I struggled not to bury my face in my palm. On the far side of the table, Emma Loomis was getting settled in; we’d exchanged a brief hello when she arrived and not much else, while I tried to decide how much to tell her about Melanie’s little adventure last night. I was still deciding. Emma looked like a wealthy, coiffed suburban soccer mom, but the demon that lived under her stolen skin didn’t take prisoners.
Jennifer waited until everyone simmered down, pushed her chair back, and took command of the room.
“Let’s tackle the elephant, first things first,” she said. “Did my damned best to stop it, but Nevada made pot legal and that’s just how it is. Good news is, saw this comin’ way back when, and made nice with a couple of our congress critters. My people were first, second, and twentieth in line for dispensary licenses.”
Eddie Stone, war chief of the Bishops, smoothed the lapels of his peacock-blue suit. His upper lip curled back and flashed a golden tooth.
“How many we talking?” he asked.
“Enough to recoup some of what we’re losing in street deals. Low risk, pure profit. For the ones we don’t control, I reckon we shift gears and move into…helpin’ these good folks take proper care of their income.”
“You’re talking about protection.”
“Sure,” Jennifer said. “It’s a cash business, and most banks won’t do business with dispensaries. They’ll be needing our help to keep that money tidy and safe. And if they don’t want our help, well…lots of bad things can happen.”
Chou Yong raised one stubby finger. “Can we talk about the reclamation?”
That was what we were calling the slow, grindstone march toward taking back all of Nicky Agnelli’s former rackets. His overnight downfall had created a power vacuum in the city and a gigantic mess. Lots of smaller crews and independent operators going rogue, carving out their own little fiefdoms. There were a lot of people who had faithfully paid out to Nicky for years but didn’t quite grasp the change in management. Yet. We were working hard to convince them.
Jennifer looked his way. “Whatcha got, sugar?”
“My people have been focusing our efforts on the Transport Workers Union. Taking control of McCarran Airport—quietly and seamlessly—is key to any number of future endeavors.”
Winslow leaned back in his chair and waved his long-necked bottle of Bud at Yong. The grizzled biker was the top dog of the Blood Eagles, not to mention the personal firearms concierge to almost everyone in the room.
“Lotta cargo coming in and out of McCarran. Be nice to have somebody on the inside who can finger the best stuff, get us schedules and plate numbers.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Yong replied. “The union has a board election scheduled next month, and two seats are up for the taking. If we can place a pair of faithful hands—”
“Pick your dogs,” Winslow rumbled. “Anybody who doesn’t look like they’re gonna vote right, my boys’ll be happy to point out the error of their ways.”
“Where are we on Donaghy Waste Management?” Jennifer asked.
Eddie shook his head and stared at the table. “We’re nowhere. Can’t even get these people to take a meeting, let alone get any leverage and dig our hooks in. Their corporate structure’s all kinds of screwed up. Managers that don’t exist, paper trails that all lead offshore…pretty sure these dudes are more crooked than we are.”
“Don’t fret,” Jennifer said. “As I recall, Nicky never managed to dip his beak in neither. We’ll crack ’em sooner or later. Somebody give me an update on—”
Three sharp knocks sounded at the door. One of Jennifer’s hired hands poked his head in; he’d traded his street gear for an off-the-rack suit that bulged in all the wrong places. She waved him close. He whispered in her ear, and one of her eyebrows lifted.
“Speak of the devil,” she said. “Looks like we’ve got a special guest. Send him on in.”
The last time I saw Nicky Agnelli, he was being raced into Sunrise Hospital by a team of paramedics. We’d both gotten bushwhacked by the Chicago Outfit, hauled off to be tortured, killed, and dumped out with tomorrow’s trash. I managed to cut myself loose, the hard way. Habit made me glance down. One sleeve of my dress shirt rode up just far enough to flash the ugly webwork of scars on my wrist. A permanent reminder marking where the soldering iron had scorched through the duct tape and charred my skin.
