Or did there? Maybe it was my contrarian streak, but my thoughts started to run in the opposite direction.
“Vespucci said Angelo and his inner circle are hiding out on the Strip.”
“Yeah?” Jennifer said. “What about it?”
“Forget hiding. I think it’s time for a show of strength.”
* * *
“Margaritaville,” Jennifer stared at the model seaplane dangling from the rafters, the faux palm trees and long tropical bar. “We’re holding a meeting of the Vegas underworld, and you rented out Margaritaville.”
“You’re damn right,” I said.
To be fair, it wasn’t my first choice, but finding a place that would cater a private party on short notice wasn’t easy. We stood at the heart of the Strip, with a balcony overlooking the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard. The place had history; it felt like a hundred years ago, but this was where my family had come together to prepare for our first showdown with Lauren Carmichael and her corporate cult. Now here we were all over again, drafting battle plans.
Gabriel brought a pack of Calles soldiers, decked out in bandannas and street gear. “You want they should dress like civvies?” he had asked me. “Keep it low profile?”
“Colors,” I told him. “Let everybody know who they’re representing. Low profile will make us look weak, like we’re hiding from the Outfit. Screw that. Let’s get loud.”
Speaking of loud, I heard the Blood Eagles delegation before I saw them, a dozen custom Harleys rumbling down the boulevard in tight formation. Riding heavy iron and carrying it too, packing heat under their leathers. Winslow led his men into the restaurant past the increasingly nervous waitstaff. The grizzled biker, built like a lumberjack, squeezed my hand in a vise grip and slapped my arm.
“Camping out in the open, daring those Chicago pricks to take a shot at us?” he said. “Brother, we almost bailed on this mafia bullshit altogether, but this is our kind of fun.”
“Stick around.” Jennifer threw her arm around his burly shoulders. “Fun ain’t even started yet.”
Eddie Stone made the scene with a posse of Bishops in blue and black. He flashed a gold-toothed smile and kissed Jennifer’s hand. A few unsteady glances shot across the restaurant—the Bishops and the Calles had been feuding before Jennifer squashed that beef—but the mood lightened up once I announced we’d paid for an open bar. More bangers filled up the room, sporting red and white to represent the Fine Upstanding Crew.
At least for now, Chou Yong had taken up the reins of the local 14K in the wake of his boss’s death. He looked more composed than the last time I’d seen him; he and his fellow Triads dressed in tailored black suits, red neckties, and brass lapel pins. The Inagawa-kai, on the other hand, didn’t bother with uniforms. The yakuza dressed sharp, like fashion models out for a night on the town, sleeve tattoos poking out from beneath stylish cuffs.
An unexpected face was the last to arrive, her scarlet hair worn in a French braid and tossed over one shoulder. Caitlin’s fingers trailed across the back of my neck, sending a tingle down my spine.
“Emma’s in no shape to travel,” she explained, “but she was absolutely insistent that Southern Tropics have a representative on hand. So here I am. Incidentally, she’s a bit miffed at you right now. And by ‘miffed’ I mean if you weren’t my consort, she’d most likely feed you your own spleen.”
“C’mon, Cait, Melanie is safer with Bentley and Corman than she would be anywhere else. The kid’s almost eighteen. She needs to make her own choices.”
“I happen to agree. Emma and Melanie have a great deal to work out together, I think. That said, for the sake of my friendship with Emma, and the well-being of your internal organs, do me a favor and don’t get in the middle of it.”
“All right, all right, I’ll stop being helpful.”
She favored me with a smile. “That’s all I ask.”
The bartender was sweating bullets. I ordered a margarita and tipped him a folded twenty. The lime and salt was savory, a wash of tartness on my tongue. I surveyed the crowded restaurant while I drank. Uniting this lot, all under one roof, and convincing them to work together was an accomplishment. Keeping the peace was a bigger one. I couldn’t take any credit for that—Jennifer had done all the hard work. Tonight, though? Tonight was all on my shoulders.
“You about ready?” Jennifer asked me.
“Ready as I’m going to be.”
