The Thought Readers (Mind Dimensions #1)(23)

The waiter comes, asking what we want to drink. Mira orders hot sake, showing the waiter what must be a fake ID. I stick with green tea, as does Eugene.

I’m dying of curiosity. Did I mention it’s one of my few weaknesses?

It feels risky, but I can’t help myself. I phase into the Quiet and watch the frozen faces of Mira and Eugene carefully.

They don’t seem to be in the Quiet with me. If what Eugene said is true, pulling them in requires explicitly touching them. That’s good. I don’t plan to do that.

I walk out of the little alcove room the waiter gave us and go through the restaurant, searching for the guy Mira spoke to when we first arrived. His table is empty, with only dirty plates and a check lying there. Apparently he was on his way out when we entered.

I walk through the frozen patrons to the door. Outside, I spot my target. He hasn’t gone far.

First, I look in his pockets. Anton Gorshkov, his New York driver’s license tells me. Along with his age, height, and address on Brighton Beach. That doesn’t tell me much. But I now have a new trick I’ve been itching to try again—the whole Reading thing.

I touch his forehead. I do the meditation. I realize as it starts that the process is a little quicker now.



*



We watch Ilona—whom I, Darren, know as Mira—walking toward us. We don’t know the men she’s with. We barely recognize her without the tight dress and heels she’s usually wearing.

“Anton, kakimi sud’bami?” she says to us. It should’ve sounded like gibberish to me, Darren, but I gleefully realize that I understand exactly what she said. The approximate meaning is: “I’m surprised to see you here, Anton.” And I’m aware of the full, subtle meaning of her words, which doesn’t translate to English. In general, I understand every thought that goes through Anton’s head. Apparently language doesn’t seem to matter when it comes to Reading, which makes a weird kind of sense.

“Decided to grab a bite to eat,” Ilona/Mira responds in Russian.

“Who are the wimps with you?” we say. Again, the translation is approximate. The word for ‘wimps’ has a more insulting connotation in the original Russian.

“Math geeks,” she answers. “I consult with them on how to improve my game.”

We have a flashback to playing cards with Ilona. She’s good. One of the best. We try to look at her companions, but she blocks our way.

“They work exclusively with me,” she says. Then, seeing our stubborn look, she adds, “Viktor introduced us.”

We now lose any inclination to look at the math geeks. Not when Viktor is involved. People who cross that guy lose their heads. Literally. There was a rumor that Viktor tapped Ilona, and perhaps it’s true. We really don’t want anything to do with him.

“It was good seeing you. Maybe I’ll see you at this weekend’s big game?” she says.

“I doubt it,” we say. “I first need to collect some money.”

I, Darren, try to go deeper.

Suddenly, it’s late evening, and we’re beating a guy in an alley. He’s refused to get protection. Who does he think he is? Every Russian-owned business in this neighborhood pays protection money to Anton. Our fist aches, but we keep on pounding. No pain, no gain, we joke to ourselves. I, Darren, am horrified, but go deeper still.

Now we’re sitting at a card game. We have a gambling ‘hard on,’ as we call it. I, Darren, can’t believe my eyes.

In this dark room, filled with cigarette smoke and sketchy-looking characters whom we—Anton and me—find scary, there is Ilona. Or Mira, as I, Darren, remind myself.

She’s wearing a tight dress, showing off her impressive cleavage.

We look at our cards. We have two pairs. We are golden. We bet to the limit.

She drops out. Can she read our ‘tells’? we wonder, impressed.

The game moves forward.

Ilona wins the next round, calling one guy’s bluff. We had no clue the f*cker was bluffing. She deserves her reputation as a card prodigy.

As far as we know, she’s never been accused of cheating. But we wonder how such a young, pretty thing can be this good without something up her sleeve. Then we chuckle at the realization that, in fact, she has no sleeves. With that strappy little dress, there’s no f*cking way she can be hiding cards.

Maybe someone at the table is cheating, and she’s the partner? If that’s the case, we’ll keep our mouth shut. These men are not the kind of people you can accuse of cheating and live.

After seeing the game through, I, Darren, have had enough.



*



I am out of Anton’s head. The experience of being someone else, even a lowlife like him, is beyond words. I’m going to do this over and over, until I get sick of it—which is probably never going to happen. It’s so cool.

Right now, though, instead of enjoying the novelty of this experience, I’m wondering about Mira’s sanity. I recall reading something about underground gambling and links to organized crime in her file in Atlantic City, but seeing it through this degenerate’s eyes really put things in perspective for me.

Mira is nuts to be doing this. Why is she doing it? A Reader like her has to have a safer way to make money. Does she need something else in the criminal society? Eugene dropped a few hints about her looking for something or someone, but I still don’t get it. A green monster in me wonders if she finds these men appealing. Anton did think of some scary guy who maybe had her protected or something like that.