Author's note: The newspaper date error pointed out in the review section has been corrected. Thanks for helping, dakota bruder!
Carmelita's vintage sports car was cruising along the pale gray strip of tarmac which cut through the sun-baked landscape, a tiny speck of red among the thousands of tan and brown hues which dominate the Mojave Desert. Its well-tuned engine could probably be heard for miles, but Neyla seemed determined to give it a run for its money.
"I'M GOING TO LAS VEGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS!"
The Constable was standing upright in front of the passenger seat, hands in the air, her long, black hair flapping in the wind. The Inspector, teeth clenched and fingers clamped in a death grip around the steering wheel, tried her best to keep her mind on the road and off the recurring idea of stepping on the brakes and sending the Constable flying. She quietly growled.
This was going to be a long drive.
The three members of the Cooper gang were gathered around a large computer screen in the back of the Cooper van. Sly and Murray watched with bated breath as Bentley brought up an old, faded black-and-white photograph of a storefront on a busy street.
"This", said the turtle, "is Finnegan's Department Store, New York City, circa 1907. From 1889 to 1912, owner James Finnegan ran his illegal gambling den in the basement here. The place was nothing short of a legend in the underworld, frequented by everybody who was anybody in the gangster business - as well as numerous wealthy party people who would come here for the thrill of rubbing elbows with the underground elite. It is said that more money passed through Finnegan's establishment every weekend than the entire rest of New York would see in a week."
Bentley hit a button on his keyboard. The image changed to a slightly blurry black-and-white photo of a large, jovial-looking pig-man in a fez and an immaculately tailored tuxedo, brandishing a newly opened bottle of champagne.
"James Finnegan was a skilled party planner and showman, and knew how to keep the crowds coming. Where other illicit nightclub owners would do their best to play down any scandalous incidents that took place on their premises, Finnegan thrived on them. He had agents all over New York whose sole purpose was to keep the right rumors in circulation, while hushing up whatever gossip he thought was too juicy even for the sort of clientele he sought to maintain. He would also arrange special events from time to time, often along the lines of picking some ongoing hot topic from the headlines and encouraging everybody present to place a bet on its outcome."
Bentley changed the image to another black-and-white photo, this time of an impressive-looking steam ship.
"In early 1912, news started circulating about the greatest, most luxurious ocean liner ever built, a ship unlike anything ever seen before - the RMS Titanic!"
Murray raised a hand. "Oh! I think I know what's gonna happen!"
"Yes, Murray, I'll be getting to that." Adjusting his glasses, Bentley continued. "The entire upper crust had soon caught the Titanic fever, and Finnegan was arguably the worst case on record. He went all out, gathering every scrap of Titanic-related promotional material he could get his hands on and redecorating his establishment in the style of the Titanic's luxurious lounges and parlors. Its walls were decorated with framed posters of the Titanic and magazine ads detailing her exquisite furnishings and impressive technical specifications. Finnegan himself could always be relied upon to provide daily updates as new info became available, and Finnegan's quickly became the place for the idle rich to meet up and discuss the Titanic."
Behind Bentley, the image on the screen changed to a map of the Atlantic, with an animated dotted line slowly stretching from the southern coast of Britain towards New York.
"The Titanic left Southampton on Wednesday, April 10th, and was scheduled to reach New York the following Tuesday - April 16th. However, due to adverse conditions commonly experienced in the North Atlantic during that time of the year, most people believed that the ship should not be expected to arrive until Wednesday, April 17th. On Saturday night, April 13th, a record crowd assembled at Finnegan's to place their bets on the matter, and it was at this moment that Finnegan would truly secure his place in underworld legend for generations to come."
Bentley's vivid narrative seemed to take Sly on a tour into Finnegan's Department Store itself, past endless displays of luxury goods, then into a dusty backroom where a crude, narrow staircase led down to a simple doorway. Past this point, it became practically impossible to remember that the place was in fact a basement. Lavish wooden paneling, exquisite wallpaper and high, vaulted ceilings gave it the spacious feel of a luxury penthouse, and the lack of windows was more than compensated for by several enormous chandeliers, brilliantly illuminated by hundreds of electric light bulbs - a spectacular sight in those days.
