Double or Nothing (Daniel Faust Book 7)

by Craig Schaefer

  Our hostess sat at a banquet table, the long tablecloth bleeding crimson like a sheet over a murder victim. I watched as a long, thin serpent, red and yellow bands rippling, slithered around covered silver trays. It wound itself around Naavarasi’s slender wrist and coiled there like a living bracelet. She rose to greet us. Her jade-painted nails glimmered as she beckoned us forth.

  “Welcome to my home,” she said. “Please, join me.”

  We took our seats on the other side of the table.

  “Could I offer you some tea? Coconut water? Aam panna?” Naavarasi locked eyes with me as she lifted the silver dome from a serving tray between us. “Perhaps you’re hungry from your journey.”

  The platter was a steaming dish of rogan josh, chunks of lamb in vivid red curry. The steam wafted my way, slithering into my nostrils and coiling around my brain. It bore the aroma of chilies, warm spices, supple meat cooked to exacting perfection.

  “You enjoyed my cuisine,” Naavarasi told me, “the last time you visited. I thought you might enjoy seconds.”

  She was trying to rattle me. And it was working. I’d eaten at her table, all right: it had been a prerequisite to doing business with her. And considering how much had been hanging in the balance at the time, I had to take the risk.

  I couldn’t say if the dish I’d tasted that day was lamb or…her preferred variety of meat. Either she had made me a cannibal that day, or she hadn’t. She wouldn’t tell me, and I didn’t know. I only knew that it was the most delicious thing I’d tasted in my entire life.

  “No thank you,” I said, holding her gaze.

  “Are you sure?” She inched the plate closer to me. “Just a nibble?”

  Caitlin narrowed her eyes. She leaned in, digging into the plate with her fingers and scooping out a chunk of meat. She popped it into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

  “It’s lamb,” she told me.

  Naavarasi’s lips pursed in irritation. “My invitation was for your consort.”

  “And yet,” Caitlin said, “here I am. You should have known I’d be here, Baron. You chose to make this a formal matter between the courts. If my prince’s name is invoked as part of Daniel’s debt to you, then I will be present to oversee the discussion.”

  “Indeed.” Naavarasi rolled her eyes. “‘A hound is a prince’s weapon. His sword and his shield, his whip and his crook.’ I understand perfectly.”

  Caitlin gave her a tiny smile. “Verse thirty-nine, chapter eight of the Dictates of the Cold Peace. You’ve been studying the law.”

  “So I have.” She turned my way. “You owe me two boons, Daniel Faust. This will repay the first.”

  She lifted another serving-tray dome. Underneath lay a glossy photograph.

  I picked it up and studied it. The picture showed an obsidian knife with a flared, black blade, the surface pitted with craters. It made me think of a leaf, fallen from a diseased and dying tree. The handle, carved from yellow-green stone, rippled like the coils of a serpent. The pommel had been shaped to mimic the roaring mouth of a lion. A strip of black punch tape stuck to the bottom corner of the photo read, “Museum File 3397-8C.”

  “I know this picture. I know this knife.” I looked to Caitlin. “This is the blade Ms. Fleiss hired me to steal from Damien Ecko, back in Chicago, right before I landed in prison. Well, technically Cameron Drake hired me, but he was Fleiss’s puppet.”

  “It is my understanding,” Naavarasi said. “that you were the only survivor of that ill-fated heist. But you did survive, and succeed. That’s why I chose you for this task.”

  Ill-fated was one way of putting it. Our wheelman turned traitor. One of my partners got his brains blown across Ecko’s wall. Another ended up a zombie in a torture cell. As for the traitor, well, he took the fall for a different crime, one I committed. And Nadine, one of Naavarasi’s court-sisters, took him.

  Not a lot of good memories in Chicago. I rapped the edge of the photo against the scarlet-stained tablecloth.

  “What’s this about, Naavarasi?”

  She steepled her fingers and smiled.

  “A heist,” she said. “You stole the knife once. Now I want you to steal it again. For me.”

  11.

