Daniel Faust 03 - The Living End

by Craig Schaefer

  “Cait,” I gasped. “Someone could see—”

  She clamped her hand over my mouth. Her other hand worked at my belt buckle, yanking at the clasp.

  “Shut up. The only thing I want to hear out of your mouth in the next ten minutes,” she hissed, “is you screaming my name. Anything else is not interesting.”

  I squirmed out of my pants, fabric pooling around my shoes, while she hiked up her skirt. Then she grabbed my lapels and tugged, sending the top two buttons of my shirt flying, pressing her sharp teeth to my bared throat and growling like a wolf as she lowered herself onto me.

  I lost track of time and everything else with it, everything but the feel of her body against mine and the scent of her skin. Finally we just clung to one another, shuddering, wet and disheveled, our hearts racing together.

  “I liked that,” she whispered, caressing my cheek.

  “Feeling’s mutual,” I said. “But now we’ve got a serious problem.”

  She nodded. Her dreamy smile faded. “Naavarasi.”

  “No,” I said. “Problem is I think my legs are asleep.”

  Somehow we got ourselves looking more or less presentable and accomplished the long and awkward migration to the front seats of the car. I drove Caitlin back home to her penthouse at the Taipei Tower. She leaned in to kiss my cheek.

  “Winter,” she said, “tonight. We’ll have a stern talk with our esteemed visitor.”

  “I’ll meet you there. Right now I need to get a little work done on Pixie’s problem.”

  That was my second stop. First stop was Bentley and Corman’s cluttered apartment over the Scrivener’s Nook for a new shirt and a quick shower. I was glad nobody was home.

  I kept ties with a few contacts on the street. Some I met working for Nicky Agnelli, some I crossed paths with in my days of busking for change on Fremont Street. I had a reputation as a man who could be useful to know.

  One of those contacts was Laika. She was six foot one, wore her blond hair in cornrows, and said she was descended from Russian aristocracy. I thought the accent was a put-on. Three in the afternoon and she was already out on the stroll, poured into a purple PVC halter dress and smoking a cigarette on the corner of a dead-end street.

  Lots of tourists come to town thinking prostitution is legal in Nevada. They’re half-right: it’s legal in twelve counties, but not one of them is anywhere within a hundred miles of the Vegas city limits. You take a limo out to the ranches if you want a certified disease-free pro, assuming you’ve got the cash to afford her. In the city it’s the same old street game, all risk and barely any reward. Like chutes and ladders, but the chute probably looks like a pimp’s fist or a heroin needle.

  The ladders don’t go anywhere, either.

  I rumbled the Barracuda up to the corner and shifted into park. Laika came over and leaned in the open passenger-side window, shifting her body to draw my gaze toward her cleavage and away from the tracks on her arm. I picked a third option and looked her in the eye.

  “Moving up in the world,” she said, laying the Russian accent on thick. She dropped her cigarette to the street and snuffed it under a stiletto heel. “Where’d you get the car?”

  “Favor from a friend. Speaking of, you hear anything weird on the street lately? People dropping off the radar more than usual?”

  She flicked an uneasy glance back over her shoulder. “You’re asking me about weird stuff? You’re the magic man, everybody knows that. But yeah. Two of Half-Cap’s girls? They haven’t been around. I talked to Mindy, you know, the one with the teddy bear and the pigtails. She says they both split on the same night. Left their clothes behind and even a little bankroll they’d stashed that Half-Cap didn’t know about.”

  Which means they didn’t leave town voluntarily, I thought. I tugged my phone out of my pocket and tapped my way to Pixie’s photos.

  “How about these guys? They might be squatting around here. Any of ’em look familiar?”

  While Laika took my phone and gave the screen a close look, I caught movement in the driver’s-side mirror. A sweaty slab of meat with fresh razor nicks decorating his bald scalp stormed toward the car like a bull on meth. He slapped his knuckles against my door, hard enough to make the metal jolt.

  “Hey!” he snapped. “You buying, or you leaving?”

  I fished a couple of tens out of my wallet and held them curled between my index and middle fingers, holding them up so he could see before I passed them over to Laika. She made the bills disappear.

