by Cari Z
“Sure, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
Devon snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared. “Another Regal on the rocks for my friend.” The waiter scurried away and Jerry looked a little abashed.
“I didn’t know you were drinking something so expensive,” he said with a wince.
“I wouldn’t drink it if I couldn’t afford it. Tell me, how long have you been here at The Palms?”
“Almost three years, now.” When his drink came, Jerry’s courage seemed to come with it, and he started to speak more freely. In the next thirty minutes Devon learned that Jerry was related to Houdini, that his father and grandfather were both magicians but for years he’d worried that he would never be more than a tax accountant. “I gave it one last try,” he said, his eyes a little unfocused as he sipped. “And I must have done something right, because now, well…” He smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile, more resigned. “Here I am.”
Devon already knew the details that Jerry didn’t want to say. Pride and family history drove Jerry to try his hand in a trade he wasn’t meant for, and when that failed he’d turned to knowledge that he never should have had, knowledge that his father and grandfather had known about but never used, not after Houdini’s mysterious and somewhat ignoble end. Harry Houdini had died at fifty-two. Devon wondered how old Jerry was, and whether or not he’d tried to change the terms of the agreement that whatever demon he made bargained. Probably not. If he had, he might have risen further than The Palms by now. Devon looked at Jerry and felt sad for him. This man’s life was already over, and he knew it.
“What’s the story behind the trick?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, the last one?” Jerry’s lips quirked. He pulled out his own wallet and held up a card. It was a Jack of Spades, but this one was old and worn around the edges. This was a card that meant something to its bearer. “I learned that trick from a…a friend. I can’t tell you how it was done, of course, but I can say that the same card always comes up. A Jack of spades, every time.” He chuckled a little bitterly. “Like magic.”
He replaced the card and started to put his wallet away, but Devon forestalled him. “I have a card of my own for you.” He plucked one out of his own wallet and tucked it directly into Jerry’s, holding the magician’s eyes as he did it. “My office number is on that. Call me in a few days and I’ll set up a meeting. We’ll see if we can get you into the Bellagio, Mr. Dibellious.” The card did read Vincent Case, Asst. Manager, Bellagio Hotel and Casino. Devon had charmed it out of the real Vincent earlier, figuring he might need it.
“Thank you,” Jerry said. He put his wallet away, drained his drink, and they both stood up. “And actually, it’s Weisz,” he added, strangely emphatic. “Jerry Weisz. I figure you ought to know the real me.”
“I think I do,” Devon replied. They shook hands and parted ways. Only after Devon was outside and in another taxi cab did he reach into his breast pocket and pull out the Jack of spades he’d stolen from Jerry. Pickpocketing had been a necessary skill when he’d been a kid and Devon never forgot a trick. He stared down at the faded card, the symbol of Jerry’s dark deal, and felt depressed. If Lynlis was half the fount of information they expected her to be, then she should know where he’d gotten this from, and its significance. The card would more than make their point, that they were willing to go the distance to get her services, but it felt dirty in his hand.
Half-formed plans to go out and enjoy the evening crumbled away, and instead Devon headed back to the Motel 8. He’d order delivery, check in with Maria, play with Maggie and hope that Rio came back soon.
Chapter Eight
Rio thought it was kind of funny that Devon was under the impression that Rio would just be able to walk up to Jackie Miranda tonight in a nightclub, sweet talk his way into the inner circle, get something of Miranda’s out of him and then get away without causing a ruckus. Either he thought Rio was a glutton for punishment, or he had ascribed some strange combination of his own charm to what he perceived as Rio’s invincibility.
It was flattering, it really was, but Rio was far from invincible. Many years in dangerous situations had taught him that he could be cut, he could be shot, he could bleed and tear and be rent into pieces. He survived places like the Pearly Gates by using surprise to ruthless advantage and carrying a lot of weapons that he knew like his own reflection. He was good, yes, he really was, but he wasn’t good enough to think that he could get into a brawl in a club with Jackie Miranda and his thugs and come out of it unscathed and with no civilian casualties.
