Son of a bitch! Charlie couldn’t believe it. It was an ace-high flush! How could this fool beat him?
But beat him he did. Again. It was the fourth time tonight Charlie had a sure-thing hand go bad on him.
The dealer used his rake to push all the chips in the center of the circular felt table toward Lee.
Disgusted, Charlie stubbed out his cigarette and got up from the table, grabbing his two twenty-five-dollar chips.
“Be cool, brother,” Lee said. “It’s just the way the game is played.”
“Kiss my ass,” Charlie muttered as he walked over to the blackjack table.
Shoulda known my luck would run out, Charlie thought. He’d been coming to this underground casino twice a month for the past year. Every other Saturday, like clockwork, Charlie would take the paycheck he’d gotten the previous day, cash it at the joint on Amsterdam Avenue, and then come here to make the money grow. Located in the basement of an apartment building on 125th Street, it was accessible only from an alley, and you had to pay fifty bucks just to get in the door.
But Charlie always made that fifty right back, with interest.
There was one time he didn’t come because the place was closed. Apparently the dudes who ran the place got a tip-off that the cops would be raiding the joint, so they closed up shop till the heat blew over. Aside from that night, though, he was here the day after every payday.
Never until tonight, though, had he lost this badly.
Sure, he’d sometimes have a bad run—the cards wouldn’t behave, or some sucker would get lucky—but he always came back. He’d never been down to his last fifty dollars.
How’m I supposed to show Bernadette a good time if I ain’t got no dough? Not to mention Vernetha—and I promised Claudette I’d take her to the movies after church on Sunday. What is a brother to do?
He sat dolefully at the blackjack table when some sister got up with a big pile of chips. The dealer—another big-afroed brother in a frilled tuxedo—dealt the cards, giving Charlie a jack and a king. He stood pat and put down all fifty on it—the other players either busted, or had less than twenty, and the dealer had a nine showing.
The dealer flipped his card and it showed an ace. He then took two cards from the deck—an ace and a ten.
Blackjack. Charlie had lost his last fifty on that bet.
Right when the dealer raked in the last of Charlie’s chips, the door exploded with a deafening crack.
Throwing up his arms, Charlie ducked, then looked up to see a chick. She was wearing a long leather coat—in July, which was just nuts—and a big smile. “Game’s over, suckers.”
That door was the only way in or out that Charlie knew about. There was another door to some back room, but two large brothers guarded that door, and only dudes wearing those frilled tuxedos went back there.
Those two door guards, as well as the other guards, ran toward the chick. That girl is dead meat.
At the last possible second, the chick reared back and kicked the guard in the face, knocking him to the floor.
Everything happened very quickly after that.
The chick spun around and kicked another guard with her other leg. Then the really freaky part happened: The guards’ faces all changed somehow. Suddenly, instead of just being big scary mothers, they looked like something out of a Frankenstein movie or something. They started snarling and jumping at the chick.
She whipped something out of her coat—it looked like a big stick—and threw it at one of the guards. It nailed the guy right in the chest.
And then the guard just—just exploded into dust.
The whole place went nuts. People started screaming and running around, but the chick and the guards were all in the way of the only exit.
Charlie, though, was just staring at the pile of dust where the guard used to be. He couldn’t breathe, his heart was pumping like a bass drum, and sweat was beading on his forehead. Some girl yelled at the top of her lungs, so loud that Charlie’s ears hurt.
Two more guards jumped the chick, and Charlie figured she was done for, but somehow she managed to throw them off her—they landed right on the very poker table where Charlie had lost most of his money, smashing the thing to little pieces.
When the chick did a cartwheel, using it to kick another guard in the face, it got her away from the door.
Charlie saw his moment, but he couldn’t get his legs to move. Not that it mattered, since everyone else in the place was still screaming, but now they were all heading for the doorway with the busted door.
The chick grabbed a piece of the door and stabbed another guard with it.
He turned to dust too.