Jennifer pulled the manager aside and handed her a small wad of cash.
“Do me a favor, hon. We need to have a candid discussion with our fellow partygoers. How about you take your whole staff outside on an extended smoke break? We won’t break nothin’ while you’re gone, I promise.”
She didn’t need to be told twice. Once the civilians had cleared out, Jennifer gave me the thumbs-up.
“Excuse me,” I called out. “Can I have your attention, please?”
Barely anybody looked my way, my voice lost in the din of conversation. Then Jennifer put her fingers to her lips and let out an ear-piercing whistle. A hush fell over the room.
“Thank you.” She patted my back. “He’s gonna say something. Do me a favor and listen up.”
Every eye looked my way. Waiting, expectant. I tossed back a swallow from my margarita glass and cleared my throat.
“Chicago thinks they’ve already got us beat,” I said. “And why wouldn’t they? They’re hitting us where we live, and hitting hard. They’ve got the mayor’s office on their side, the cops in their pocket, and they’re ready and willing to throw their own guys into the meat grinder by the dozens if that’s what it takes to run us out of Vegas.”
I spread my open hands wide.
“I say, let’s oblige them. I picked this place for the meeting—right in the heart of the action, right in front of the world—to send a message. That this is our city. And starting tonight, we’re taking it back.”
A sea of hard-eyed stares. A few whispers, people jostling shoulders and nodding my way.
“We know that the bulk of the Outfit’s forces are scattered through Little Shawn’s territory. Most of them holing up at the Cobalt Lounge. Taking out Angelo Mancuso’s soldiers won’t end this war—he’ll just call up more from Chicago—but that’ll buy us some time to regroup. Now, I’ve put together a plan of attack. If we all work together and play our parts, we should be able to—”
A chair clattered back. One of the Bishops stood up, a lanky kid with a smirk. “Yo, who the fuck is this dude?”
And just like that, he took command of the room. He laughed, sizing me up as he gestured my way.
“Seriously, man. Comin’ in here, calling shots, acting like somebody appointed you General Patton or some shit. Who are you?”
I had a plan. Past tense. It was a pretty good one, too. But as I took in the room, the temperature going ice cold and resentful murmurs simmering, I realized I’d made a serious mistake. I was used to working with my family, my crew. People who knew and trusted each other with their lives. Most of this room didn’t know me beyond a name and a whisper, and I was demanding their respect when I hadn’t done anything to earn it.
“You want to know who I am?” I asked him. “You really want to know?”
He folded his arms, looking a little nervous, but he didn’t sit down.
“Yeah. I wanna know. I think we all wanna know.”
“I’ll tell you, then. I’m the guy.”
I cast a slow gaze across the restaurant, making sure I had everybody’s attention.
“I’m the guy who’s going to walk into the Cobalt Lounge, all alone, no backup, and put a bullet in Little Shawn’s head.”
32.
The kid from the Bishops sat down, shoved back into his chair by the weight of my boast. Hard looks turned to surprise, curiosity, eagerness. Up front, one of the Calles sitting next to Gabriel leaned in and muttered, “This motherfucker is loco.”
Gabriel grinned. “Yeah he is. Just watch, he’ll do it, too.”
I felt like I was out on the schoolyard, swearing to my classmates that I was going to seduce a teacher or fist-fight the principal. I’d bought a little grudging admiration just by making the claim. Of course, the problem with big talk is that you have to follow it up with big deeds, or all that admiration vanishes into thin air.
So. I’d pledged to walk into a gang stronghold, all by myself, and assassinate a traitor. Oh, and come out alive and in one piece afterward. That part was important too. Great idea. I would have felt more confident if I had any clue how I was going to pull it off. For now I rolled with the momentum, working the crowd.
“Now that we’ve established who I am to your complete satisfaction, maybe I can keep going? Yeah? Thank you. Let’s talk about who you are. I’m looking around this room, and you know what I don’t see? A single weak link. Individually, every crew represented in this room is the best of the best. Together? We’re unstoppable.”
I set my drink down and walked the floor in front of the bar, heads swiveling to follow me.
