Clan Novel Giovanni: Book 10 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Justin Achilli

  Chas stumbled, his legs feeling like jelly. His vision narrowed to a tunnel and everything, everyone in the tunnel seemed to be staring at him. He could feel every ridge on his fingerprint, every thread of his shirt. He could feel where the blood he had vomited was thin and where it was viscous and coagulated. Fragments of the cockroach people’s speech found their way into his hearing, but he remained oblivious to the larger noise around him. “Fucked up,” the voices said. “Look out—what a mess.” “Did they shoot him?” “…Card-counter…”“…Too much to drink…”…

  “…Gangsters! …”“…Someone should do something…”“…That man removed…”“…Don’t look, Gladys…” He felt the tacks that held the soles to his shoes, the minor gradations where the carpet had been laid over an irregularity in the floor’s foundation. Another gout of blood-puke found its way up and everyone looked at him. A horrified waitress dashed out of his way and two bouncers looked at him disapprovingly as they waved him and—who the fuck was holding his arm?—out of the casino and into the lobby.

  Victor. It was fucking Victor. Chas peered, his eyes narrowing to slits as he focused on Victor’s face. Victor shoved Chas into an elevator—puke—and two greasy-haired roach-men in cheap slacks and sport coats dodged to get out of the car.

  “Jesus, Chas, what the fuck happened to you?” Every detail of Victor’s face stood out as Chas stared at it, the pores, the individual minute strands of hair that would make up his beard once it grew out more, the lines at the side of his mouth and at the comers of his eyes. The still-red rims of his nostrils.

  “It’s the hooker’s fucking crank. Or mescaline. That whore must have been tripping. Fuck, Victor, get me to the room before I—” More vomit, spraying across Victor’s shirt and the mirrored wall of the elevator car. Chas grabbed Victor by the front of the shirt—wondered if he could tell the thread count by feeling the individual fibers. “The fucking room, Victor. Shit.”

  “Calm down, Chas.” Victor pushed him back, as much to keep him from crashing into the walls as to remain on top of the situation. “I got everything under control. Victor’s in charge, you hear me? Don’t fight me, because I’ll have to hold you back and you’ll probably fucking kill me.”

  They burst into the hotel room, a few indignant rays of sunlight already climbing through the crease where the drapes met. Blood-sweat drenched Chas’s forehead and welled through his shirt where it wasn’t already stained with blood-sick.

  “Fucking hell, Victor, are we—” puke “—done?”

  “One minute, Chas. One fucking minute. Almost there.”

  Victor kicked open the bathroom door, noting that the floor was still a bit wet from where he’d had to mop it with towels earlier. Oh, well. It would have to do. He pushed Chas into the bathroom, casting him inelegantly into the tub. As a quick afterthought, he hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outside of the room’s door and pulled shut the lever-lock that worked like a door chain. Fort fucking Knox, this place is, he grinned. Then he pulled shut the bathroom door, making sure to put the bedspread in front of the crack beneath the door.

  As Chas collapsed into a fitful, twitching unconsciousness, the devil ran through his mind. The devil, lord of the cockroaches.

  Tuesday, 29 June 1999, 11:56 PM

  Caesar’s Palace, Senate Boardroom

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Milo Rothstein sat at one end of the enormous stained-oak table, flanked by his de facto counsel. Prince Benedic’s Nosferatu flunky, Montrose, sat to his left, looking like a skinned and twisted war prisoner in designer clothes. One of the lesser Rothstein Giovanni sat to his right, nervous and ill-informed. He knew that, in the event that things got out of hand, he was probably going to be thrown to the wolves. He was there only because he had learned the keen power of scrutinizing the auras of others. He had originally learned his “little trick,” as Milo called it, to use as an edge while hunting the casinos and streets. It had proved to be an ersatz gift, however, as it made him a prize commodity in the petty squabbles between the family and the other vampires who wanted Las Vegas to be their playground only.

  At the far end of the table, Victor Sforza tapped the note pad sitting before him with his pen. Chas stood behind him, playing to their ruse of mouthpiece and enforcer.