  Believe it or not, there are some people and places I won’t rob. Orphanages. Public schools. Nuns. Well, most nuns. Now that I wasn’t a lone wolf anymore, representing Vegas’s New Commission, my choice of targets was even more selective by necessity. A couple of years ago, for instance, I might have ripped off an Outfit front without thinking twice as long as I could cover my tracks; now, seeing as we were trying to make nice with Chicago, their businesses were off-limits. Politics.

  This was an entirely new level of complicated. Cameron Drake, lottery-winner-slash-hostage, was a puppet for Ms. Fleiss. And Ms. Fleiss was working for the Enemy. When I delivered that knife to Drake, I was basically delivering it to him. I didn’t mind indirectly jabbing at the Enemy where I could, like when I stole Howard Canton’s old top hat before Fleiss could get at it. But actually coming at him, on his home turf?

  I set the photograph down.

  “Not interested,” I said. “Pick a different job.”

  “The knife is currently being stored at a private estate west of Austin. It’s a ranch called Eastern Pines. I believe that’s where you met with the former client, Cameron Drake—”

  “Hello?” I shook my head at her. “Are you listening? I’m not doing this.”

  “Daniel, when I aided you in your time of crisis, languishing in prison, I was explicit, was I not?” She ticked off her points on the tips of her jade fingernails. “One, I required a boon, to be named later. You agreed. Two, I told you it would be a theft. You agreed. I specifically said that it would be an object well within your ability to acquire, and that it did not belong to any member of the Court of Jade Tears. You agreed.”

  Her face rippled, distorting and turning pale, her hair shortening as if it was being sucked into her scalp. Her black gown flared out, growing sleeves, brightening in color.

  I sat across the table from myself, dressed in a prison jumpsuit. Naavarasi nodded, firm, and spoke in my voice. “‘You’ve got a deal.’ Does this jog your memory?”

  “Point made,” I said.

  The rakshasi transformed again, her flesh running like melted candlewax until she was back in her favored shape.

  “I believe that you’re a man of your word, Daniel. And just as importantly, you know the perils of being known as a deal-breaker in your line of work. Uphold your end of the bargain, or I will not be silent about it. Everyone—and I mean everyone, from the courts of hell to the criminal underworld—will know that you reneged on a simple agreement and can’t be trusted. If I understand correctly, you’re trying to forge a coalition in Las Vegas. Making deals, negotiating arrangements. How much success do you think you’ll have once your reputation has been destroyed, hmm?”

  I pushed my chair back.

  “Give us a second.”

  Naavarasi reached with her left hand to the plate of rogan josh, digging her fingers into the scarlet curry. “Take as many as you like. I am generous to a fault.”

  Caitlin and I stepped back from the table, conferring in low voices.

  “I don’t like this,” I whispered. “She set this up all the way back when I was in prison? And that photograph. I remember that strip of punch tape stuck to the corner. It’s not a copy of the photo, Cait, it’s the original, the same photo Cameron Drake showed me when he hired me for the heist. How the hell did Naavarasi get her hands on it?”

  Caitlin’s eyes darkened. “Normally she’d be falling all over herself to tell us how. She’s being…uncharacteristically reserved. What about this dagger? What’s it capable of?”

  “As far as I could tell when I had it? Nothing. Unless it’s got some deeply, deeply buried magic—which I’m not ruling out—it’s just a knife. I mean, it’s a well-preserved antique from the Aztec Empire, thing’s at least five hundred years old, so it’s gotta be
worth a small fortune to the right collector, but—”

  “The odds of this being about money?” Caitlin asked.

  “Zero.” I glanced at the table. “I want to know what she knows.”

  We returned to our seats. Naavarasi favored me with a hungry smile.

  “I’ve decided to sweeten the pot,” she said, “though I’m certainly not obligated. You currently owe me two boons, the second for helping you to destroy that…pathetic specimen that pretended to be one of my kin. Acquire the knife for me, and I’ll wipe the slate clean. Your entire debt to me, satisfied.”

  “Attractive offer,” I said. “Why do you want the knife?”

