Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand (4 page)

His voice was soft. “If you don’t want to do the favor, just say so.”

“I’m happy doing it, I just want to know what it’s about.”

He gave me this puckered expression, half amused, half annoyed. “You just don’t like not knowing everyone’s secrets.”

“You read
Hamlet
? Or see it staged or something?”

He looked away to mask a chuckle. “Once or twice.”

“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern? A couple of dimwits who are given a message to deliver to England, asking the English king to execute Hamlet? And Hamlet switches the letter to one that says to execute them instead? And they deliver it blindly, because they’re idiots?”

“And you’re bringing this up because. . .”

“How do I know this isn’t a letter asking this Dom guy to take care of a little werewolf problem you have?”

“Kitty, you’re being paranoid.”

“Don’t tell me about being paranoid.” I really had had people out to kill me. That kind of thing left scars.

“I’d have thought you trusted me more than that.”

“Yeah. Well. I do. But I’m paranoid.” I gave him a toothy smile.

“Fine.” He took the envelope out of my hand and tore off the end. He read the note in a rapid deadpan patter: “ ‘Dear Dom, I’m sure you’ve heard by now, but I thought I’d confirm the rumors personally. Denver has a new Master and it’s me. Surprise. By the way, this is Kitty, alpha female of the Denver werewolves and a friend of mine, so be nice to her, signed, Rick.’ There, that’s it.”

A perfectly straightforward note, I had to admit. But these were vampires, so there was probably some secret code or veiled meaning that I wasn’t privy to. I glared. “Are you sure you can’t just e-mail him?”

“You may need an ally in Vegas, and this is a formal introduction between you.”

“I’m going to try to avoid any supernatural politics. This is a completely mundane, ordinary trip. I shouldn’t need any of that kind of help.”

Rick hid his skepticism well. “Just in case. It won’t hurt you to meet him.”

“You said he has some good stories. Did he know Frank Sinatra?”

“I think he knew Elvis. And Bugsy Siegel.”

I had to admit, that was pretty cool. “Fine. Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you,” he said, giving a genuine smile that made it hard to stay mad at him.

“So, ah. Anything else? ’Cause I really have to get back to work.”

He tapped the letter in his hand, and his grin showed fangs. “I’ll need a new envelope.”

Chapter 3

F
inally, we were on our way. Despite all my grousing, once we got on the plane, I was convinced this was the right thing to do. The radio show, visiting Rick’s vampire friend, all of it was perfect. This was an adventure. This was going to be awesome. Whether we would have any time on the trip to spend on a vacation was up for debate. Ben kept giving me dark looks. Going to Vegas was supposed to make everything easier. So much for that.

We marched out of the baggage-claim area to go outside to find a cab. I could hear it now, my entrance music: a full Hollywood orchestra playing a zippy, peppy version of “Luck Be a Lady.” Frank Sinatra on my arm, smiling jauntily as we left the airport. . .

Even in September, the heat outside the airport hit me like a brick wall.

“Holy crap,” I said.

“Just remember, this was your idea,” Ben said, squinting at the glare of sun on blacktop.

“Was it? You sure it wasn’t yours?” The recording of “Luck Be a Lady” playing in my head sputtered and died.

I’d never been to Las Vegas. I was interested in seeing how the reality measured up to the hype, propagated in countless TV shows, movies, and ads. Mostly what registered on the cab ride to the hotel was the heat. Baking, shimmering, blinding heat. It made the whole city seem like a mirage rising out of the desert. The air-conditioning costs alone must have been phenomenal. It only added to the amusement-park unreality of the place: towering buildings of glass, structures representing every kind of fantasy—pyramids, castles, Italian palazzos, Roman columns, pirate ships—set down in a clump on the Strip, incongruous.

This place was on
crack.

Ben pointed to a billboard for a production show:
Bite.
Strategically covered topless showgirl vampires leered out at us, baring their fangs. “You don’t think those are really vampires. The supernatural’s not so mainstream now that there’s
really
a vampire show.”

I shook my head. “Those women aren’t really vampires. They have tans.”

“Ah.”

But I had to wonder—how long would it be before someone got
that
bright idea?

Ben wouldn’t let it go. “But they could be spray-on tans. We could go see it in person. Check it out, just to make sure.” He looked a little too hopeful.

