The Living End (Daniel Faust #3)(27)
Nicky put his arm around my shoulder. To my credit, I didn’t flinch.
“I’m the king, Dan. That makes Vegas my castle. And when someone invades my castle, that means I have the right—no, the moral and ethical duty—to use any means necessary in its defense.”
While Juliette whispered in Clay’s ear, Justine put down the jumper cables and picked up a cordless drill.
“Our friend Clay, here?” Nicky said. “He’s an object lesson. First, to make it clear that actions have consequences and disloyalty is something I take very, very personally. Second, to reassure everyone that I have this situation under control. The feds don’t have anything. They’re not going to get anything, and everyone just needs to chill out.”
The drill whirred to life. Justine held it up to the light, so Clay’s good eye could see what was coming next.
“I want you to spread the word,” Nicky said. “Feds or no feds, Nicky Agnelli still owns Las Vegas. When the storm blows over, everybody who stayed cool is going to get a little something special in their Christmas stocking. Those who break ranks, on the other hand? I got more basements, Dan. There’s always more basements.”
“Fine,” I said. “Message delivered. Now I’m leaving.”
His grip tightened on my shoulder.
“Just one more minute. Stay and watch this part. This is gonna be good.”
Justine looked over at me. Her eyes blazed orange in the shadows, like a candle burning inside a mad jack-o’-lantern. A forked tongue slithered from her sister’s mouth, tasting the blood on Clay’s ragged ear.
“Stay and watch, Danny,” Justine cooed. She moved closer with the drill. “We’re just getting warmed up.”
? ? ?
I emerged into sunshine and heat like a long-lost cave explorer, slamming the kitchen door behind me. Then I staggered over to the picket fence, doubled over, and threw up on the freshly mowed grass. I leaned against the rough wooden fencepost with one hand until I could catch my breath.
After the basement, the quiet and peaceful suburban street was surreal. Nothing seemed real, nothing but the memory of that burning-flesh stench. I could still taste it in the back of my throat, no matter how many lungfuls of dry, hot air I gulped down.
Nicky knew. I had two encounters with Harmony Black in two days, and suddenly I got a front-row seat at his little torture show? I was a magician, and “coincidence” wasn’t a word in our vocabulary. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t getting too chummy with the enemy. After all, I knew more of his dirty secrets than almost anyone alive. If I wanted to burn him, I could.
And I did. I wanted to burn him to the f*cking ground. Problem was, hurting him meant hurting people I cared about, too, people who would get dragged down by his sinking ship. Until I found a way around that, I was still Nicky’s guardian angel.
I called Jennifer from the car and asked for a meet. She hadn’t been too discreet about her unhappiness with Nicky lately, and I was pretty sure that “object lesson” in the basement wasn’t just for my benefit.
I cruised back to Bentley and Corman’s place to grab a shower and a change of clothes. I left the stubble on my cheeks, though. I had a feeling I’d be paying a recon visit to the good folks at the New Life Project in the very near future.
Night fell and the city woke up. I parked the car and walked half a block over to Fremont Street, drawn to the roiling of the drunken crowds and the blare of hard rock from towering speakers that were all volume, no finesse. A band on the open-air stage was ripping their way through a Van Halen tribute set and bouncing around like spandex-wrapped monkeys on crack. I waded through the cheering crowd, feeling underdressed without a plastic beer cup in my hand.
Meditation in motion was an acquired skill. I focused on my breathing and let the thoughts slip from my mind the same way I slipped through the press of bodies, letting my feet carry me along to the tempo of the drums. In the space between two heartbeats, I was nowhere at all.
Then I was in the shabby little foyer of an Indian restaurant, staring at the orange cigarette-burned carpet and inhaling the rich, spicy aroma of fresh tandoori chicken. That was how a visit to the Tiger’s Garden worked: you didn’t find the door, the door found you.
The gang was all there. Bentley and Corman held court over a feast of scarlet-spiced chicken and jasmine rice, and judging from the empty glasses, they’d gotten an early start on the night’s drinking. Mama Margaux sat across from them, nursing a rum hurricane, with her hair done up in an ornate beehive. Her profile made me think of ancient Egyptian queens. Jennifer spotted me first and waved me over to the table, gesturing to an empty chair.
Amar intercepted me halfway there. He was the Garden’s only waiter, possibly the cook and owner too, but he wouldn’t talk about anything that wasn’t on the menu. He held out a polished brass-rimmed tray bearing a single glass.
“Your whiskey and Coke, sir.”
Time worked a little funny inside the Tiger’s Garden. Your order was always placed long before you arrived, and it was always exactly what you wanted. Most of us had stopped trying to figure it out a long time ago.
“There he is,” Corman called out. “Have a seat, kiddo. Soup’s on.”
My stomach gave an involuntary clench at the sight of the food. I couldn’t help but think back to my first run-in with Naavarasi in Denver. She had her own “restaurant,” and to seal a deal I’d eaten…I still didn’t know what, not for sure, and she wouldn’t tell me. That was her game: to keep me up at night, torturing me with the possibilities until I gave her what she wanted in exchange for the truth.