That reason was better, but it opened Ziggy up to shaming.

  Perhaps that makes me sexist. And racist. But I know bigotry isn’t the entrenched issue here. I’m deeper than that. I have been gifted with an incredible mind, and also burdened with antisocial personality disorder. I’m not specifically a bigot. I hate all people, all across the racial, cultural, and gender spectrums. But why?

  Introspection is masturbation for the mind.

  His buzzing phone drew Ziggy away from his thoughts and the satellite video feed of the chase in progress.

  He had two messages.

  One he’d missed earlier, confirming that the money had gone through.

  Thank you, Uncle Sam. And thank you, taxpayers.

  Apparently Mary had received it, because the newest text was from her. A list of six people.

  Ziggy was already aware of two.

  But the other four were compelling.

  Good work, he texted. Can you handle them?

  THEY WON’T EVEN SEE ME COMING.

  Ziggy smiled.

  I must remind myself to never double-cross Mary.

  Which reminded him to put in a request for the other half of her money.

  Then he got on the Internet and researched the four names she’d given him.

  Ziggy’s Google-Fu was strong, and he discovered quite a bit of information. He also went down a rabbit hole of old news stories and TV coverage, which led him to a deep dive of a criminal database known as ViCAT.

  It’s an encyclopedia of deviant minds.

  Something I’m intimately familiar with.

  Ziggy focused on crimes with a particular modus operandi, working partly on intuition, partly on an amalgamation of the facts and data he’d been absorbing.

  Two suspects came up. One deceased. One very much alive.

  He cross-referenced photographs with an image search.

  Same person. Different names. Maybe I should get a job at the FBI. In less than an hour, I discovered the alias of an active serial killer.

  A nasty, messy, old one.

  I think I want to meet him.

  Ziggy decided to give him a call.

  Incredibly, his number was listed in a public directory.

  Even more incredibly, he picked up on the third ring.

  “I know who you are. Don’t hang up. I’m a fan. I’d like to give you the opportunity to settle an old debt.”

  After a moment, the nasty, messy, old killer said, “Go on. I’m listening.”

  TOM

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Holy shit this is high.

  There had been moments in Tom’s life when fear threatened to overwhelm him. Too many moments.

  Jumping off the side of a twelve hundred foot tower, clinging to a clone of Abe Lincoln, easily made the Top 5.

  When Roy’s arm slipped off of Abe’s neck and wrapped around Tom’s, the moment ascended to the exalted spot of Scariest Thing Ever.

  It puts a lot into perspective.

  Lately, I’ve given up. Dropped out. Succumbed to fear, then tried to numb that fear by self-medicating with THC, in an effort to avoid dealing with feelings of powerlessness and thoughts of my own mortality.

  But confronted with being shot and dying, helpless, on top of the tallest structure west of the Mississippi River, made me realize that life is precious and worth fighting for.

  All it took for me to realize it is a literal leap of faith.

  That sickly twisty churn Tom got in his stomach when peering down from a great height became amplified 100x when he hung over open space supported by a thin steel line, no floor or ledge to protect him from the unforgiving ground rushing up far too fast.

  If Tom ever had skydiving on his bucket list, he abandoned it as his entangled three-way plummeted to the blinking Las Vegas Strip, Abe hooting joyfully over the roar of wind rushing past, the vertigo and adrenaline and dizziness and terror making Tom want to scream, piss, shit, and vomit all at once.

  And scream he did, or maybe it was Roy screaming, or maybe they both were, and Tom felt his hold on Abe began to tear away and he slipped down the the man’s thin waist, clutching his belt, as Roy’s death-grip on Tom’s neck cinched tighter.

  As self-reflective internal revelations flitted away, Tom managed a semi-coherent thought born of pure terror.

  Are the line and harness even slowing us down? The ground is coming up way too fast.

  Then Abe’s pants started to slip down, and Tom automatically reached for something to grab onto, trying to grab the safety harness, and instead finding the man’s manhood, which he squeezed because: plummeting.

