“I’m Samuel Faber. And you are—”
“Ben.” He thought, pretend this is a movie. Just play it cool. Keep his hindbrain from panicking—at least any more than it already was.
Faber cut the deck and set the cards aside. “I want to know how you did it.”
“I just have a nose for these things.”
“Sit down. Show me.” One of the goons pulled a chair out and glared at Ben until he sat in it.
How was he going to explain this? His guys smelled funny. They twitched when there weren’t any cards in play, giving signals. They had a spotter, and he could feel them listening. When he looked, he saw the earpieces. It was all sleight of hand and he only saw it because he was a werewolf.
Nothing for it but to play poker. Faber called over one of the girls, a bottled redhead in a black satin teddy, silk robe, and spike heels. He handed her the cards and told her to deal.
“We’re playing for real,” Faber said. At a silent signal, a mere glance around the room, four other guys gathered until the table was full. “Play to win—I’ll know if you’re throwing the game to try to make me feel better.”
The boss slid over a rack of chips, which was rather nice of him, not requiring Ben to put up his own stake.
“Drink?” Faber asked, as the redhead dealt the first hand.
“Just water,” Ben said.
“Wuss.”
Ben just smiled.
Mr. New York, the thug who’d first shown his gun to Ben back at the casino, went over to Faber and leaned on the back of the chair to whisper a conference to the boss. He probably thought he was whispering, and none of the others could probably hear him. But Ben tilted his ear, held his breath, and listened.
“This is a bad idea. The cops are going to be looking for him, Mr. Faber,” the thug said.
Faber turned to whisper back, “You were supposed to stay out of sight.”
“Yeah, right, in this town?”
Faber glared at him. “Enough, Vince. Go away.”
The thug, Vince, straightened, regarded the boss a moment, scowling, then went back to his guard post.
Ben didn’t flinch, didn’t glance, didn’t give a sign that he’d heard. In fact, he tried to ignore them, because it didn’t mean anything. Would anyone even notice he’d gone missing? Sure, Kitty would. At six o’clock, when he was due at the chapel.
He looked at his pair of cards. An ace and an eight. Start of a dead man’s hand. Swell.
They played.
“So. Ben. What is it you do?” Faber asked. Small talk. Real small.
“I’m a lawyer,” Ben said, and this was just like any other party, the way people reacted. The raised eyebrows, the twitches. It was like lawyers were their own species. People made so many assumptions, these guys probably even more than most.
Faber didn’t flinch, didn’t change his expression. “Yeah? You some kind of hot shot assistant DA type? Prosecuting the lowlifes, cleaning up the streets?” The thugs chuckled. What did you call a group of thugs, anyway? A crowd? A flock? A brute—a brute of thugs.
“Criminal defense,” Ben said, deadpan. And that got the guys to look up. A couple of the bodyguard thugs even nodded to each other, like, Yeah, he’s all right. Ben wanted to tell them, don’t get that idea. I’m not one of you. But he knew all about guys like them. He knew what made them tick.
The four extra guys Faber brought in were either pros or near enough to it not to make a difference. They watched the table with stone cold gazes, pretended they weren’t looking at each other. Never glanced at their cards a second time. One of them spun a chip between his fingers, a complicated bit of fidgeting that drew Ben’s eye. Distracted him. They were playing mind games with their intimidating fronts. They’d won just about every pot, and Ben’s stack of chips was dwindling.
They all deferred to Faber. Subtly, the way they let him make the calls, waited for him to signal the next round, didn’t call for drinks until he did. Faber was the alpha in this room. Ben suppressed a smile at the thought—and had to suppress another one when a couple of gazes turned his way, noticing the change in expression.
They thought they caught something. They thought they’d spotted his tell. They were all sitting there thinking Ben was in way over his head. But that wasn’t a big secret—anybody could tell that just by looking.
He tried to avoid the beginner mistakes. Threw out more hands than he bet on, played tight but not too tight, tried not to walk into any traps, and so on. At the same time, he wondered what Faber was hoping to discover with all this. Did he think Ben was some kind of poker genius?