  The Giovanni neonate leaned toward Milo, whispering, “The one standing up is a vampire. I’m not sure about the one sitting at the table. He’s playing his cards pretty close to his chest. I’m guessing he’s either Kindred or a ghoul.”

  Milo nodded. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit, Mr. Sforza?”

  Victor rose, smoothing his tie. “Well, Mr. Rothstein, it would seem that our employer, Francis Giovanni, has come to learn that an acquaintance of his has gone missing. Mr. Giovanni suspects that he may have taken refuge here, or that you might know where he has gone…to. Gone, I mean.”

  Milo smiled and looked past his steepled fingers into his lap. “And why would your employer’s friend come to see me?”

  “Because Mr. Giovanni knows that you have had dealings with him in the past.”

  “Have I?” Milo raised his eyebrows. “Such guarded speech! What exactly is my connection with Benito, anyway?”

  Victor shot back before Chas could warn him with a cough. “I never said Benito. You must know what we’re talking about, or the individual’s name wouldn’t have come to your mind, would it?” Chas tensed. The ball had always been in Milo’s court, but he’d chosen to pull his initial punches, to see what his guests had to offer. Chas suspected a set-up, that bad blood between Frankie Gee and Rothstein in the past was being settled by proxy. Willing blood into his limbs, he felt the flush of undead potency course through him.

  “No, Mr. Sforza, I’m afraid you don’t quite see the full truth. I know precisely why you’re here, and my apparent slip-up was intended to indicate that I know more than you believe me to. If a simple underestimation were your only error, you might have come out of this meeting ahead.”

  The freak, Montrose, watched Chas bristle, and made to rise. Milo outstretched a hand, as if to calm him or to keep him seated. With an almost imperceptible narrowing of the eyes, Montrose looked to Milo. Chas caught the minute display and raced to put the pieces together in his mind: Montrose wasn’t happy with Rothstein. Rothstein might know where Benito was, but had some reason to keep it quiet, which might be the reason for the tension between them. The quiet fellow who hadn’t been introduced was either the linchpin or a red herring. More likely the latter given his visible discomfort. But then, that could be part of—Chas halted his thoughts, choosing not to second-guess himself. Better to let everything play out than to go off half-cocked.

  Victor backed down, a good move. “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Rothstein. I came at the request of my employer, who seemed to think that this matter would be easily resolved on amicable terms. Perhaps I’ve misjudged you, but your manner seemed defensive. I apologize for my presumptuousness.” That seemed to calm Rothstein, but Montrose remained agitated. Chas relaxed a bit, cursing himself for so quickly invoking the power of his undead vitae. He knew the rush would remain there, but he tried to shrink himself visibly. The room’s recessed fluorescent lights flickered briefly beneath the yellow wash of the main lamps. Montrose raised a warped eyebrow.

  Victor continued. “It is Benito we’re after, but only to settle a debt with my employer. I’m afraid that if you give him reason to think you might be harboring the debt, he won’t take that as an act of comradeship.”

  Chas winced—Frankie hadn’t said anything to him about a debt. Either he was keeping Chas in the dark, or Victor was making this up on the fly. He hoped this last was the case, because if Frankie had sent him out here to play back-up man to a fucking ghoul without giving him the full picture…

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Sforza, but I can’t help you.” Milo’s statement broke Chas from his reverie. “Benito Giovanni stopped here briefly more than two weeks ago, but stayed for only one night before taking his le
ave.”

  “I see. Well, then I am sorry to have wasted your time. My employer will be disappointed, but perhaps your recent sighting of Benito will provide him with some new insight.” Victor rose, made a show of scribbling something on his note pad, and turned to leave. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Rothstein. My associate and I ask for one more evening to conclude our affairs and to afford us ample time to return home without fearing the rays of the sun.” Good play, Chas thought; let them think you’re Kindred. Victor could certainly think on his feet.

  “But of course. Where are you staying?”

  Chas flashed a brief look to Victor. Either Rothstein hadn’t known about the problem last night or he was trying to lull them again.

  “We’re staying here in Caesar’s Palace. In the tower—twenty-sixth floor. A grand view of the Strip,” Victor remarked casually, buttoning his suit coat in preparation to leave. Please, please, please, Chas thought to himself, don’t take a shot at Treasure Island. Montrose apparently made his haven there, according to information gleaned before things had acquired their current state between the Rothsteins and Frankie Gee’s faction.