Just a bad memory now. Before that week was over, Winslow’s boys managed to track down the Outfit’s torture specialist. They served him up to me on a platter and I made sure to pay him back with accrued interest, for me and Nicky both, before I buried him.
For a man who had nearly been beaten into a coma—not to mention fleeing Vegas with the feds hot on his heels—Nicky was looking good. That’s the nice thing about being half demon, I’m told: the blood keeps you young and healthy. He had his hair greased back, his Porsche Design glasses in place, and a new suit tailored to fit. His escorts didn’t hurt, either. Juliette and Justine, the twin blondes poured into little black cocktail dresses.
I wasn’t fooled. Skintight dresses or not, they were both armed and deadly. Not that they needed weapons to turn a meeting into a massacre at the drop of a hat. The rest of the room was feeling the same vibe. Shoulders tensed up, eyes narrowed, and a few hands dipped dangerously under the conference table.
“So, uh…hi,” Nicky said.
He cringed under the weight of a roomful of silent stares.
“All right.” He nodded. “This is awkward as shit, not going to deny it. Seeing as you all used to, you know, work for me. And now you don’t. Hey, we had some good times though, right?”
Eddie Stone folded his arms tight and snorted. “Bitch, please.”
That looked like the general sentiment. Jennifer hovered her palms a few inches over the table and pushed down the rising tide of dissent.
“Hear him out,” she said. “We can give him that much.”
Juliette flung out her hand and pointed. “Listen to her. Listen to the voice of reason. Even if she sounds like a total hick with that accent. Which she does.”
“And she smells like patchouli,” her twin added. “Patchouli, sadness, and failure.”
“And she dresses like she shops at thrift stores. Not good ones. Cheap ones for poor people.”
Jennifer closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath.
“I will shoot you both,” she said.
“Ladies,” Nicky said. He regrouped and tried again. “Look, I ain’t trying to come back. That ship’s sailed and we all know it. I’m starting fresh. Setting my sights up north.”
“How far north?” Winslow asked. “Canada?”
“Reno,” he replied.
Not that far north, then. Four hundred and forty-odd miles northwest, a hop and a skip from the California border. Within grabbing distance of Carson City, too. I flicked my gaze across the table and took the temperature of the room. Cold skies, light turbulence.
“The city’s primed to pump gold,” Nicky said, “and right now it’s just some old-school Vegas Mob refugees from the eighties and a handful of feuding crews running the place. One good push could drive ’em all out, easy.”
Jennifer tilted her head, sizing him up. “And you’re tellin’ us as a courtesy, or…?”
He dug deep, looking like a kid who couldn’t leave the table until he ate his broccoli.
“I need your help. The damn feds took everything; they cleaned me out. I had contingencies on contingencies, but they foxed me good. To make this happen, I need liquid cash and I need shooters.” Nicky glanced my way. “Some occult firepower wouldn’t hurt, either.”
Nobody said a word. Nicky wrung his hands and shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“I’m not asking for old times’ sake, okay? This is pay for play. You help me out, then once I get a foothold you can…you have no idea how much it fuckin’ pains me to say this, but you can dip your beak in Reno. You’ll be repaid with interest. More importantly, let’s talk long-term strat
egy. We’ll be partners, with a mutual defense pact. After the spanking we just gave Chicago—”
“‘We’?” Jennifer asked.
Nicky pouted at her. “I was here. I did my part. Anyway, you’re making waves now. You’ve got people talking, and bigger sets than the Outfit—I’m talking about the Detroit Combination, I’m talking about the Five Families—are sizing you up. Maybe you don’t need a friend close to Vegas—a friend who can move fast to cover your back, and keep an extra ear out for trouble—but can you really say you wouldn’t want one?”
“Give us a minute,” Jennifer told him.
7.
Organized crime is a trust-based operation. Every deal you make, every choice, boils down to predicting your business partners’ moves. Guess right and you make some money. Guess wrong and you get a gun in your face or cuffs on your wrists. We had one advantage, once the conference-room door swung shut and we were left to make a decision: we all knew Nicky Agnelli. Which meant we knew how he operated, what his pressure points were, and how likely he was to keep his word.
