‘Mr Kazakov,’ James shouted again, as he stepped into a lobby area. ‘Sir?’
The staff quarters were bigger than the kids’ rooms on the floors above, with a separate bedroom and living space complete with its own compact kitchen.
James leaned into Kazakov’s main room and saw him sprawled out over a recliner chair. A pair of expensive floor-standing loudspeakers blasted out Tchaikovsky’s most famous ballet, while Kazakov conducted the non-existent orchestra with a Berol marker pen.
‘Hello,’ James shouted, edging towards Kazakov before gently tapping him on the shoulder.
Kazakov looked around, startled, before pulling up his legs, doing a spectacular head over heels roll and somehow grabbing James around the neck. Before James could react, Kazakov swept his legs away and pinned him to the floor with the tip of a Soviet army dagger poised between his eyeballs. Its handle was gnarled and the blade had worn away after two decades of regular sharpening.
‘Bloody hell,’ James gasped. ‘Let me go!’
‘I’ve killed three Afghans and stabbed a big-breasted Serbian mugger with this knife,’ Kazakov growled, as Swan Lake reached a booming climax. ‘I don’t like people sneaking up on me.’
‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ James shouted nervously. ‘I knocked, I shouted, but your music’s so bloody loud.’
Kazakov rolled off James and tucked the knife back into a leather sheath on his belt as he stood up. The burly Ukrainian straightened his combat trousers and vest before grabbing the remote and turning off his music.
‘Merry Christmas, Mr Adams,’ Kazakov laughed. ‘You should train more for speed. You have the reflexes of an old lady.’
James grunted as he used the kitchen worktop to lever himself up. Kazakov was at least the tenth CHERUB instructor to comment on his slow reflexes, but even a special programme of speed training devised by Miss Takada hadn’t done much to help.
‘My brother was slow,’ Kazakov said, as he pointed towards a shelf of photographs. ‘It got him killed.’
James looked at Kazakov in black and white. He wore Russian Army uniform and stood beside an identically dressed and similar-looking soldier. Neither could be more than twenty years old.
‘Helicopter got hit by the Taliban as we were taking off,’ Kazakov explained. ‘I bailed; my brother left it another half second and got burned up by the exploding fuel.’
‘I’m sorry,’ James said awkwardly as his eyes were drawn to the next picture. It had been retouched in bright colours, as was the fashion in the old Soviet Union, and showed a slightly older Kazakov in a dress uniform with a line of medals, a stick-thin wife in a tutu and ballet shoes and a boy aged three or four in a slightly odd-looking sailor suit.
‘Was that your wife?’ James gasped. ‘She’s absolutely stunning.’
Kazakov furrowed his brow, before reaching up and slamming the frame face down so that James couldn’t see it.
‘Marriage is a difficult thing for a soldier,’ Kazakov said bitterly. ‘She remarried, my parents are dead, my brother is dead. My son is twenty-four and alive as far as I know. But I wouldn’t know where he is, or even what he looks like.’
Kazakov simmered silently as James scrambled for something appropriate to say.
‘You’re a good man, James,’ Kazakov said. ‘You can come to America if you like.’
James smiled. ‘What makes you think that’s what I was gonna ask?’
‘A young man is much like a cat,’ Kazakov smiled ruefully. ‘He wants food, sex and fun. The food in the canteen downstairs is better than I have here, I very much hope you didn’t come to my room looking for sex, and the only fun I have to offer is a place on my red team. So am I right?’
‘Of course you’re right,’ James laughed.
‘With the blond hair and blue eyes you really do remind me of my brother,’ Kazakov said fondly. ‘Do you want to see where we’re going?’
James actually wanted to get back to his friends, but he was stung by the accusation of selfishness and knew it would do no harm to keep on the training instructor’s good side.
‘Here you see the compound,’ Kazakov said, leading James towards a kitchen worktop covered with scribbles, Post-its and random scraps of paper. The biggest was a collage of satellite photos which comprised a dozen inkjet prints stuck together with Sellotape.
James was astonished by what he saw. He’d been impressed by the SAS training compound a few kilometres from campus, but it would have been the size of a postcard on Kazakov’s metre-long map of Fort Reagan.
‘A quarter million acres of Nevada desert,’ Kazakov explained grandly.
James studied the outlines of dozens of apartment blocks, more than a thousand houses, shopping areas and town squares, and the whole shebang fringed with golden desert. Some areas were set out in broad avenues like an American suburb, while others had tight pedestrian alleyways and Middle-Eastern style homes built around courtyards, or lines of shacks to represent the accommodation in a third-world shanty town.
