The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(83)

Gary finished his beer. He stared at the bottle for a moment, shaking his head. Then he uncapped another one.

“What are you talking about? Some kind of civil war?”

“A big and messy one,” I said, “and I guarantee there will be civilians stuck in the cross fire.”

“What’s your angle in all this?”

“The splinter faction, the one who wants to sign up with the Outfit, has a friend of mine. They’re holding her hostage.”

“So file a police report,” Gary said, “and let Metro handle it. That’s what we do.”

“All due respect, this isn’t a job for the cops. You go in all heavy-footed and she’ll end up dead. This is a job for my people. If you help me out, though, I can stop the civil war, and I can help push the Outfit out of Vegas. No civilian casualties. You’ve got my word on that.”

He studied my face like he was trying to read a book in Sanskrit. I could hear his mind turning, weighing his options, deciding how much he believed me.

“What exactly would you need from me?” he finally asked.

I set his purloined gun down on the coffee table. It didn’t look like I was going to need it.

“I need to find a high-level Calles banger, a guy named Cesar Gallegos. I figure you work gang crimes, so you might know of him.”

Gary flashed a bitter smile. “Know of him? I’ve busted him twice, personally. Guy’s a real piece of work. What are you gonna do when you find him?”

“Resolve the situation.”

“In other words, you’re gonna put a bullet in him.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t say that.”

“Faust, do you even understand what you’re doing? You’re asking a Metro detective to set up a goddamn assassination. That is so wrong I don’t even know where to start explaining how wrong it is.”

“Come on,” I told him, “you were involved in dirtier business than that when you were on the Redemption Choir’s payroll. Besides, you need to look at the end, not the means. Way I see it, there are only two possible outcomes here.”

“Yeah? And those are?”

I ticked them off on my fingers. “One, the Calles turn on each other, with one side playing the welcome wagon for the Chicago Outfit. If you think you’ve got problems now, just wait. We’re looking at a full-on gang war in the streets with military-grade firepower. Two, you help me and I resolve the problem quickly, quietly, and outside the city limits. Nobody gets hurt but the bad guys.”

He paced the floor, half-drained bottle swinging limply in his hand. I let him think it over. He stopped in midstride, then looked my way.

“No civilian casualties.” Half question and half command.

“Not one.”

He nodded to himself, slow, and slipped a business card from his pocket. I rose from the couch and took the card from his outstretched hand.

“I’ve got seven guys under me,” Gary said. “Come sunrise, their number-one business is gonna be tracking down Cesar Gallegos. The Calles have hangouts all over the city, but if we spread out, we should get eyes on him pretty quick.”

“You’re making the right call,” I told him.

He watched me as I strolled to his apartment door.

“Faust,” he said.

My hand rested on the doorknob. “Yeah?”

“Something just occurred to me. It’d really suck for you if anybody found out you were still alive, wouldn’t it?”

I shrugged. “Fair to say.”

“It’s just funny.” He let out a little chuckle. “Now I’ve got something to hold over your head.”

*

Back at the Scrivener’s Nook, I laid out the game plan.

“Once Gary and his team find Cesar,” I said, “we’ll keep our distance and put him under surveillance. Pixie, can you get some gear together? Maybe a parabolic microphone or something?”

“Done and done.”

“Then what?” Corman asked. “Follow him to wherever he’s keeping Jennifer?”

I shook my head. “Only if we have to. If we get lucky spying on him, maybe we can find out where the meet’s going to be and get there first. Then we can set up an ambush. For now, let’s all get a few hours of sleep. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”

Caitlin hooked her arm around mine, steering me toward the door.

“I know you’re welcome on Bentley and Corman’s couch,” she said, “but given you’ve spent the last couple of weeks sleeping on a prison cot, I think you’re entitled to a real bed tonight.”

Music to my ears. Back in her penthouse at the Taipei Tower—an expanse of polished hardwood, black leather, and chrome with decor out of an ’80s music video—she led me into the bedroom. She undressed me, slow, her fingers unbuttoning my shirt with feathery grace. Her dress tumbled to the floor in the dark, a pool of shadow around her feet.

We sank under the storm-gray comforter together, sliding across warm satin sheets. I leaned in and brushed my lips across the curve of her bare shoulder.

Her fingernails, five little spear points, rested over my heart.

“Daniel,” she said. “What are you doing?”

I blinked.

“Uh, I thought, I mean…I thought we were going to—”