The Killing Floor Blues (24 page)

“
Problem
,” I texted the Outfit contact, “
Rockahoola is hot, cops sniffing around. Gotta move the meet
.”

“
When and where?
” came the reply.

I put some thought into that. Nicky Agnelli owned a half-built and vacant subdivision out in Eldorado, in North Vegas. Eventually he’d been planning to flip the lots and make a bundle on legitimate real estate, but for the time being he mostly used the display homes as kill-houses and body dumps.

Someday, some suburban pioneer was going to dig out a swimming pool in the wrong spot and unearth a whole bunch of nasty secrets.

“
Eldorado
,” I typed and gave him the address. “
Let’s do this ASAP, don’t wanna wait until tonight
.”

“
On our way
,” he replied.

Two model homes stood at the tail end of the subdivision, gathering dust in the autumn heat. Caitlin and I crouched on pristine carpet the color of desert sand, watching through the window in an empty living room.

A black Mercedes with tinted windows and Illinois plates rolled up slow. It pulled into the driveway across the street.

Four men got out of the car. I couldn’t tell which one was supposed to be the “Doctor.” I knew muscle when I saw it though, all hard eyes and bulges under their tailored pinstripe jackets. They marched up the walk and the man in the lead, a wispy blond, rapped his knuckles on the front door.

It swung open under his fist.

Terse conversation. Two of them drew pistols, holding their guns close to their chests as they peered inside. The blond took out his phone and sent a quick text.

“
Where are you?
” flashed across my phone.

“
I’ve got her in the basement
,” I replied. “
Come on in when you get here, I can’t hear the front door from down here
.”

Across the street, the blond shrugged and tucked his phone back in his jacket pocket. He followed the others inside and shut the door behind him.

That was my cue. I bolted out the front door just as Bentley’s silver Cadillac rumbled down the street. As I ran past his open window, he passed me a pair of latex gloves, a rubber doorstop, and a long, slender metal rod with a cherry-red tip. I felt like an Olympic sprinter in a baton race as I ran up on the Mercedes, keeping low and watching the house. I’d have five minutes—
maybe
—to get this done, and no room for mistakes.

I tugged on the gloves and studied the driver’s-side door, thinking fast. The sedan was an older model, but it came standard with automatic locks. I could work with that. I jammed the thin end of the doorstop into the top of the door, rocking it back and forth, working it into place one centimeter at a time. The door bulged, buckling on its frame. After a minute of work I’d opened a hair-thin crack.

Next step, the metal rod. I slid it through the opening, biting my bottom lip as I fumbled the tip back and forth, feeling for the lock-release button. A new wave of nausea hit and I fought through it, struggling to keep my focus. After three near misses, and a harrowing second where the rod nearly slipped from my fingers, the lock released with a gratifying
click
.

I let myself in and pulled the release for the rear trunk. Bentley and Corman were already on the move behind me. They had the Caddy’s trunk open too, and they were busy unloading half of Gabriel’s present: two thick bales of marijuana, pressed into fat bricks and sealed in plastic wrap. We loaded the goods into the Mercedes’s trunk and shut the lid.

I passed the break-in tools to Corman and waved them off. They jumped back into the Cadillac and pulled a U-turn while I sprinted back across the street and into the other model home. I met up with Caitlin in the living room, hunkering down behind the plate-glass window, just in time to hear the sirens.

Fifteen minutes ago, I’d made a quick call to Gary.

“This is a friendly anonymous tip,” I told him. “I just saw a bunch of guys, probably carrying unlicensed firearms, making a drug deal in an empty model house out in Eldorado.”

“Is that so?” he said.

“Yeah. You should probably check their trunk. And you might find another twenty or thirty pounds of pot down in the basement, too. Move fast.”

Fun fact: getting caught with that much marijuana constitutes the intent to distribute, which moves the crime from a minor misdemeanor to a class-five felony.

The Outfit thugs figured out what was up, about thirty seconds too late. They bolted out the front door just as four squad cars came screaming up the street, screeching to a stop outside the model house. The thugs froze, grabbing air as their guns clattered to the sidewalk.

“As frame jobs go,” I said to Caitlin, “this was pretty quick and dirty. Charges might or might not stick, and in any case I can guarantee they’ll be bonded out by morning.”

She frowned at me. “Then why do it? Why not just kill them?”

I watched as the wispy blond went down hard against the hood of one cruiser, his hands wrenched behind his back as the cuffs slapped on. I couldn’t help but smile.

“Beyond the satisfaction of doing unto others as was done unto to me? It’s all about sending a message. Chicago thinks that with Nicky gone, the Vegas underworld’s in chaos.”

“It
is
.”

“Yeah, but four of their boys just got set up and rolled by Vegas’s finest. It’s gonna
look
like we’ve got the cops in our pocket.”

