Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand, Page 3

  Then she said, “Why don’t your father and I come along?”

  I opened my mouth to argue but made no sound. It was a free country. I couldn’t stop her from going to Las Vegas. And as compromises went, it wasn’t bad. Somehow, though, the idea of eloping in Las Vegas sounded a whole lot less sexy with your mother along for the ride.

  “That’s okay, Mom, you really don’t have to—”

  “Oh, no, it’ll be fun. And you’re right, one big wedding is probably enough for a family. You should do something different. Why don’t I call Cheryl to see if she wants to come along, and I imagine Mark’s folks would be happy to look after the kids for a few days—”

  Well. At least there’d still be a pool and froufrou drinks.

  That rule about vampires not being able to enter a place without being invited was true. What the rule didn’t say is that it applied only to private residences. Public places, like office buildings, for example, were free and clear. An hour or so after dark—enough time to wake up, dress, maybe grab a bite, literally, from one of his willing donors, and drive over here—Rick appeared in the doorway of my office without any fanfare.

  “Hello,” he said, and I jumped, because I hadn’t heard him coming. It was like he appeared out of thin air, and at the same time seeming like he’d been standing there for hours. Hands in the pockets of his tailored slacks, he leaned against the doorjamb and quirked a smile. He had dark hair and fine features, and he dressed well and looked great, like an upper-class scion comfortable with wealth and attention. He also smelled cold. Like a well-preserved corpse, which he was.

  “I hate when you do that,” I said.

  “I know. Sorry,” he said in a way that made it clear he wasn’t, really. “How are you doing? The pack coming together all right?”

  Taking over the pack had been weird. I’d vanished into exile, then a year later came blazing back onto the scene like the Lone Ranger to run the bad guys out of town. Some of the other, stronger wolves in the pack might have taken the opportunity to challenge me, to question my authority by starting fights. So far, I’d managed to talk everyone out of it. Rick didn’t need to know all those details.

  “Great. We’re doing just fine. I think everyone’s so happy to have new management, they don’t even care who the management is.”

  “Ah, the honeymoon phase. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

  I gave him my sweetest, most innocent smile. “And how are the vampires doing with their new management?”

  “I’m enjoying the honeymoon phase while it lasts.”

  “I’ll bet you are. Now tell me about this favor.”

  The longer Rick put off telling me what the favor was, the more likely it was something I wouldn’t like. During the whole of that day, I kept building it up in my mind. I marshaled my arguments. I wouldn’t get into any fights for him. It would just be me and Ben in Vegas, without the pack, and I wasn’t going to risk my mate’s safety for some petty vampire politics. If he asked for something along those lines, I was all ready to have at him.

  Stepping to my desk, he pulled an envelope out of his pocket. “I’d like you to deliver a message to the Master of Las Vegas.”

  Most major cities had a head vampire, someone who kept the local supernatural underworld in line. Why should Las Vegas be any different? But it occurred to me to wonder what kind of supernatural underworld a city like Vegas had. I shuddered to think. I suddenly wondered if I was ready to face it. Sometimes, I still felt like a pup.

  “And who is the Master vampire of Las Vegas?”

  “That would be Dom, owner of the Napoli Hotel and Casino. He won’t be hard to find.”

  I’d heard of the place. It was one of the older hotels, not built on the current model of super-ostentatious spectacle theme hotels, but it had managed to reinvent itself and stay current enough to still be popular. It had a reputation for Old World opulence. Now that I knew it was run by a vampire, that made sense.

  I took the envelope from Rick. Sealed, of course. It didn’t even have a name on it.

  “And what can you tell me about Dom? Or is it Dominic?”

  “He answers to both. I can’t tell you much, except that he’s been there since the forties, when the money really started pouring in, and he has some very good stories.”

  That got my attention. I was always looking for material for the show. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Can you at least tell me if he’s one of the good guys?”

  Rick’s smile thinned, and he said, “He’ll do.”

  He was being particularly inscrutable tonight. Not that I could expect anything different from a vampire.

  “Why can’t you people use the phone? Or e-mail?”

  “I’d like this to be a little more traditional.”

  “And are you going to tell me what this is about?”

  “It’s nothing, really.”

  Stories ran that, traditionally, lycanthropes in any given territory tended to serve the local vampires. Or the vampires treated the lycanthropes like servants and the lycanthropes bought into it. The alternative was fighting between them. Bottom line, they didn’t usually get along as equals. Rick and I were trying to change that. Neither of us was fond of the old hierarchies. Yet somehow here we were. Both of us had ended up at the top of our respective totem poles, and while Rick might not have agreed with the old traditions, he sometimes fell into old patterns.

  I leaned forward over my desk, the message in hand, studying him. Actually trying to think out what to say for once, rather than blurting it all out. “Rick. We decided to form a kind of partnership here, didn’t we? I support your claim to be the Master of Denver. You support my being alpha of the local pack. But what we’re most interested in is keeping the city safe from outsiders, right?” He gave a cautious nod. “Which means that I’m not your servant. The werewolves here are not at your beck and call. We’re not your messengers.”

  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

  Finally, 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 HOURLIVE,

  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.