Evelyn.
His fingers dug into the chair arms. Now the pieces clattered into place. Rumors of hitmen on his trail. Jack showing up at the opera house, with a young female partner on his arm-Jack, who never took partners. A young woman and an old lady show up at Little Joe’s, asking questions that put a price on their heads.
Evelyn, the goddess of destruction, always looking for disciples to sacrifice on the altar of her ego. Evelyn and her schemes, endless schemes, sucking you in, then tossing you aside when something new and shiny caught her eye.
A snap of her wrist and she’d yanked her favorite hound back to her side, foisted her new acolyte on him, then set the pair on his trail.
He could be wrong. There were plenty of assumptions in that argument. But a careful man took action before action was required. If Jack was on his trail, and if Evelyn knew about the Nikolaev connection, then he had a tap to shut off…before it leaked.
He looked at the letter. Could he still do it? Not that particular train, but he’d find another. He wasn’t about to let Evelyn spoil his plans.
THIRTY-SIX
“Gallagher,” Evelyn said before her door even closed behind us. “Maurice Gallagher called the hit on Sasha Fomin, the one Kozlov witnessed.”
And with that, she swung us back on the trail without a word about what had happened in Chicago. The opera house murder had yielded no clues, so she’d plowed past it. An inconsequential distraction from the hunt.
“Gallagher in Vegas?” Jack asked.
Evelyn snorted. “Where else? That spider hasn’t left the Fortuna in thirty years. As long as he’s alive, that’s where you’ll find him. Hell, even when he isn’t alive, that’s where you’ll find him.” She looked at me. “He’s built himself a mausoleum inside the casino. You meet some strange ones in this business. More than our share of psychiatric case studies.”
“Go figure,” Jack murmured. “Guess we’re off to Vegas, then.”
“Should be a quick trip. You’ve built up enough credit with Gallagher, all the work you’ve done for him.”
“Been awhile.”
Her head shot up. “He hasn’t been calling you?”
“He calls. I don’t answer.”
“What? You get a client like Maurice Gallagher on the line, you thank God for a steady income, Jacko. You don’t go telling him you’re too busy.”
“Don’t tell him that.”
“Good.”
“I tell him I’m not interested.”
“You what? For fuck’s sake, Jack!” She turned to me. “About those psychiatric case studies? Case in point.”
“Is this going to cause a problem, Jack?” I asked. “If he’s pissed off at you-”
“Not pissed off. Just not happy. We’ll work around it.”
Evelyn opened her mouth, but Jack cut her off by grabbing my suitcase.
“Better repack,” he said.
“Do I need the push-up bra?”
“It’s Vegas.”
“Damn.”
I’d really hoped to avoid my makeover for a few hours, but Jack insisted that we arrive and leave in character. Made sense, but he didn’t need jeans so tight they gave him a wedgie with every step.
Jack wore a golf shirt, chinos and loafers. Quite preppy…until you slicked back the dark hair, undid all three buttons on the shirt and added a half-pound of gold-chain, watch, rings, earring, even a tooth. Toss on mirrored sunglasses, and you took the persona from banker to loan shark. A five-minute trip to the bathroom and you’d be back to banker.
My outfit wasn’t nearly so versatile. I got a blowzy blond wig, painted-on jeans and cowboy boots. No five-minute change was making that more respectable…or more comfortable.
When we got to the airport, there was a guy soliciting donations outside the terminal doors, tucked behind a pillar, out of sight of security. When I saw the red pot beside him, stuffed with dollar bills, I thought Huh, a bit early for the Salvation Army Christmas drive, isn’t it? Then I saw the sign beside the pot: Your Dollar Accepted Here.
I slowed, and steered Jack closer to read the smaller print.
Protect yourself today, it said. Pay your dollar, and sign the list.
“Fuck,” Jack muttered. “What’s he gonna do? FedEx the cash?”
“And the list, don’t forget, because I’m sure the killer is checking ID first.”
“Con artists. Fucking bottom-feeders.”
I looked around. “I should notify security.”
“No time. People are stupid enough to pay…”
He didn’t finish, just shrugging as if to say that you couldn’t rescue people from stupidity, and he wasn’t about to waste his time trying. So I waited until he was in line to check in, then zipped off to the bathroom, with a side trip past the security office. Sure, you can’t save people from stupidity, but at least you can stop others from getting rich off it.
“You want the window seat?” I asked as we boarded the plane.
An odd look crossed his face. He mumbled a gruff “You take it,” grabbed my overnight bag and hoisted it into the compartment. By the time he lowered himself into the seat beside me, I was almost done straightening and rearranging the in-flight magazines. I pulled an overlooked empty peanut bag from under the seat in front of me, then glanced around for a place to put it.
The light came on for us to fasten our seat belts. As I reached for mine, I noticed Jack’s hands as he fastened his, fingers trembling slightly. I looked at him, but his gaze was down, intent on securing the belt.
We listened through the obligatory safety spiel, then the plane began takeoff. As I shifted, getting comfortable, I happened to glance Jack’s way. He’d gone dead white…almost as white as his knuckles, gripping the chair arms like they might fall off if he let go.
“You’re afraid of flying,” I murmured, lowering my voice. “Why didn’t you say-?”
“No choice. Too far to drive.”
“Can I get you any-?”
“Talk to me.”
That was one thing I could manage, so I did.
Once in Vegas, we had to make a few stops. First to a safe drop where Jack kept disguises and equipment, including guns. Then to a hardware store, where I could find the material I needed to carry out our plan.
The Fortuna was the kind of casino frequented by three types of gamblers: old pros who hate the glitzy big operations, problem gamblers kicked out of the big operations, and lost tourists. It was off the Strip. Dated from when the mob ruled Vegas, it looked as if it hadn’t been renovated since, and wore its age like a badge of pride. If you wanted flashing lights and fruity drinks and gorgeous girls you went elsewhere. The Fortuna was for gambling.
As we moved through the room, I was struck by the difference between the Vegas I’d seen in advertisements and movies, and the reality. Maybe somewhere on the Strip there were casinos filled with handsome couples, grinning and cheering and having the time of their life, but here gambling seemed more a life sentence than a vacation. Those sitting at the antiquated slot machines looked like extras from a zombie flick, eyes glazed, faces ashen as they fed the coins and pulled the handles. The tables weren’t much better, everyone crowded around, expressions solemn, gazes fixed on the worn green cloth. At some tables, only the tinkle of the dice and the murmur of the dealers’ voices broke the quiet. Then we came along…
“But you promised,” I squealed as Jack dragged me to the blackjack table. “I wanna see Celine.”
Jack leaned down to my ear and hissed loud enough for everyone around to hear. “Shut the fuck up, or the only thing you’ll be seeing is the inside of the hotel room.”
I sniffled. Jack laid down a hundred-dollar bet and tried to snake his arm around my waist, but I sidestepped away.