The Heart of the Jungle

by Jeremy Pack

  Jason walked slowly along and located the building he was looking for. In garish red letters, the sign outside of the nightclub announced he had arrived at "Sylvia's." He leaned back and looked up. There were no signs of life in the blackened windows on the top floor. The curtains were tightly drawn. More than likely, Sylvia Hopkins slept during the day and managed the affairs of her business at night.

  He glanced left and right to make sure he was alone on the street.

  Satisfied that he was, he slipped into the alleyway and walked around the building, inspecting the structure for some alternative means of entry.

  Aside from an entrance to the office suites on the south side and an emergency exit on the west, the only way in or out was the front door.

  After his circuit of the building was complete, he wandered into the office lobby and checked the directory posted on the wall. There were several businesses in residence, but none of them seemed noteworthy. He checked the elevator and, as he had feared, it did not go to the penthouse.

  There must be another one in the nightclub.

  He headed back onto the street and returned to the alley where he'd started.

  Peering up at the top floor again, he sighed in resignation. The one route to Sylvia Hopkins seemed to be through her bookie, Gunther--- directly through the front door.

  Jason leaned against the wall, thinking. He'd have to pose as a potential customer. He looked down at his travel-wrinkled clothing and frowned. This getup would never do. Jeff Cross had said that Hopkins catered to a wealthy, powerful clientele---and he certainly didn't look the part. Mentally ticking off a list of things he'd need, he walked away.

  High overhead, the velvet drapes that had been parted slightly dropped closed.

  CHRIS had walked at least a hundred miles pacing between the window and the bed. He'd watched every minute tick by on the bedside alarm clock since he'd awoken that morning, and as the day wore on, he became increasingly agitated. All manner of horrors plagued his mind.

  What if Jason had been hurt? What if he never returned?

  Shortly after three o'clock, the door opened. Jason strode into the room, his arms laden with an unruly assortment of shopping bags.

  Chris glanced at the parcels, and his breath exploded in fury. "I've been climbing the walls in this hotel room all day, and you've been out shopping?"

  Jason dropped the bags on the bed and sat down. "Now hold on---"

  "I've been insane with worry. You didn't wake me or leave a note or anything." He'd been wound like a guitar string, and the sudden release of tension at seeing Jason alive and safe overwhelmed him.

  "Hopkins is holed up in a tower. No way in but through the front door," Jason said, sidestepping Chris's tirade.

  "You've been there?"

  "That's why I had to go shopping. If I'm going to pose as a client, I need to look the part."

  "Well...." Chris's fury melted. "You could have called," he stammered lamely.

  Jason grinned. "Sorry, dear. I completely lost track of time. Next time, I'll remember to check in."

  Chris gave him a disbelieving look, but the teasing softened his ire.

  He massaged at his temples. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have launched into you like that. I'm just a wreck."

  "Here," Jason said, tossing a bag at him. "I think these are your size. Just a guess, but I thought you'd want some clean clothes."

  Chris pulled a pair of jeans and a T-shirt out of the bag and examined the labels. "Pretty close. The pants are a little big. I lost some weight over the past year."

  "Speaking of which, you probably haven't eaten anything today."

  Chris shook his head. "Sorry, dear," he mocked. "I was a little preoccupied. Could you have eaten anything?"

  "I can always eat," Jason replied smartly and picked up the telephone.

  Twenty minutes later, a room service attendant delivered a cart loaded with sandwiches and bottled water. Jason tipped him and arrayed the spread on the small round table against one wall.

  As they sat together eating, Jason asked, "I'm curious. How did you meet Michael?"

  Chris swallowed. "A party. George's party, actually. I hated him at first. I thought he was an egotistical snob, and I didn't want anything to do with him."

  "This is a recurring theme with you," Jason replied ironically, grinning in satisfaction as a sheepish smile blossomed on Chris's face.

  "But I know what you mean. Sounds about like Michael Blake."

  "He was so persistent. He got my phone number from George and kept calling and calling. I considered a restraining order. Finally, though, it was easier to just give in and go out with him."

