by EC Sheedy
“That I did. Yeah.” Henry took a swig of scotch, and ignoring the coaster on the fine cherry wood side table, set down his glass—ready to talk business. “Always good to have a mutual pal, huh?”
“May I ask the nature of your relationship to Victor?”
“Business partner.” He pressed two fingers tight together, held them up. “Like this.”
“Really?” Q sipped from his glass. “Odd Victor never mentioned you.” Q eyed him as if he were a crumb on his shirt front. Like Victor always did.
Because Victor didn’t think I was good enough for the front office as he called it. Always telling me my blood ran too high, that I had “anger-management issues” or some shit. Like that didn’t work for him. Yeah. I was the hired help, the backroom hammer, the guy who kneecapped the seriously overdue and pulled out fingernails when a monthly installment was missed. “You’re my enforcer, Henry. My back-alley guy. No point in you mixing with people not of your ilk. Plus, you look like shit in a tuxedo.” Henry never did get that “ilk” thing.
Remembering Victor’s words, all the crap he’d taken, Henry’s mood darkened. All those fuckin’ years . . . and the bastard turned on him, tried to phase him out. “Times have changed,” he’d said. “New blood, Henry, that’s what I’ve got now. Fresh, young talent, who can set things up, make things happen.”
Years of resentment lodged in Henry’s chest like a heap of coal. “Not surprised he didn’t mention me. No.” He jumped back into the conversation game. “I more or less worked in the field, you know. Wasn’t around much. Yeah.” He smiled, even though he didn’t like either the guy’s tone or his pointy eyebrow—made the back of his neck heat. This asshole was Victor all over again, looking down his skinny nose at him, thinking because he had muscle he had no brain. Well, he’d showed Victor and he’d show him.
“And now Victor is gone,” Q said, not looking as if he gave a shit.
“Six weeks now. Yeah.” Henry said, as happy at the thought today as he had been sitting in the dumbass’s study watching him bleed out. “That’s why I’m here.”
Quinlan cocked his head. “I see.”
“Here’s the thing. I’m not sure you do see. But I’m going to set that to rights.”
“And how will you do that?”
“Like I said, Victor and I were partners. Shared everything, you know. Like those two musketeers—”
“Three. There were three musketeers. You’ll have to excuse me, I like exactitude.”
Henry didn’t get it but neither did he care. “Whatever. The thing is we were ‘all for one and one for all,’ or however that goes. If you get my meaning.” Henry met Quinlan’s eyes. He expected a trace of alarm, instead he saw amusement. Cold cocky bastard. He added the clincher, something sure to get his attention, “You remember that big safe of his? Behind the sliding wall in his office? Damn door in that baby was thick enough to take mortar fire.” He shook his head in real appreciation. “And now—since Victor’s sad passing what was in that safe is all mine. Yeah.” Henry’s heart thumped a couple of times before it settled. He held the fancy scotch in one hand and gripped the chair arm tight with the other. Here we go . . . “Including some stuff about a young Quinlan Braid. Interesting—illegal stuff.”
After a few seconds of silence ticked by, Q smiled again. This time the smile actually warmed his tan, tight-skinned face. “You killed him,” he said, his voice soft as cotton.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Q got up from his chair and walked the few steps to the fireplace. He set his drink on the mantel, and looked down on Henry. “Sooner or later someone was going to do it.” He nodded approvingly. “And, yes, as the chosen one, you’d do nicely. Exactly who Victor deserved.” He rested his eyes on Henry, looked him over good. Henry couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a trace of respect. “What do you want?” Q asked.
“Two million.”
The rich asshole didn’t even blanch. Didn’t answer either.
He pressed on, “A one-time payout, and I’m on a sunny island a million miles from here,” He waved a hand around to encompass Q’s fancy digs. “Out of your face. Forever. You go along with things, don’t make trouble, and you’ll never see this mug of mine again. Yeah.”
“Do I look like I was born yesterday, Henry?”
“I mean it. Two mil and I’m gone. Chump change for the big Q. A new life for me.”
