I was 56 When I Decided to Become an Acrobat

There is really nothing like watching one of those nouveau circus shows to make you consider the impossible. It was May and I’d just left their adult version in Las Vegas where all the same kinds of acrobatics and contortionist things that you see in any popular circus show are done with the performers in nothing but g-strings. The possibilities are endless. Becoming an acrobat seems like a really good idea. I wasn’t in bad shape. No extra pounds. Tall, looking young for my age. Why shouldn’t I take on a new and challenging career? I was wondering if any of those beauties gave lessons. Yes. Become an acrobat.

I was in Vegas for the annual Geek Convention. Maybe that is why I’m not an acrobat. It’s also variously called SpyCon, 221C, or PICon. Basically, it’s where a lot of people who are private detectives, investigators, policemen, and undercover geeks get together to view the newest in high tech toys, hear improbable tales of law enforcement, and act like they are on covert missions. Basically fun, and the only reason I go to Vegas once a year.

I picked up a tail at the head of display Aisle 200 and she was sticking to me like cat hair on a blue suit. I didn’t really mind. She was the only thing I’d seen in a skirt all week. Look, the cocktail waitresses don’t really wear them.

I dallied in front of a display of long-range listening devices, guaranteed to filter individual voices out of a crowd at a hundred feet. She either had to stop in front of a display of interrogation techniques or move on to join me. She chose the latter.

“Do those things really work?” she asked. “They seem too small to be effective. You really need a tripod to steady it if you are going to pick out an individual, don’t you?”

Good technique. A tail would never actually approach her quarry. Doing so would call attention to her and therefore disqualify her as an effective tail. Unless she thought you’d invite her to join you. That would make the job of tailing you a lot easier. Well, it was a good ploy. I’d play along for a while.

“You are right, a nice big mic on a tripod would be best, but it’s an interesting technology. Supposedly you can even bounce off any solid surface. It’s an interesting concept.” We walked on to the next booth and she asked the exhibitor a detailed and intelligent question about miniaturized transmitters. The exhibitor was all too thrilled to give her an equally detailed response, just to be in her presence. She was tall and slender, and the kind of natural honey blonde whose hair stuck out in all directions. And cute. There was no doubt she was cute.

I decided to hang around and wait for her instead of losing her at just that minute.

We chatted as we continued to walk down the aisle that included everything from night vision glasses to telephone bugs to high resolution miniature digital cameras. This was really a toy heaven. I’d already selected a miniaturized homing device in the top of an innocuous looking ballpoint pen. It was the kind of thing you could give to a person or slip onto them without them ever knowing you were tracking them. I do like gadgets.

We turned into Aisle 500 and she turned to me more abruptly than she intended and stumbled into me. I caught her and she laughed a little and said, “What would you say if I asked if you’d like to get lucky?” She looked up at me with teasing eyes that held a hundred unspoken promises.

Okay. I’m flattered. She is every bit as good looking as any of the acrobats I saw the night before. What’s a man to say?

“Well, hypothetically speaking,” I said, “I’d have to consider that you are an extraordinarily beautiful young woman making an obvious pass at an older and distinguished gentleman, and I’d have to say no.” She looked up at me startled.

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not? Don’t you like me?”

“Oh, I like you very much. I think you are delightful company.”

“Then why?” I couldn’t tell if she was hurt or insulted, or a little of both. But by this time I’d figured out it was all an act.

“First of all, I try to never get involved with anyone less than half my age,” I said. How true. Unfortunately I’m pretty successful at that. She did not seem impressed.

“Okay, do you remember that long distance mic that could pick a single voice out of a crowd?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“They have one over on that balcony, considerably less than a hundred feet away, that has been following us ever since we left that booth, meaning every word has been recorded.” She appeared startled and turned to look.

“Third,” I continued, “you are a woman of exquisite taste, but the buttons of your blouse don’t match. That tells me that the one in the middle is a fisheye camera that you are using to record our interaction visually.” She clapped a hand over the offending button.

“And finally, judging by your Antioch lapel pin, I’d have to say that Lars Andersen is standing around here someplace monitoring the entire conversation,” I concluded.

“Wow,” she said. “He told me you were good.”

“The best I ever trained,” Lars interjected walking up behind me. “How you doing, Dag?” I greeted my old friend and mentor warmly. “It’s good to see you haven’t forgotten everything I ever taught you,” he said. “I was worried about your skills going downhill stuck in that office all the time. No field work, no fun.”

“Oh it’s not that bad,” I said. “I accomplish a bit here and there.”

“Like what?” Lars asked.

“Like three embezzlement cases, two bank fraud cases, six child porn cases, three industrial espionage cases, and fifteen identity theft cases,” said Silas Grant walking up next to Lars. It was turning into old home week. I shook Silas’s hand.

“Sixteen if you count John Doe,” I said. Damnedest case we’d ever worked on. He had stolen over twenty identities, but we never could identify who he really was, even after he was in custody. He had completely erased his own identity in the process.

“So you guys all know each other,” my tail said. “Anybody want to introduce me?”

“Dag,” Lars said, “Let me introduce you to the finest student I’ve had since you and Silas came to me. This is Miss Deborah Riley.” I reached out to shake her hand.