This was the big night. The place was packed with gamblers and gawkers of all stripes, whether decked out in the latest European fashions or draped in filthy rags, gleaming with diamonds or reeking of booze. Two pool tables had been placed in front of the bar in the spacious main lounge. Both were piled high with money, jewelry, bullion bars and gambling tokens. Finnegan stood between the two piles, towering above the crowd, one foot on the edge of each table, personally taking notes of everybody's bets as they tossed their stakes onto one table or the other, depending on whether or not they thought the Titanic would make her deadline. When he was certain that all bets were placed, Finnegan made one last note, put his notebook away and announced that he himself was confident that the Titanic would reach New York Harbor on Tuesday, April 16th - no later than ten AM on the dot. And to prove that he was serious, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out…
"...this!" With a dramatic gesture, Bentley changed the image again. The screen now showed a faded, grainy and blurry photocopy of a creased, torn, stained and mouse-eaten newspaper clipping with an illegible caption and a crude pencil sketch of a curious, disc-shaped object covered in indistinct patterns. In its center, a small image of a ship could just barely be seen.
"The Titanic Chip!" Sly exclaimed.
"Exactly!" said Bentley, changing the screen to a looping video of fireworks, with the word 'WINNER!' superimposed on top.
Murray raised his hand again. "The Titanic Chip? What's that?"
The two others turned towards him in mild disbelief. Sly spoke first.
"How have you not heard of the Titanic Chip, Murray? It's basically the Holy Grail of the criminal world!"
"Yeah!" said Bentley. "James Finnegan was the uncrowned king of Titanic obsessives, and to prove it, he was ready to put down a bet of his own-"
"-for the exact value of the Titanic itself!" Sly interrupted.
Bentley didn't skip a beat. "But even though he was certainly one of the wealthiest people in New York, nobody would just assume that he could - or would - cover a bet of that magnitude. He needed to put something on the table for people to see. And of course he could hardly expect the crowds to be entertained by watching him count his way through stack after stack of boring old cash!"
"No, no, no!" said Sly. "He needed something much more compact. Like a poker chip."
"But it would have to be equal in value to a massive luxury ocean liner!" added Bentley, indicating the screen. The fireworks video had played out, and the screen was back to displaying the vague image of the Titanic Chip.
Murray's eyes narrowed as he stared at it. "So… what kinda poker chip is that expensive?"
Bentley perked up, clearly happy to explain. "Well, according to legend, renowned jewelers and gem cutters all over the greater New York area had secretly been working triple overtime for a month, each producing a single small but demanding special-order item for James Finnegan. A tiny gemstone cut in a very specific manner, a near-microscopic fretwork of gold filigree... stuff like that. And then, as the night shift crew of Finnegan's Department Store were getting everything ready for the big night, a carload of little packages arrived and was immediately taken to the tiny back room which served as the workshop of Finnegan's resident master jeweler - a mysterious figure known only as Cornelli. Cornelli's job mostly involved appraising any valuables acquired by Finnegan as security for bets and similar, but now he really got to prove his mettle. It is said that Cornelli assembled all the pieces with less than a minute to spare - just enough time to hand the finished Titanic Chip over to Finnegan mere moments before the crowd was allowed into the lounge."
Here, Bentley quickly hit another button, this time changing the image to a newspaper with a bold headline : 'TITANIC SINKS'.
"I knew it!" Murray exclaimed, prompting a quick burst of laughter from Sly. Bentley paused, cleared his throat, then returned to the topic at hand.