  “I thought a good thief never asked. It’s unprofessional.”

  That was all I’d get out of her on that subject. I shifted gears. “What do you know about Cameron Drake?”

  “Former roofing contractor who won the Powerball. He grew up watching Dallas on television and wanted to be J. R. Ewing. So he bought Eastern Pines for a little over ten million dollars, sight unseen, and moved to Texas. My sources indicate that these days he’s mostly a recluse and a professional alcoholic. Overnight success was not healthy for him.”

  My gaze drifted to the photograph. And the little strip of black punch tape.

  “So you’ve never met him?” I asked.

  “My sources have.”

  “And have your sources told you anything about a woman named Fleiss?”

  “She’s his personal assistant,” Naavarasi said, “though these days she’s rarely at the ranch. She conducts her business elsewhere.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  Her nostrils flared as she tilted her head.

  “Drake’s secretary is a person of interest to you, Daniel? Why? And would that information be…valuable to you?”

  So Naavarasi didn’t know the truth about Fleiss—that she was Drake’s captor, not his assistant—which meant by extension she didn’t know about the Enemy. Good. There were too many players in motion, and there was too much at stake, to let the rakshasi queen get any closer to the action. On the other hand, if Fleiss wasn’t living at the ranch, knowing where she did hang her hat could be a hell of an advantage.

  “Maybe we can talk about that,” I said. “After the job.”

  “After the job,” she echoed. “That’s a yes, then?”

  “That’s a yes. But just because I’m doing the job for free doesn’t mean I’m losing money. You’ll cover my expenses. Travel. Equipment. A reasonable per diem for me and my crew.”

  I held up the photograph.

  “I’m keeping this.”

  Naavarasi reached for another serving-tray lid and lifted it up. A red and yellow serpent coiled around a banded stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills. She wriggled her fingers and the snake slithered off across the table. Then she scooped up the cash and offered it to me.

  “Bring me my knife,” she said. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  * * *

  Afternoon sunlight shimmered through the evergreens as we drove west on I-70, heading home. The light, the cool autumn wind, the scent of pine needles—it all seemed a little unreal. Plagued by the memories of Naavarasi’s magic, part of me was afraid we’d never left the Blue Karma—that it was all some grand illusion that would rip away at any moment and I’d be back in that lightless hell. Bound to a chair, with a fresh plate of meat in front of me and blood on my lips.

  “She has that effect,” Caitlin said. She kept an easy grip on the steering wheel.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t have to.” She glanced sidelong at me. “Her knife, she said. I wonder if that was a slip.”

  I thought back to the first time around. “Damien Ecko was a facilitator for the Chicago underworld. He’d hold valuable objects—art, relics, gold—as collateral. Sort of an escrow service for drug dealers. He was holding on to the dagger for somebody, but I never did find out who. You think it might have been Naavarasi’s?”

  “Or someone who took it from her. If she was tracking the dagger’s movements, it could have led her to Drake. Which would explain why she knows about him, but not about his true mistress.”

  “If,” I said. Lots of ifs. Too many. “We know the Enemy wanted that knife. He’s been sending his thief—the capital-T Thief, until he whammied me with the title—all over the world to snatch artifacts. An Aztec bowl from Dubai, Howard Canton memorabilia…he’s got a plan in motion.”

  “A plan that taking the knife back from him would hopefully disrupt,” Caitlin said. “Regardless of what Naavarasi wants with it, this could work in our favor.”

  “Not keen about facing Fleiss again, but if she’s not at the ranch—and I gotta figure the Enemy isn’t there either—then this is almost a straightforward job. Hell, I’ve been wanting to hit that place ever since I found out Drake’s being held hostage. Have to imagine he’d be pretty grateful if we got him out of there.”

  And he’d undoubtedly be willing to show that gratitude in the form of hard American currency, not to mention the intel on Fleiss he might be able to provide. We needed every scrap we could get.

  “Sounds like you’re talking yourself into this,” Caitlin said.

  “I’m good at that. Do you object?”

  She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head.

