleep in a coffin? Not judging if he did, but regardless, he didn't sleep in the parking lot of the Lonely Mine Shopping Center."

"As far as we know, Agent Schoenhut did not regularly sleep in a coffin. Nor was his address a shopping center. The coffin was wiped clean of prints and as yet we have no leads. All we do know is that he was killed by someone who leaves no mark."

Nick knew he must look like a deer in headlights. A killer who left no mark?

"He wasn't poisoned?"

"Not as far as we can tell."