“Making the city appear to be a harder target than it really is,” Caitlin said, putting it together. “Or that perhaps Nicky isn’t really missing after all.”

“And hopefully providing food for thought.” Across the street, the cops popped the Mercedes’s trunk, one holding up a brick of pot like it was a hunting trophy. “That thought ideally being, ‘Let’s find a different city to pick on.’”

“Do you think they will?”

My shoulders sagged. “Realistically? No. This war is coming. Doesn’t mean we have to make it
easy
for ’em, though, and the more misinformation and confusion we can hit them with, the better.”

Eventually the cops finished their search, bundled the thugs into backseats, and headed out. As the last cruiser rumbled down the street, I gave a salute through the window.

“Happy birthday, Detective Kemper,” I said. “Enjoy your cake.”

Caitlin glanced down at the slim platinum Chanel watch on her wrist. “Four o’clock, pet. Cesar will be expecting that delegation’s arrival in three hours.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. Let’s head back to the Nook and rally the troops.”

The Mercedes sat abandoned across the street, waiting for a police tow to haul it to the impound lot.

“But first,” I said, “give me a hand. I want those license plates.”

*     *     *

Pixie had aerial maps of Rock-a-Hoola up on her laptop screen. As we walked into the bookstore, the door chime jingling, she and Margaux were shaking their heads at each other.

“You’re right,” Margaux said, “there’s no way.”

“There’s always a way,” I replied, locking the door behind us. “But what specific impossibility are we talking about?”

“Getting in there without getting, well, shot.” Pixie turned her laptop to show me the screen, gesturing with the cap of a pen. “Look: the way in from every direction is completely open. No cover, no way to sneak in. If they put sentries here, here, and
especially
here, up on top of this old water slide, they can cover every possible approach to the park.”

“We
do
have the Calles on our side now,” Bentley said, emerging from the back room with Corman in tow. “And that Gabriel gentleman sounded quite eager to settle scores. If we let them attack first and supplement their firepower with a bit of subtle magic…”

“And then Cesar shoots Jennifer.” I held up an open hand. In my other, I cradled the two license plates we’d stolen off the Mercedes. “No. The bullets don’t start flying until
after
she’s secure.”

“But we can’t get to her,” Margaux said.

“I’ve been thinking about that.” I showed them the Illinois plates. “Look, I’ve only been to Jennifer’s fortress once. So the Calles might know my name, but only a few of them have ever seen me, and they’ve got no reason to remember my face. And I
know
Cesar doesn’t know me.”

Corman’s brow furrowed. “I don’t like where you’re going with this, kiddo.”

“They’re expecting the mob’s torture specialist to show up, and they’ve got no idea the guy just got busted. If I roll in and take his place, they’ll lead me straight to Jennifer. All I have to do is take out Cesar and anybody standing watch and set her loose. The two of us can hunker down and hold out while Gabriel and the Calles blitz the park.”

Caitlin curled her lip. “When the doctor told you ‘no unnecessary physical activity,’ which of those words was unclear?”

“It’s the definition of necessary. Look. Margaux, Bentley, Corman—you’re the best at what you do, but this
isn’t
what you do. The only person here more qualified than me for this job is Caitlin, and she can’t do it either.”

She put a hand on her hip. “And why not?”

“Because the Outfit is old-school organized crime, and old school means all the macho bullshit that goes with it. Unlike Nicky’s organization, they
don’t
hire women, period. No chance Cesar would believe you. Me, though? I can waltz right in.”

The room fell into a pensive silence.

“It’s a two-hour drive to the park, guys,” I said. “Clock’s ticking.”

“I hate to say it,” Pixie sighed, “believe me, I really hate to say it, but he’s right.”

“We’ll be directly behind you,” Bentley said, “parked just off the highway, in case anything goes wrong.”

It was a nice gesture, and I knew he meant well, but I also knew “just off the highway” was going to be too damn far to do anything if this job went sideways. Two lives were lives resting on my shoulders tonight—Jennifer’s and mine—and if I made a single mistake, they were both forfeit.

“Let’s call Gabriel,” I said. “We’re burning daylight.”

We slapped the Illinois plates onto Bentley’s Cadillac. He curled his hand around mine as he pressed the keys into my palm.

“Be
careful
.”

I pulled him into a quick hug, squeezing his frail shoulders. There wasn’t anything left to talk about, and we were running out of time.

I cruised out of the city on I-15, bound southwest and chasing a neon-orange sunset. I knew my family was behind me, dots in the rearview, but I couldn’t have felt more alone. The Caddy jolted over a rough patch of road and sent my stomach lurching. A quick flood of nausea passed over me like an ocean wave, there and gone again in the space of a breath.