“If the weasel’s gonna be out there,” Eddie said, “I’d rather have him where I can keep an eye on him. Besides, hate to say it, but he has a point. After Chicago, it’s only a matter of time before somebody else steps up to test us. Be nice to have a little backup.”
Yong steepled his fingers on the table and frowned. “He was invested in being the ‘King of Las Vegas.’ His ego is more precious to him than his bank balance. How long, once he gets his footing back, before he comes to reclaim his old kingdom? Reno is a poor man’s throne by comparison.”
“Don’t forget,” Jennifer said, “that was before the feds made their move and pushed him into the shadows. Nicky is a fugitive now; his old lifestyle, that wannabe-celebrity-out-on-the-town deal, is over and done. He can’t have it back. He knows that. Nicky’s hungry, but he’s not stupid.”
A hush fell, the room settling into an uneasy impasse. Winslow took a pull on his bottle of beer and looked my way.
“I ain’t gonna kick one stray bullet into the pot before I see a plan that makes sense,” he said. “And he’s gonna need more than bullets. You in or out?”
He was right. Nicky was going to need my kind of help to get a foothold in Reno. There were only two magicians on the Commission, me and Jennifer. Jennifer was our chair; she couldn’t be running off to fight a border war. Which meant the entire decision—work with Nicky, or tell him to go pound sand—had just been dumped in my lap. If I backed out, that was that. No deal.
If Nicky had approached me alone, one on one, I knew what my answer would have been: no and hell no. Too much risk for the reward. But this decision would affect the entire Commission, our future, everything we were trying to build in Vegas.
Building a strong coalition, with a mutual-defense pact that swept the Mojave from north to south, was the smart-money play. Bad and risky for me, but good for the team. I had decided, along the line, that I wanted to be part of something bigger than myself. Turned out stepping up was the easy part. Following through was where the real work came in.
“If Nicky’s plan checks out,” I said, “I’ll lend a hand. We could use a strong partner. And like Eddie said, at least this way we know where Nicky is and what he’s up to. My vote is a yes.”
Winslow snorted at me over his bottle. “The guy has spoken.”
* * *
We gave Nicky the good news and he gave us a promise to deliver a full plan of attack. That’s where we left it for the night. Jennifer banged the gavel, hotel staff wheeled a drink cart in, and we broke up into little pockets of conversation. I was mostly there for the booze. I was nursing a gin and tonic by the window, looking out over the neon wilderness, when Nicky sidled up alongside me.
“That couldn’t have been easy,” I said.
He clinked his glass against mine and tossed back a swig of deep-brown liquor.
“Easier than playing the punching bag for those Chicago pricks,” he said. “Never got the chance to thank you for getting me out of there.”
“You bounced back, looks like.”
“Physically.” He glanced over his shoulder, spotting the twins across the room. “Didn’t have much of a choice but to rest up for a while.”
“What’d they do, tie you to the bed, stick a funnel in your mouth, and pour chicken soup in until you felt better?”
He squinted at me. “How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
Neither of us had anything to say after that. We were going to be working together in Reno, for a few days anyway. Just like old times. But bringing up old times meant bringing up the reasons we’d burned the bridge between us.
Then again, maybe that made him the best person to talk to.
“You remember Melanie?” I asked him. “Emma Loomis’s daughter.”
He nodded, thinking back. “Yeah. Met her once or twice. Good kid.”
“She wants me to teach her.”
“Teach—” He paused, uncertain. Then the light went on. “Oh. Wow. How’d she take it when you turned her down?”
“How do you know I turned her down?”
He curled his lips into a humorless hook of a smile.
“C’mon, Dan. How long have we known each other?”
“Long time.”
“Long time.” He sipped his drink and looked to the city lights, glimmering in the dark like a carnival. “I’ve seen you low, I’ve seen you down and out…but I’ve only seen you broken once. Just the once.”
“It’s not just about the past. You know as well as I do that magic and the life go hand in hand. Melanie’s too smart, too good to get caught up in this gangster shit. She can do better for herself than we did.”