And again, his mind wandered from the game.
He shouldn’t be able to win at poker at all. He hadn’t studied the game, never put together any real strategy. It was an excuse to drink beer and socialize. He hadn’t gotten any better at the game, really. But he was so much more aware. He didn’t have to know what the cards were doing because this was all about the people. The way Faber didn’t seem to look at anyone. The way his flunky only looked at Faber—hungrily, with his hands opening and closing. Ben thought he knew what that meant. Knew a look of tightly masked challenge. Mr. New York thug wasn’t happy being the enforcer. Wanted to maybe move up the ranks like Faber had.
The girls here were messing everything up. Their smell—too much perfume, hairspray, sex. The way two of them brushed his shoulders every time they walked behind his chair. They were supposed to be distracting him. His shoulders grew more tense. Back at the casino, when he’d been focused, everything had been so clear. Now—he might as well have been wrapped in cotton. His mind wasn’t on the game at all.
Kitty was going to think he stood her up.
Amazing, that he’d discovered advantages to being a werewolf. The most obvious: shacking up with Kitty. They’d have never hooked up if he hadn’t become a werewolf. He’d have never had the courage to ask her out if she hadn’t jumped him while they were naked in the woods. Not to mention, you didn’t ask out clients. Well, that wasn’t true. He might have asked her out, eventually. If he’d had a chance to get to know her like he did now. But so many things could have gotten in the way of that . . .
He wasn’t the kind of guy to believe that things happened for a reason. He’d seen too much random shit in his life for that, too many good people gone bad, too many bad people getting a free ride. Chaos, all of it.
But maybe this had happened for a reason.
Six p.m. came and went, and oddly enough, Ben’s anxiety lessened. The time for the wedding, here and gone. People definitely knew he was missing by now. Assuming Kitty didn’t think he’d gotten cold feet and left town. She had to know he wouldn’t do that. Right? He hoped she’d know.
He’d see her again soon. He kept telling himself that. Had to believe it.
On the other side of the table, a hand flinched where there shouldn’t have been any movement at all. Ben caught the flicker of movement. Like a rabbit twitching in a forest.
“You just palmed a card. Probably an ace,” he said to Faber. He didn’t look up from the cards under his hand, from the modest stack of chips in front of him.
Faber paused; the other players looked at him, then at Ben, until they were all staring at Ben, who didn’t look back at any of them. He’s going to shoot me, Ben thought. Right here, just on principle. It was like nobody breathed, the room was so still.
Then Faber turned his hand over, and there it was, the ace of diamonds, nestled out of sight.
If this had been a real poker game, there’d be a fight. Shouting, at least, righteous demands for their money back. But this was Faber’s game, and nobody argued. Who the other players looked at with more suspicion was up for grabs: Faber, or Ben.
“How’d you do that?” Faber said.
“I told you, I just have a knack.”
“I’ve been doing this for years and no one’s ever caught me. How does some two-bit tourist figure it out?”
He was never going to be able to explain this. Even
if he came right out and said, I’m a werewolf, Faber would never believe it. Ben shrugged. “Really, I can’t explain it.” Which wasn’t even a lie.
“You psychic?” Faber was grasping, now. Ben smiled, like it was a joke. The gangster turned to his pretty dealer. “Keep going. It’s just a fluke, I’m sure of it.”
The other players settled in, their well-practiced, bored poker faces firmly in place, but Ben smelled their sweat, their anxiety. They didn’t want to be doing this, when they could be playing a real game, or spending time with the women—or not sitting in the line of fire of Faber’s bad mood. Ben just kept thinking about Kitty. He had a little bit of hope: If he could just convince Faber he was for real, that he really could spot the fix and there wasn’t a big conspiracy, maybe the gangster would just let him go.
Ben called it the next time Faber palmed a card. The guy grumbled at the dealer, “Again.”
This wasn’t playing a game, this was a death march.