  “No. It might unveil more information about the Enemy. And while it’s certainly personal—given that he’s determined to kill you, and I take a dim view of that—I have a professional mandate as well.”

  “Your dad?” I asked.

  “Prince Sitri is concerned, to put it mildly. The other princes are barely acknowledging the situation, but if this creature is capable of destroying parallel Earths, has already done so, and ours is next on the menu…”

  “Y’know, I had a thought about that,” I said. “Okay, so if other worlds exist, are there other hells, too?”

  “My prince would like to know the answer to that question.” Caitlin’s lips curled in a determined smile. “Either he has countless rivals, scattered across the multiverse, or countless opportunities. So, what’s our next step?”

  “She gave me money for a crew.” I took out my phone. “So we get a crew.”

  I tapped the speed dial and listened to the ring.

  “Scrivener’s Nook,” said the reedy voice on the other end of the line. “Purveyors of rare books and quality literature.”

  “Bentley, hey. Got a line on a job. Sort of a command performance, but there’s a chance for a big score. You and Corman doing anything this week?”

  “We have opera tickets on Tuesday. Beyond that, our schedules are wide open.”

  I heard Corman’s gruff voice shout in the background, “Our schedules are open on Tuesday, too!”

  “Hush, you.” Bentley sighed.

  “We’re on the road,” I said, “driving back from Denver. Long way to go yet. Maybe we could meet up tomorrow night? The Tiger’s Garden.”

  “That would be ideal. And…Denver, Daniel?”

  “Yeah. Naavarasi’s bill just came due.”

  “Well, regardless of my personal feelings about that…creature,” Bentley said, “you have to repay your debt. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “I know. And as usual, doing the right thing is a pain in the ass. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  I made a few more calls. We drove without stopping—reenergized and healed, Caitlin could get through the night with nothing but ten minutes of meditation, and she liked to drive. It was midmorning when we crossed the Nevada state line, bound for home.

  “While you’re rallying the troops,” Caitlin told me, “I’m going to confer with my people. If this ‘Network’ organization is real—and their bullets were certainly real enough—I want my field agents out there and chasing leads.”

  I glanced at my new watch. I had some time to kill before heading to the Tiger’s Garden. Caitlin caught the look on my face.

  “You know what you have to do now,”
she said. “No excuses.”

  “I know,” I replied. “No excuses.”

  12.

  On a street lined with foreclosures and boarded windows, the Love Connection had held on through thick and thin. Not for the virtue of the porn business, that was a front, and a half-hearted one at that. The real regulars were in it for the backroom action: Paolo was the best paper-man in the West, elevating the forger’s craft to an art worthy of Picasso.

  That was then. Now an Out of Business sign hung prominently on the door, the old window display swept out. I saw a shadow shuffling around inside. I stood out on the stoop, where I had waited for Paolo’s ambulance, and wrestled with my regret. Eventually I settled on the hard truth: if I walked away, I’d be an even worse friend than I already was.

  I knocked on the glass door.

  Paolo opened up. He looked tired. Bags under his eyes and a couple days’ stubble growing over tiny nicks and cuts on his olive cheeks. I didn’t look at his hands.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  “I was wondering if you were gonna come around. I got outta the hospital a few days ago.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I heard. I was on the road, had some business out of state. I just got back.”

  “You wanna come in?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”

  He stepped aside. Held the door for me, with a plastic two-pronged pincer. It looked like the claw arm from one of those old stuffed-toy carnival games. Just like those old claws, it was less sturdy than it looked. The door slipped from his grip and hit my shoulder. I brushed past it, into the darkened, empty store, the wire-frame DVD racks stripped bare.

  I nodded at the pincers. “They took the whole hand off?”

  He raised the claw, turning it slow. The fingers of his other hand—the two he had left, just his index finger and his thumb—trailed along the cheap rubber-coated plastic.

  “Infection. Guess the bastard had something in his, you know, his spit. When he…”

  Paolo fell silent.

  “Paolo, I’m…I don’t even know how to do this. Sorry isn’t a big enough word.”