The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(92)

Winslow came next. He wasn’t inclined to take off his black leather vest, the one with the screaming skeletal eagle on the back, but at least he’d worn a shirt under it for a change. He took my hand in a vice grip.

“Heard from Jake and Westie,” he said. “They’re raisin’ hell down in Tijuana, free and clear. Gotta say, I had my doubts about you, Faust. But you manned up and delivered. Far as I’m concerned, your debt’s wiped. Hey, how’s that Barracuda treating you? She still running right?”

I gritted my teeth.

“The, uh, cops impounded it when they arrested me. And the gun, too.”

Winslow barked out a raspy laugh. “Hell, son, this just hasn’t been your month, has it? If you’re looking for another ride, stop by the garage sometime. I’ll set you up. But I will need cash up front this time.”

“Hey,” I said, “did Jake and Westie mention another prisoner who escaped with them? A guy named Buddy?”

He rubbed the gray stubble on his chin, thinking.

“Yeah.” Winslow nodded. “Said they had a guy with ’em, but they parted ways halfway to the border. Said he had someplace important to go.”

So Buddy had made it. He had a shot at delivering his message, at least. And next…well, I didn’t have time to think about next at the moment, not with the guest list filling out by the minute. There was Eddie Stone from the Bishops, looking flashy in a peacock-blue three-piece suit, Little Shawn from the Playboy Killers, even a hard-eyed delegate from the Fine Upstanding Crew. Guys who had no reason to sit down at the same table—and every reason to shoot each other on sight.

Everybody stayed cool, for now. And even though every single one of them had ignored the “no guns” request, the chrome stayed holstered and out of sight.

Pixie sidled up next to me as I patrolled the hall, keeping tabs on five things at once. “Faust, this is getting weird fast.”

“Long as it’s not getting murderous fast, that’s fine by me.”

“That guy in the black silk suit and half a missing pinky finger coming up the hall,” she whispered. “Is he from the freaking yakuza?”

“Inagawa-kai,” I murmured back. “They’re actually based out of Yokohama, but they’ve got investments in Vegas. And here comes the rep from the Fourteen-K Triad. Smile and be friendly.”

One of the last arrivals wasn’t on the guest list. Emma Loomis came striding up the hall, dressed for business and carrying a crocodile-skin attaché case.

“Emma?” I said. “How did you even—”

“Protecting my prince’s interests. This is more my area of expertise than Caitlin’s.”

“Yeah, but did Jennifer send you an invite?”

“She must have forgotten. An understandable oversight.” Emma leaned close, tiny flashes of copper sparkling in her eyes. “But nobody is denying Prince Sitri a seat at this table.”

She had a point. I let her pass.

As the last guest arrived, taking his seat at the oval table, we closed the conference room doors. Jennifer beckoned me to the front of the room to stand at her shoulder. Voices murmured, gazes darting across the table, old enmities smoldering.

“War is coming,” Jennifer’s voice rang out. The murmuring fell silent.

She paused a moment, holding their attention, then spoke again.

“The Chicago Outfit is on the move. They’ve already driven Nicky Agnelli out of town. Spread confusion and dissent. Recruited traitors within our very ranks. And they’re just gettin’ started.”

Eddie Stone flashed a gold-toothed smile. “Seems to me like running Nicky out of town was good news for all of us.”

“Good for now,” I told him, “but divided, at each other’s throats? Chicago is going to steamroll this town. And if you didn’t like the old boss, you’re sure as hell not gonna like the new boss.”

Winslow slouched in his chair, one weathered arm on the table. “You got a better idea?”

“Damn straight,” Jennifer told him. “Look, let’s get one thing clear. Nicky’s gone and he ain’t coming back. He held this city together. Mediated between us. Yeah, he threw his weight around a little too much, we can all agree on that, but right now we’re just a bunch of lone targets waitin’ to get picked off.”

The Triad delegate, an elderly man with the sharp blue eyes of a twenty-year-old, waved a hand.

“And you would take his place? Don’t waste our time, girl.”

“Nope. Not take his place. I got something better in mind. What did Nicky really bring to the table? He minded the borders. Kept everybody talking instead of shooting, most of the time anyhow. But Nicky’s job was all done before, and it was all done better.”

She raised her hands, taking in the room.

“I picked this place ’cause it’s got history. Meyer Lansky, Bugsy Siegel, Moe Dalitz—they all met in this very room. Back in the days of the Commission, people like us knew how to work together without a single strongman at the top.”

“Sure,” Winslow said, “’til the feds ran the mob’s ass out of town and the corporations moved in.”

Jennifer rested her fingers on the table. She smiled.

“But the feds ain’t here now, are they? Like I said, alone, we’re just waiting to get picked off one by one. But think about what we’ve got. Look around this room. I reckon the folks at this table control seventy, seventy-five percent of all the action in this city. We’ve got the rackets. We’ve got the influence. We’ve got our eyes on every truck that comes outta McCarran Airport and our fingers in every heist. When it comes to the streets, we’ve got over two thousand hardcore soldiers flying our colors, ready to fight back and kick the Outfit’s ass so hard they’ll wish they’d never heard of Las Vegas.”