Idempotency by Joshua Wright Page B

to one of the four bars located in each corner of the cubed casino.
    The bar was sparse in decoration and patronage, though entirely covered with media—even the tops of the stool cushions displayed an ever-changing advertisement for a particular beer. Dylan sat down on a stool the moment the cushion had displayed a girl’s face smiling back at him. This disturbed him, but he let it pass and motioned to one of the several bartenders who were on tap tonight.
    Before he could get out the words, someone else did it for him. “Two gin and tonics—make them doubles." A man’s large face turned from the bartender toward Dylan and asked, “That’s your drink, right?”
    Dylan smiled and said, “One of many. If you’re buying, I’ll let you guess the others later.”
    The man stuck out an arm that appeared to be on fire. A bright conflagration danced on his skin. He had a dynamic tattoo of several flames that danced differently, depending on the direction his arm was pointing; the flames always danced upward, becoming more haphazard the faster his arm moved. Dylan had seen some examples of dynamic body art. It was popular with the lower class and the technorati—aniToos, they called them—but he hadn’t seen anything this detailed up close until now.
    “Simeon,” the man said flatly, offering his hand.
    “Dylan, but I guess you already knew that.” He shook the man’s hand firmly and looked at the flames with an approving grin. He then realized the man was muscular, rather than overweight. Simeon was only slightly taller than Dylan, but he appeared taller still owing to his massive frame. His shoulders were as broad as his belly was wide. His muscles flowed naturally, smoothly; they did not appear artificially enhanced.
    As Simeon stared back at him, Dylan was quick to notice flames dancing around his black pupils, and he was immediately certain that Simeon’s ocular implants were the product of a competitor’s virt technology, or illegal darkTech. Probably the latter—invasive, to say the least , Dylan thought. The man had long, reddish-blond hair tied back in a ponytail, allowing him to show off shiny gold earrings. Dylan recognized the ponytail—this was the man who had bumped into him in the EGC lobby.
    Simeon sat down to Dylan’s right. He didn’t speak until the drinks came, which was fine with Dylan. When the drinks did come, both customers took large swigs, then Simeon twirled in his chair toward Dylan and laughed, a deep, bass-filled chuckle. Dylan turned to him with a questioning look.
    “I tell you to take public transit, stay underground, pay direct for a rental—” more laughter “—and you go and rent the most obnoxious car you possibly can! Damn, Dylan!” Dylan took to Simeon’s hearty laugh immediately.
    “What’s with the Cold War crap? You’re lucky I’m even here, Mr. Simeon,” Dylan replied.
    “Just Simeon, and I wouldn’t call either of us particularly lucky.”
    “Okay, Just Simeon, get to the point so I can go play some 50K Limit Hold’em.”
    “All right then—“ Simeon started, but was quickly cut off by Dylan.
    “And, let me be clear: the point —which happens to be the only reason I came here, and the only reason I’m talking to you right now rather than playing poker—the point is, what do you know about my uncle, and how do you know about Sabrina?”
    “I think I’m going to like you, Boxster.” Simeon said, beaming, as the bartender returned with two watered-down gin and tonics. He took a swig, asked the bartender for two shots of synthetic tequila, and then continued. “Okay, tell me this: When was the last time you went to a public park?”
    “What do you mean ‘When is the last time I went to a public park?’—I was in Central Park just last week on business.”
    “Let me reiterate.” The tinge of an East Coast accent seemed to be creeping in.  “I said . . . when is the last time you were in a public park?”
    Dylan shrugged. “Okay, I give