Page 11 of Femme Fatale
I thought about it. “We need arms. Big, loud, and untraceable.”
She grinned. “I know a guy.”
Of course she did.
We stood by our bikes, the heat rippling off chrome.
“One more thing,” she said, sliding on her wraparounds.
“Shoot.”
“You got a plan for Zeke?”
Did everyone know Zeke was coming after me and mine? “Yeah,” I said. “I plan on making him irrelevant.”
She nodded, got into the Ford Bronco, and peeled out in a spray of gravel.
I watched her go, the patch already sewn onto her cut, and knew I’d picked the right bullet for the job. Two down, too many to go.
***
They say Vegas is built on hope and loss, but in the VIP room, all I ever saw was hunger. The high-stakes table at Aces Wild was an altar, and tonight the faithful brought offerings in the form of liver spots, shaky hands, and too much cologne. The buy-in was enough to buy a double-wide in North Vegas, but no one at this table looked like they’d ever lived in anything with wheels.
Aces sat with her back to the wall, black bob gleaming under recessed lights, hands resting light on the felt. Her fingers were long, immaculate, nails lacquered an opalescent blue that caught every pulse of neon through the one-way window. She wore a silk shirt, gold thread woven through the black, and a vintage Rolex. She looked like the kind of woman who belonged in Monaco, but would knife you in a Walmart parking lot if the cards told her it was time.
I posted up at the bar, two drinks in hand, and let the show run. It was midnight, but in here it might as well have been a bunker. No clocks. No time except what was measured in hands and chips.
Aces had a gift, and it wasn’t just memory. She played the table, not the deck. The tourists bought in heavy, too drunk to notice the way she stacked the deck. Her tells were all intentional, breadcrumbs for the desperate. She’d lose three hands in a row, lulling the room, then rake a monster when nobody dared call her. The best con was the one that didn’t look like a con.
I watched her bust an oil baron from Houston, then edge out a crypto creep in a designer blazer. The whole time, she drank nothing but seltzer, letting the others buy her rounds she never touched. Discipline. She never looked at me, but once, when the rest of the table was howling over a lost hand, she glanced up. Just a flicker. But it said everything.
The game finally broke when a local banker lost his shirt, got up to puke, and never came back. Aces gathered her winnings,then signaled the pit boss, who brought her a black velvet pouch. She swept her chips inside, slipped out a five-dollar bill, and left it as a tip. All class.
I intercepted her by the exit. “Care for something stronger than water?”
She didn’t break stride. “Is it on the house, or do I have to win another hand?”
“It’s on me,” I said. “But it comes with a side of business.”
She stopped, considered. “I don’t do business after midnight.”
“You’ll want this one,” I said, and led her to the private lounge.
The room was Buck’s old domain, walls lined with pictures of fights, cars, and Elvis. I poured two fingers of scotch and gestured to a seat.
Aces took the drink, swirled it, then set it down untouched. “Let’s talk, then.”
“Road Captain,” I said. “You run transport. Bikes, runs, maybe the occasional chase.”
She smiled, slow and sharky. “You know I haven’t been on a bike in years?”
“I know you were the best runner in Clark County for five straight years. Never got caught, never lost a load.”
“That’s because I don’t take chances,” she said.
I shrugged. “You take calculated risks.”
She laughed, the sound sharp and pretty. “You want me to join your band of merry women. Why?”
