The Long Way Down (Daniel Faust #1)(13)
“Let me guess,” I said to the suit on my left, “Nicky’s one guy short for a game of poker, and he thought of me. He’s a sweetheart, he really is.”
No reaction. Hell, they didn’t even take their shades off indoors. They were the gangster version of the guards at Buckingham Palace. My eyebrows went up when we reached the door to Club Prive, the private salon at the back of the casino. The concierge at the door barely gave us a second glance.
The Club was half casino, half spa—a gallery of private salons in gray velvet and mahogany wood. I smelled some faint, exotic spice in the air, like a warm cologne. It smelled the way old money feels. In Salon Tredici, a cozy little lounge wreathed in a haze of cigar smoke, four men huddled around a table and played mahjong like their souls were hanging in the balance. A small gaggle of onlookers clustered around them, dressed in outfits that probably cost more than I make in a year.
“That’s the game, gents,” Nicky Agnelli said, flipping over a row of intricate ivory tiles on the aquamarine felt. His long fingers trailed over a string of flowers and Chinese characters, like a piano player warming up for a jazz tune. The other players groaned, handing over fistfuls of colored sticks and dumping over their own tiles.
Agnelli looked like he should be sitting someplace a few hours west, in Hollywood, making movie deals over a three-martini lunch. He looked up and gave us a hungry smile. His ice-blue eyes were wolfish behind rimless, titanium Porsche Design glasses.
“Gentlemen, could I have the room please?”
He kept his tone light, but it wasn’t a casual request. The game broke up without a word and the bystanders faded along with my escorts, leaving me alone with Nicky and his girls. They were twins, walking dreams in slinky black cocktail dresses, but I didn’t stare for too long. I knew them too well for that. They went by Juliette and Justine, but those weren’t their real names. I wasn’t sure if dubbing themselves after a pair of novels by the Marquis de Sade was their little joke or Nicky’s.
The door slid shut at my back, leaving me caged in the tiger’s den.
“Daniel Faust,” Nicky said, shaking his head and smiling. “What is this, you don’t call, you don’t write? I’m starting to think you don’t want to be friends anymore.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Thought I answered that question pretty definitively, last time we talked.”
“Ancient history, it’s a brand new day. Sit down, would ya? You’re making me nervous.”
He looked anything but nervous, but I humored him and took a seat on the opposite side of the mahjong table. Juliette glided over to a minibar, stiletto heels clicking, and opened a decanter of whiskey. Justine circled the table and stood behind me. I tried not to jump when she put her hands on my shoulders. She rubbed them, her slender fingers moving in light circles.
“He’s very tense.” Justine’s voice dripped with amusement.
“Oh dear,” Juliette answered, giggling, pouring two glasses. She smiled at me. Her eyes glowed yellow, like the edge of a candle’s flame. In private, Nicky and his crew didn’t have to pretend at being human. Their bodies flickered and morphed at the corners of my eye, illusions falling away in bits and pieces only to slide back into place back when I looked directly at them. “Do we make you nervous, Danny?”
Before I could answer, Nicky shook his head and said, “Nah, sweetheart, he’s nervous because he’s flat f*ckin’ broke and can’t pay rent on his crappy little apartment. My guys saw you on Fremont last week, Dan. You know what they saw you doing?”
“Their mothers?” I replied.
“Funny,” he said and turned back to Juliette. “This guy, this f*ckin’ guy right here, doing a street act on Fremont. Not real magic, I mean, he’s got a crowd of tourists around and he’s pulling scarves out of hats and making coins disappear, and they’re pissing themselves, he’s so good. Daniel Faust. Best sorcerer on the West Coast, and he’s busking for spare change.”
“That’s so sad,” Juliette pouted, putting a crystal glass in front of each of us. I left mine untouched. The rich scent of finely aged whiskey mingled with the growing undercurrent of sulfur in the air.
Justine leaned close, her lips inches from my ear, and stage-whispered, “See? Now you made my sister sad. I hope you feel bad about that.”
“Mortified.” I sighed. “Nicky, what the hell do you want?”
He flashed a mouth of fangs that could scare a great white shark and spread his hands wide. “I want to get the band back together, man!”
“No,” I said flatly.
“I want you on my team. I’ve got some work coming up that needs a light touch, real occult power, and hands I can trust. That’s you, buddy. And I’m not talking piecework, temp job garbage. I’m talking you, on my payroll, six figures a year plus perks.”
Juliette walked to stand behind Nicky, her fingers draping across his shoulders, mirroring her sister behind me. “You’ll love the perks,” she said.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted. I’d been living hand to mouth for so long that a cash envelope like the one Jud gave me felt like Christmas in springtime. It wasn’t like I had a moral objection to working for a criminal, either. I am a criminal. Then I thought about what Nicky called “ancient history” and my stomach clenched.