Shoot 'Em Up (8 page)

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Authors: Janey Mack

BOOK: Shoot 'Em Up
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Chapter 9
Ragnar insisted on driving. I insisted we take Hank's Mercedes G-Wagen.
He wasn't happy with me, but with Hank MIA, the Viking wasn't about to deny my request. “This is fucking ridiculous.”
Gee, thanks for all the positivity.
I wore a vicious Parker black leather minidress, my hair in a sleek high pony. I armored up with Stannis's stainless Aquanaut Patek Philippe watch. It hung loose and chic at my wrist. Stannis, for all his violence, was a lean and lithe five-nine. Next came the Cartier engagement ring.
I flexed my fingers into a tight fist, crushing every second thought.
Ragnar pulled up hard to the curb and popped the G-Wagen into Park with a jerk, refusing to look at me, shaggy blond hair obscuring his face.
“It's all good,” I said.
He grunted.
The valet opened the door. I got out feeling as badass as Bruce Lee and trotted up the stairs into The Storkling Club.
It defied belief that Eddie Veteratti, the uncouth cocaine cowboy, had re-created the original New York namesake with a better-than-perfect twist. Luxe, Old Hollywood style, complete with torch song singers, smoky back rooms, and champagne cocktails.
A beauty in a clingy sapphire blue dress met me when I stepped inside. “Good evening, Ms. McGrane. So lovely to have you with us again. This way, please.”
We walked down a long, dark hallway into the lounge. At 11:00 p.m., it was already a controlled crush. The lounge took reservations, but the club and dining room were members only.
She escorted me through a sea of gold velvet drapes into a world where the wealthy elite, celebrities, and sports stars rubbed elbows, free from reprisals. Jimmy the Wolf came at me, hand extended, smiling beneath his Satan goatee. His monstrous bulk was barely contained in his tuxedo jacket.
My hand disappeared in his. “Hello, Wolf.”
“Vi's busy.” He folded my hand over his arm and led me to a table at the edge of the dance floor. Siren Bobby Blaze warbled a sultry “Bye Bye Blackbird.” “Drink?”
“No thanks.” I took a seat.
“You sure?” The Wolf sat down too close. Crowding me. “Does Bannon know what you're getting into?”
“Yes.”
He leaned in, his beard prickling my ear. “Because you sure as fuck don't know.”
Lovely.
It wasn't enough to scare me. Nodding absently, I let my eyes drift across the room.
Fuuuuuuuugh.
The bad penny.
Talbott Cottle Coles.
Vengeance was not a feeling I was familiar with. Until now.
Hank's Law Number Three: Don't let your lizard brain go rogue.
“Wolf? About that drink . . .”
He raised a thick hand at a hovering, white-jacketed waiter. “Scotch.”
“And for you, miss ?”
“Rakija,” I said, feeling mean enough to hunt a boar with a butter knife. “Bring the bottle.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I took in the bastard who'd tried to have me killed.
Out of jealousy.
Coles was obsessed with Stannis. And while we'd tangled before, it wasn't until I became Stannis's beard that he wanted me dead. He couldn't stand the closeness between us. And so he'd used Vi Veteratti's coked-out brother, Eddie, to arrange a hit on me.
My skin rippled in revulsion.
At his arm was a delicately handsome Latino man wearing an Italian suit so snug, I was glad he was sitting down. Coles's fingers grazed the man's wrist.
Stannis might be gone, but Coles would never get over him.
The waiter returned and poured a shot tableside, set down the bottle of Žuta Osa, and left.
“You drink that Yellow Wasp shit?” Wolf asked.
“The bastard child of Manischewitz and Everclear? What's not to love?” I raised the glass, holding it delicately in my left hand, intact pinkie raised, Stannis's diamond engagement ring winking in the candlelight, and waited.
Wolf swung his heavy head to look over his shoulder.
Coles noticed me, then.
Message received.
His lip recoiled in a sneer, his overly white capped teeth gnashed the butt of his stout nub cigar.
I threw back the shot, not breaking eye contact. I held the glass out to him, turned it over, and planted it on the table.