“The Outfit knows that. That’s why they’ve been picking at us, trying to kill us or turn us one by one and break this alliance apart. So I say we show them what a united front looks like. Tomorrow we do recon. Tomorrow night, come sunset, we ride. And we give them such a bloodbath that they’ll wish they’d never heard of Las Vegas. We’ll chase Angelo and his boys all the way back to Chicago, kick in their front door, and burn the place down around their ears.”
Winslow raised his bottle of beer and shouted, “Let’s kick some ass!”
That drew a rowdy cheer from his brothers-in-arms. The righteous glee turned viral, rippling across the room, bangers throwing up hand signs, hooting, stomping their feet. As I drank in the raucous energy, basking in the chaos, I could almost believe we were going to win. I waited until they simmered down to lay out the plan—or at least the parts that could still be salvaged, now that I’d volunteered for a suicide mission.
As the meeting broke up, Jennifer and Caitlin cornered me.
“You’re the guy, huh?” Jennifer’s voice was dry as sawdust. “The guy who’s going to walk onto Little Shawn’s turf and take him out in front of his buddies, all by yourself.”
“Honestly.” Caitlin bristled. “Did you pause to think, at all, before you opened your mouth?”
“I can honestly say I spent at least three seconds thinking about it. Maybe four. Look, I’ve spent my entire career either working under Nicky Agnelli’s thumb or freelancing on the weirder fringes of the underworld. Jen, these guys know you. By comparison I’m practically an outsider. I had to give them a reason to respect me, so they’d fall in line.”
Jennifer sighed. “You’re not wrong, but I think we coulda found an easier way.”
“Could we have done it tonight, here and now? Time is not on our side.”
“So,” Caitlin asked, “how are you going to pull off this impossible feat?”
I shrugged. “Cheat, obviously.”
“Obviously,” they said in unison, sharing a sidelong glance.
Winslow swaggered by, nursing a fresh bottle, and I waved to catch his attention.
“Hey, any chance you could open up the arsenal for me?” I asked. “I’m going to need a little extra firepower.”
“You and half the room. Come by the garage tomorrow morning. I’ll hook you up. And, ah—cash only, champ.”
Jennifer put her arm around my shoulder.
“Put it on my tab,” she told him. “Anything for…the guy.”
Winslow snickered and walked away. I leaned my head against Jennifer’s arm.
“Assuming I survive tomorrow night, I’m not living that down anytime soon, am I?”
“You’ll be fine.” Caitlin arched one eyebrow, her voice deadpan. “No obstacle is insurmountable…for the guy.”
* * *
Bone-tired, pride only slightly more bruised than usual, I trudged up the steps to the second-floor garret over the Scrivener’s Nook. I figured their couch was still taken, but I wanted to check on everybody before I found a place to crash for the night. Corman answered the door, a quizzical look on his face.
“Hey, kiddo. I got a call from David Gosselin. He’s trying to find you. Sounded pretty pissed off.”
“I can explain that.”
He glanced down, to the top hat cradled in my hands.
“He said you stole his hat and he wants it back. Said that hat cost him a million bucks.”
“He should have taken better care of it, then,” I said.
“See, that’s what I told him.”
He waved me inside. Over on the threadbare couch, in front of a fat old box TV tuned to CNN, Bentley and Melanie sat side by side.
“All right,” Bentley was saying, “now here’s the crucial move. When you take the card back from me, palm it like I showed you, and put it on the bottom of the deck, face up.”
Melanie held a deck in her hands—Bicycle Dragon Backs, just like mine—and palmed the top card. Crude technique, but the kid had a little raw talent.
“Like this?”
“Perfect,” Bentley said, smiling proudly.
“What is this?” I wandered across the cluttered living room. “You taking on a new apprentice?”
“Mm, after how the last one turned out, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Bentley winked.
“I guess my mom’s pretty pissed at both of us,” Melanie told me. “Sorry.”
“Hey, let me worry about me. Not your fault.” I held up the hat. “So, I’ve got a mystery for my two favorite magical scholars. This hat belonged to a showman-slash-sorcerer named Howard Canton.”