  Abe’s hoot went from joy to pain and the trio shrieked like a boys’ choir, the ground below getting bigger and more in-focus but still much too far away, and then Abe smacked at Tom’s hands, at his broken finger, because: I’m grabbing his junk.

  Tom began to let go, and then everything became darker as Roy strangled off his oxygen.

  Swirling motes of light filled Tom’s vision.

  Abe screeched, “Free willy!”

  Tom tried to focus on a pleasant thought to take with him to the grave, a memory to comfort him right before he splattered onto ground like a dropped lasagna, but all that came to his panicked mind was:

  Abe Lincoln sure has a big one.

  Then Tom’s hands finally slipped and he and Roy fell—

  —about two feet.

  Abe’s bare ass landed on top of Tom, his naked oyster and pearls smacking him in the face. The ride helpers waiting on the ground rushed to their aid rapid-firing questions of concern, and Tom could suddenly breathe again and he pushed away the genitals and did a mental and visual check for bodily damage and realized, incredibly, that he was fine.

  Abe stood up, half-naked, and winked at Tom. “Next time buy me dinner first.”

  Tom turned to Roy, who grabbed his ears and kissed him full on the lips. “We’re alive, brother! We’re freaking alive! Why the hell is Abe’s tackle in my face?”

  “I am irresistible to all genders,” Abe boasted.

  Roy winced. “You need to manscape, dude. Looks like an albino snake got caught in a Chia Pet.”

  “Snake? You forgot to mention my presidential balls.”

  “Can’t see your damn balls with all that hair. Zip that nasty shit back up.”

  Alive.

  It feels good to be alive.

  Cathartic.

  Like I’ve woken up after a long sleep.

  Tom allowed himself to be helped to his feet while he looked around for Tonys. He didn’t see any, but he did make the big mistake of glancing up at the unbearable height of the SkyTower.

  Then Tom bent over and puked.

  “Fine,” Abe said. “I’ll trim the man bush.”

  Unfortunately, while throwing up, Tom was at pelvic height, and the close-up hairy view did nothing for his nausea.

  Abe doesn’t need a trim. He needs a weed wacker.

  Abe tucked himself away as his harness was removed by the panicked ride managers, and Tom spat and wiped off his mouth with his wrist.

  “Tony Mafia, eight o’clock,” Roy said.

  Tom had no idea which direction eight o’clock was, but he allowed himself to be pulled along by Roy and the three of them took off in a stumbling half-jog, heading for the exit, passing a SkyDrop giftshop stand with the obligatory overhead flatscreen monitor labeled LANDING CAM, which automatically took a photo after touch-down to sell as a $40 souvenir to riders.

  “We need to buy that!” Abe bellowed, pointing at the screen.

  It showed Tom, lying on the ground and grinning like an enraptured idiot, Abe’s penis and balls resting on his head like a hat.

  “That’s gonna blow up Instagram later,” Roy commented as they blew past, melding into the stream of people and noise and desert heat and lights poured across the Strip. The street wasn’t shoulder-to-shoulder busy, but it required weaving around tourists and gamblers and handbillers every few steps, and Tom hoped they could blend into the crowd and get to the Erato Hotel to find Joan.

  And then he changed his mind.

  We can’t lead the Tony Mafia to my pregnant wife.

  He reached for his cell, to call Joan and tell her to get back to the plane, but a quick pat-down of his clothes didn’t reveal the telltale bulge.

  I must have dropped it jumping off the SkyTower.

  He caught Roy by the shoulder. “I need your phone.”

  “I left it on Catherine’s Cessna. You think now is a good time to Netflix and chill?”

  “I need to call Joan and warn her.”

  “Good point. You know her number?”

  Oh, shit. I haven’t memorized my wife’s number.

  It was one of those 21st Century Problems. No one needed to learn anyone’s phone number these days because all you had to do was touch their name on your phone and technology connected you.

  Or in this case, touch ICE.

  Tom tried to tune out the flashing lights, the cacophony of the crowds, the rising panic, and forced himself to concentrate.

  Okay, so I just call the Sparta Room at the Erato and have her paged.

