The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(30)

“Then say it in person. We’re coming to see you, right now.”

“I need you to get in touch with Jennifer,” I said, the words flowing fast now like water from a spigot. “There’s some trouble with her business partners. And also get word to—”

“In person,” Bentley repeated. I heard a gruff voice in the background. “Yes, Cormie, it’s Daniel. Daniel, we’ll be there in a few hours. Stay strong, son.”

The line went dead.

The minutes left weren’t the problem, I realized. The phone’s battery was down to half strength, and I doubted I’d get my hands on a charger in here. Once it died, there went my lifeline to the outside world. Still, my next call was just as urgent as the first.

“Southern Tropics Import-Export,” said a nasal operator. “How may I direct your call?”

“Emma Loomis, please.”

“I’m so sorry,” she droned, though she didn’t sound sorry at all. “Ms. Loomis is in meetings all day and can’t be disturbed. If I could take your number—”

“Tell her it’s Daniel Faust. I’m in a situation here, and I need her help.”

“Certainly, sir. I’ll give her that message as soon as she’s done with her meetings for the day.”

“No.” I took a long, deep breath. It didn’t help. “I mean, I need you to do it now.”

“Oh, but that’s quite impossible. She’s in a meeting.”

Southern Tropics was a front company, established to finance Prince Sitri’s operations on Earth and provide cover for his agents. I should have expected the head office of Hell Incorporated would have an unhelpful receptionist. How does Caitlin deal with these people? I thought. Then the answer came to me.

“I’m calling on hound business,” I said. “And if you don’t have Emma Loomis on this phone in the next sixty seconds, I will personally have you rolled in batter, boiled alive in cooking oil, and served in the company cafeteria as a tempura dish.”

Dead silence.

Then the operator let out an exasperated tsk. “Well, that’s all you had to say in the first place, sir. Please hold.”

The hold music came on. Kenny G, playing saxophone.

“Daniel?” Emma said. “Where are you?”

“Hey, Emma. I’m in prison. Don’t suppose you know when Caitlin’s coming home?”

“You’re in—wait, did you say prison?”

“Yeah, I imagine it’s like hell, but the food’s probably worse.”

“Don’t count on that,” she said. “And speaking of, our prince’s gala is…ongoing. These affairs tend to run long. There’s allegedly quite the orgy going on. Which I am missing, having been left behind to tend the shop in everyone’s absence.”

“I’m sure your dedication is appreciated.”

“Don’t count on that either. As for Caitlin, I’m expecting she’ll be back by tomorrow evening. Now, why are you in prison?”

The power bar on the phone drooped, shifting color from pale green to warning yellow.

“I don’t know how long I’ll have this phone,” I told her, “but call Corman and Bentley tomorrow morning and they’ll fill you in on everything. Can you get word to Caitlin?”

“I can try using the conduit. Even if I do, though, she won’t be able to come home early, not without Prince Sitri’s leave. Can you wait until tomorrow night?”

Good question. I’d used my one holdout weapon, the “gift” from the King of Worms, and I didn’t dare ask for another. Not with my head still throbbing and one eye feeling raw every time I blinked. Not when I’d come that close to being its meal. I had the knife, but the metal detectors meant I couldn’t get it out onto the yard, where I was most likely to get jumped. Meanwhile, Jennifer’s gang buddies wanted me dead, Fleiss might send more assassins—at least one of whom, even with a broken wing, was still lurking around the prison—and I had little doubt Brisco would steer me into another ambush if he thought the second time would be the charm.

“Sure,” I said. “No problem. Everything’s just peachy.”





16.




I hid the phone under my mattress, along with the knife. I’d be screwed if the guards decided to search my cell, but then again, it wasn’t like they could add more years to my life sentence.

Then I waited.

I paced. I did push-ups against the eggshell-white wall. I hooked my feet on the end of my cot and did sit-ups until my stomach muscles burned. Killing the hours, one endless minute at a time. Christmas was never really a thing at my house when I was young—every dollar my old man earned went straight to the liquor store—but now I could imagine what it’d feel like to be a kid on Christmas morning, waiting until I could finally open my presents.

My present arrived in the form of a bored-looking guard coming to escort me to the visitor center. We didn’t go straight there; two other prisoners on the tier had guests waiting, and he collected us all before marching us single file down the maze of corridors.

Once we arrived it took everything I had to keep from running over to Bentley and Corman, throwing my arms around them, and hugging them like a drowning man hugs a life preserver. As it was, all it took was Bentley’s hand on my shoulder to draw a bark of “No physical contact” from one of the guards.