At one point, after another dozen hands, Vince left the room and came back looking nervous. Even more nervous. A little later, he left again, came back again. This time, he didn’t bother leaning in to keep the conference secret. In front of them all, in the middle of a hand—they were waiting for the redhead to deal out the river—he launched in with a tone that was almost reprimanding.
“The casino reported him missing and the cops got tape of the two of us,” Vince said. “They got descriptions of me and Mikey, police band has APBs out, Faber.”
The room went quiet, like it always did when anyone confronted Faber, like they expected him to explode. A couple people even leaned forward, just a little, like they were waiting for a fight to break out. Ben wondered what the guy had been like in his younger days, to warrant that kind of reputation. More temper than brains, he was betting. Guys like him were a dime a dozen, building up their little ponds so they could be the only big fish around.
Kinda fun, watching the medium-sized fish thrash around in that kind of environment.
“I told him he was being sloppy,” Ben muttered at his cards.
“You stay out of this,” Vince said. He was still glaring at Faber.
Faber looked at Vince, bored-like. “What is it you expect me to do? Hand him a lollipop and let him go?”
“Jesus, Faber. At least let us dump him. He doesn’t know where the place is—he won’t talk if we threaten him good enough. Do it before the cops trail him here!”
“You have too much faith in the cops,” Faber said. “You scare too easy.”
Might as well have told him his dick was small. Vince seethed, but uselessly. He couldn’t do anything.
“Maybe not scared,” Ben said, wondering how far he could push. “Careful. Or worried. Perfectly understandable.”
Vince said, “Stay out of it.”
“Sorry,” Ben said, in a tone that wasn’t sorry at all. Wolf had settled because this was a game those instincts understood: Teasing. Distracting. Keep cool, and they’d get out of this.
Vince was seething. Not playing it cool. “We have to do something, if we want to go back to the game.”
“The game’s over,” Faber explained carefully, as if to a small child. “The casinos talk to each other, the security guys take each other out for beers. By the end of the weekend, they’ll all know, and the con’s finished. Got it? Now, you going to let me satisfy my curiosity?” “And what are you going to do with him? You just going to dump him somewhere?”
Ben closed his eyes, took a breath, steadied his heart.
“What I oughta do is lay it all on you and hang you out to dry,” Faber said.
Ben expected a fight by now. Faber would have to pound this guy in or lose face. But he saw what was happening: Faber was sending a message that Vince wasn’t worth the effort. And Vince knew it. The guy was sweating buckets.
Ben pushed. A tiny little shove, just to see what would happen. “Can I offer you a little legal advice? There’s no way you’re getting out of this on your own—”
“I said stay out of it!” Vince drew his gun and aimed square at Ben.
Well, he’d been trying to get a reaction.
Another long, stony silence, but this time Ben could hear his heart thudding in his ears. Wolf was thrashing; he kept his breathing steady.
Faber chuckled low. “Well, Vinnie. You really are going to get yourself in trouble.”
“I’m just trying to clean up your mess!”
“That ain’t your job. Now put the gun away.”
“That’s right,” Ben murmured. “Put the gun away.”
Vince didn’t like being told what to do. Was especially tired of a two-bit hood like Faber telling him what to do. He didn’t put the gun away. Instead, Ben sensed his trigger finger tighten. Just a little.
What were the odds? This was Vegas, this town dealt in nothing but odds. So what were the odds that gun had silver bullets? What were the odds the guy would actually shoot him?
He had to get out of this. He had to take the chance. Had to believe his odds were pretty good—he’d made it this far, hadn’t he? Maybe he’d become a werewolf for a reason.
“Go ahead.” He stood from the table and spread his hands, presenting himself as an offering. “But I don’t think you have the guts.”
When the guy snarled, Ben knew he’d tipped him over the edge, knew that finger was about to squeeze on the trigger the moment before it did. Knew it was too late even as Faber shouted, “Vince, put the goddamn gun down!”
Do it, Ben mouthed the words.
The guy shot him.