In the far corner of Fort Reagan was a military barracks with dozens of tents and permanent buildings, a full-sized air strip and a vast car park filled with the green outlines of everything from Hummers up to Abrams battle tanks.
James saw construction equipment and lots of newly planted trees. ‘It all looks brand new,’ he noted.
Kazakov nodded. ‘Opened last year. It cost six point three billion dollars to build. It’s the second biggest military training facility in the world, designed to give American soldiers a taste of what they can expect in urban warfare.
‘Each exercise uses up to two thousand troops and ten thousand civilians – mostly college students and the unemployed, bussed in and paid eighty bucks a day. An exercise lasts between ten days and three weeks and costs upwards of a hundred million dollars to stage.’
‘And we’ll be playing the bad guys?’
‘Exactly,’ Kazakov smiled. ‘They’ve already run a few exercises using teams of American officers and Special Forces to play out the role of insurgents. But what they really need is people from outside of the American military who can challenge their standard battle tactics during an exercise. The British are sending some troops to train at Fort Reagan with the Americans for the first time and when the question of a red-team commander came up, they threw my name into the ring.’
‘Is that a golf course?’ James gasped, as he tapped the greenest section of the satellite map.
‘Certainly is,’ Kazakov grinned. ‘You won’t find many of those in downtown Baghdad or Mogadishu, but those generals need to get eighteen holes in once in a while.’
James sensed the cynicism in Kazakov’s voice and laughed. ‘You’re not big on the Americans, are you?’
‘Ignorant scum!’ Kazakov spluttered. ‘They trained the Taliban that killed my brother and supplied the missile that shot our chopper down. Me and the co-pilot got out. Sixteen others, including my whole unit, got fried.’
James was confused. ‘I thought the Taliban were the dudes with the beards the Americans are fighting against?’
‘In 2007, they are,’ Kazakov nodded. ‘But in the eighties the CIA trained the Taliban and supplied them with weapons to fight against the Soviet Union. Same with Saddam Hussein: America supplied all the weapons for when he invaded Iran. American technology was also used to produce Saddam’s chemical weapons which he used to gas the Kurds.’
James smiled uneasily. ‘Politicians are a lot like five-year-olds. You know: one day they’re best friends and five minutes later they’re rolling around in the sandpit biting chunks out of each other.’
‘Good analogy,’ Kazakov said. ‘I’ve got my strategy: ten CHERUB agents, thirty Special Forces officers and a hundred sympathisers amongst the civilian population. I’m planning to have those American generals on their knees, begging to surrender, within forty-eight hours.’
James was surprised at Kazakov’s vehemence. ‘It’s just a training exercise, though,’ he pointed out. ‘And the Americans are our allies.’
‘Screw that,’ Kazakov said, as he pounded on his kitchen worktop. ‘I’ll teach those pompous Yanks with their war games and their military academies a thing or two about climbing down in the gutter and fighting a proper street battle.’
James was slightly perturbed by Kazakov’s attitude. It didn’t sound much like the holiday in Vegas followed by an enjoyable training exercise that Lauren had sold him on.
‘So when do we fly out?’ James asked.
‘New Year’s Day,’ Kazakov said. ‘I’ll send all of you an itinerary later in the day.’
‘Well,’ James said, glancing at his watch as he backed up to the door. ‘I’m meeting up with the gang down in the dining-hall for some breakfast. You have a good Christmas; I expect I’ll see you downstairs for Christmas lunch.’
‘Perhaps,’ Kazakov said darkly. ‘But Christmas isn’t really my thing, and there’s still much to plan.’
ROYAL
James sat in the front row of a twenty-six seater coach and yawned as they pulled through the gates of the military airbase ten kilometres from campus. He’d been up until half-past two seeing in the new year and felt half dead because he’d drunk a couple of beers and had to get up early to wash and dry a bundle of dirty laundry so that he had enough clothes for a two-week trip.
The hydraulic coach door hissed open and an RAF security officer climbed aboard. ‘Travel documents please.’
Staff members Mac, Meryl and Kazakov along with agents James, Lauren, Rat, Kevin, Jake, Bruce, Andy, Kerry and Gabrielle all held out their passports. Bethany went into a panic until she found hers in an obscure pocket at the side of her backpack.
‘I’ve got export licences for weapons, explosives and drugs too,’ Mac explained, as he held out a stack of paperwork.