“I don’t think that’s really necessary,” I said. “
I
don’t need to go see topless showgirls.”

“It’s not like a strip joint. It’s tasteful entertainment.”

Topless fake vampires were tasteful? I didn’t want to be having this discussion. “And why are you so interested in topless girls? Topless girls who aren’t me? It’s kind of sleazy.”

“Hey, this time last year I was a swinging bachelor and most of the women I met were in the drunk tank at the Denver PD. I’m all about sleazy.”

“You’re not making me feel any better.”

He just laughed. He’d been teasing me the whole time, so I mock-punched him in the arm. He was probably getting a bruise there.

My parents were flying in tomorrow, in time to have dinner and see my show. We’d agreed that they’d have their own vacation here, and while we’d meet for a couple of meals—and the wedding, of course—their time was their own. I’d have my hands way too full with the show to be much fun. But at least they’d be here for the ceremony itself, and that was what Mom wanted. The wedding would happen Saturday, after the show was done and over with and I could stop feeling like I had to work. We’d found the Golden Memories Wedding Chapel, right on the Strip. They offered a package deal. It wasn’t as obnoxious and sappy as some of the places we looked at via online virtual tours. Which wasn’t to say it wasn’t obnoxious. I had never see so much white tulle in one place in my life. My sister Cheryl wasn’t able to come—too busy with kids, her husband too busy with work, and she didn’t want to come without him—but wished us well, expressing gratitude that I wasn’t going to inflict a revenge bridesmaid dress on her. Now, that was an opportunity I hadn’t thought of. It might have made a traditional wedding worthwhile.

The taxi pulled into the hotel’s drive.

The Olympus Hotel and Casino was everything the name implied: a mountainous edifice with all the pseudo-neoclassical trimmings one could hope for. A marble reflecting pool led to the front portico, which was lined with tall Ionic columns. In the back of the portico, lush statues rested in wall niches to greet patrons, and above the columns, relief sculptures were no doubt meant to evoke the carvings from the Parthenon. But these showed men and women draped in togas doing things like playing slots and rolling dice.

We’d hauled our luggage from the cab, and I was about to go inside when Ben pulled me toward the curb, where we had a view of the giant, flashing LCD billboard out front. I’d missed it on the drive in because we’d come from the back of the hotel.

ONE NIGHT ONLY

THE MIDNIGHT HOUR
LIVE,

WITH KITTY NORVILLE

TALK RADIO WITH TEETH!

And there was my smiling face, framed by blond hair. I had a sultry, sexy look—perfect for Vegas—that made me seem like I really did want to use my teeth on something. The photographer had done a great job. It was spectacular. My name in lights, wasn’t that the big dream? And here I was. I started tearing up.

Ben squeezed my shoulders and kissed my hair. “Come on, rock star. Let’s get checked in.”

The ancient Greek theme continued inside. Placards on the wall advertised amenities like the Dionysus Bar and the Elysium Fields Spa. It was almost intellectual—if not for the wide marble steps leading to a football-field-sized room filled with clanging noises, garish lights, and swarms of people. Hordes of them, all shapes, sizes, ages, and states of dress, from sloppy shorts and tank tops to stylish dresses and slacks. And the smells—concrete, carpet, alcohol, money, sweat, and too many people. Once you went down those steps and into that chaos, there was no easy way out. The casino area was mazelike, the way the tables and machines were arranged and the way that people clustered around them. Apart from the main entrance, I couldn’t see an escape. The place didn’t want you to know where the doors were.

We had to wait in line to check in, increasing my feeling that I was surrounded and had no way out. I tapped my feet, looked around nervously, and brushed Ben’s hand, hoping the touch would comfort me. But he was also glancing around, his lips pressed in a line.

“You okay?” I said.

“Yeah,” he answered, not sounding convinced. “I never liked crowds at the best of times, but now I want to crawl out of my skin.”

We finally made it to the front desk. I asked the clerk, “Are you usually this full, or is something going on this weekend?”

“This is unusual,” the woman said. “We’re hosting a big convention. Here, I think I have a flyer.” Reaching under her desk, she produced a one-page flyer. In big, bold letters it announced: WESTERN REGIONAL FIREARM ENTHUSIAST EXHIBITION.

A gun show. The producer had booked me into the same hotel as a gun show. From a certain perspective, this was hilarious.