Apparently I am petty enough to hold a grudge.
A dark chortle came from the Wolf. “I thought you Irish Catholic girls were all about forgiveness.”
“Try eternal damnation.”
He got up and pulled back my chair. He held out his arm, and we disappeared behind the velvet curtains. I could feel the slime and the fury of Coles's glare, felt it even when I knew he couldn't see me.
And I liked it.
* * *
Violetta Veteratti hadn't wasted any time transforming her twin's office from Italian cigar library to Palace of Caserta baroque. It leant a certain majesty to her hard, mannish face.
Jimmy the Wolf leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest.
“So,” the Mafia princess said from behind her desk. “You wanna head Renko's operation.”
“Just until he gets back.”
Tread gently.
This was the razor-fine edge between getting what I wanted and screwing things up for the Bureau of Organized Crime.
“Yeah?” she said. “When's that?”
“I'm not exactly sure.” I tipped my head from side to side, ponytail swinging like some idiotic cheerleader. “He's, uh . . . gone to ground.”
“What's the holdup?” Jimmy said.
I crossed my legs and adjusted my skirt. “Stannislav's best players are either in jail or under surveillance. I need time and—”
Vi smirked. “How much?”
“About that . . . I was wondering if I could call in my chit.”
The favor. The one you promised me in return for not letting Stannis kill Eddie.
Her hatchet face turned keen. “How much you think my brother's worth?”
Not as much as mine.
“I want you to vouch for me with the Grieco cartel.” The words came out as smooth as if I'd asked her to pick up my dry cleaning. A favor almost too small to be asked.
“Entering the narcotics market, are we?” Vi asked.
“Capital is necessary in every business.”
“I can supply that,” she offered silkily. “Lawyers on retainer, too.”
I'm sure you can. With ankle shackles and iron chains.
“Thing is, I'm one of those master-of-my-own-destiny kinda girls. I just need the nod.”
She stared at me, evaluating. “Done.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Her pointed red tongue slid out and licked the center of her upper lip. “Bannon's gone to a helluva lotta trouble over you.”
“Yes.” I swallowed hard, aching for him like a whipped dog. “But trouble doesn't put a ring on your finger.”
She held out her hand and snapped her fingers. I extended my left hand. She moved it under the desk light. “Cartier?”
I nodded.
“Renko gives you the world, is that it ?” She let go of my hand.
“Sure. And he sticks around to share it with me. That's the trick.”
Vi nodded. “Ain't it, though.”
“He'll be back. Sooner than later.”
“Then we'll be seeing you around, Mrs. Renko.”
Jimmy the Wolf pushed off the wall and opened the door.
I guess that's my cue.
We reentered the dining room, the Wolf with a firm grip on my elbow, reminding me that I was still an interloper.
He slowed as we neared the table we'd shared earlier. Everything remained as we'd left it, untouched. Coles and his date were nowhere to be seen.
“Another?” Wolf asked.
Practically giddy, I smiled up at him. “Why the hell not?”
* * *
Two shots and twenty minutes later, I remembered I'd left Ragnar out front. “I better scoot, Wolf.”
His heavy brow creased and he started to get to his feet. I put my hand on his arm. “Stay. I know the way out.”
I ambled through the dining room, recognizing a Bear, a Blackhawk, and an indicted city councilman drinking with a local newscaster.
I passed through the heavy drapes into the lounge.
A hand grabbed my ponytail and jerked me backward. Another jammed something against my throat and let go.
Fire.
I slapped my hand over my neck. Tripping over my own feet, I swung wildly through the gold fabric into the lounge. Blinded, I crashed into a bar table, sending glasses shattering on the floor.
I lay crumpled over the table, tears streaming down my face.
JaysusfeckingChrist, it hurts so goddamn bad!
I sucked in a deep breath. The stink of my own burning flesh filled my nose and mouth.
Oh god.
A cigar.
Coles, you sonuvabitch!
“Miss?” a waiter asked. “Are you okay?” His eyes widened as I pulled my hand away.
“Burn,” I forced out through clenched teeth.