‘Haven’t seen you come through here in a while,’ the officer said, as he inspected each sheet before stamping them clumsily, with only a springy foam headrest to rest them on.
‘You neither,’ Mac smiled. ‘I’m semi-retired now.’
‘Ready to roll,’ the guard said, handing the papers back to Mac before stepping up and giving Instructor Pike – who wasn’t travelling on the exercise but had volunteered to drive the coach – instructions on which taxiways to use to reach their plane.
Large groups of CHERUB agents often used RAF planes, which offered an experience way more varied than the predictable rows of seats on a commercial jet. Your ride could turn out to be anything from a tiny unpressurised military transport plane to one of the clapped-out Tristar airliners used to ferry troops to bases in the Middle East.
Service was usually basic, with rock hard seats, boil in the bag army rations and no entertainment. But James was delighted to step out into crisp early afternoon sun and see that their ride bore the distinctive navy and white livery of the Royal Flight, a branch of the RAF which specialised in ferrying around royalty, heads of state and other important guests.
The VIP service extended to white-gloved RAF stewards, who lined up to say good morning as everyone stepped off the coach. RAF crew hurriedly transferred bags and Kazakov’s haul of special equipment from coach to plane as a Typhoon fighter blasted off from the main runway half a kilometre away.
‘Sweet as!’ James gasped, as he reached the top of the steps and peered inside the plane.
It was a luxury variant of an Airbus used by regular airlines, but instead of a hundred and fifty cramped seats there were two-dozen giant leather chairs which reclined into flat beds.
The centre of the plane had a lounge area with red leather chairs and Union Jack carpet that was either cheeky or revolting depending upon your taste. The rear of the plane had a private suite, complete with a mini office, toilet and shower, and a full-width double bed. Jake charged in and bagsied the bed, but was promptly hauled out by the chief steward, who told him sniffily that it was off limits to anyone who didn’t answer to Your Royal Highness or Mr President.
‘Plane looks brand new,’ James noted, as his leather armchair creaked. He was immediately handed a platter of freshly sliced fruit, a hot Union Jack towel and a newspaper that looked like it had been ironed.
‘It is new,’ a stewardess nodded. ‘The aircraft isn’t officially commissioned until the Prince of Wales goes on a tour Down Under later in the month, but we’re doing a few shakedown flights to make sure everything’s working properly.’
‘So we’re getting the full royal treatment?’ James smiled, as he pressed a button to electrically recline his seat.
‘Upright until after takeoff,’ the stewardess warned. ‘Do take a look at the menu. We’ll be serving a light lunch as soon as we’re in level flight.’
Jake tugged at the head steward’s lapel. ‘I demand Beluga caviar and the finest wines available to man!’ he shouted, before clapping his hands and shouting, ‘Chop chop.’
The stewards didn’t look impressed, but James thought it was pretty funny. He looked across the aisle to where Meryl Spencer was sitting and was surprised to see that the plane was already taxiing towards the runway.
‘Beats three hours in the Heathrow departure lounge,’ Meryl said.
*
The flight to Las Vegas would take nine and a half hours. Three hours in, James and the other agents had gravitated to the communal area in the centre of the plane. Meryl was expertly dealing cards and teaching everyone to play blackjack.
‘How come you’re so good at this?’ Lauren asked, as Meryl flicked cards across a polished conference table.
‘Celebrity casino host, Las Vegas, 1998 to er … about three months later in 1998.’
‘What’s a casino host when he’s out shopping?’ Rat asked.
‘All the big casinos compete to lure wealthy players,’ Meryl explained. ‘After I retired from athletics I got offered half a million dollars to spend six months working at one of the big Vegas casinos. You do a bit of wining and dining with the big gamblers, occasionally deal a few hands at the tables, compere casino events, plus photo opportunities with Mr and Mrs Nobody from Arkansas. But most of all, you’re expected to spend a lot of hours walking the casino floors in fishnets and a stupid little dress that was never meant for a fourteen-stone six-foot-two-inch Kenyan sprinter.’
‘Half a million for six months,’ James whistled. ‘I’d wear fishnets for that.’
‘I thought you wore them anyway,’ Rat grinned.
‘Couldn’t hack the job,’ Meryl explained. ‘Dumbest decision I ever made. Luckily I was so hopeless they paid off my contract just before I quit.’
The kids all laughed as Meryl started a new hand, dealing each player two cards.