Suddenly, it all clicked. The Slayer. He’d been hearing stories about this chick for the past couple of years, but Charlie had always thought it was baloney—stuff kids told to scare the other kids, or that bums told while they were bored, or that people who watched too many stupid movies believed.
Now, though, Charlie believed. He had to beat it, and fast.
But his legs still wouldn’t move.
One of the guards grabbed the Slayer and punched her hard enough to send her flying into the roulette table. She grabbed the roulette wheel, ripped it out of the table, and threw it like a Frisbee right at the guard’s head.
It sliced the guard’s head clean off, and then he turned to dust too.
“What you starin’ at, fool?”
Charlie shook his head and looked at the Slayer, who’d said those words. With a start, he realized that he was the only person left in the casino who didn’t work there, besides the Slayer.
She didn’t have to tell him twice. He beat it out of there as fast as he could run.
I swear to God, he thought as he ran through the broken doorway and up the creaky wooden stairs to the safety of 125th Street, I ain’t never gonna gamble ever again. May the Lord strike me dead if I’m lying.
He wondered if Bernadette was home. He for damn sure needed some comforting right now. . . .
* * *
After her unresolved fight with Spike, and after watching while he dusted two vamps, it was out of sight for Nikki to cut loose on some of Reet’s bloodsuckers.
She recognized only one of them: Lucas, the dude who ran this gambling outfit. He was the one with the straight line to Reet, so he was the only one she didn’t stake.
However, that didn’t mean she couldn’t knock him around a little.
Having already busted a poker table and a roulette wheel, she proceeded to knock vamps into the slot machines, both blackjack tables, and two other poker tables. By the time she dusted the last of the ones she intended to stake—and all the civilians had left, including that turkey who needed a kick in the ass to be convinced to beat it—the only item in the entire casino that was still in one piece was the fourth poker table.
She had known about this place for a while, thanks to Crowley—or, more accurately, thanks to his cop friend. But according to Landesberg, the fuzz couldn’t bust the place. Every time they got a warrant and planned a raid, Reet got wind of it and cleared the joint. Given how many cops were in Reet’s pocket, that didn’t surprise Nikki at all.
Lucky for her, the Slayer didn’t need a warrant.
Up until now, she hadn’t bothered with the place because, of all of Reet’s interests, this was the one that probably did the least harm. Nikki kept her focus on the drugs and prostitution ends of Reet’s little blood-sucking empire. But she knew Lucas had been running this joint, and Lucas had Reet’s ear. Tonight Nikki needed to put something in that ear.
Not that Lucas was gonna make it easy on her. He jumped at her and punched her right in the face. She almost didn’t see it coming, what with the frilled-out white cuffs sticking out from under his tuxedo jacket—and even so, she was barely able to roll with it.
Stumbling back a step or two, she fell against the bar. Bracing herself on its edge, she did a double kick on Lucas’s jaw. Then she reached behind the bar, grabbed a bottle, and broke it
over Lucas’s head.
Then she noticed that it was a bottle of Old Grand-Dad. “Damn—shouldn’t be wastin’ fine liquor on a sucker like you.” Tossing the broken bottle to the floor, she grabbed the dazed Lucas, picked him up, and threw him down hard onto the last poker table, which shattered.
Lucas’ Afro was all wet from the liquor and also full of splinters and bits of felt from the poker table. Nikki hauled him up to one of the chairs that was still upright and intact. After sticking him in the seat, she went behind the bar and found some dishrags. Grabbing three of them, she tied Lucas’s wrists together behind the back of the chair, then tied each ankle to one of the chair legs.
Then she went back behind the bar and found a bottle of rum. She’d reached drinking age two years ago, and while slaying meant not having too many chances to party, she had acquired a taste for rum. It certainly beat the hell out of that Scotch that Crowley liked, that was for damn sure. Stuff tasted like motor oil.
She’d gotten through only about an eighth of the bottle when Lucas finally woke up. “Wha—?” He looked around, struggled against his bonds, which made the chair inch forward on the thin-carpeted floor, then saw Nikki. “Aw, man. Whatchoo tyin’ me up for, bitch?”
“We need to have a conversation, Lucas.”