Just don’t get hit in the head again
, I thought, smiling grimly at the road ahead.
Easy
.

The last rays of sunlight guided me to the outskirts of Rock-a-Hoola. The corpse of the water park had gone to rot a decade ago, and now nothing remained but its rusting bones. Stripped girders and crumbling graffiti-plastered walls gathered dust, abandoned to the desert. The spiral of a broken-down water slide still stood; atop it, a man with a pair of binoculars and a rifle slung over one shoulder stood watch.

Two bangers wearing Calles colors, yellow and brown, waved me down the open front drive. I cruised in slow, an easy five miles an hour, as the Caddy’s wheels thumped over broken pavement.

I kept both hands on the wheel.

The water park’s builders—or rebuilders, one of the times it closed and reopened—had a thing for ’50s kitsch. The buildings that still stood were all angled art deco huts painted in neon oranges, blues, and greens. Even faded by weather and time, their colors shone against the gathering dark.

The road ended at Cesar. He stood in front of a ticket booth, flanked by five of his men. His shoulders went back as my headlights washed over him, his chin raised, putting up a front for his buddies. Every one of them was packing, either carrying their steel in shoulder holsters or openly in their hands.

I killed the engine and got out of the car. I didn’t have a gun. Instead, I carried a simple black plastic box. I’d borrowed Pixie’s femtocell case, but I’d swapped out her gadget for one of my own.

“We were expecting more men,” Cesar called out. I stood beside the Cadillac. He stood by the ticket hut. Neither of us closed the distance.

“You only need one,” I told him. “They call me the Doctor.”

He nodded at my case. “What’s in there?”

I gave him the creepiest smile I could muster.

“Tools. For my…examination.”

“They told you the deal, right? No blood. Do whatever you gotta do to make her talk, but you can’t cut on her. Not one drop.”

“That won’t be a problem,” I said. “Is my patient ready?”

I walked along with Cesar, and his entourage followed. Not good. I was prepared to take out one target. Six, not so much.

I counted heads as we strolled through the desolate park. Flashlights glimmered on the other side of sagging palm trees. A cluster of men crouched in the remnants of a cafeteria, faces lit by the glow of a battery-powered lamp, throwing dice across the broken ceramic tiles and waving fistfuls of cash at each other. All in all, I figured Cesar had convinced about thirty of the Calles to turn traitor, not counting the wolf pack that surrounded us as we walked.

Cesar led the way along a broken path framed by beds of yellow scraggly weeds and dirt. Fat brown roaches swarmed around our feet, and a bloated insect hummed as it winged past my ear. Up ahead stood the park’s old video arcade, painted in Day-Glo purple. Three rolling aluminum doors, like loading bays for trucks, barred the way inside, but the one on the left stood open. Faint electric light glowed from within.

I knew she was in there before I even set eyes on her. I didn’t have to see her. I could
feel
her and the seething cloud of occult energy that hovered over the arcade like a toxic storm cloud. She’d been weaving a spell, maybe for days, feeding her power and her rage into it one drop at a time. It hovered on the edge of climax, a heartbeat from eruption, like the pressure in your sinuses one split second before a sneeze.

I knew exactly what she was waiting for, and what I needed to do.

That’s my girl
, I thought when I saw her. They’d bound her by the wrists, a rope looped over a girder pulling her hands taut above her head, leaving her to stand on wobbly tiptoes. There wasn’t one glimmer of fear in Jennifer’s eyes, though. No, I knew that look. It was pure, unadulterated fury.

For a moment, when she saw me step into the room, I thought she might give the game away. I should have known better. The glimmer of relief on her face vanished in a heartbeat, and she turned her scowl on Cesar.

“What’s wrong?” she drawled. “You finally realize you’re not man enough to kill me yourself? Had to bring in some outside help?”

“Oh, we ain’t gonna kill you,
chica
.” Cesar waved me forward. “Not
yet
. This guy’s gonna ask you a whole lot of questions first. And you
are
gonna answer him.”

I scoped the room fast. All the old arcade games, except for a busted and lonely Space Invaders console going to seed in the back corner, had been hauled off or sold for scrap ages ago. The arcade was more or less a concrete box with only one way in or out. They’d set up a card table near Jennifer’s side and a single folding chair.

“Sorry, what was that?” Jennifer asked. “Couldn’t understand you. I don’t speak pencil-dick.”

“You oughta take this seriously.” Cesar’s nostrils flared. “You’re about to be in a whole world of pain, bitch.”

Jennifer rolled her eyes at him. “Jumpin’ Jesus on a pogo stick. I’m in a world of pain every time I gotta look at your ugly-ass face.”