A heavy hand landed on my back. “Tell the kitchen,” Jimmy the Wolf ordered and half-carried, half-walked me into the staff room.
A woman in a white sous chef uniform took one look at my neck and marched me into the staff room. “Put your head over the sink.” She pulled out the sink hose and ran cool water over my throat. “You're in luck. Burns are my specialty.”
The pain pulsed in constant, searing throbs. The agony so intense it was almost narcotic.
I stayed that way for five minutes, shaking. The Wolf watched, frowning.
“Sit.” The sous chef opened a first-aid kit. She opened and put on disposable gloves, tore open an antiseptic packet. “Silver sulfadiazine.” Ignoring my whimpers, she applied it with a swab before covering it with a 3M Tegaderm clear-gel dressing.
I felt light-headed. Equal parts shallow breathing and pain.
“You should see a plastic surgeon after it heals.” She glanced at the Wolf. “I'll let the boss know.”
He nodded and turned to me. “I'll drive you home.”
“Actually,” I said, “I have a ride.”
The Wolf would have carried me out if I'd let him. Instead, I just trembled against his side.
“You are a guest of Violetta's. My responsibility,” he said. “I'll make this right.”
“No, you won't.”
We walked to Hank's G-Wagen. He put his hand on the door, but didn't open it. “Who?”
For God's sake.
“Coles.” I got into the car, trying not to look at Ragnar. “Let it go.”
“No way,” he said. “No how.”
“Owe me, then.”
The Wolf shut the door.
Ragnar pulled away from the club.
Hank's Law Number Thirteen: Anyone can endure expected pain.
I counted long, slow breaths. I got to one hundred sixty-seven.
He stayed quiet until we merged onto the freeway. “What happened to your neck?”
“Accident,” I lied. Tears welled in my eyes.
“That's a burn dressing,” he said in a voice so flat it might have been an airstrip.
“Yeah.”
“I recognize the pong of sulfadiazine.”
Of course he did. The whole left side of his neck and shoulder was covered in pink-puckered scar tissue.
Man up, Maisie. You don't know what pain is.
I cried all the way home.
Chapter 10
I spent from 5:00 a.m. to 8:00 a.m. resisting the siren song of Cash's OxyContin. I needed to stay sharp. Same side or not, Nyx was conger-eel slick and not a guy I wanted wrapping me up.
I swiped through my contacts and hit Call.
He answered on the third ring. “Gunther Nyx.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“And how is Sawyer's
liten Sötis?
” said the Swede.
Whatever the heck that is.
“Very well, thank you. I have a backer.”
“Really?” he said, stretching the word from surprised to skeptical. I heard him lean back in his chair. “Do tell.”
“Violetta Veteratti.”
There was a long silence. “How did you manage that?”
“She owed me a favor.”
“I don't.”
“No sir,” I said.
Easy does it.
“Although you did say if I found a backer . . .”
“Yes.” He went quiet.
And I went antsy. I covered my mouth with my hand.
C'mon, already.
Nyx hummed tunelessly for a moment. “Okay. Reach out to El Cid. Find out if he's amenable.”
“Okay.” I waited, pen in hand, for further instructions.
None came.
No pearls of wisdom. No rocks of crack. “I . . . er, need some kind of ballpark.”
Nyx sighed. “Five kilos. Heroin. Push for purity and immediate delivery.” He hung up.
The empty screen of my phone felt exactly like my insides. Blank with a hint of despair.
Coles, sandbagging me with the cigar. That's all it was.
Well, that and it's hard to feel like Mata Hari when you're hunger-striking like Mahatma Gandhi.
I went into the kitchen, got a Cherry Lime Xenergy drink out of the fridge, and popped a Quest brownie bar into the microwave for ten seconds. Cash was awake and on the couch, running and gunning on
Halo
. “You want anything?” I asked.
He glanced over at me. “Nah. Hank's invisible butler left me an awesome upgrade of an Egg McMuffin and corned beef hash.”
I perched on the arm of the couch, eating my bar. “You're up early.”
“Yeah. Shite's got me on the ropes.”