“You’ve
got
to be kidding me,” I said. The clerk maintained her smiling customer-service expression and handed us the packet with our key cards. We moved off to find the elevators.

Ben took the flyer from me and actually chuckled. “Wow. What are the odds?”

“Is it too late to change hotels?” I said. “I don’t want to sleep in the same building as a gun show. I can’t believe they booked me at the same hotel as a gun show!”

Ben shrugged. “It’s probably in a totally different part of the building. We won’t even know it’s there.”

We found the bank of elevators, which as it turned out was next to the ballroom, where a large sign on an easel announced the presence of the Western Regional Firearm Enthusiast Exhibition. I wouldn’t be able to go to my room without walking past it.

I didn’t like guns. I had recently learned more about them than I ever wanted to know, including learning how to shoot as a matter of survival. But I didn’t carry one with me. I didn’t
want
to. In my experience, nothing good happened when guns were involved.

Ben was edging toward the ballroom, craning his neck like he was trying to look in.

“I probably know some people here,” he said. “I may have to hang out and see if I spot anyone.”

“And how many of those people are walking around with silver bullets?” I couldn’t tell by looking. Most of the people walking past looked entirely normal. Without the gun-show sign I’d never have suspected any of them of being gun-toting maniacs. Dangerous people ought to have signs on them, facial tattoos and studded collars, that sort of thing. Named something like Brutus.

Ben tilted his head thoughtfully. “At least a few, I’m sure.”

Oh, this weekend was not starting out well. “I really doubt you know anyone here. Let’s just concentrate on the tasks at hand.”

Then a voice called across the hallway. “O’Farrell? Ben O’Farrell?”

Approaching us from the ballroom was the kind of figure I expected to see at a gun show: linebacker big, bald, wearing worn jeans and a ton of leather. A tattoo of barbed wire in black ink crawled around his neck and disappeared down his shirt. Chains rattled from his jacket and leather boots. He probably had a Harley in the parking garage.

Disbelieving, Ben said, “Boris?”

At least it wasn’t Brutus.

I might have expected a hearty handshake between old friends, smiles, school-reunion-type conversation about the job and kids and such. None of that happened. Instead, Boris approached, stopping about five paces away from Ben. Just out of arm’s reach. They sized each other up. I could almost hear tumbleweeds blowing in the background.

Nearby, the elevator door slid open. I tried to inch toward it, and to will Ben to do likewise, so we could sneak in and make our escape. But the two remained deeply involved in their standoff. Ben wasn’t going to budge, and I wasn’t going to leave without him. The elevator door closed, shutting off our escape.

“How you doing?” Boris said. “It’s been a while—since that job in Boise, wasn’t it?”

“That sounds right. That was a pretty bad scene,” Ben said, clearly unhappy. But Boris smiled, like he was proud of the memory.

That was when Boris noticed me. I was standing a little behind Ben, off to the side, trying to be unobtrusive because this was his gig. But Boris recognized me, and I could tell from the way he narrowed his gaze that he didn’t like me. He didn’t have to know me to not like me. This was a guy who didn’t like werewolves. And here I was. I bet he had a box of silver bullets somewhere.

Ben, astute as he was, noticed the glare. “Boris, this is Kitty Norville.”

“I know who she is. May I ask what you’re doing hanging out with a werewolf?”

If only Boris knew. . . I was out of the so-called lycanthropic closet, but Ben wasn’t. I kept quiet so I could see how he’d play this.

“I’m her lawyer.”

That was exactly how I thought he’d play this. I gave what I hoped was a neutral smile.

Boris crossed his arms. “That’s pretty funny, considering some of your other clients.”

“Trust me, I know.”

“Speaking of which, I heard Cormac went to prison. Maybe he should have had a different lawyer.”

“Maybe it was his lawyer who got him four years for manslaughter instead of life for murder one.”

The matched stares between them were challenging. I wondered how Ben’s wolf was taking this. I couldn’t tell by looking at him—his exterior was calm, his expression showing vague amusement.

Cormac was a bounty hunter, an assassin, and his targets of choice were supernatural. Werewolves, vampires, other strangeness the mundane authorities barely knew about, much less had the ability to handle. He was also Ben’s cousin, and my friend. That Boris knew him, or at least knew of him, said something about Boris and the circles he moved in. Now I was sure he had a box of silver bullets stashed somewhere.