"Anyway, among Finnegan's regulars, the topic of the Titanic Chip became almost as hot as that of the Titanic itself - and on Tuesday, April 16th, when this newspaper came out," -Bentley indicated the screen- "well, chaos broke out. Details are largely unknown, but Finnegan's Department Store never opened that morning, Finnegan's Bar, Burlesque House and Gambling Parlor never opened that evening, and by midnight when the word had spread all over New York and a mob composed of very nearly the entirety of the city's underworld had broken down the doors, the entire building was found to be deserted. And so, the free-for-all search for the Titanic Chip was on. By dawn, the building was nothing but rubble, but to this day, nobody knows what happened to the Titanic Chip - nor to Finnegan."
Bentley turned back towards his enraptured audience. "Any questions so far?"
Carmelita had parked at the dusty roadside to help Neyla cough up what had turned out to be an unusually large beetle, which was now slowly and unsteadily crawling away.
"That," said Carmelita, pointing at the beetle, "is Nature's way of telling you to sit down and shut up! And if you still need convincing, I have my own way." She pointedly caressed the skirt of her black dress, causing a section of fabric to slip aside revealing the shock pistol strapped to her thigh. Neyla leaned against the side of the car, knees wobbly and face slightly green. She heaved for breath a few times.
"Point... t-taken, Inspector."
Neyla brushed some desert dust off the hem of her champagne-colored cocktail dress. Then, slowly and unsteadily, she got back in her seat and sat quietly with her eyes closed for a few moments.
"All right. I'm ready." she said eventually. Carmelita calmly walked around the car and climbed into the driver's seat with the air of someone who has all the time in the world, then made a point of sitting there and not touching the ignition key.
"Ready when you are." Neyla repeated. Carmelita slowly turned towards her.
"And I'll be ready as soon as you have told me exactly what our mission is! This is not a paid vacation, Constable - we are on an important assignment, and I need to know for a fact that you paid attention during the briefing!"
"All right." Neyla took a deep breath.
"A decade ago, the cruise ship Galveston Belle sank under mysterious circumstances off the coast of Cuba. While there were no confirmed casualties, the captain - one Jules Terwilliger - was never seen again. Known for being ferociously old-fashioned, Terwilliger was initially believed to have honorably gone down with his ship. However, a salvage crew reported that the on-board vault had been expertly cracked and completely emptied. More thorough investigations revealed that the vault had been heavily guarded by security staff brought on board especially for the voyage in question. This indicates that the vault must have contained something of exceptional value - although investigators were unable to come up with any clues as to what this unknown treasure might have been."
"And how are these events relevant to us today?" asked Carmelita.
"Well, ever since the original investigation was called off, the number one theory has been that Captain Terwilliger purposely scuttled his own ship and then cracked the vault after the security staff had evacuated. He was then believed to have drowned while trying to escape with the loot. Recently, however, a routine investigation of a minor paperwork issue regarding a new casino being constructed in Las Vegas has, coincidentally, uncovered some possible connections between the casino project and the Terwilliger case. Most notably, a large number of the casino's employees have been identified as former members of the Galveston Belle's crew. This has led to suspicions that the casino's owner - known only as 'the Captain' - is none other than Terwilliger. If so, he could very well be using the unknown treasure of the Galveston Belle to finance the project. We are to infiltrate the casino and confirm the identity of the Captain. Should this person turn out to be Terwilliger, we will also be expected to find out how he's paying for the construction, identify his accomplices, if any, secure further evidence and, if possible, make any necessary arrests."
Carmelita was impressed. The rookie had clearly taken the information to heart. Rewarding Neyla with an approving nod, she put the car back in gear and pulled back onto the road. Along the horizon, still blurred by the haze of heat rising from the landscape, the outline of Las Vegas was just becoming visible. Only a few more miles to go.
Back in the Cooper van, Bentley was helping Sly get into a cheap rental tuxedo.
"Anyway, I hope you don't mind," said the turtle, "that I got you this job a month ago without telling you."