‘Hit me,’ Jake said.
Lauren groaned. ‘Jake, the dealer’s showing a six, you have seventeen. You’ll go over twenty-one and bust out.’
‘Hit,’ Jake repeated firmly.
Meryl dealt Jake a four, giving him twenty-one and making it impossible for the dealer to beat him.
‘Blackjack,’ Jake grinned, before poking his tongue out at Lauren. ‘Told you.’
‘But it was still the wrong decision,’ Rat explained. ‘The probability was that you’d get dealt a card higher than a four and then you’d bust.’
‘You’re saying that because Lauren’s your girlfriend,’ Jake sneered.
‘I’m saying it because it’s based upon probability,’ Rat said patiently. ‘You might get lucky once in a while but over the longer term the dealer will kick your butt and you’ll lose all your money.’
‘If you’re so smart, how come I’ve got more pennies than you?’ Jake shouted.
Andy laughed. ‘Because you’re a jammy little git.’
Mac was trying to rest in one of the armchairs closest to the communal area and he sat up sharply. ‘Hey,’ he yelled. ‘Andy, watch your language. The rest of you, do us a favour and keep the noise down.’
‘Sorry Mac,’ Meryl said.
She dealt everyone the cards until they busted or stuck, then revealed her own second card, and drew an extra one.
‘Dealer stands on nineteen,’ Meryl smiled, as she scooped up pennies from everyone except Jake and Bethany before explaining more about the game as she dealt the next round of cards.
‘The interesting thing about blackjack is that the casino’s edge is very small. If you know how to learn the basic strategy you have a much better chance of winning than in almost any other casino game. Pro players use a technique called card counting, which actually skews the odds in favour of the player.’
‘Teach us that then,’ Andy said eagerly.
Mac had given up on trying to rest and sat up. ‘You can practise all you like, but you can’t gamble in Vegas until you’re twenty-one,’ he noted.
‘Even if you could, you can’t just walk into a casino off the street and start card counting,’ Meryl smiled. ‘The principle is quite simple, but you need a good head for maths to master it. Each card two through five that the dealer dishes out scores one; ten through ace scores minus one. The higher the count gets, the more the odds of winning swing away from the casino dealer and into the gambler’s favour.’
‘That doesn’t sound too hard,’ Andy said. ‘You’re supposed to be a maths whiz, James.’
James was intrigued. ‘So all I have to do is try keeping count of the cards dealt out? And there are only fifty-two cards in a deck.’
Meryl smiled. ‘That’d be nice, James, but to make counting difficult the casinos use up to eight decks on each table and a pro blackjack dealer moves a lot faster than I do. If anyone starts winning heavily, they’ll shuffle the cards or replace the decks, meaning you’ll have to start your count again from scratch.
‘Also, if the casino bosses think you’re counting they’ll strip-search you, photograph you and dump your arse on the sidewalk. Then they’ll circulate your photo to every other casino in town and you won’t get near a table unless you put on a disguise or something.’
‘So you’ve got to count all the cards in your head and not show any sign that you’re doing it,’ Lauren smiled. ‘Can your big brain handle that, James?’
‘You never know until you’ve tried,’ James answered. ‘I’d have to learn more about exactly how it all works though. Mac, is the Internet working on your laptop?’
‘For a small fee,’ Mac grinned.
‘I’ll let you swap seats,’ James teased. ‘I’m up front of the plane away from all this racket and you get to look up that posh stewardess’ uniform when she bends over in the galley.’
Mac laughed, but Kerry flicked James’ ear and called him a sexist pig.
‘Sounds like a deal,’ Mac said, as he climbed out of his seat. ‘Just promise not to try accessing my secure e-mails. MI5’s technical department set it up so that it destroys the entire hard drive if you enter the wrong password three times.’
The kids all laughed.
‘It’s not funny,’ Mac said, half-jokingly. ‘I’ve already wiped the damned thing twice. You have to send the whole caboodle back to MI5 in London to have the software reinstalled, and the second time I did it some twenty-something boffin had the cheek to write a report to the Intelligence Minister suggesting that I might be a security risk because of my age.’
‘Well, you are getting on a bit,’ Jake pointed out tactlessly.
‘Maybe I am, Jake,’ Mac said, smiling and wagging his finger, ‘but I still have high enough security clearance to hack the report of your next fitness exam, so watch your cheek unless you fancy one of Mr Kazakov’s four-week intensive fitness programmes.’