“Beside the fact that two million dollars is never ‘chump change,’ I see no cause to concern myself with providing you a new life.” Q looked at his watch, like he had an appointment or something, like Henry was keeping him.
Rage balled in Henry’s chest. He rolled his head; even Henry Castor knew it wasn’t the time to let his temper get the best of him. “Look, I know an ace when I got one, and I know enough not to waste it. So let’s not bullshit each other. I saw your file in Victor’s safe, and I checked you out. You’re a busy man—a big man, with big-time friends. You got what they call a public profile. Hell, you’re developing half of California. Everything legit as hell. The way I figure it, you livin’ here in the Hills”—he again waved a hand around the fancy study—“you won’t want the likes of me showing up, splintering kneecaps . . . bothering your rich buddies, interfering in your day-to-day business. So I thought, Henry, the smart thing here is to lay down the ace. Do a one-shot deal. Let Q get on with his business.”
Nothing in Q’s expression changed. If anything he looked like he was going to laugh. “And why,” he asked, “if Victor had such an ‘ace,’ do you think he never played it, Henry?”
Victor was a spineless asshole, that’s why—and you scared the shit out of him. You and your millions. But not Henry Castor. “Saving it for a rainy day maybe. Yeah.”
“No. He didn’t play the ace for two very good reasons, first because he didn’t have one”—he leveled a clear-eyed gaze on him—“and second, he understood considerable harm would come to him should he try.” Quinlan stepped away from the fireplace. “Now if you’ll finish your drink, I’ll show you out.”
“Not ’til I get what I came for.”
“You’ll leave with what you came with, Henry, a potentially fatal case of greed.”
It was Henry’s turn to smile, and if it was smug, who the hell cared. He was about to rattle this frigid asshole’s chain. “I got a lot more than that. I’ve got schedules of payment— times, dates, places—from you to Victor mostly. Big payments for bad stuff. Coke. Crack. The big H. Yeah. He sourced it. You moved it—a lot of it. And you know, Victor liked that ‘exactitude’ idea as much as you do, because he kept records of everything, always writing in those journal things of his. Insurance he called it. But”—he shrugged—“your business being mostly drug deals, you’re right, not much proof other than old and, very dead, Victor’s scribbles.”
Henry had wasted weeks going through those fucking journals. He’d been looking for a pot of gold in what Victor called B & E Inc. The initials stood for blackmail and extortion. If Henry hadn’t been involved in one way or another with all of Victor’s clientele—until the new help had arrived—he wouldn’t have made sense of any of it. But he did, and what he found was that most of what was in the journals was useless crap. Outdated. Yesterday’s news. Half the clients were dead, for God’s sake. Victor didn’t need new staff, as he liked to call his new hires, he needed fresh meat, new victims. There was only one real payday in the whole mess, and Henry was looking at him. “And it’s not like you and Victor did the UPS thing and signed on a dotted line or anything,” he said, getting back to business. “One of your high-priced legal types would make the drug crap disappear like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“Your point—if you have one?”
“My point is I’m not talking about drugs, low-level shit. I’m talking about a bit of stink that nobody can make go away . . . except yours truly here.” He took an easy breath, starting to enjoy himself. “You remember that shipment you and Victor planned t
o send offshore?” He watched Q’s face closely. No expression. “Turns out that shipment never left the great US of A. Seems Victor fucked-up big time, but didn’t tell you. Figured what you didn’t know wouldn’t come round and bite him in the ass. Said best to let dangerous dogs sleep or somethin’ like that.” Pure yellow-belly, old Victor.
Henry let his words sink in, saw the first crack in Q’s plastic face, a tiny tic in that steely jaw of his. He savored it a moment, before going on, “That shipment? She’s what? Maybe thirty something now. Probably seriously pissed about what happened back then, her taken from her mommy and all. And now, being all growed up, she’s likely ready for a little revenge.” He shook his head. “For a man like you, all legit and all, that’s big-time trouble.” He nodded his head, rubbed at his jaw. “Get that kind of pissed-off female talking to the press—about that career you and Victor set up for her . . . Yeah, trouble.” He left the rest to Quinlan’s imagination.