  Chris smiled at the memory of his early days with Michael. "He was charming---arrogant, as I suspected, but a great conversationalist. He took me to a seafood place on the waterfront for our first date. You know, one of those dives near the industrial area where you can't completely escape the smell of diesel fumes and rotting fish? We had clams right out of a bucket---and beer."

  "I am having a hard time picturing Michael Blake eating anything from a bucket."

  Chris laughed. "Not many people know that side of him. Michael trots out the Armani for the public, but in private, he's only a little pretentious. He has a softer side. He doesn't let it show very often, but it's there."

  "Do you realize this is the first time you've spoken of him in the present tense?"

  This caught Chris slightly off guard. He hadn't noticed the shift in his attitude until Jason pointed it out. It made no sense---he didn't have a shred of evidence to support it, but Jason seemed so certain that, somewhere along the way, he had managed to convince Chris too. "As incredible as it would have seemed to me a day ago, I guess I've started to believe he's not dead."

  "How do you think you're going to react when we catch up to him?" Jason's tone was less concerned than curious.

  Chris stood and walked away from the table, the sandwich forgotten, along with his appetite. "I haven't gotten that far. I honestly don't know. For his sake, he'd better be in police custody, or I'm as likely to kill him as anything." The idea that Michael had staged his death, that he'd run off with Brianna, was so unspeakably horrible, Chris couldn't wrap his brain around it. How could Michael do this? He of all people knew how much Chris loved Brianna. He swallowed against the sour taste in the back of his throat as he mulled over what Michael had done to him.

  "That's good. That anger. Hold onto it. It'll help you get through this. It'll keep you centered."

  Chris turned away from the window and toward Jason. His hands were clenched into fists, and his body was so rigid it was trembling.

  "Anger is an understatement. I'm seriously pissed off."

  Jason tried but couldn't completely hide the smile that formed on his lips. Apparently, the idea of Chris throttling Michael was funny.

  Chris's stiff limbs relaxed, and he fought a smile of his own. He had to admit, it did seem a little preposterous. It was only with great effort that Chris ever raised his voice---forget about fists.

  To cover his smile, Chris gave Jason a sardonic look. "Give me a break, Kingsley. I know I've been a little weepy the last couple of days, but I'm not a wilting lily all the time. I have a touch of Irish in my pedigree, and I can have a good tantrum if I put my mind to it."

  Jason could no longer contain his mirth, and he broke out in a hearty laugh. "I know," he chuckled. "I've been climbing the walls all day and you've been out shopping?" he parroted. "I almost lost bladder control."

  Chris rolled his eyes. "Jerk," he said. He snatched a pillow off the bed and threw it. Jason caught it in midair. "Now who's teasing?" He returned to his seat.

  Tears squeezed out of Jason's eyes as he looked over at Chris. It truly wasn't that funny, but for some reason, he couldn't hold back the laughter once it had been released. Chris finally gave in to chuckles of his own, and soon they were roaring, their mirth feeding off itself. After several moments, they sat together, spent. Jason reached out and took both
of Chris's hands. "I know you're a client, Chris, and this is all supposed to be professional, but I want you to know that I really do care."

  "I feel the same way," Chris replied before he could stop himself or contemplate what the admission might mean. "It's like I've always known you. I've opened up to you more in a few days than I ever opened up to Michael in the five years we lived together." Somewhere in the middle of the speech, the initial innocent intent of his admission dissolved. The feel of Jason's hands became a powerful force pressing against the wall he'd put up between them.

  "Does this scare you?" Jason asked.

  Chris bit his lip. "A little," he admitted. Then, in response to a skeptical look from Jason, he said, "Okay, a lot. But where you're concerned, sheer terror is all part of the package, I guess."

  As they stared at each other, they drifted together. There was a look of deep longing in Jason's eyes that drew Chris irresistibly closer. He could almost feel the hunger in Jason's lips. He was shocked to find his own lips eager to be claimed.

  An instant before they came together, some deep instinct of self-preservation overcame him, and Chris turned away abruptly. He stood and shook his head sadly as he looked down at Jason. Unable to speak, he walked to the window. He stared out in silence, his heart pounding and his hands shaking.

  An uncomfortable silence hung suspended in the gulf between them.