  He caught the crook of Lincoln’s elbow. “Abe, I need your phone.”

  “I’m out of minutes.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I ran out of my data plan talking to you. That and surfing Diaper Fetish Man Babies on www.hotsororitygirlslive.com.”

  “That’s disgusting,” Roy said disgustedly while looking disgustingly disgusted.

  Abe shrugged. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

  “And your heart wants to watch grown men wetting their nappies?”

  “When you say it like that it sounds perverted. Also, it’s perfectly natural to go boom-boom.”

  “Can we not devolve into stupidity?”

  “Too late,” Roy lamented. “We jumped that shark while wasting ten minutes naming Tonys.”

  “And I didn’t even mention half the Tonys. Like Tony Glaucoma. You didn’t see him coming. And neither did he.”

  “Stop the stupid.” Tom tried to focus. “We need to find a pay phone.”

  “Good idea,” Roy nodded. “We just grab a ride with Marty McFly and he can take us back in time to 2008 when payphones still existed.”

  Maybe, if we hide out for a while, Joan will try to call me, I won’t answer, and she’ll eventually go back to the plane.

  But can we wait around until that happens? The longer we hang out in Vegas, the longer the Tony Mafia has to find us.

  Tom decided the best course of action was to lose the Tonys, then get to Joan without being followed.

  “Okay, we split up.” Tom knew the dangers, but also knew it was the best way to shake a tail.

  “You can kiss my hairy, curly, abnormally bushy taint,” Abe opined. “I’d still be safe in my room if you guys didn’t show up. Now you want to abandon me so I can get caught by Tony Ballhammer?”

  Tom dodged around some drunk executives. “I thought it was Tony Ballsander.”

  “They’re brothers. And both are preoccupied with fondle berries. It’s all about the wrinkle purse with those guys. Totally obsessed with the cock beans. The thunder nuggets. The bearded bagpipes. The chin bangers. The scrote taters. The skin twins. The Siamese porcupine. The crotch rocks. The snack sack. They’ve got a meat clacker obsession.”

  “They ain’t the only ones obsessed,” Roy said. “Let’s cut through the Arpeggio.”

  Tom and Abe followed Roy through the crowd and into the ornate entrance of the Arpeggio Hotel, speed-walking through the lobby, trying to not think about the phrase thunder nuggets.

  Or maybe I should think about it.

  In difficult times, maybe embracing juvenile humor is a good way to cope.

  As long as we don’t fully lose sight of the plot.

  They upped their walking speed, passed a buffet that stank like old hot dogs, some gift shops selling sixty dollar T-shirts, and a betting lounge where everyone seemed miserable. Tom glanced over his shoulder, searching for sharkskin suits, not seeing any.

  Did we lose them?

  Tom took the lead, finding a side exit, merging back onto the main drag. They passed a mother with her two kids—don’t they know it’s 3am?—and Tom tried to remember how far up the Strip the Erato Hotel was.

  “Do we have a plan?” Abe asked. “Or are we just running around until Tony Erection finds us? If he does, we’re fucked.”

  Tom glanced around. “Looking for the Erato. The Sparta Room.”

  “That’s ahead, on the other side of the street. Follow me.”

  Abe broke into a jog, which Tom didn’t like because running could attract attention. But he stuck to Abe’s heels, and after darting in front of a tour bus advertising some third-rate comedian, he saw the big, blinking ERATO sign. Tom hurried past Abe, did another quick search for Tonys, and then they entered the hotel.

  It looked a lot like the previous two hotels they’d been in that day, drunks and gamblers and beautiful escorts with pudgy, older dates, and Tom glanced around for someone who worked there.

  “Sparta Room is this way.” Abe pushed through a bachelorette party, the bride-to-be wearing a blinking hat that stated she was the bride-to-be, a red Solo cup taped into each of her hands. Thirty steps later they were at this restaurant, a shirtless, chiseled maître d’ greeting them with a booming, “This is Sparta!” which he probably said a thousand times a day.