‘Oh please, Mac,’ Lauren begged. ‘Make Jake suffer and you’ll be my bestest friend for ever!’
‘Get stuffed,’ Jake said. ‘And sorry Mac, I didn’t mean to be rude.’
Everyone laughed at Jake’s nervous apology.
‘He’s crapping it now,’ Rat said.
James looked at Meryl. ‘OK, dealer,’ he said. ‘I’m cashing out my pennies to go and learn how to cheat Vegas.’
‘Keep playing,’ Jake moaned. ‘What’s the point quitting? It’s not like any of us can even play for money in a real casino.’
‘This game’s getting old,’ James shrugged. ‘And I’m curious about the maths behind this card-counting thing. For all I know I might have a lucrative future as a casino shark.’
‘You like your maths, don’t you James?’ Lauren smirked, before putting her hand over her mouth. ‘Cough, splutter, major geek, cough!’
Mac headed down the aisle as James settled on to his warm leather armchair and opened up a tiny Dell laptop.
‘OK,’ Meryl said, as she prepared to deal out another round of cards. ‘Gamblers place your bets. Maximum five pennies per hand.’
STRIP
The time shift meant they reached Vegas at two in the afternoon. Landing in a large plane with a royal crest and the Union Jack flag on the side got the bevy of limo drivers and casino hosts who hang around McCarren Airport’s private jet terminal seriously excited.
Mer yl put her arm around Mac’s waist as they stepped through US immigration and into the main terminal.
‘Everyone act like you’re stinking rich,’ Meryl smiled. ‘You’ll be amazed where the slightest sniff of money can get you in this town.’
Meryl stopped walking and deliberately looked a little baffled. Within half a second she was approached by a beefy man with a dark tan who looked like he was dressed for golf.
‘Happy New Year and welcome to Las Vegas,’ he beamed, with a chemically bleached smile.
‘We haven’t booked accommodation,’ Meryl explained, ‘but I’m told Caesar’s Palace is nice.’
‘Caesar’s has a great tradition, but I’m Julio Sweet, VIP host at the Reef Casino Resort. I can offer you a limousine to take you right there and a top-floor suite with compliments of the management.’
Meryl smiled graciously and tried to sound surprised. ‘Complimentary?’ she said. ‘Oh that’s very decent of you, but I have all ten of my adopted children and our Russian bodyguard.’
‘We have more than five thousand rooms,’ the bleached smile beamed. ‘I’m sure we’ll fit you in.’
Offering free hotel rooms to people who turned up on flash private jets was a calculated risk for the Reef casino: the costs of a few nights’ accommodation, free limo rides and free food were insignificant compared to the hundreds of thousands – or even millions – of dollars that a wealthy person might lose at the hotel’s casino during their stay.
A female host from another casino circled enviously and pounced the instant Julio pulled out his phone to call for a limo.
‘Can I offer you my card?’ she asked. ‘Just call my number any time, day or night, at Casino Taipei and we’ll compliment you a full dining package at any of our restaurants, treatments at the most luxurious spa in Las Vegas and of course any other special services we can arrange for you or the children.’
James whispered in Rat’s ear, ‘Do you reckon they’d set us up with hookers?’
Rat laughed, so Lauren thumped him. ‘Don’t laugh,’ she hissed. ‘James is randy enough without you encouraging him.’
The man from the Reef was scowling at his rival host, while frantically tapping instructions into his PDA and trying to herd Meryl and the rest of the party towards an exit.
‘We’ll have two limousines here for your party within five minutes and a minivan to collect your luggage.’
‘Oh, you’re so kind,’ Meryl smiled, keeping up the pretence that it was all a big surprise.
‘That’s a very beautiful aeroplane you came in on,’ the host said. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, does it belong to the British royal family?’
‘Her Majesty is a distant cousin,’ Mac lied, making his Scottish accent sound as posh as possible while struggling to keep a straight face. ‘She regularly uses our skiing lodge in the Swiss Alps, and when we decided to make a last-minute trip she kindly let us use the Royal Flight.’
‘Faaaaantastic,’ Julio Sweet beamed. ‘You’re so lucky to know the Queen. We have billionaires and film stars coming through this terminal to play in Las Vegas, but I don’t believe we’ve ever had royal guests before.’
Mac saw the funny side of pulling such a blatant con, but he couldn’t help but feel slightly embarrassed. ‘I’m a very distant cousin,’ he emphasised. ‘And it’s something we prefer not to flaunt.’
