The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(80)
“More gang fights than usual?”
“Looks to me like a few alliances, both the explicit and the formerly presumed kind, are breaking down out there. Nicky Agnelli was no saint, but he held this city together. Now that he’s gone…”
He spread his hands. I got the message, loud and clear. The Vegas underworld worked because Nicky ran the city like a seasoned CEO. Sometimes he was a tyrant, sometimes a dealmaker, usually a little of both. Whatever he needed to be to keep the pot from boiling over. That worked great until the feds finally got the “evidence” they needed—courtesy of the Chicago Outfit—to put him away for good.
With the King of Vegas on the run, nobody had any incentive to play nice. And everybody would have their eyes on Nicky’s throne.
“If you ask me,” Doc said, “somebody needs to find Nicky and make him come back. That or find a darn good replacement, and pronto. Otherwise things are bound to get a whole lot worse.”
*
We had one last stop before getting down to business: Crystals. A shopping mall nestled in the heart of the Las Vegas strip, Crystals was sprawling and sleek and aimed squarely at catering to the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Caitlin and I walked along the polished tan floors past marquee after glowing marquee. Bottega Veneta, Porsche Design, Versace…I cleared my throat, keeping my head down.
“Uh, Cait,” I murmured, “I usually can’t afford to shop here on a good week, and when I got busted…well, almost everything I owned was in my wallet or my car, and the cops took both. I can’t afford to breathe the air in here.”
“What? Don’t be silly. I’m expensing it.”
She flashed her credit card at me. It was a Corporate Platinum AmEx, and the block letters at the bottom read “Caitlin Brody Southern Tropics ImportExport Company.”
“Wait a second. How can you possibly justify buying me clothes as a business expense?”
She sniffed at me. “Simple. You are my consort. If you look poorly, it reflects badly on me. And if I look bad, it makes my prince look bad. Therefore, by buying you clothes, I’m serving my prince. Quite easily done.”
“That’s…devious.”
“Thank you.” She steered me by the shoulder, guiding me through a gleaming arch and into a store on the left. “Yes. Brunello Cucinelli. A good place to begin, I think.”
If I thought Doc Savoy had poked and prodded me, that was nothing compared to the attentions of a staff of tailors and fashion experts. Caitlin perused the racks of imported Italian styles while every part of my body was tape-measured and double tape-measured.
“He’ll need a sport coat,” Caitlin told one clerk, who followed her like a puppy dog. “Blazer style, I think. Two buttons, something slimming.”
He draped a length of black fabric over one arm, holding it out for her to touch.
“Ultralight twill,” he said as she ran her fingertips down his arm. “It’s a silk blend, durable but thin as a whisper, perfect for the climate.”
“Very nice. Do you have it in black or navy?”
“Both,” he said.
“Then we’ll take both.”
“And shirts?” he offered her another length of fabric. “May I recommend cotton poplin?”
“Cait,” I called over, “how much is this going to cost?”
Sudden silence. Every eye in the room fell upon me, cold as winter ice.
“Right,” I said, holding up a hand. “I’m just gonna maybe shut up now.”
It took a while, but we made it to the end. Caitlin tugged my hand and steered me over to a full-length mirror.
The battered, bedraggled convict in prison beige was gone. The man in the mirror was sleek in midnight black and ivory, from his narrow silk tie down to the tips of his polished Italian shoes.
“I think I’m back,” I said. “Do I look okay?”
“I think,” Caitlin said, curling her arms around me from behind and beaming at our shared reflection, “you look like a man who’s ready to do some serious damage.”
43.
It was long after closing hour, but soft lights still burned behind the window of the Scrivener’s Nook. The Dickensian clutter of a bookshop was an odd place for a late-night clandestine rendezvous, but it was an easy place to rally the troops. As Caitlin and I arrived, Bentley hustled us into the shop and locked the door behind us.
“It’s my fault,” Mama Margaux said, pulling me into a rib-squeezing hug. “I should have been keeping better watch over her.”
“Not your job,” I told her. “Jennifer got bushwhacked, that’s all. Happens to the best of us. The important thing is, for now, she’s alive.”
Pixie gave me a nod from the counter, where she’d set up her laptop, but didn’t say a word. I wasn’t sure if we were on speaking terms or not. The rest of us congregated in the middle of the shop, making a ragged circle.
“Here’s the situation,” I said. “We know Jennifer’s being held by traitors inside the Cinco Calles, led by a man named Cesar Gallegos. Cesar’s the right hand of Gabriel, the Calles’ top dog; looks like he’s tired of waiting for Gabriel to retire, so he’s making a side deal with the Chicago Outfit. We don’t know how many men he’s got on his side. Could be a handful, could be half the gang.”