  After a long while, Chris finally spoke in a tremulous voice. "I was being honest, Jason. I really do care."

  "No, you don't have to explain, Chris. I shouldn't have---"

  "Let me finish." He turned and their eyes met. "I don't understand the effect you have on me. I don't understand my reaction to it. The only thing I am sure of is that it's all wrong. I'm just not in a position to---"

  "Look, let's just forget it," Jason said coldly, obviously stinging from the rejection but trying hard not to let it show.

  Chris turned back toward the window. He took several deep breaths.

  He wasn't sure he could forget it. He wasn't sure at all.

  Chapter 10

  DARKNESS never really holds sway over the night in Las Vegas. The city is perpetually bright with every color and variety of light imaginable.

  From the sky-sweeping lasers of Caesar's Palace to the 40 billion candlepower beam shooting upward from the Luxor pyramid, Las Vegas truly is the city of stars.

  As the digital alarm clock announced the arrival of ten o'clock, Jason emerged from the bathroom. His dark, typically unruly hair had been greased back, and he was freshly shaven. Clothed in an expensive suit and tie, dripping with gold, and sporting a pair of designer sunglasses, he was the very picture of affluence. His perfectly chiseled features lent him the air of the Hollywood elite. He was stunning, and Chris had to tear his eyes away. God, he was sexy.

  "You look... nice," he stammered. His stomach fluttered under the onslaught of a legion of butterflies.

  "Nice?" Jason asked. "I look nice?" he pouted. "I was going for dangerous, sexy, dashing, debonair."

  Chris rolled his eyes. "Pick an adjective and I'll agree, just don't get a complex."

  "All of the above, then," Jason ribbed.

  "Why am I not surprised?"

  Jason chuckled and glanced at the door. "Gotta go, babe. My madam awaits."

  The forced smirk on Chris's face faded as the tenor of the moment changed. Realization of the peril Jason was walking into resurfaced, and his brow furrowed. "Please be careful."

  Jason's humor evaporated as well. "Try not to worry. I've done this kind of thing before."

  "I know, but---"

  "I can handle Hopkins."

  "Are you sure about that?"

  "You worry too much."

  Jason walked over to him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I'll be fine. I promise." He squeezed lightly. Quickly, before Chris could resist, Jason pulled him close and stole a tender, innocent kiss. Chris tried to speak, but Jason placed his finger to his lips to silence him. He smiled and winked. "Back in an hour."

  Grinning at the effect he had on Chris and obviously liking it very much, he turned on his heel and left the hotel room without a backward look.

  THE busy Las Vegas strip was a sea of people. Jason threaded his way through the crowd, amused at the appraising stares he kept getting as he walked along in his expensive suit and sunglasses. He looked like "somebody," and he knew it. He strutted confidently, getting more into the part as he went.

  Soon after starting out, he turned the corner onto a side street and approached Sylvia's on Paradise. He could hear the thrumming of dance music and was assaulted rudely by it when he threw open the door and strode inside.

  The club was packed to overflowing. Through the dense fog that lingered in the darkened interior, he could just make out a mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor, their movements shuttered by staccato pulses of strobe light.

  He snaked his way through the crowd, scanning for the scarred bookie known as Gunther, and finally spotted him standing statue-like at the far end of the room. The brick wall of a man was poured into a pinstriped suit that seemed barely able to contain his impressive bulk. An earpiece was clipped to his ear, and a cigar dangled from his lips. His skin was pocked with craters left behind by a chronic case of acne, and on the left side of his face, a wicked scar traced a tortured river from the corner of his mouth straight up to his bald pate. Just as Cross had described him.

  He was a solid mass of muscle. This was someone you wouldn't want to tangle with. In fact, the crowd kept well away, his mere presence erecting an invisible five-foot barrier around him. As Jason studied him, a drunken man, jostled by the crowd, stumbled into the brute. The expression on Gunther's face did not change as he gripped the scrawny interloper by the arm and shoved him roughly back into the fray.

  Cuddly. He composed himself and headed directly for Gunther, strutting with all of the vanity of someone with money enough to fear nothing.

  The bookie's eyes flicked over him as he approached, but he did not speak. Jason stopped and appraised him with a disdainfully raised eyebrow. "You Gunther?" he asked.