Better to see if he could get in the door on a more professional level. Rio was, and always had been, eye-catching. He even had a mocked up resume supporting a history of bodyguarding and private security (which, yeah, actually was his real job currently, but Safeguard Systems wasn’t on his CV) that he could pull out if he needed to, but Jackie Miranda didn’t seem to be running the type of business that wanted professional credentials. He wanted to see the bottom line, and the bottom line was effective violence.
Jackie Miranda’s crew hung out in a boxing gym next to a Cuban restaurant that served an incredible pork sandwich, sweet and garlicky. Rio ate two of them, a side of fried plantains, and drank his way through a pitcher of beer before heading over into the gym, so he’d smell right.
There was a beat-up ring in the center of the room, with a couple of guys going round and round each other. Little pods of people, clustered at the punching and speed bags, the slightly rusty lockers, or sat splayed out on the bleacher-style benches against the far wall. About a dozen guys, all told, and they all looked pretty fit. The ones sitting on the benches were all carrying, too. Rio had left his guns behind, but he had a knife on his belt and another under his jeans outside of his left ankle.
A burly man with an incredible upper body and the legs of an anemic teenager got up and headed over to him. He was more than a foot shorter than Rio, which made watching the guy try to loom pretty funny, but he flexed his chest impressively and asked, “Whaddaya want, man? Whaddaya fuckin’ doin’ in here?”
So this was the gatekeeper. And he wasn’t inclined to let Rio in. No problem. “What am I doing here?” Rio leaned his back against the side of the door and gestured loosely toward the ring. “Right now I’m watching two morons go after each other like they’re Tom and fuckin’ Jerry. It’s kinda pathetic to watch, man.”
The gatekeeper’s ruddy skin got redder. Rio assumed it was anger and not shame at how bad his boxers were, because seriously, they were pretty bad. “Think you can do better, huh, ese?” he snarled. “You don’ look so tough to me. Tall guy, that jus’ means there’s more of you to beat.”
“Yeah?” Rio smiled genially and shrugged. “Look, I’m not here to start a fight, man. I’m new to town, looking for work, I heard a person with my skills might find some of that here. I just want to talk to the man in charge.”
“Oh yeah?” The gatekeeper sneered, and Rio noticed a small ruby inset in his right front tooth. Interesting. That was a clear effort to fit in if Rio had ever seen one. “Well you ain’t gonna talk to him ‘til you convince me you got somethin’ worth listenin’ to, and right now all I see is a big, bald bitch who’s askin’ to get his ass beat.”
“That’s what you see, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Rio looked over at the benches, where other men, men with a much calmer demeanor, were watching with interest. “That what you boys think too?”
“Don’ talk to them, you deal with me!” the gatekeeper spit, reaching up to jerk Rio’s chin around. That was when Rio decided he’d had about enough of grabby assholes, made a fist and very precisely punched the man in the mouth. Bone cracked under his knuckle, the gatekeeper’s head flew back and Rio had to bend him over to keep him from swallowing the tooth he’d just broken. He punched the guy in the gut and his diaphragm convulsed, leaving him gasping like a fish. The tooth, red ruby gleaming, plinked onto the floor, and Rio grabbed it up and slipped it into his back
pocket just before a flood of vomit followed. He stepped back from the expanding mess and walked in the direction of the benches.
“Hey,” he said casually. “So. Can I talk to Jackie now?”
One man, a lanky guy with dark skin and squinty eyes, stood up and looked him over. “I figure maybe you can. When he gets in. Jackie ain’t due back for another hour, and when you speak to him, you call him Mr. Miranda, you got it?”
“Got it.” The guy smiled, and Rio saw another ruby in his tooth too.
“Good. Meantime, you wanna spar? You got reach, but I think I’m faster than you.”
“You got gear I can use?”
“Box in the corner. Grab whatever you like.” The guy stripped his long-sleeved t-shirt off to reveal a lean and sculpted musculature. He was probably six-two, maybe six-three. Big enough, and probably as fast as lightning. Rio mentally sighed and headed over to the cardboard box overflowing with ripped gloves and tangled hand wraps. Boxing wasn’t his best skill, but he could hold his own. He wasn’t here to show people up, he was killing time until he could talk to the boss.