Bentley sat up straight, eyes wide. “Canton the Magnificent? He’s a legend. An underrated one, but his stage technique and his occult work were both leagues ahead of their time.”
“Well, a lot of bad guys—I mean, worse ones than us—are looking for this hat. And it’s got some weird secondhand connection to Damien Ecko, too. Apparently Canton’s wand was crafted with a bit of bone from Ecko’s first teacher. No such thing as coincidences, etcetera. I can sense some old magic clinging to the hat, but I’ve got no idea what it does or what it’s for.”
Corman shambled into the kitchen nook, rummaging in the fridge. He looked back at me over the refrigerator door. “Did you try wearing it?”
“Of course I—” I stopped, sighed, and put the hat on. I waved my hands theatrically. “Ta-da! Presto. Abracadabra.”
Nothing, not even a tingle. Bentley tilted his head at me, while Melanie put her hand over her mouth to conceal a smirk.
“As fond as I am of the classics,” Bentley said, “there may be a reason those went out of style.”
“You look like a total dork,” Melanie added.
“Yeah,” I said, taking off the hat, “but not a mystically enlightened dork.”
Corman cracked open a bottle of Bud and leaned against the doorway. “Leave it with us for a couple of days. We’ll do some digging, see what we can figure out. Speaking of Ecko…”
“He’s lying low. Turns out he’s got a technique for going invisible. Not literally, but as far as tracking spells go, he might as well be on the other side of the world. Thing is, he needs a special ingredient, and Caitlin’s making sure he can’t get any more of the stuff. So it’s only a matter of time before I can use that amulet Emma ripped out of his chest to track him down and finish this.”
“What does he need?” Melanie asked.
“A certain…kind of blood.”
She caught my meaning and her smile faded. “Oh.”
“Hey, you’re safe. No worries, okay? Ecko doesn’t know about this place, or my connection to Bentley and Corman. No reason he’d even think to come here.”
The sound of splintering wood spun me around as a rotting fist punched a hole through the apartment’s front door.
The door blasted open. The creature that lurched in, one crooked arm clutching at the air, had been a living woman once. I wasn’t sure what had tak
en her life—a car accident, maybe—but it had left her corpse a ravaged, twisted ruin. Her nearly severed jaw dangled on a ropy tendon, one crushed shoulder hunched forward, raw bone jutting from the split skin of her hip. Her injuries didn’t slow her down or steal any of her supernatural strength—Ecko could command the dead to serve him no matter what shape they were in.
“Behind me!” I shouted as the dead woman limped into the living room. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, though. My cards were useless against Ecko’s puppets, I didn’t have a gun, and Bentley and Corman weren’t the kind of people who stockpiled weapons in their home.
The silken brim of the top hat, almost forgotten in my hand, pulsed. The zombie’s head snapped my way, sightless eyes homing in on it.
A shiver of magic rippled from the hat. It felt like I’d brushed up against something old and powerful, some alien sentience, and it had responded in kind. Allowing me to feel what it felt. Whatever was inside the hat recognized Ecko’s handiwork. And hated it, hated it with enough passion to ignite a dying sun. The feeling was mutual.
A rasping hiss escaped the dead woman’s throat like steam from a boiling kettle as she staggered toward me.
“Cormie,” Bentley called out. “Bedroom closet! Get my ritual box from the top shelf!”
As the creature moved in on me, clearing the doorway, Corman darted past it and raced up the hall. I heard the closet door slam open. Gnarled fingers clawed for me, swiping the air as I stumbled, fell, and scrambled backward on my hands to escape.
Melanie swooped in. Her eyes were blobs of runny yellow and pus white, face alight with blue butterfly-wing veins, and she threw a punch at the base of the zombie’s spine. Bones crackled as the dead woman wheezed, spun, and flung a brutal open-handed slap that caught Melanie across the cheek. Melanie grunted and fell, hitting the sofa, tumbling down and thumping her forehead against the shag carpet. She groaned and pressed her hands to her face.
The Castle Doctrine (Daniel Faust Book 6) Page 20