“Second day's always the worst.”
“Let's hope.” He paused the game. “What happened to your neck?”
“Curling iron burn.”
He tossed me his bottle of painkillers. “You look like you could use one.” He tipped his head. “I'd advise you to either stay with bad hair or get a crew cut.”
“Funny. You call Mom and Da?”
“Remember that favor you owed me? Well . . . we're good now.”
I popped two tabs, washed them down with the energy drink, and waited.
It took almost three whole seconds before Cash started chirping. “Look. It was way easier to cover me being tagged with a little shrapnel by telling them Lee asked you along. On a date.” He threw me a wide, closemouthed
I'm-not-sorry-at-all
smile.
“Nice try.” I crumpled the paper towel and tossed it on the coffee table. “They couldn't possibly ignore the ‘shrapnel.'”
“They didn't seem to remember that after I told 'em how confused you are, what with your mercenary MIA and your warm feelings for Lee.” He fluttered his lashes at me. “And because I'm a prince of a guy, I offered to stay with you until you see the error of your ways.”
“If Da didn't want me to end up with Hank, he shouldn't have gotten me kicked out of the police academy.”
“Yeah, about that . . .” Cash rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Da sees those as two separate problems.”
I sighed. “Of course he does.”
“Hey, I like the guy, but what do you really know about him?”
“Everything I need to.”
“Da, Flynn, and Rory see a decorated Ranger who did time at Leavenworth.” Cash let his eyes drift around the room, dollar signs in his eyes. “No family. No known source of income. Working with the Veterattis. And he let you run with Renko.”
They're compiling a jacket.
The Quest brownie bar turned to granite in my stomach.
He shrugged. “There's badass and then there's just plain bad.”
“Hank Bannon is the best man I've ever known,” I said tightly. “Present company included.”
Cash's mouth quirked in a condescending smile. “You may think you're Lara Croft, but you're Princess Peach, Maisie. Bannon's not even the same species.”
A slow glaze of detachment filmed across my eyes. The Oxy kicking in. I picked up the other controller. “Let's see what you got.”
* * *
Five miles on the treadmill listening to Craig Johnson's
The Dark Horse: A Longmire Mystery
and I was feeling Wyoming hard and cowboy strong.
Tough enough to change the dressing on my neck after a shower.
Or so I thought.
Hank's first-aid kit was better equipped than most third world hospitals. I peeled up the edge of the dressing.
Holy cat.
The burn was the size of a silver dollar. The outer rim a nasty bright pink going to a soft white fluid-filled center.
Well, that's a hell of a lot worse than I thought it was.
Smearing the silver sulfadiazine stung more than rubbing alcohol on a carpet burn. I eased on a new Tegaderm dressing.
Fecking Coles.
I went into the bedroom, flipped on TNT mute and closed-captioned, and curled up in the dark microfiber armchair. Time to see how lasting an impression I'd made with AJ “El Cid” Rodriguez, up-and-coming lieutenant of the Grieco cartel.
Thanks to Stannis, I'd met him twice. Although I'd talked to him less than a handful of times, we had a connection. Smart and funny, with a master's in business from UCLA, AJ had a thing for fast cars, faster women, and tough guy movies. I glanced at my watch. He ought to be up by now.
I texted him some
Tombstone
.
I'm your huckleberry.
And waited.
A half hour later my phone rang. “Hey, kid. It's AJ. How you feeling?”
His greeting told me two things: One, he was with a woman and two, he was stateside. “Hungry and broke.”
“You sure ain't no daisy,” he drawled and laughed. “Where are you?”
“Chicago. I need to see you.”
“You're in luck. I'm in Vegas. At the Wynn. Flights run from Chi-town to LV every hour on the hour. How soon can I get you here?”
“Gee . . . nine? Maybe ten?”
“Perfect. We'll talk over dinner. Text me your reservation. I'll have someone pick you up.”
That was fast. “Uh . . . sure thing.” My voice must have been a little uncertain.
“Not going to stand me up now, are you?”
Oh, I'll be there, you sonuvagun. With bells on.
“Never.”