‘Absolutely,’ Julio said exuberantly. ‘Everyone on the Reef VIP team can cater to your needs in the utmost privacy.’
Two limousines and a van with Reef Casino logos on it pulled up on the road outside the terminal.
‘And how long do you intend staying?’ Julio asked.
‘Two nights,’ Meryl said. ‘If that’s OK?’
*
The complimentary suites were on top of the thirty-five floor Reef Casino Resort, overlooking the southern end of the Vegas Strip. Meryl, Kazakov and Mac had been given a huge three-bedroom suite with floor to ceiling marble, while the ten kids were split between three smaller but no less luxurious suites down the hall.
James ended up sharing a suite with Jake and Kevin, but with two bedrooms, each containing two king-sized beds, two massive bathrooms and a lounge with an eighty-inch plasma screen, this was no great hardship.
It was five in the afternoon by the time everyone had freshened up and changed clothes. The three boys pigged out on room service and had a massive battle with M&Ms from the mini-bar. By that time it was dark and Julio set up a pair of limousines to take the thirteen-strong group on a tour of the spectacularly lit casinos on the Strip. But it was 5 a.m. British time. Everyone was sleepy and Jake and Kevin were having real problems keeping their eyes open.
James was jet-lagged and woke at half-five the next morning. He took a solo stroll around the casino. Vegas had been crammed with new year revellers two days earlier, but was now mostly home to hardcore gamblers who’d yet to go to bed and cleaning staff buffing tiles with giant polishing machines.
James wasn’t allowed to gamble, but as a hotel guest he was allowed on the casino floor so long as he didn’t linger in front of a table or slot machine. He’d expected to find men in bow ties sitting at roulette tables like in a James Bond movie, but the reality was a vast airless space filled with several thousand bleeping slot machines. The cocktail waitresses flitting between the rows of machines were supposed to look sexy, but a night walking the casino’s floors in high heels meant their smiles were fake and their overdone make-up was melting under the bright lights.
Beyond the casino floor was an indoor strip of more than a dozen restaurants and an upscale shopping mall with a sign out front boasting Four million square feet of retail paradise! But the only places open at six on a Tuesday morning were the twenty-four-hour buffet and a hotel gift shop.
James wandered into the gift shop for no particular reason and spent a couple of minutes studying the racks of tacky Vegas paperweights, snowstorm models of the Vegas Strip and plastic Elvis Presley statues that sang Viva Las Vegas when you reached around the back and pressed a button. The clerk had heard Elvis a million times and looked up from her copy of People magazine, defying James to press the button again.
At the back of the store there was a rack of books. It was mostly souvenir guides and fold-out tourist maps, but there was half a shelf dedicated to books on gambling. James’ eye was drawn to a slim volume called The Ultimate Blackjack Manual.
He picked it up and spent a few minutes flicking through the pages. He was surprised that a book sold in a casino would contain several chapters detailing card-counting strategies, but the information was openly available on the web and he figured the casino would rather make a buck selling it to you than leave it to someone else.
‘That’s seven eighty-three with tax,’ the assistant said, as James handed her the book. ‘Got ex-casino card decks for fifty cents if you want one.’
James realised that he’d need a deck of cards to work through some of the examples in the book and nodded. ‘And a pack of menthol gum,’ he added.
‘Ten dollars and seventy-three.’
James hadn’t noticed how attractive the assistant was until he looked down at her tanned legs behind the counter. He made sure there was nobody else in store before deciding to take his first ever shot at an adult woman.
‘So what time do you get off?’ James asked, using a line he’d heard in about a million movies.
She smiled. ‘What’s it to you when I get off?’
‘I dunno,’ James said stupidly. ‘We could meet up, go somewhere … or something.’
The girl burst out laughing. ‘Sure, we’ll go to McDonalds. I’ll buy you a Happy Meal.’
James felt like he’d been shot. ‘I’m older than I look,’ he said.
‘How old?’
James flushed bright red as he swept his change into his pocket. ‘Eighteen,’ he lied.
‘Months or years?’ the girl giggled. ‘I think you should stick to girls at your school. Although ten out of ten for trying and the English accent’s pretty cute!’
*
Kevin and Jake had been indoctrinated by the hotel’s promotional TV channel and wanted to go to the Reef’s amusement arcade and aquarium, so Meryl took them while James and the rest of the older kids headed out to see the sights. Almost everything in Las Vegas is on Las Vegas Boulevard, which everyone calls the Strip.