  “Buying,” I said. “Now piss off.”

  He leaned in, squinting at me. “The fuck you just say to me?”

  I slouched back. “You pay twenty percent in rent to Nicky Agnelli to let your girls work this stroll. Two years ago, you were paying twenty-five to Carl DuQueene. That’s a five percent improvement in profits.”

  His brow furrowed.

  “You remember how they found Carl DuQueene’s body?” I said casually.

  Now he nodded, real slow. His left eye twitched, just a little. Like he was remembering a nightmare.

  “Well,” I said, “I’m the reason why. So I want you to look me in the eye and say, ‘Thank you, sir, for the five percent.’ And don’t ever touch my fucking car again.”

  He backed away, looking at me like he’d just met the devil. I smiled, nice and easy, until he’d scurried off back to his rathole.

  Laika handed my phone back.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I got nothing to tell you. No familiar faces.”

  “Thanks for trying. Keep the twenty. Hey, how about the other way around? Any strangers hanging out, people who don’t fit in?”

  “We’re all strangers out here,” she said, then held up an acrylic fingernail painted in eggshell blue. “Wait a second. There was a guy last week, going up and down the stroll. Said he was with some mission, wanted to get us off the streets, offered us shelter if we needed it. All that save-the-world stuff. I know he was talking to Half-Cap’s girls till he chased the guy off. He gave me his card, but I tossed that thing away. Sorry.”

  “It’s something,” I said. “Maybe ask around, see if any of the other girls remember anything. Give me a call if they do.”

  I left her on the street corner. In the rearview mirror I saw a battered old Nissan pull up to the curb in my wake, another eager customer. The wheels of commerce never stopped rolling.

  • • •

  You wouldn’t know Winter was a nightclub if it wasn’t for the line snaking down the block and the faint thudding of bass echoing behind the slate black doors. There was no advertising or big marquee, just a tiny brass plate and a small sloping arrow in blue neon fixed to the bricks outside.

  Freshly scrubbed and shaved, wearing a navy blazer to cut the evening chill, I skipped the line and walked right up to the bouncers out front. One waved me over, lifted the blue velvet rope, and ushered me inside.

  I was on The List. Given that Winter was owned and operated by agents of hell—specifically, Prince Sitri and his Court of Jade Tears—I wasn’t sure if that was an achievement to be proud of.

  Fractal snowflakes whirled and exploded in showers of ivory and blue on LED wall screens, bouncing to the rhythm from the pulsing sound system. The packed dance floor writhed and shook in the shadow of a glass DJ booth dangling overhead from titanium cables. I stuck to the edge of the crowd and skirted around to a side passage lit in icy neon.

  Past a few twists and turns, the music quickly fading to a muffled heartbeat, the hall ended in a solid metal door. A man in a black leather apron barred the way, his features shrouded in a gas mask with tinted lenses. A rusty machete hung from his belt. As I approached, he leaned over and tapped a code into a wall panel. The door clicked and swung open for me.

  There were three levels to Winter, that I knew of. Anyone could get into the club up top—well, anyone who could pass muster with the doormen. The second floor, the honeycomb labyrinth with nested rooms done up in black leather and gold neon, was given to more intimate purs
uits than wild dancing and fifteen-dollar cocktails. Pursuits largely involving things like handcuffs and the bite of a whip. Access to the “hive” was strictly by invitation only. Not everyone down here was working for Sitri’s court—most of them didn’t even know who really ran the place—but it was where you met the more interesting regulars.

  The third level was where the Conduit lived. That was the creature who could open a pipeline straight to hell if you were unlucky enough to need one. I’d been down there twice, and twice was plenty.

  Instead of getting myself lost, I stayed by the stairs and called Caitlin. She came out to greet me, and I squinted at her.

  “How do I know it’s really you?” I said, only half joking.

  She rolled her eyes and took my hand, leading me through the honeycomb maze.