  Gunther blinked, took a drag on the cigar, and blew the smoke in Jason's face. Jason sneered but made no move to wave the acrid fumes away. He reached into his back pocket, withdrew several crisp hundred-dollar bills, and dangled them enticingly in front of Gunther. "I'm here to see Hopkins."

  Gunther took the proffered bills and tucked them into his jacket, then resumed his statue impression. After a few moments, it became clear that he had no intention of summoning his employer. Jason's ire rose. He only had one shot at this, and he wasn't sure how he was going to get to the elusive woman if not through this man.

  "Look, are you going to call her, or do I need to take my business somewhere else?" he asked.

  Gunther blinked but did not speak.

  Damn it. This was not working. He tried very hard to appear disinterested, even though his plan was falling apart. Realizing he'd been defeated, Jason shrugged and turned on his heel. He was going to have to think of another way.

  As he headed back toward the door, he noticed that his escape route was now flanked by two thugs clad in the same kind of suit as Gunther.

  They watched his approach with interest.

  He squared his chin and continued toward the exit.

  Just as he arrived at the door, the two men stepped forward to meet him. They said not a word but barred his way. With his chin, left thug pointed back the way he had come, indicating that Jason should turn around. Right thug worked a jaw muscle.

  Jason glanced over his shoulder. Next to Gunther, a petite woman now stood. She was clad in a black silk dress. Her coiffed blonde mane shimmered over her shoulders, and she held a long black cigarette holder to her lips. She had the ageless, plastic look of a woman well past her prime but rich enough for a damn good cosmetic surgeon. Standing there with her flawless ivory skin, dripping with jewels and seductively posed, she looked like a 1930s-era gangster movie dame. She
was the picture of absurdity, but so absolutely right for Las Vegas. Everything here was artificial, garish, a parody of something real or imagined. In a world made of smoke and mirrors, she fit right in.

  Jason approached, and she extended a gloved hand in his direction.

  He took it and brushed his lips against the satin-cloaked fingers.

  "This way, Mister...?" She raised an inquisitive eyebrow and tilted her head to the side.

  "Franklin," he offered. "Charles Franklin the Third."

  Her small smile was predatory as she looked him over, no doubt imagining any number of things she herself could do with him.

  He followed her through a set of double doors and into an elevator.

  The walls of the car were smoked glass with mahogany paneling. The carpeting was a deep amber pile. They rode to the penthouse in silence.

  Sylvia Hopkins made no effort to mask her lascivious scrutiny as they stood next to each other in the elevator, and Jason wondered if he measured up.

  The doors parted, and Hopkins led him into a luxuriously appointed suite of rooms. Italian marble floors gleamed in the wash of expertly placed and tuned lighting. Expensive artwork hung on the walls, and enormous banks of windows afforded a sweeping view of the city.

  She led him into an elegantly furnished office and perched languorously on the edge of a highly polished desk. "Something to drink, Mr. Kingsley?" she purred.

  It was a feat of composure that he did not react at her use of his real name. "I'm sorry, what did you call me?"

  "Let's drop the charade, Jason. May I call you Jason? I know who you really are."

  He stared at her in mute silence. If she knew he was here, Brunner probably did too, and God knew what that meant for Chris's daughter.

  "There must be some mistake," he tried, knowing before the words were out of his mouth that the ploy would be unsuccessful.

  Glittering black eyes regarded him with cold disdain. "You arrived yesterday, Alaska Airlines flight seventeen, departing Seattle-Tacoma International Airport at 10:57. You checked into the Venetian upon arrival, courtesy of your longtime friend Curtis Marcus. You shopped at the Forum shops from approximately eleven thirty until two forty-five and spent a grand total of six thousand, four hundred and twenty-seven dollars. Purchases included the suit you are currently wearing; a pair of Lucky Brand jeans sized twenty-nine waist, thirty length, no doubt for Christian James, with whom you are traveling; one solid-colored, light-blue T-shirt---a good choice of color for him, by the way---several pieces of rather well-made costume jewelry; and a 'What Happens In Vegas' baseball cap, presumably for your receptionist. Should I continue?"