Lucas’s big brown eyes got wider. “How you know my name?”
Nikki grinned and came out from behind the bar. “I know all about you, Lucas. And most of it? I don’t give a damn. But I do know one thing—you talk to Reet.”
“Girl, you think you gonna get to Reet through me, then you got another think comin’, you dig?”
Shaking her head, Nikki said, “No, no, no, you don’t get it, Lucas. See, I just want you to deliver a message.”
Looking around the trashed casino, Lucas said, “What, this ain’t it?”
“Nah, this was just my way o’ gettin’ your attention.” She walked around to stand behind Lucas. She grabbed his nappy Afro, still damp with liquor, and pulled his head back so he was looking up at her. “See, we got us a mutual problem, me an’ Reet. Name o’ Spike.”
Lucas looked confused. “Spike? What, that punk honky? Heathcliff and Shades are bringin’ his white ass in.”
“No, they ain’t.” Letting go of Lucas’s head, Nikki walked around the chair so Lucas could face her head-on. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the item she’d retrieved from the fire escape of a downtown building after Spike grabbed Shades.
After she tossed the maroon plastic sunglasses to the floor, Lucas gasped and got his game face on. He struggled harder against his bonds, but the dishrags held. “Shades! You dusted Shades?”
“Nope. Spike did. They told him to come along to see Reet, and this was how Spike said no. He dusted ’em both.”
“You’re jivin’ me, bitch! You killed ’em!”
“Now, why would I wanna lie about that, fool? What, you think I’m gonna get all shy about dustin’ one o’ you?”
Lucas frowned. “Yeah, that’s true.”
Nikki started pacing back and forth, kicking the debris of various tables around the room. “Believe me, if I dusted either one of those turkeys, I’d be gloatin’. But I ain’t, ’cause I ain’t done it. Spike did.”
“He gonna pay for that.”
“Shut up, fool, I’m talkin’!”
Lucas cringed.
Reaching down, Nikki picked up a poker chip and started flicking it between her fingers. “Y’see, Lucas, we got us a good thing goin’ here. Reet does his business, I do my business—it’s a system. It works. But Spike, he’s jammin’ up the works. And he’s tough.”
“He just some British honky! We’ll beat his ass!”
Nikki leaned on the arms of the chair, putting her face right in Lucas’s ugly one. “I said to shut up, fool. Spike dusted Heathcliff and Shades by himself. And I’ve gone two rounds with him. The sucker is tough.” She stood up. Lucas had really bad breath. “But he got himself a weakness.”
Lucas tried to lean forward in his chair, but couldn’t. “What is it?”
“He got a honey. Another British chick, name o’ Drusilla. She just blew into town.” She looked right at Lucas. “You tell Reet—you find her, he can name his terms to Spike.”
“That’s it?” Lucas blinked. “Some bitch is supposed to—”
“Drusilla ain’t just ‘some bitch.’ Spike’s crazy about her. She’s his sire. Also, she is stone-cold crazy. Got a thing for dolls, too, so maybe check out toy stores and department stores and stuff.”
Shaking his head, Lucas said, “I don’t get it—why you tellin’ me this?”
“I ain’t—I’m tellin’ Reet through you. See, Spike’s a problem for me, but he’s a bigger problem for Reet. He killed two o’ Reet’s boys.”
“Hell, girl, you killed six o’ Reet’s boys tonight!”
“How many times I gotta tell you to shut up, fool?” She pulled out her stake. “If you want, I’ll dust your black ass right now and find someone else.”
Lucas’s gray, watery eyes grew wide. “Naw! Naw, that’s all right, mama, just put the stake down, okay?”
Still holding up the stake, Nikki said, “I’m the Slayer, baby—dustin’ vamps is what I do. But Spike ain’t no Slayer—he one o’ you, and he be dustin’ his own kind. That just ain’t right.”
“Right on, sister—look, I’ll be tellin’ Reet all this, I promise. Just put the stake down, okay?”