“Doesn’t have to go hand in hand.” He gave me an impish look. “I hear the FBI’s hiring.”
“Don’t even joke about that.”
“It’s not mandatory is all I’m saying. And c’mon. Don’t kid a kidder. It’s got nothing to do with wanting to keep Melanie pure and clean and away from a life of crime. It’s about Dizzy.”
I thought I caught the shadow of her ghost in the window glass. Desi’s easy stride, always with a little swagger. A smile that lit up the darkest of dive bars, two seconds before the crack of a pool cue. I drank my gin and tonic.
“She died on my watch.”
“She died because she didn’t listen to her teacher,” Nicky said.
My grip tightened on the glass. “Careful.”
“Am I lying? Why’s Melanie want to learn the trade, anyway?”
“She feels like she’s got a target on her back.”
“Does she?” Nicky asked.
Between being born a cambion—the absolute bottom rung of hell’s legions, free game for the monsters higher up the ladder—and the daughter of a ranking court official…yeah, she did. That was the one thing I couldn’t argue.
“She could use a little extra help,” I said. “The kid’s got to deal with the consequences of other people’s bad choices. Not her fault, but she still has to deal with it. That’s life.”
“And you could give her the tools she needs to survive. Just sayin’.”
“I gave Dizzy the tools, too,” I said.
“You can’t control what other people do, Dan.” Nicky chuckled into his glass. “Believe me, if I knew how to do that, I wouldn’t be standing here like a bum with my hat in my hand. All you can do is help, or not help.”
“You think I should teach her.”
“Didn’t say that. Do what you want. I just think you need to remember something. You know that thing you just said, about how Melanie’s got to deal with other people’s bad choices?”
“Yeah?”
“Dizzy made a bad choice, too. What happened to her wasn’t your fault. Wasn’t my fault, either. She just made a bad choice, a long time ago. Don’t make Melanie pay for it.”
I had to think about that. I nodded to his glass.
“Look at you, being insightful for a
change. Must be the liquor talking.”
“A little lubrication greases the mental wheels,” he said. “So. Me and you in Reno. We’re getting the band back together, man.”
“With a few changes this time around. Number one, I’ll be there to work with you, not take orders—”
He held up his free hand in surrender. “Understood.”
“Number two, I’m not promising anything until I see the battle plan. If everything checks out, I’ll do what I can to help.”
“Also understood.” He looked to the window again. His gaze went distant, wistful behind his titanium glasses. “Won’t be the same. God. Reno. Was a time I wouldn’t have wiped my feet in that town. I hope you’re taking notes.”
“I’m not enjoying this, if that’s what you mean.”
“What I mean is learn from my mistakes. You know that poem by, who was it, Shelley? ‘Ozymandias.’”
“Look who’s all cultured tonight,” I said.
“I’m serious. It’s about this fallen, broken statue in the middle of a wasteland, and on the pedestal it reads, ‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.’”
“Never heard of him.”
“That’s the point,” Nicky said. “This Ozymandias guy, he was hot shit in his day, right? King of kings. Then the desert blew in, and the sandstorms raged, and…pfft. Nothing left but a pedestal with some broken legs and a name that the world forgot.”
He rapped his glass against the window. Dark liquor sloshed like dirty water, leaving an oily sheen in its wake. He swept his hand along the shining neon, slow, taking it all in.
“There was a time, all of this was mine. Every door in town was open to me. Every restaurant had a prime table with my name on it, seven nights a week. Everybody had an envelope stuffed with green, and everybody smiled when they handed it over. I was the king of kings.”
He tore his gaze from the window and looked my way.
“Then one day I woke up and everything was gone. Everything. Then I realized the truth. This city is a boneyard, Dan. And the vultures are always circling. There’s always someone, someone younger, hungrier, ready to swoop in and eat you for dinner. Vegas is yours now, you and your pals. And that’s fair. That’s fair and square. But you’d better keep one eye over your shoulder and never ever sleep, because the second you do, what happened to me is gonna happen to you.”
The Neon Boneyard Page 5