"Not at all." said Sly. "You're the man with the plan, and I'm sure you know what you're doing." His confident smile faded a little. "I'm kinda worried about this new identity you made for me, though. 'Tonnelier'? Simply the French word for 'Cooper'? That's what you wanna go with?"
"Yeah. Often, the most obvious cover is the least suspicious! Besides, in terms of disguise, you'll be amazed at what can be accomplished by an ordinary tuxedo. Now, let's get you into that cummerbund - you're late for your first day at work!"
Sly raised a hand. "Right. Speaking of work, Bentley, why exactly do you need me to play the part of concierge at this new casino, anyway?"
"I'm glad you asked!" Lightning-fast, Bentley turned back towards the computer and typed in a long and complicated password which granted him access to the secret ThiefNet forums. Here, he brought up a subsection dedicated only to the Titanic Chip.
"Rumors about the Titanic Chip have been showing some unprecedented trends." he said as he scrolled down the page. "Usually, there's nothing here but guesswork and speculation. The merest hint of actual news is an exceptional rarity. Recently, however, the rumor mill has been focusing more and more on an upcoming poker tournament in Las Vegas, which will mark the opening of... a certain new casino. The last time any concrete theories were being discussed here was ten years ago, when the sinking of the Galveston Belle made the news. The Chip was briefly believed to have been on board. But while nothing actually came of this at the time, it may interest you that these two events seem to have a common factor:"
He changed the image to a grainy frame from a cheap security camera. It showed a shadowy, indistinct figure skulking along a run-down pier.
"Terwilliger 'The Terror' - formerly, the captain of the Galveston Belle - and currently, the owner of the casino that's hosting the tournament!"
Sly looked skeptical. "Rumors are one thing, Bentley, but do you really think some chintzy Las Vegas tourist trap is about to become the new hotspot for serious Chip chasers?"
"Well... not much is known about Captain Terwilliger." said Bentley. "By some accounts he's a violent madman, others claim he's some sort of criminal mastermind. Some even say he's just some oblivious fool too wrapped up in obsessive-compulsive bureaucracy and antiquated rules of conduct to even remotely understand anything that's physically happening around him. But there's one thing that seems to be clearly agreed upon by everybody who has ever met the man: He is a Titanic fanatic, through and through! And if you need proof -"
Here, Bentley got up from his seat and turned towards the van's rear doors. He quickly threw them open. Sly and Murray's eyes widened in equal parts awe and disbelief.
The Cooper van was parked on a hill overlooking the Southern end of the Las Vegas Strip, providing the Cooper gang with an excellent view of its most recent - and easily most bizarre - addition: An exact, full-scale replica of the RMS Titanic. Well, almost exact. There was one crucial difference: This version had been constructed vertically, easily rivaling the tallest buildings on the Las Vegas skyline, its bow reaching for the sky and its four slanted smokestacks pointing North towards the city proper. Three immense steel beams embedded in the ground were bolted to the sides and bottom of the hull, keeping the ship upright. The structure was still partially surrounded by scaffolding, most of which looked as if it was there to stay. A rickety-looking, old-fashioned cargo elevator had been set up on the sidewalk to carry guests up to a hatch set in the side of the hull.
"- behold, exhibit A: The Titanic Casino!" Bentley intoned, gesturing triumphantly towards the ship.
Staring in awe at the absurd structure, Sly took a few moments to mentally process everything Bentley had said. It all clicked into place, like a jigsaw puzzle. Nobody really knew how the tiny Titanic Chip could be equal in value to the RMS Titanic itself, or even whether it actually was, but the mythos surrounding it added an allure far beyond that of mere gemstones and gold. Yup, Terwilliger could perfectly well be using the Titanic Chip to pay for the construction of his casino. And even if that wasn't the case, a place like that had to be a sure-fire magnet for Chip chasers. Sly was sure to at least learn something new about the Titanic Chip's whereabouts – if not get his hands on the Chip itself.
He gave Bentley an enthusiastic pat on the back. "You were right, buddy. This is better than stealing the Eiffel tower!"