* * *
The Wynn's SW Steakhouse was a candle-lit cloud of creams and whites. The waiter led me to El Cid's table. He rose to meet me, clad in an open-necked white Zegna dress shirt and black dress pants. A couple inches shy of six feet, Alphonso Raúl Rodriguez was lean-jawed with a shaved head, his aggressive, ambitious look tempered by velvet-brown eyes.
“Hello, gorgeous.” He kissed my cheek. “I love a redhead in a red dress.”
“You're looking all kinds of fine, El Cid.”
A waiter pulled out my chair. “Thank you for the flowers,” I said.
“
De nada
.” He reached across the table, lifted my left hand, and eyed the ring. “I take it you're not here for pleasure.”
I dipped my head in acquiescence.
“I've already ordered,” he warned.
All the easier to gauge my position
. “It'll keep.”
“Wine?” he asked.
“Martini?”
“Now you're talking.”
We feasted on Japanese Ohmi Shiga Prefecture New York Strips, crisp potato rosti with sturgeon caviar, and black truffle creamed corn, each bite better than the last. Laughing like I hadn't in months, I let AJ steer the conversation to his favorite topic: movies.
I could feel myself getting full and loose. “You've gotta be kidding me. You've never seen
Slap Shot
? Duuude.”
AJ snorted a mouthful of martini. “
Madre de Cristo,
you called me ‘dude.'”
“How's the Chevelle?”
He wiped his mouth on the linen napkin. “Goddamn thing of beauty. You oughta see her on the track.”
“I'd like to,” I said.
AJ let that linger. “How'd you slip the collar?”
“Stannis bought me cover at the
Sentinel
as a reporter. Wasn't even a hop-skip for my brother the lawyer to jump me.”
He leaned his forearms on the table. “What do you want, Maisie?”
“Capital. Fast.”
“Damn.” He patted his chest. “I left my Wells Fargo name tag at home.”
Here we go.
“Yeah. About that . . .” I bit my lip. “Let's just say I don't have the same sentiments as Stannis when it comes to dealing in powdered pleasures of a limited and sensory nature.”
He shot me a look more skeptical than the Inquisition. “The cop's kid is gonna start running?”
I nodded.
“It's funny how many clichés are built on truth.” AJ sipped his drink. “Such as, ‘The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.'”
“True, but a man can pick it up and throw it a country mile.”
He laughed.
“I have the seed money, AJ, but that's it. I'm in trouble.” I smoothed the tablecloth in front of me. “Stannis is in Europe. Vi Veteratti's giving me a window to reboot the chop shops. I need to spring his crew or there'll be nothing for him to come back to.”
With measured strokes, AJ cut into his New York Strip. “Renko's last deal didn't turn out so hot.”
“Coles set him up.”
“Man, I hate that prick.” He bit the steak off his fork. “He's given us some headaches.”
In all fairness, your uncle Grieco did just try to assassinate him.
“Yeah, well, driving my fiancé out of the country and destroying his livelihood is not something I'm prepared to live with.”
“I like you, Maisie. I like you a lot. But I've had hotter tickets than you try to set me up.”
“Baa-baa,” I bleated. “I'm the original black sheep, baby.”
AJ rolled his tongue in his cheek. Considering. “What do you want?”
“Heroin. Five kilos.”
“Anything else?” He chuckled.
“Don't make me look like a chump, okay? Best purity. Best price.”
He squinted. “And you have distribution for this?”
“I do.”
Well, Gunther Nyx does.
“Veteratti?”
I nodded.
Calculations flitted across AJ's face. “Okay. You bring me the money. I give you the product.”
Easy as a blackbird whistling.
“Absolutely.” I sat up a little straighter.
“Ah-ahh.” He wagged a finger. “In Juárez.”
Shite.
“And the product?” I asked.
“You'll pick up in Juárez.” His smile gleamed in the candlelight. “Getting it stateside will be your responsibility.”
Double shite.
“Cripes, AJ, I've never done this before. A little help, maybe?”
He tossed his napkin down on the table, stood up, and held out his hand to me. “Okay. A little.”

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