It was a little more vigorous than killing time, but not by too much. His sparring partner was “Kelso,” and he was pretty good, with the kind of form that came from long hours of training and practice. He exploited every weakness he found, and while he wasn’t swinging to knock Rio out, he definitely wasn’t averse to getting some payback for the gatekeeper, who was lying on his back on a mat, a dirty bag of frozen peas pressed to his mouth. He’d had to clean up his mess before the others would let him lie down, but the air still had a sour tang to it that was kind of nauseating if a person wasn’t used to it.
Rio, for his part, kept it friendly. He wasn’t aiming for this guy’s tooth, he just needed to get through another layer of initiation, so he threw easy combos and took some shots to the body and let Kelso feel like he’d be fucking him up if he just picked up the pace. They finished up sweaty but smiling. Kelso ripped off his glove and swung his hand out for a shake, ruby gleaming bright inside of his big smile. “Damn, boy, your tall ass got some moves!”
Rio grinned and shook back. The trigger finger of Kelso’s right hand was heavily calloused. A higher level enforcer, then, someone who probably practiced shooting because he wanted to be good at the real thing when he was called on to do it, and Rio bet that he was called pretty often.
“Not bad for a midget,” he replied, and Kelso slapped his back while one of the other men passed him a water bottle. He drank deep, then offered it to Rio. The water was warm and slightly rust-colored, but Rio drank it down and handed the empty bottle back. From there on out it was sitting on the bench together, passing a joint around and shooting the shit. They grilled Rio on where he’d worked before, with who, doing what. One of the guys, well built like all of them but almost as pretty as Devon, opened his mouth when Rio threw the question back, and all the other guys started moaning.
“Not Paris Hilton again!”
“You even mention her name again, boy, we gonna take it to the ring. I will knock your fuckin’ teeth out of your face ‘fore I listen to that story once more time.”
“Dude, didn’t her lemur bite you or something?”
“It was a kinkajou,” the handsome man said sourly. “And yeah, it did. I still have the scar.”
“Don’t get him started,” Kelso advised Rio. “Billy the Kid’s pretty enough, he got a lot of the ladies wantin’ to show that ass off in the clubs. Some of ‘em are famous, one of ‘em back in the day was Paris Hilton, and let’s just say it didn’t end well.”
“I totally could have tapped that if her fucking kinkajou hadn’t fucking bit me,” Billy the Kid said. Another guy slapped the back of his head, and then they were tumbling off the benches and onto the floor, throwing punches that were only slightly serious.
It went on for a few minutes, the watchers hollering and swearing, until the gatekeeper suddenly yelled, “Boss isth back!” with only the slightest lisp from his damaged mouth. The men stopped fighting, all movement ceased, and Jackie Miranda sauntered into the gym, followed by a guy so burly he looked like a professional body builder. Jackie was dressed in a black suit, black from the sharp points of the shirt collar down to his shiny shoes, the monochrome effect only broken by a ruby tiepin. His dark moustache was thin, and acne scars pocked his cheeks. He didn’t look pretty, but he did look dangerous.
“What the hell is going on in here?” he snapped, looking over at the benches. His eyes narrowed when they settled on Rio. “Who is this pendejo?”
“Hey, Jackie.” Kelso stood up and grinned, a little nervous, a little eager. “This here’s Rio Menendez, he’s fresh in from Miami. Lookin’ to set up with a crew, and he found us. Guy’s pretty good with his hands.”
“What the fuck do I care about his hands?” Jackie asked rhetorically. “I don’t need him to fuckin’ jack me off, moron, I need him to tell me why he thought it was cool to waltz in on my crew and expect everything to be fuckin’ okay, and then actually have everything turn out okay! What the fuck were you thinking?”
Kelso was tightening up across the shoulders, getting the look of a dog that expected a beating from its master, and Rio decided it was time to intervene. “Look, man,” he said as he stood, holding his hands up palms out, “I ain’t here to cause you trouble. I’m just lookin’ for a job. I’m good, and I look good.” He smirked briefly. “I look better than that guy, anyway.” He pointed at the gatekeeper, who’s lips had swelled up and now looked like two slugs kissing. The man bristled, but Jackie waved him down.