  “Probably,” she said, “because she knows if she ever pulls a stunt like that again, she’ll be going back to Denver without her teeth. And she might anyway. The night is still young.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised to find a conference room down there. Mahogany walls, low lights, and a long table of smoked glass. Cylinders of Voss water and crystal glasses sat out at each place setting. It was the sort of room where I could imagine some Fortune 500 types meeting for intense business negotiations. Then I noticed the manacles dangling from stainless-steel hooks in the walls, spaced out around the room.

  Caitlin followed my eye and winked. “We won’t need those tonight. Try a chair instead. They’re ergonomic. Haworth Zody Executive models, in fact.”

  She took the seat at the head of the table and gestured for me to sit at her right hand. I had to admit it was a damn comfortable chair. “Only the best of everything?”

  “When Emma’s buying. She’s got an eye for design. She also just texted to say she won’t be joining us tonight. She’s been out at the ranch since Wednesday supervising construction.”

  I blinked. “Since Wednesday? Who the hell is watching Melanie?”

  “She’s almost eighteen, Daniel. She doesn’t need a babysitter.”

  “You know what I mean,” I said. “She shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  Caitlin cracked one of the Voss cylinders open. Sparkling water burbled into her glass, splashing against its curving crystal lip.

  “I know,” she said. “Tell you what. Let’s go out there tomorrow for lunch. We’ll see if we can cheer her up a little.”

  “Isn’t tomorrow a school day?”

  She shrugged, taking a sip from her glass. “And what teenager isn’t cheered up by getting out of school early? I’ll forge a note from her mother.”

  “You’re a genius,” I said.

  “So you say, but you’re the one who got us out of trouble today.”

  “That,” I said, “you can thank the shampoo commercial for. Crass commercialism to the rescue. So what’s going to happen to Pete?”

  “No human host, no possession. The house developed an unfortunate and sudden plague of roaches. Fortunately, posing as the homeowner, I was able to find an emergency exterminator. They draped the house with a tarp and started pumping in gas within the hour.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You got that kid killed? I’m not okay with that, Caitlin.”

  She waved a careless hand at me. “Hardly. ‘Pete’ realized he was marinating in poisoned meat and fled. His mortal shell stumbled out of the house, coughing himself hoarse. He’s in the hospital now, being treated for chemical exposure, but he should survive. Maybe, if he remembers any of this, it’ll teach him not to play with the occult.”

  The door swung open. Naavarasi swept into the room with her lips pursed and eyes cold. Even from my seat, I couldn’t miss the faint odor of insecticide clinging to her evening gown.

  Nine

  “Oh,” Caitlin said to Naavarasi, pretending to look surprised. “You didn’t come straight here, did you? No, you must have gone to the house to see about your little friend Pete. Sorry about the fumigation. But we did send him home, as agreed. Why do you look so disappointed?”

  Naavarasi took a seat at the conference table. Across from me, two chairs down from Caitlin.

  “I’m not disappointed at all,” she said, none of her words matching the look on her face. “I’m pleased. Wonderfully pleased.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that,” Caitlin said. “After all, I wouldn’t want to think there was any kind of subterfuge involved in your request. Some of the intelligence you gave us turned out to be faulty.”

  “I’m shocked,” Naavarasi said.

  Caitlin spread her hands, showing her open palms. “Let’s get on with the meeting, shall we? Baron Naavarasi, I bid you formal greeting on behalf of the eminent and merciful Prince Sitri and welcome you within our sacred borders, under the terms of the Cold Peace.”

  Naavarasi’s eyes narrowed to slits. “So very formal.”

  “We have these formalities for a reason,” Caitlin said. “And tradition is important.”

  “Right,” Naavarasi said. “Wouldn’t want to miss that. Is this what you do? Parrot pretty words someone wrote for you while you pretend you’re an automaton?”

  Caitlin tilted her head. “Greeting dignitaries, Baron, is part of my duty as Prince Sitri’s hound. And visible emotions have no place in a diplomatic conference.”

  I poured myself a glass of sparkling water, and leaned back. Naavarasi fidgeted in her chair, marinating in her unhappiness, and I could see why. Caitlin was treating the hunger-spirit like she was part of hell’s dominion, when that was the last thing Naavarasi wanted.

