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.
Then the tension broke. I thought it was Boris who blinked. At any rate, he gave a thin smile. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.
“It was a run of bad luck,” Ben said, which was closer to the mark of what had happened to Cormac. “Could’ve happened to anyone.”
“You here for the show?”
“No. I’m here for her show. How about you? You always seem to have an angle cooking at these things.”
“I certainly do,” he said, without elaborating. But he kept giving me that look, like he was wincing at me through a gun sight. It made my skin crawl.
“We should probably get going.” Ben turned to me, raised a questioning brow, as if I’d had any part of this conversation.
“Probably,” I said.
“Well, then. Maybe I’ll see you around. You take care,” Boris said.
We watched him go, walking through the lobby and out the front entrance of the hotel. Ben let out a sigh.
I said, “Who the heck is that and how do you know him?”
“That’s Boris,” he said. “Same line of work as Cormac. It’s a pretty small circle, everybody knows everybody. I’ve represented half of them in court at one time or another.”
That’s my honey, lawyer to the scary. “Have you represented him?”
“Hell, no,” Ben said, frowning. “He’s bad news.”
And Cormac wasn’t? Never mind. “So he does have a box of silver bullets somewhere.”
“Several, probably.”
“I knew it. I knew it just by looking at him.”
“That’s just the thing, that look is kind of an act. Boris is the front of the operation. He’s got a partner who does most of the real work. It’s sleight of hand. People are so busy worrying about him, no one pays attention to the other.”
“Who’s his partner? And do you see him lurking about?” I studied the lobby, searching for suspicious figures hiding behind neoclassical statuary.
“Her. Sylvia. And no, I don’t see her. That’s probably the point.” He glanced around, over his shoulder, like he was suddenly worried. Paranoia was, after all, contagious.
Someone was going to take a shot at me before the weekend was over, I just knew it.
“One other thing: you’re my lawyer? Not my fiancé?”
“That would have taken way too much explaining. You know that.”
“Yeah. But you’re not even officially my lawyer anymore.” Apparently it was unethical for lawyers to sleep with their clients. This from a man who offered legal representation to assassins.
“Your point?”
“I’m just giving you a hard time. Mostly.”
Finally, I steered him into an elevator.
Our room was almost a suite. Ozzie had been generous making our reservations—he could have put us up in a flea-bitten budget dive on the edge of town—but not that generous. We had the typical hotel-room layout: a big comfy bed stood against one wall, staring down a TV and dresser set on the opposite wall. The patterns on the curtains and bedspread were vaguely Italian, floral and classical, in shades of green and blue. We also had a sofa and a couple of armchairs grouped around a coffee table, a well-stocked minibar, and a wide desk in the corner. Because I was supposed to be working. Drat.
I had to contact the producer; set up a meeting with her; confirm the guests we’d lined up; sort out the box of Midnight Hour giveaways—the usual T-shirt and bumper sticker stash—I’d brought to butter up the audience; double-check my cue sheets; and double-check my contingencies for when something went horribly wrong, like if the phone lines went down, my guest interviews bailed, or something even worse I hadn’t thought of yet happened.