  But he hadn’t to worry. Victor kept his mouth shut.

  As they left, heading toward the elevator, Chas clapped Victor on the shoulder. “Not bad. You even had me fooled for a minute. With any luck, he’s underestimated you. Or maybe even overestimated you, which will take the attention off…well, whoever it’s supposed to be on.”

  “Damn, Chas, give me some credit,” Victor returned. “It’s possible to make a deal without cutting someone’s nose off. I just hate talking to Kindred who believe what they tell other people about themselves. Half of the conversation is flattery and the other half is trying to get them to take your bait. Kindred like Milo Rothstein talk in circles; you just have to hope they get dizzy. I made that shit up about the debt—I don’t know why Frankie’s after Benito, but I don’t want to look like some ignorant messenger boy. The better I play the game, the more opportunity I give Milo to trip up on his end.”

  Chas just looked ahead with a slight, bemused smile on his face. Victor was right—sometimes the Kindred fooled themselves better than anyone else with their charades.

  As the elevator climbed to the twenty-sixth floor, Chas hoped Milo hadn’t left the table thinking the same thing.

  Wednesday, 6 October, 1999, 11:47 PM

  Si Redd’s Resort Hotel & Casino

  Mesquite, Nevada

  Dan Nussbaum bellied up to the bar. The bartender noticed that he had “that look” about him—the look that signified he was about to hear some kind of story. Maybe a divorce story, maybe some other hard-luck story. Or maybe something really weird, which you sometimes heard from a freak who’s too strange to be seen under the bright lights of the bigger gambling towns.

  Dan ordered a draft.

  “Something on your mind, friend?” prodded the bartender. Best to get it over with.

  “Yeah, I guess I see a lot of things. Every once in a while, though, some things stick out. I mean, I suppose I’m jaded; Pop says I am. I think he’s just old, though. I’ve seen junkies and drag queens and kids who stole their parents’ cars. Pop must have seen it all dozens of times more than I have, but it still shocks him. That’s his generation, I reckon.

  “The family has a gas station and convenience stop up U.S. 95, outside of the city—Vegas—up by the Air Force range. By ‘family’ I mean me and Pop. Ma died of cancer six years ago or so. Darlene lives in Los Angeles; she never calls or writes.

  “So anyways, that’s how I see the stuff I do—it just comes to me. Middle of the night, before the slots get hot, after breakfast, whenever. It comes in from all over.

  “Like this one time, I’m behind the counter, looking over the baseball magazine—I’ve got a bookie in Vegas—when this real strange fella comes in. It’s night, but he’s wearing sunglasses. He comes in the front door and his long hair flutters behind him—he even has to stoop a bit to make it under the doorway. I could smell the leather and marijuana on him like he ain’t had a shower in a good day or two.

  “He nods as he comes in; no sense not being friendly, I suppose. I look past him, out into the lot, smiling at him like ‘welcome.’ Out there, under the neon lights of the metal awning, parked amid a cloud of bugs and road dust is a Cutlass, front passenger side missing a hubcap. There’s a woman in the front seat, but she’s asleep or preoccupied, looking forward, or maybe sleeping.

  “The guy shuffles around the store a bit and I don’t pay him any mind. If he needs something he’ll holler. Most people on that road just want to settle their business and get back to the highway.

  “He comes up to the counter out of the snack-food aisle and puts his items in front of me: a box of black garbage bags, a roll of duct tape and a pack of Twinkies.

  ‘“Eight sixty-three,’ I says. ‘You a hitman?’ I kidded him.

  “He digs a couple of bills out of his greasy pocket and drops them on the countertop.

  “‘Vampires. Keep the change. You got a john?’ is what he says in response.

  “‘Yes, sir, right around the comer.’ I hand him the ’64 Impala steering wheel with a key dangling from it.

  “He leaves, opens his trunk, throws in his stuff— hard—and yells something. The girl doesn’t move, so I guess he wasn’t talking to her. He slams the trunk shut, but it bounces open, and he slams it down again. Must’ve been something in the way. Like a vampire.” Dan Nussbaum laughed into his beer.

