Page 12 of Femme Fatale
“Because Vegas isn’t about muscle. It’s about movement. You get people and product from A to B without anyone seeing. That’s the real game.”
She considered the glass, the way some people stare at fire. “You’re building a crew to go up against Zeke.”
I nodded.
Aces clicked her tongue. “That’s a high-variance play.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I have a feeling you know the odds better than anyone.”
She finally took a sip, then set the glass down again. “You’re going to have to do better than a club patch and a compliment.”
“How about a percentage of the house?” I said.
Now I had her attention. “How much?”
“Five points on every run. Bonuses for new routes.”
She smiled. “And you think I’m not going to cheat?”
“I think you’ll cheat for us,” I said. “Not against.”
Silence. A long one, while she weighed the risk like she was holding it in her palm. “You ever driven The Loop?” she asked, abruptly.
“Once,” I said. “On a bet. Nearly wrecked the Harley on the off-ramp.”
She nodded, pleased. “That’s where we’ll do our first dry run. If you can keep up, you get me. If you can’t, I walk.”
“Deal,” I said.
She handed me a card. It was blank except for a phone number, written in a tight, perfect hand. “Text me at 3 AM. No earlier.”
“Three AM,” I repeated.
She looked at the Road Captain patch I set on the table, ran her manicured thumb over the threads, then slipped it into her purse.
“Don’t call me before three,” she said again, and swept out, leaving the scotch untouched and the air heavy with perfume.
Tomorrow, the real game would start. Four days, and I already had my ace.
***
Every casino has two hearts. The first is the floor, all noise and shine and dollar signs. The second is the back office, where thereare gray walls, flickering fluorescents, and the tick of calculators and the smell of stress sweat. On day four, that’s where I found Glitz, holding court over a kingdom of chaos.
The accounting office was a padded cell for the numbers-obsessed. The carpet was older than Buck, and the computers had stickers from three operating systems ago. Glitz was at the center, her arms spread, and her fingers flying over a pair of laptops. Her phone was wedged under her chin, earbuds in, music pulsing so loud I could hear it from the hallway. Around her, the desk was an explosion of paper that included ledgers, receipts, uncashed checks, and a coffee mug filled with ball bearings instead of pens.
Glitz looked straight out of a Wall Street meme, with her platinum hair in a severe French twist and suit tailored to a scalpel’s edge. But the cuffs were rolled just high enough to flash the sleeves of the tattoo, showing barbed wire, roses, and a Fibonacci spiral. There was another ink peeking from her collar, something geometric and blue.
She didn’t glance up when I entered. “You here to fire me?” she said, still typing.
“Why would I?” I asked.
“You don’t have the balls.” Her fingers stopped just long enough to yank out the earbuds. She turned, and for the first time, I noticed her eyes. One was blue, one gold, and both rimmed with exhaustion. She fucking hated her job.
“Selene,” she said, and I decided the entire town knew I was out recruiting.
“Glitz,” I replied. “You got a minute?”
“Not unless you brought a time machine.” She gestured to the pile of spreadsheets. “I’m two days behind, and the Feds just changed their reporting forms again. If I ever meet a Treasury agent, I’m gonna strangle them with red tape.”