I walked to the table and set down my plastic box. Nestled in my pocket, my phone buzzed twice, then fell silent. Two rings and a hang-up was the signal that Gabriel and the loyal Calles were ready to roll.

Now it was all on me.

“You,” I said to Cesar, “obviously need to stay. As for your friends, I don’t work in front of an audience.”

Cesar locked eyes with me. Trying to read me. He hesitated a moment, then pointed at two of his men.

“You two, guard the door. Everybody else clear out.”

They moved to guard the door, all right. On the inside, flanking the open bay door and standing where they could get a good view of the show. So much for getting Cesar alone.

At least now it was one against three, instead of one against six. Those were almost survivable odds.

“All right.” My fingertips rested lightly on the rough, corrugated face of the plastic box. “What would you like to know first?”

“Her bank account in the Caymans,” Cesar said. “Number and passcode.”

“As you wish.” I unclipped the hasps on the box and looked to Jennifer. “Are you ready to begin?”

She bared her teeth in a feral grin.

“Do your worst.”

My hand reached into the box and closed over a curve of bright orange plastic. As I lifted it, Cesar—standing about five feet away and trying to look over my shoulder—leaned in.

“Hey, what is that?” he asked.

“Flare gun,” I said and swung it toward the thugs by the door. Not at them, between them, toward the open door and angled high. The gun ignited with a crackling
whoosh
as I pulled the trigger, and the arcade erupted with a flash of blinding light. The flare screamed from the muzzle, firing out into the darkness.

The surprise bought me two seconds. One to toss the empty gun. One for a pair of aces to drop from my sleeves. I caught the cards in my fingertips, whipped my arms up, and sent them flying. One thug took it dead on: he dropped, gurgling, the ace of diamonds buried halfway into his throat. The other card went wide, slicing alongside his buddy’s neck and ripping open his jugular. Blood guttered through his fingers as he slumped against the wall, hands clamped over his torn flesh as if he thought he could press himself back together.

A third ace jumped from my jacket pocket as I dropped low and spun on my heel toward Cesar. The card flew like a hornet, but it barely touched him; instead it winged along his bicep and hit the back wall, leaving a thread-thin trickle of blood no deeper than a paper cut.

Cesar grinned and raised his pistol.

“You missed.”

“Nah, sugar,” Jennifer told him. “Danny just knew I’d wanna kill you myself.”

Then she spat a single word. A long, guttural, twisting word that evoked frozen Germanic winters. The trigger to the spell she’d been weaving for days. The toxic miasma above our heads exploded with a peal of thunder and her spite-fueled power crashed down on Cesar, one man alone in a torrent of death.

The paper cut on his bicep ripped open, as if someone had taken pliers to his skin and given it one brutal, wrenching tug. Blood gushed from the wound as he screamed, flowing faster than it should have, and even faster by the second. He collapsed to his knees, shrieking, and a scarlet torrent blasted from the wound like the spray from a fire hose and splashed across the arcade wall.

His skin turned ashen and taut, his fingers and toes curling, crumpling. Bones cracked as his limbs folded in on themselves and the flesh on his skull stretched taut like a mummified corpse. Jennifer’s death curse slowly crushed his body like a juice box, squeezing every drop of blood from every last ragged vein.

What collapsed to the floor when the spell was done, gray and bloodless and small as a child, didn’t look human anymore.

“That’s what you
get
for fuckin’ with a witch,” Jennifer said. “My momma taught me that trick.”

I worked at the ropes binding her wrists, getting her down as the night erupted with the crackle of gunfire. Engines revved in the distance, roaring over the staccato pops and thudding shotgun booms.

“What’s going on out there?” Jennifer asked me, wincing as she rubbed her wrists.

“Your buddy Gabriel and the cavalry are here. That flare wasn’t just a distraction; it was the signal that I had you and they were safe to move in.”

“You telling me they started the party without us?”

Jennifer scooped up Cesar’s fallen pistol. Then, after a moment’s deliberation, she grabbed one of his thugs’ guns too. She checked the loads fast and sighted down each barrel.

“Seriously?” I said. “You don’t want to maybe take a breather or something? You’ve just been through a lot.”

“Hon, this moment is all I’ve been thinking about for
days
. Not a chance I’m missing the fun.” She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. “And thanks for the rescue. Now grab a piece and let’s
go
already! There’s a whole lot of backstabbers who need lead tombstones out there, and you’re slowin’ me down.”

I sighed, prying a pistol from the other fallen thug’s cold fingers, trying to ignore a sudden twinge in my back.

“I think I’m getting too old for this,” I told her.

Jennifer stood silhouetted in the open bay door, a pistol cocked and ready in each hand.

“Less whinin’, more shootin’,” she said. Then she was gone, charging into the dark.

I followed her into the fight. Of course I did. That’s what friends do.