  “Hey,” I said, “Naavarasi.”

  Both women looked my way. I raised my glass.

  “You got us, fair and square. It was a good trick. Respect.”

  She blinked, uncertain at first, like I might be mocking her, but then she started to smile.

  “You were both completely safe,” she said, “the entire time. I wouldn’t have let anything bad happen to you.”

  It was another lie-without-lying. Nothing bad from her point of view would have happened. I let that slide without comment. The important thing was that she felt safe admitting she’d tried to con us. We weren’t enemies now; we were coconspirators.

  Caitlin caught my angle, like I knew she would. Her gaze flitted from me to the rakshasi as a faint smile played on her lips.

  “My prince is fond of cleverness. Prince Malphas, from what I understand…not so much.”

  “He is fond of nothing but profit,” Naavarasi said. “Paper. So much passion to be reaped in this world, so much joy and terror, and he obsesses over paper.”

  “Choir of Greed,” Caitlin told me with a what-can-you-do? shrug. She sipped her sparkling water and looked back to Naavarasi. “I understand he annexed your old realm, is that right?”

  “Annexed? He ruined—” Naavarasi started to say, then caught herself. She wanted to let it all out. I could feel her aching to talk, but she also knew that the enemy of her enemy wasn’t necessarily her friend. She was still accountable to Prince Malphas. For now.

  “…my realm is no longer what it was,” she said, sullen. “But they gave me a title, and a seat on a council I’ve never bothered attending, and twenty acres of land in hell. I’m told it’s nice.”

  Caitlin stood, smoothed her skirt, and said, “Could you excuse us just a moment?”

  She tapped my shoulder. I followed her out of the conference room. She shut the door behind us.

  “You found the key to her lock,” Caitlin said.

  I shrugged. “You can’t treat Naavarasi like she’s part of the courts. You heard her—she hates what Malphas did to her, and she doesn’t want to assimilate. Honors and awards from your people just insult her. Imagine if somebody gave you a trophy for ‘making such a great effort to be a real human being.’ You’d be pissed.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “Praise her on her own terms, and show she’s valued for what she is: a rakshasi queen. She’s starving for that. We know she’s plotting
against Malphas. All she wants is a little understanding. Give it to her and she’ll play right into Sitri’s hands.”

  “And is that wise?” Caitlin said. “Given her designs on you, to clasp a poisonous snake to our breast?”

  “Would you rather she be out in the wild, plotting and planning who knows what? Or someplace close where we can keep an eye on her? Of course we can’t trust her, that’s her nature. We don’t need to trust her if we can see her coming in advance. Besides, if she thinks there’s a chance she’ll get Sitri’s full support when she makes her move against Malphas, she has less reason to try to snare me again.”

  Caitlin broke into a smile and pulled me into her arms.

  “You,” she murmured into my ear as her fingernails played through my hair, “are learning to think like one of us.”

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  “I need to have a private chat with Naavarasi before she heads back to Denver,” Caitlin mused as she pulled away. “Feel her out. Seduce her a bit.”

  “Can I at least get pictures?” I said, wriggling my eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

  She swatted my arm. “If it was that kind of seduction, I might invite you to join in. Maybe. Come over tomorrow? Swing by around ten and we’ll go surprise Melanie.”

  “Will do,” I said, then paused. I pointed down a random hallway and gave her a questioning look. Caitlin took my hand and pushed it until my finger aimed down a totally different corridor.

  “That way,” she said. “First left, next left, then second right.”

  I repeated the directions in my head, all the way to the stairs.

  • • •

  I wanted a drink, but not here. Winter wasn’t my kind of place. I was about one demographic too old, one decade out of fashion, and two tax brackets too poor to hang with this crowd. The Tiger’s Garden was more my scene and had the added bonus of exclusivity. If you weren’t a bona fide magician, you didn’t get in the door. Or find the door.

  Still, I lingered on the edge of the dance floor a bit, taking in the vibe and nodding my head to the spine-throbbing beat. Then I looked over toward the bar and my teeth clenched.