Grinning, Nikki lowered the stake. “Good.” She moved toward the door, kicking aside playing cards, chips, bits of wood, and chairs. When she got to the door, she stopped, turned, and looked at Lucas. “Guess I trashed this place pretty good, huh?”
“You got that right,” Lucas muttered. “Gonna take forever to fix this place back up.”
“Yeah, but somethin’s missin’.” Nikki made as if to look around the room. Her eyes fell on the bar. “Oh yeah.”
She walked purposefully toward the bar, kicking aside more gambling debris.
“Aw, no. No, baby, don’t—”
Nikki vaulted over the bar and started smashing bottles. Alcohol of varying types spilled on her coat. Bottles of bourbon, Scotch, malt liquor, beer, vodka, rum, gin, and tons more all mixed in on the wooden shelves—which didn’t stay intact for long.
After everything else that had been going on the last week, it felt good to just destroy something for no reason except that she felt like it.
“Bitch, you crazy! You know what it’s gonna cost to replace all o’ that? And that’s assumin’ that Reet don’t go and stake my ass!”
Nikki went back to the door. “Just don’t forget to tell Reet about Spike and Drusilla ’fore he does that.”
With that, she left, whistling a happy tune.
* * *
Reet had known it was going to be a bad day from the moment he woke up in the evening.
As usual, he slept from before dawn till after dusk on Sunday in the basement of his building. He hadn’t seen the sun for over a century, and he had no intention of getting acquainted with it any time soon. Besides, his business was such that most of the deals were done after dark. What little was accomplished in daylight was supervised by the few humans he kept on the payroll, plus a couple of demons who needed the cash and didn’t have vampires’ vulnerability to the sun.
However, as soon as he awakened, a good hour after sunset, one of those demons—a weaselly little Kulak demon named Ovrak—told him that the Slayer had trashed the casino on 125th Street Saturday night, killed all the vamps except Lucas, and tied him up.
Whatever other business there had been was postponed. Reet ordered his limo to take him to the casino.
Upon arrival, he saw several of his men cleaning up the joint, but the Slayer had done her work quite well. The booze for the bar could be replenished in a day or two, but it would take several weeks to order replacements for all the gambling equipment. I only just finished paying off the damn slot machines.
Leroy was already present. “I just ca
lled Atlantic City about replacements, boss. And I got some other news too.”
“That can wait.” Reet looked around and saw Lucas helping to carry one of the shattered slot machines toward the front door—or, rather, front doorway, since the door itself was now kindling. “Lucas!”
“Oh!” Startled Lucas let his side of the slot machine drop to the floor.
The other vampire who’d been helping cursed at him for dropping his side, until he saw the reason for Lucas’s utterance. “Sorry, Mr. Weldon. Yo, Tito! Help me out here!”
Leaving the others to continue removing the destroyed machinery, Reet walked with Leroy and Lucas over to the corner of the bar that was still in one piece.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Weldon, the Slayer, she—”
Holding up a hand, Reet said, “I know what the Slayer did, Lucas. I also know that she had a message for me. What is it?”
Reaching into a pocket, Lucas pulled out a pair of sunglasses that Reet recognized instantly.
“She killed Shades?”
“Shades and Heathcliff’re dead, yeah,” Lucas said, “but it ain’t the Slayer that dusted ’em. It was that British dude they was after, Spike.”
The name rang a small bell with Reet, but he couldn’t place it—but then, he’d rarely bothered to familiarize himself with the vampiric community outside the tristate area. “He killed his own kind?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Uh, boss?” Leroy said.
Reet turned to his lieutenant. “What?”
“Remember that other news I said I had? It was about this Spike cat. ’Fore you woke up, Andrés and I found that Spike turkey downtown, and he said—and I’m quotin’ direct here—‘Bugger off, or I’ll dust you like I did those two tossers last night.’ ”
Shaking his head, Reet found himself boggled. True, he’d killed plenty of vampires in his time—most recently Mikey and his newly turned brother—but that was all part of business. All Heathcliff and Shades were tasked with doing was informing Spike of the way things were run in this town. They were also two of my best. If this vampire killed them . . .
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