Henry gave him credit; he didn’t waste time on denials. “And you know where the shipment is, I take it.” His eyes didn’t narrow, they pierced. Sharp black lights, with an even blacker center.
Henry considered whether to flat-out lie and say yes or tell the truth. He looked into Q’s hard face and stone cold eyes, and opted for truth. “Let’s just say I’ll know if I need to know. Won’t take more than a co uple of days at most.” And I’ll have her singing like a canary an hour after that—if you don’t cough up the two mil.
“If I understand you correctly, you want money not to locate her.”
Henry made a shooting gesture with his index finger. “Got it in one. You put the money in my bank account, I leave her be, and she leaves you be.”
“What makes you so sure you can find her?”
“It’s what I do.” And goddamn well, too. “Plus, I have a source—a pipeline, you could say, that’ll take me right to her. More of a chute . . . yeah.” He slid one hand off the other in swift gliding motion and grinned. “Like I said, two days tops.”
“And this ‘pipeline’ of yours, where is it?”
Henry gave him a vacant stare. “I wasn’t born yesterday either.” He stood on his too-short legs and squared his thick shoulders. Christ, why was he always looking up at these bastards? He hated that, hated how it poked at the gut-ball of anger rooted low in his stomach.
The confidence in Henry’s voice came easily, and it looked as if Quinlan picked up on it. He took a few paces away, stopped, and left his back to Henry. Henry damn near heard the whir of cogs and wheels in his brain. He had him. Henry Castor was about to become a rich man. Yeah.
Without another word, Q went to his desk and pushed a button near its base; a drawer opened where Henry hadn’t seen a drawer.
He took out a whack of cash and a cell phone. He handed both to Henry. “Expenses. And an untraceable cell. Keep me informed as to your progress, and call me immediately when you find the girl.”
“You want me to find her?” What the hell . . .
“I want you to find her and bring her to me.”
Henry snorted, laughed. “Like I’m working for you?”
“You are now.”
“Not exactly what I had in mind.” He might be holding a nice wad of cash in his hand, but he didn’t have to count it to know it was nowhere near Bingo.
“Nor I, but unfortunately your avarice and my natural tendency for self-preservation necessitate our unholy alliance.” He stood over Henry, as tall and rangy as Henry was short and thick. He didn’t blink. “I repeat, find the girl, Henry, bring her to me—and you get a four million dollar payday.” He looked at the money Henry held in his hand, probably a few grand. “Consider that a signing bonus.”
“Four mill—” Henry didn’t know whether he was pissed at himself for underestimating the value of his information or so fuckin’ excited his tongue had tangled. He slipped the cell phone into his pocket and slapped the cash he was holding against his thigh. “You want I should finish her?”
“By that I take it to mean, would I like you to kill her?”
Henry winked. “Hell, when I find her . . . I’m there, she’s there—makes sense, Q.”
“Do not call me Q.” Quinlan’s black eyes got blacker. “And, no, I do not want you to kill her. What I want you to do is restrain your dumb-animal instincts and do your work quietly and methodically. When you find her, bring her to me. In the course of your investigation under no circumstance will you attract attention to yourself or me. Do we understand one another?”
Henry eyed him, simmering about that dumb-animal remark. “I get it. You want to do the job yourself, make sure there’s no loose ends—that exactitude thing.”
“What I do and why I do it is of no concern of yours.” He paused. “Do we have an agreement?”
Henry shrugged. Hell, Q could fuck her to death, use her for target practice, or slice and dice her for a goddamn salad, Henry didn’t give a shit. It was only a woman. And with four mil in his jeans, he’d be far enough away, her screaming wouldn’t keep him awake nights. “You just cut yourself a deal.” He held out a hand. “I like you, Quinlan, I like the way you think. Yeah.”
“Unfortunately for you, Henry, I can’t say the same.” Ignoring Henry’s outstretched hand, he gestured toward the door. “Get out of my house.”
