“A bit.” The truth was, I knew plenty. Ronnie Blaze-real name Henry Ronald Blasek-was a Vegas party promoter, which mostly meant he arranged an endless buffet of booze, drugs, and women to separate rich douchebags from their money. He packed his parties with dancers from local strip clubs and had a rep for getting handsy with them once the booze began to flow. Some considered it a cost of doing business. Destiny, apparently, did not. Word was, when she rejected him, he got a little rough with her-and she kneed him in the balls so hard, he ruptured a testicle. Ronnie went down crying in the middle of the dance floor and was carted to the hospital in an ambulance. It made the news and everything. He’d been telling anyone in earshot he’d kill the bitch who did this to him ever since.
“Do you happen to know how much Ronnie’s shelling out for the hit?”
“A thousand bucks, from what I hear.” Well, what Lester heard, actually. He’s the one who intercepted the communiqué. “Plus a cut of the door for his next three events.”
“Are you serious? That’s it?”
“Hey, don’t blame me. I didn’t come up with the number-Ronnie did. I guess he’s a little strapped for cash on account of all the medical bills. I happen to think you’re worth ten times that-”
“Aw, shucks.”
“-by which I mean if you pay me ten thousand dollars, I’ll do my thing and make the hitter coming after you go bye-bye.”
“What about the cut of the door?” she asked sarcastically. “Shouldn’t you factor that in too?”
“I’m inclined to let that portion of my fee slide.”
“That’s real big of you.”
“I thought so-but somehow, you don’t sound pleased.”
“Look at me,” she said. “You think I’ve got an extra ten K lying around?”
I looked at her. As assignments go, it wasn’t my worst ever. She was a little older than she let on-mid-thirties, maybe, while her clothes and makeup skewed a decade younger-but there was no question she was pretty. Her platinum hair was pulled into a hasty bun. Her denim cutoffs revealed long, bare, athletic legs so smooth they gleamed in the dim light. Her low-top Chuck Taylors were held together with duct tape. Her flimsy tank top exposed sun-kissed collarbones and, in concert with the air conditioning, made it clear she wasn’t wearing a bra.
“I take your point,” I said, “but I find it’s worth asking anyway. Sometimes looks can be deceiving.”
She smiled. “Not this time.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, rising.
“Wait-that’s it? You’re just gonna leave me here to die?”
“No. I’m going to leave you here to fend for yourself. Far as I’m concerned, I’ve done you a couple favors that could serve to tip the scales.”
“Yeah? How do you figure?”
“Number one, you now know that your location’s been compromised. And number two,” I said, picking her gun up by the barrel and handing it to her, “next time someone barges in on you, you won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”
“That may be true,” she said, “but don’t expect me to thank you.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
“You have any idea who Ronnie sent after me?”
“Wish I did, but he was smart enough to keep the details vague. Said he planned to keep it in the family. To go with someone he could trust. You know anyone who fits the bill? Someone he’s relied on in the past-a mob guy, maybe?”
She said she didn’t.
An awkward silence stretched between us. The air conditioner complained. The bar band across the street began to play. In three years of hitting hitters, I’ve yet to figure out an easy way to extricate myself once a would-be client’s declined my services.
Eventually, I wished her luck and extended my hand. She reluctantly shook it.
As I was about to leave, a shadow fell across the window. I froze and put a finger to my lips.
A key rattled into the lock. The knob turned. The door swung open. As it did, the music swelled-thick, dark, and bluesy. Some unhelpful corner of my mind told me it was an old Albert King tune. A figure was briefly silhouetted in the door frame. Then the door swung shut and the lights came on, revealing a beautiful young brunette with a black eye faded yellow at the edges. When she saw us, she froze-one hand on the light switch, the other holding a disposable container of leftovers from the taco joint next door.
“What the fuck are you two doing in my room?” she asked. Then her eyes narrowed as she recognized the bottle-blonde beside me. “Candi?”
That’s when I realized my mistake.
Candi swung the barrel of her gun toward Destiny. Destiny flinched-and in so doing, inadvertently flicked off the lights. The room plunged once more into darkness. I knew there was no way I’d be able to draw my sidearm in time to put Candi down before she pulled the trigger. So instead, I flipped the table and drove it into her with everything I had.
Candi staggered backward and wound up pinned in the corner by the tabletop. The lamp toppled. Its bulb shattered with a pop when it hit the floor.
Candi’s gun thundered and blew a hole in the table an inch from my face-embedding shards of laminate in my cheek.
“Get down!” I shouted to Destiny. Then I followed my own advice, leaping across the room and scurrying behind the dresser.
Candi kicked the table off her as Destiny disappeared under the bed and fired off a couple rounds in my direction. Lucky for me, shadows pooled at this end of the room, rendering me invisible. Her shots went wide. I reached for my gun to return fire-only to discover my concealment holster was empty. The gun must have fallen out when I dove for cover.
“Oh, Destiny,” Candi singsonged menacingly, “come out, come out, wherever you are!”
The thump of the bass drum across the street seemed to mock my racing heart. My ears rang from Candi’s gunshots-but outside, they probably sounded like nothing more than the errant whack of a snare. My eyes slowly adjusted to the soft neon glow that spilled through the window.
“Hiding won’t do you any good,” Candi said. “Once I’m done ventilating this motherfucker, it’s gonna be your turn. You know this dipshit actually came here to help you? Lucky for me, he had no idea what you looked like. He broke in while I was waiting for you to return and figured me for the damsel in distress.”
“To be fair,” I said, “strippers are kinda hard to stalk on Facebook. It’s not like Destiny’s her given name.”
“Shut up, asshole,” Candi said. “Nobody asked you.”
From beneath the bed, Destiny said, “What the hell are you even doing here, Candi? You know Ronnie’s a piece of shit.”
“Yeah, a piece of shit who’s gonna list me as co-promoter for his next three events. I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta plan for the future-and that means building up my résumé. You think I’ve got more than a year or two of dancing left in me? My knees are shot, and I’m not getting any younger. Besides, don’t think for a second I haven’t noticed you’ve been getting all the best time slots lately. I’ve gotten top billing at the Glitter Dome for seven years-I’m not about to let you turn me into your fucking understudy.”
“Are you serious? I didn’t steal your shifts, Candi. You blew ’em off-probably on account of that shit Ronnie’s been supplying you.”
“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Candi’s tone was full of rage. While her attention was on Destiny, I hazarded a peek around the corner of the dresser. Candi stood maybe ten feet away from me. My gun lay on the floor between us-not in shadow, as I’d hoped, but in a patch of carpet illuminated by the pulsing neon. Its brushed-steel finish glinted purple, as if daring me to make a play for it. If I tried, Candi would doubtless see me coming.
Which gave me an idea.
I extended my leg further into the room and felt around until I brushed against the luggage rack. Then, as quietly as I could manage, I hooked my foot around its horizontal support and dragged it closer.