  “The fella lumbers around the side of the building and returns two minutes later. He comes inside, puts the steering wheel on the counter and leaves.

  “I blink, and he’s gone, nothing but taillights and dust clouds. But that’s none of my affair.”

  The bartender washed a few mugs, unfazed. All the good stories had at least a dead ex-girlfriend. But maybe that’s what was in the trunk….

  Wednesday, 30 June 1999, 12:52 AM

  Caesar’s Palace, Room 2604

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Chas and Victor returned to their room to find the message light blinking on the telephone. No doubt it was Frankie Gee with some new revelation or a request for them to stop somewhere on the way home.

  Chas checked the message at the front desk: Call Frankie back in New York, urgent. Something about that unsettled him—nothing ever got Frankie so worked up he needed to do something immediately. He was the kind who, if he got fucked, would sit and ruminate, letting his devious mind conjure a suitable revenge while feeding itself on cold hatred. Frankie was the sort of guy who’d come back at you six weeks after you gave him the short end of the stick. He’d make a big show of it, too—something you thought was trivial or that had passed like water under the bridge had instead been smoldering in Frankie’s gut, and now you were going to be paid back in spades.

  So, Chas called Frankie’s office immediately. “Hey, Frankie. This is Chas. What’s the problem?” He idly wondered why Annie didn’t answer the phone.

  “This thing’s bigger than I thought, Chas. Apparently, Benito owes people more important than me. I just got word from some of the old-town guineas on high that we better be extra fucking careful with this shit.”

  “What do you mean? What, he’s in the hole across the board?”

  “No, nothing like that. I’m small potatoes with some of these old motherfuckers, you know what I mean? I didn’t tell them I had you out there, but if Benito’s anywhere near Las Vegas, these guys are going to send a crew out your way.”

  “Well, what do you want me to do? Rothstein’s talking like he doesn’t know shit but there’s someone else in the picture, I’m pretty sure. He had one of his little men there to shake us up, but he also had a freak job in there. Real piece of work, this Nosferatu. Does the name Montrose mean anything to you?” Chas scratched a hotel pen across the note pad on the nightstand. No ink.

  “No, nothing to me, but it might to the goombahs. Keep your eyes and ears open for someone named Isabel. Sh
e’s some bigshot with the old family out of Venice.”

  “Isabel Giovanni?”

  “As far as I can tell. She’ll be there, like I said, if Las Vegas is worth anything at all.”

  “Rothstein says Benito came and went. He was here, but then he disappeared. Nobody knows where he is.”

  “Well these old motherfuckers are all up in arms about it. Wherever he is, they need to just leave him there.”

  “You don’t want us to stay any longer, do you?” Chas remembered the previous night, Victor’s escapade, and his own encounter with Las Vegas unique brand of lacquered, mediocre vice.

  “Well, now that you ask, I do. You stay there a couple more nights, see if any of the old crew make it out there.”

  “Fuck, Frankie, that’s not going to get me in trouble with them, is it? I mean—”

  “Hey, you do what I tell you to do, you hear me? Don’t you fucking cry to me like a girl because I tell you to stay a few more nights. What the fuck is your problem, Chas? You going soft?”

  The question sent Chas’s mind racing. La cosa nostra, particularly the Giovanni brand, wasn’t something people retired from. When you were done, you were either a pile of ash in jail, a pile of ash on the street, or a pile of ash in the oven of your own fucking haven. If Frankie thought he was going soft, the old man might have him taken out of the picture before he had a chance to fuck anything up. He shifted the focus from himself.

  “No, Frankie, I’m not saying that. I’m saying that if these other guys are making it their case, they might not want us around. Family or no, their dirty laundry is still their dirty laundry, and I don’t want to put my nose in it if it’s going to fuck up their operation or ours.”

  “Well, it’s good you’re thinking, Chas, but you let me take care of that end of things. You and Victor stay out there, and keep your eyes open. I got a suspicion that this is bigger than they’re wanting it to seem. They’ve already made it big by stepping in, going over my head; but it’s like you say, it’s their problem. If they can’t handle their problem, well, maybe I can find someone who can and they’ll end up owing me, capice?”