Fired Up

There’s a lot of power here. If I screw up . . .” She let the sentence trail off.
    “How much time?”
    Clients were always in a rush, she thought.
    “A few hours should do it,” she said. “I should know by then whether I can handle this thing. But before I even begin to study it, I need food. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Something tells me that working the heavy-duty dreamlight in this lamp is going to create a major psi burn. I’ll need all my reserves.” She paused a beat to make sure she had his attention. “And so will you.”
    Jack did not look pleased, but he did not protest. He was impatient, desperate, even, but he was not stupid. They were about to mess with some very serious energy. He knew as well as she that it would not be smart to sail into that kind of lightning storm without all their resources in good working order.
    He went to the window and twitched the curtains aside. “There’s a café across the street. The sign says it’s open twenty-four hours a day.”
    “Like most things in Vegas.”
    He unzipped the duffel bag and stuffed the lamp into it. Then he picked up his computer case. She collected her satchel. They went downstairs, through the lobby and across the cracked, weed-infested parking lot. The early December night had fallen hard on the desert, but the street was brightly lit with aged, sparking and flickering neon.
    The windows of the café were as dingy as the one in the motel room. Beer signs offered a cold welcome. The laminated tops of the tables in the booths looked as if they had been wiped with a very old, very dirty sponge. At the small bar, three people sat hunched over their drinks. They were all staring at a ball game on television, but none of them showed any real interest in it.
    The waitress looked as hard and weathered as the café, her features ravaged by smoking and bad cosmetic surgery. But her long legs, the artificially enhanced bosom and the underlying bone structure of a once-beautiful face testified to a previous career. Former showgirl, Chloe thought.
    “This town is like the Bermuda Triangle for beautiful women,” she said softly. “Sucks ’em in and drowns them. But still they keep coming here in endless waves. I’ve never been able to figure out why.”
    Jack gave her an odd look before glancing at the waitress.
    “Do you feel sorry for everyone you meet?” he asked, turning back. “I would think that would be a real handicap in your line of work.”
    For some obscure reason she felt obliged to defend herself. “I just wondered about the waitress, that’s all.”
    “So you spin a little story about her that probably has no basis in reality, and suddenly you feel sorry for her.”
    “Take another look, Jack.”
    “Not necessary. I’ll go with the odds. Given that this is Vegas and that a lot of former showgirls end up waiting tables, it’s a good bet she’s on the same downwardly mobile career path.”
    They ate their sandwiches and greasy fries in silence. Jack paid for the meal in cash. Chloe glanced at the stack of bills he left on the table. She smiled.
    “You overtipped,” she said. “I mean, way overtipped.”
    “Everyone overtips in Vegas. Sends the message that you’re a winner.”
    “Hah.” She smiled. “You left her the big tip because you felt sorry for her. Admit it.”
    “I admit nothing. But I’ll tell you this much, it was a damn fool thing to do.”
    “Why?”
    “Because people remember big tippers.”

22
    “I KNOW YOU DON’T WANT TO HEAR THIS,” SHE SAID, “BUT I can’t concentrate with you pacing the room and pausing to look over my shoulder every five minutes. It’s distracting, to put it mildly.”
    He came to a halt near the tiny bathroom and looked at her across the bed. “Sorry.”
    “What’s more you’re still burning psi to overcome your sleep deprivation,” she added. “I realize that you want to get this done as fast as possible, but even if by some miracle I get the lamp figured out right away, you’re in no shape to take a big dose of paranormal radiation. You’re exhausted. Get some sleep.”
    His eyes tightened ominously at the corners. “You’re right. I don’t want to hear any of that.”
    “Listen to me, Jack. You need rest before we tackle this artifact. Whatever happens with this experiment you will require all of your talent to deal with it. If you refuse to get the sleep you need, I won’t work the lamp for you.”
    “Damn it, Chloe, I’m paying you to