“I’m glad to meet you D…” I broke off as she squeezed my hand rather tighter than was necessary.

“If you call me Debbie, it will be the last use of your tongue that you ever have,” she intoned lowly.

“Geez, Riley,” I said, “why don’t you say what you mean?”

“Riley,” she repeated lightening her grip. “I like that. Nice to meet you Mr. Håmar.” She actually pronounced my name correctly.

“Now what I want to know, Lars,” I said. “Is why you think she’s so good? I picked up on her right away.”

“Yes,” Lars winked at Riley. “I figured you’d made her back at the long-range mics. What do you have to say for yourself Riley?”

“Dag Håmar. Arrived in Las Vegas Tuesday afternoon at 3:00 driving a yellow 1983 Mustang in mint condition. Accompanied by a small dog, checked into the Capricorn Motel just off the strip. Dogs accommodated. Conservative tastes. Even wears a suit to a Geek convention. Spent a lonely evening last night in the third row of “Cavalcade” enjoying an adult circus show. Plays in the casino for no more than half an hour with modest bets.”

“You compiled quite a dossier,” I said.

“I’ve been following you for three days,” she answered. “Lars told me I had to get caught today or we’d never get together.”

“Now I’m impressed,” I said. “It’s always good to welcome another one of Lars’s protégés.”

“He said there’s a lot I could learn from you,” Riley said smiling at me. “I’d like to see.”

“Dag,” Lars interrupted, “we’ve got reservations for four at the Monte Vista Room at 7:00. Why don’t we pick up the conversation there. We all need to get out of this den of spies and get cleaned up before dinner.”

It was arranged, that fast. When I got to the Monte Vista Room Lars, Silas, and Riley were already there waiting for me. The first thing I noticed was that even though Lars and Silas were well into a martini, Riley was sipping Perrier. My kind of girl. I ordered one as well and shortly thereafter we were seated.

It’s always a lively conversation when Lars and Silas and I get together as we do every year at the convention. Even though he is a good fifteen years younger than I am, Silas and I studied criminal justice under Lars at the same time. I went into private business and Silas joined the Feds. Our paths keep crossing, though, since I do so much computer forensics work for his department, FINCen. We’ve gotten along great for years.

For me it all started back in Viet Nam when they discovered that I had an aptitude for electronics. Lars was my Captain in the electronics lab and taught me the rudiments of surveillance in the field. The back injury that I got didn’t come from combat duty; it came from carrying huge cases of gear from one lab to another.

It seemed that Riley had started working toward being a detective from the beginning. She did her under-graduate work in computer science and went into a graduate program in criminal justice under Lars. I have to admit that not only was she bright and beautiful, she was just plain fun to be around. As of the end of May she was all but thesis for her Masters Degree and Lars wanted her to apprentice in a working agency. He’d chosen mine.

I usually work alone, but lately I’d found a lot of smaller projects were taking up time and I could use an assistant. It sounded like it might be workable. I suggested that she come to interview when we got back to Seattle.

When dinner was over, I stood to leave while Lars and Silas had another drink. Riley stood and walked out of the restaurant with me.

The casino we were in was an aging beauty of the old strip, not likely to stand against the modern megaplexes that now dominated Las Vegas. It had a gold rush theme from the 1840s. The waitresses were dressed in old time cancan skirts with the hem pulled up and tucked in the waistband.

I estimated some of them to be the original owners.

Riley put her hand through my arm as we walked through the casino, maybe as much for protection as from any sense of attraction. The tall, elegant blonde was dressed in a black cocktail dress that exposed about fifty not so very square inches of flawless flesh to the harsh casino lights.

“So, Dag Håmar,” she said looking up at me. “You wanna get lucky?”

“I thought we’d covered that point Riley,” I said.

“I mean in the casino,” she said laughing. “Teach me how to play roulette.”

“That’s easy,” I said. We stepped up to an opening at a table and I asked the croupier for four $5 chips. I handed one to Riley and said, “The best way to play roulette is lay your first bet on your age. If the ball rolls into that slot it pays 35 to 1.” She pushed her chip onto the 27 square. I looked at her with one eyebrow raised. She moved the chip to 26, glanced at me and sighed, then moved it to 25. I reached out and dropped the remaining chips on 24 just before the dealer called “No more bets.”

He reached over and put the peg on top of my chips as he called out “Black 24.” He scooped off the chips and matched my three red chips with five black, and a green. I left the red and green chips on the table for him and scooped up the five hundred and shoved four in my pocket and handed one to Riley.

“You are supposed to be honest when you bet your age,” I smiled. It was the first time I’d seen her less than fully composed.

“How did you know?” she asked.

I suddenly found that I couldn’t answer her. My smile was still on my face and I was looking at her, but I couldn’t see her. She faded in and out. There was a pain in my chest and my right leg was crumpling under me. I reached toward her and she held my hand as I sank to the floor in the middle of the casino.

“Call 911!” I heard her yell. It was going to be too late. I knew that. I’d never had a heart attack, but there was no mistaking what was happening. Then she was shoving something into my mouth and forcing me to chew it. I tasted the bitter acrid flavor of aspirin.

So much for my career as an acrobat.