Henry’s rented Navigator sat waiting for him at the bottom of the five broad steps leading to the doors of Q’s house—goddamn castle more like it. He got in the SUV, lit a cigarette, and leaned his head against the headrest, too pumped to drive. Four million bucks for finding one dumb bitch. Damned if his heart wasn’t near to beating itself right out of his chest thinking about it.
He put the key in the ignition and started the car. Three minutes later he’d cleared Quinlan Braid’s gates and they’d closed behind him.
Henry’s thoughts went immediately to the job at hand. Piece of cake.
A few days ago, him wanting to be on firm ground before meeting Q, he’d made a couple of calls, confirmed his pipeline was still living in Las Vegas with her kid, so he knew exactly where to start. All he needed was her address, then it was one, two, three. Go to the pipeline, squeeze out the information on the misplaced shipment, and . . .
Shut down the pipeline—permanently.
He nodded to himself. Yeah. It wasn’t often that good business and getting even made such a perfect couple. Henry was proud of himself. He’d spent weeks going over the old crap in Victor’s safe—all that reading and figuring had near killed him. For a while there, he thought maybe he’d wasted his bullets on Victor, that his getting back at him for being pushed aside wasn’t going to be as sweet as he’d hoped. Then he’d found Quinlan Braid’s name and a piece of information as good today as it was twenty-odd years ago. And he was the only one who had it.
He frowned suddenly, and his throat tightened.
From here on in, Braid would probably have him followed—or try to. While Henry figured he’d have no trouble making, or shaking, a tail, he didn’t want some tag hired by that freeze-dried prick Q finding out a Vegas bitch was his connection. That happened—and they found the shipment—Henry’d be dead two seconds later. Not going to happen. He’d cover his butt and he’d cover it good. Nobody was taking advantage of Henry Castor—ever again. Yeah.
In the end Q would pay or Q would die. Henry chuckled to himself. Hell, there was always plan B. Q didn’t know why that girl-shipment never went out on time, didn’t know that Victor dithered like an old woman when he found out exactly what he had locked in his basement. Victor built his life on secrets and lies, his and other people’s. His stock in trade, he called it. The sharp-brained bastard never shared the goods unless there was something in it for him—and he was ruthless in procuring it.
None of which mattered now. First things had to be first and first was Henry nailing down his pipeline—and that girl.
He drove along the lush, tree-lined street, careful to drive slow to not attract attention. But his mind was racing.
&nb
sp; What was that ad line again? What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Lucky for Henry, that when their sequin-and-feather days were over, so did old-time showgirls like Phyllis Worth—his direct connection to four million dollars.
And an added bonus—getting the chance for payback against that Vegas bitch. Yeah.
Chapter 3
This was her third hotel room in less than a week. She was running out of favors, and she was no closer to figuring out what to do than she was when she flew out of her apartment.
God, it was hot out there. August in Las Vegas, the closest the sinless would ever get to hell fire.
Phyllis Worth’s heart thumped in her chest like a rabbit on crack—had since she’d crossed The Strip ten minutes before. Being out in the open made her feel like target practice, had every nerve in her body quivering. She had to settle down, formulate some kind of plan.
She tossed her suitcase and makeup bag on the hotel bed and walked to the window. Outside, the man-made cities of planet Vegas bustled and glowed; some sprawling, others thrusting upward toward the sun they attempted to rival: Wynn—fifty stories high, all of it gleaming bronze, thumping its massive chest and saying to the sun, “Right back atcha.” Then New York, New York, Paris, and the shadowed canals of Venice. Phylly loved them all. Las Vegas was her kind of town. Her home.
A home she might have to leave because of one teeny-tiny mistake she’d made when she was a dumb kid.
Okay, flat-out stupid kid, and in her twenties at the time, not much of a kid either. If you added scared out of her mind and greedy, maybe the words teeny-tiny didn’t exactly fit the event that changed her life. Impulsive, ignorant, and vain more like it. And if that weren’t enough, she’d gone on to compound it.
She went to the minibar and got herself a cold can of Coke, rubbed it over her forehead.
“Think, Phyllis, think.”
Yeah, right. . .