“No no, Manuel,” he said reassuringly. “You did your job. Not your fault that the rest of this crew don’t have the sense they were born with.” He glared at Kelso and the others, then snapped his fingers peremptorily at Rio. “My office. Now.” He stalked to the back of the building, his hulking bodyguard waiting, stone-faced, for Rio to follow. He was broader across the shoulders than Rio, only a few inches shorter, and might as well have been carved out of cement for all the emoting he was doing. Rio glanced over at Kelso, shrugged, and then followed.
Given the beat-up nature of the rest of the gym, the office was a surprisingly sumptuous place, with a desk covered in red leather to match the chair. The walls were black, and so were most of the accessories. Even the stereo on the bookshelf was shining black metal. The titan took up position next to Jackie’s chair, hands folded menacingly. Jackie sat, and looked over at Rio. “Well? Sit down.”
The only other chair in the room was a cheap metal folder. Rio sat. His knees were practically level with his shoulders, and he knew he looked ridiculous. That was probably the whole point.
“So, you say you wanna join my crew?” Jackie looked incredibly unimpressed. Rio had to congratulate him on his arrogance; most people with any level of intelligence, when confronted with someone who looked the way Rio did, thought twice before dismissing him. Jackie was very confident in his superiority. “I don’t know how you heard about me, but if you know anything, then you know that I don’t just let any old hijo de la gran puta into my group. We don’t always work for fucking Paris Hilton, if that’s what that idiot Billy was telling you. You have to be willing to do things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Uncomfortable things,” Jackie murmured. “Things our clients can’t do themselves, you understand?”
“You talkin’ about killing someone?” Rio snorted derisively. “Fuck, I’ve killed plenty of people, man. One of the reasons I had to leave Miami. I’m a professional, Mr. Miranda. You tell me where to go and what to do and I do it, as long as I get paid.”
“These things are easy to say, but you…” Jackie scowled as he scrutinized Rio. “You don’t look quite right. You don’t feel right to me.” He leaned forward onto his desk and crossed his hand. One of his rings stood out, plain, dull white among the crowded gold bands. Probably bone, given its color and texture. “You know anything of Palo?”
“Very little.”
He nodde
d, oddly serious now. “Probably better that way. Well, you should know that I have a spirit watching over me. A death spirit. Makes me good at what I do, tells me how to kill, sometimes who to kill. Tells me who has killed.” He splayed his hand out, the bone ring stark on his middle finger. “This,” he tapped it, “it’s nganga. Connected to my spirit. It knows when you’re lying to me about death, and tells me.” Jackie smiled thinly. “You say you’ve killed? You think you’re a hard man? Let me see your hand. Lay the weight of your kills out before me, and we’ll see if you have what it takes to be a player in my crew.”
Oh, shit. If this was really about to work, then Jackie was in for one hell of a surprise. Saying no would just result in a fight, though, and once he’d killed these two there would still be the rest of the gym to deal with. Rio sighed and held out his hand. “Knock yourself out.”
Jackie grinned, and a small diamond glinted from where it was set in his front tooth. “Good boy.” He took Rio’s hand in both of his, pressed the ring tight to Rio’s palm, and focused on the connection. He lasted about five seconds before beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
“No,” he said, and his voice was dry and choked. “No, that’s not possible.” Jackie’s eyes were wide, his pupils completely blown. He looked up at Rio and shook his head. “Not possible. S’too much.” His hands trembled, and he glanced around at phantoms that Rio couldn’t see, but felt the presence of every day. “Not possible. No!”
Jackie threw Rio’s hand away and shifted back violently. “No! No!” He stared like a madman, cringing and twitching as his death spirit paraded the long line of Rio’s dead past his eyes. His bodyguard leaned toward him worriedly, and it was all Rio could do to keep from swearing. That ring would have been the perfect token, but there was no good way to get it now. He stood up silently, turned and left before the bodyguard could even think to do anything.