The bullet slammed into his chest. Ben took a step back against the impact. He paused, eyes shut with shock, body hesitating, trembling. So this was what it felt like. Dead on his feet. Except—it stopped hurting. He could feel his heart pound, but it was with anger now, howling with the voice of his wolf rising. He clamped down on this tight. Had to stay in control if he was going to get through the next few seconds. He kept his eyes shut tight. Focused on breathing. Slowly, now.
The bullet wasn’t silver. He wasn’t going to die. He remained standing, considering.
“Hey,” the other thug said. First time he’d spoken all evening. “He ain’t falling down. Why ain’t he falling down?”
Ben’s lip curled. He was a goddamn superhero. And he was going to make it out of this alive.
“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” Ben said. The look on Vince’s face—sheer, blank terror. Everyone else had paled, staring wordlessly.
“I shot you! I got you in the heart! You’re dead. Dead!”
Ben jumped on the table, then over it. Plowed straight into the guy and kept going, found the gamble paid off, because they were all so shocked they couldn’t react. And he was strong. Lupine blood roared in his veins. Vince fell, and the rest of Faber’s gang were shouting and running. But the only thing Ben had to think about was getting out of there.
The world fell out of focus, and he was sure he’d lost it, that he was shifting.
“No, no, no . . .” he muttered, because he had nowhere to go, no safe place to hide. Vegas was far too human a city to cope with.
Besides, he was starting to think the city had it in for him.
Two legs, not four. He clenched human hands and tried not to think about claws. But the wolf in his blood helped him run faster. Just put your head down, stretch out, and go. He left the fight. Slammed through the door to the outside. Heard gunshots behind him; couldn’t stop. Kept running, down a very dark street lined with cracked concrete buildings, an industrial park of some kind, old and worn. Under a dark night sky, washed out by the city’s blazing lights.
He’d been at that game for hours. All night—and where was Kitty? What had she been doing all this time? He wondered what would happen if he never saw her again—
No—he crashed to a stop by a wall, slid down ’til he was sitting, panting for breath. Had to get his bearings. Had to figure out where he was and how to get back to the hotel.
The stre
et was very quiet. Motionless. Ben listened for cars, gunfire, for anyone who might be following. Maybe he’d left them behind; he wasn’t sure how far he’d gone.
Then he heard police sirens. A lot of police sirens, moving quickly, speeding. Instinctively, he huddled in a shadow, out of sight. He had no reason to hide from the cops, but he didn’t want them to find him like this, blood covering his shirt, on the verge of turning wolf. Too much to explain. They’d want to take him to a hospital. All he wanted to do was see Kitty.
The sirens seemed to be converging behind Ben, blocks away—Faber’s hideout. Vince was right all along, the cops tracked him there, and Faber’s arrogance was going to get the better of him.
But the cops wouldn’t find Ben. They’d find blood, they’d get the story—would they even believe it, that Ben had been shot in the heart then run off?
Maybe he ought to go back.
No. Because he couldn’t fight it anymore, he let the instinct him carry him: don’t get caught, just run. Go back to town, find Kitty.
Exhausted but driven, he set off.
The lights of the Strip guided him like a beacon. He had to have been jogging for miles, he shouldn’t have had the strength for it—he was going to pay for it later, he was sure. Sleep for a week. But this was wolf’s gig now. Just run, or the animal side was going to fight him, take over, and make him run.
He kept going, rather than let that happen.
About half a mile from Fremont Street, he managed to flag down a cab. Finally—and why didn’t taxis regularly cruise the run-down, mob-run bad parts of town anyway? The taxi pulled over, and Ben leaned toward the door—and the cab took off, tires squealing, as soon as the driver got a look at his shirt, which was drenched with blood. Ben stood on the curb, abandoned, staring down at himself. The blood had mostly dried in the desert air. Didn’t look too good, him walking around with half his chest stained red.
But it looked like he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.
Only another couple of miles to the Olympus Hotel and Casino. His feet were starting to drag.
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