  Tom stopped and scanned the bar, seeking the love of his life, and he was so intent in his search that he didn’t see the person come up behind him, not noticing until they grabbed his hand.

  His head snapped around to look, and he saw—

  “Catherine.”

  Her face was inches away from Tom’s, and he was struck by how any attraction he’d once felt for her had vanished.

  She seems like a whole different person from the woman I knew all those years ago.

  But then, I probably am as well.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalking me,” Catherine’s hip brushed Tom’s, and she smiled tightly, an apparent casualty of too many Hollywood facelifts.

  Tom stepped away. “We need to go. Where’s Joan?”

  “She’s at the end of the bar, drooling over Leo.” Catherine flashed her expensive orthodontic work. “Don’t feel bad. Everyone drools over Leo. He’s practically a Greek god. Are you jealous?”

  “I’m not,” Tom lied, peering over Catherine’s head to try and spot his wife and the Greek god.

  “OMG… is that… Abraham Lincoln!”

  Catherine sidestepped Tom and went to Abe, her arms open and a squeal escaping her mouth.

  Tom headed for the bar, remembering he should be focused on the Tony Mafia, and not petty feelings of jealousy.

  Joan is having our baby. We’re going through a rough patch, but we’re happily married. Our trust is unshakable.

  She’d never cheat on me.

  She doesn’t even flirt with people, and La-La Land is the City of Flirts.

  Puffing out his chest, Tom located Leo standing next to Joan, who was smiling and appeared to be hanging on his every word.

  I can’t believe it. She’s flirting.

  JOAN

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  I hope Leo doesn’t think I’m flirting.

  That was a problem that some guys had, misinterpreting a casual conversation and believing it signaled interest.

  And I am not in any way interested in Catherine’s extremely hot boy toy.

  “So what did you do then?” she asked.

  Leo wasn’t a particularly compelling storyteller, and it wasn’t a particularly compelling story, but it was easier to ask him things than field his clumsy questions.

  “I told them they were being rude, and asked them to leave.”

  “All ten of them?”

  “Only the first three heard me. The other seven took the hint. Eventually.”

  There’s something off about Leo. He makes me uncomfortable. And not just because he’s gorgeous.

  Something artificial. Or unnatural.

  Or maybe it is because he’s gorgeous.

  Or maybe I’m just a hot mess. I don’t feel like myself at all.

  “So they just left? Drunken frat boys don’t usually do what they’re told.”

  “They didn’t. I had to persuade them.”

  Joan glanced down at the last shrimp of the shrimp cocktail, painfully aware she’d eaten four of the six, and Leo had only eaten one.

  “Was there a fight?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a fight. I’d call it an altercation. The lead kid threw the first punch. It didn’t work out well for him. Or his brothers.”

  Joan blinked. “Wait a sec. Are you talking about Mu Omega Alpha?”

  Leo nodded. The Mu Omega Alpha incident had happened a few years ago, in San Diego. A lone man in a bar fight with ten fraternity brothers.

  “The news said they tried to kill you.”

  “Alcohol can make some people aggressive.”

  “Weren’t all ten boys hospitalized?” Joan vividly remembered the story because there had been talk of making a movie out of it.

  “Most of their injuries weren’t that serious.”

  “I thought one was in a coma.”

  “Medically induced.”

  Joan took the last shrimp. It didn’t satisfy her hunger. If anything, it made her even hungrier.

  “And wasn’t one paralyzed?”

  “He came at me with a broken beer bottle. With physical therapy, and a cane, he’ll probably be able to walk again. Someday.”

  Joan tried to remember the headlines. “They all knew judo.”

  “Karate. But only six of them were black belts. It’s really no big deal.”

  I have a 2nd Dan black belt in karate. I think it’s kind of a big deal.

  “You sound awfully dismissive of the fighting arts.”

  “Martial arts are all about discipline and repetition. Anyone with dedication and commitment can learn the skills. But fighting in a dojo and fighting in a bar are two different things. Fear and panic can make you forget your training. And breaking boards with your feet isn’t much help when a fist is coming at your face.”