Page 5 of Femme Fatale
“Sounds efficient,” I said.
Goblin shrugged. “Sounds like a story until it’s you.”
Pearl set a manila folder on the table and opened it. Photos of casino owners slid out. Most were smiling in public shots, a few in hospital beds with tubes up their noses, one just a photo of anempty parking spot and a date scrawled beneath. The missing, the broken, the erased.
“Last four who didn’t play ball with Zeke,” Pearl said. “Two are probably fertilizer in the desert. One turned state's and moved to Miami. The last, he’s still missing. Smaller casinos just like yours.”
Stephanie tapped the folder. “It’s not just about you, Selene. If you go down, the ripple takes out everyone who matters to you. Including Mary.”
I tensed. “Leave her out of this.”
“We’re trying,” Stephanie said. “But Zeke’s smart. He’ll come at you sideways. We believe Zeke and Kara are working together.”
There it was. The inevitable pressure, the leverage. I felt the wall clock tick. I wanted to smash it. Instead, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.
“You want me to run a Harlots club in Vegas,” I said, not a question.
“We want you to lead,” Stephanie said. “Las Vegas President. Nobody knows this city better.”
I opened my eyes. “You’re making a play. I’m just the excuse.”
Pearl actually grinned. “You catch on quick.”
I could have thrown them out. I could have threatened to burn the place down before handing it over. But I remembered Buck’s lawyer, the old couple by the lake, and the way my mother’s corpse had looked before the state cremated her for free. I knew better than to say no to people who’d already written the ending.
I let the silence run. “If I say yes,” I finally said, “I do it my way.”
Stephanie nodded, once. “Within reason. You become a chapter and answer to me.”
The meeting broke up, no hugs, just nods, and the sense of something alive and dangerous moving under the surface. Outin the casino, the four of them drifted toward the doors, and I drifted after.
We hit the night air together. The sky was full of city glare, barely any stars, just the high blue-pink haze of a sleepless place. The custom bikes were still there, engines ticking with cooling metal. Calypso peeled off from the group and circled my Harley.
“Nice ride,” she said.
I wanted to tell her to fuck off, but there was something about the way she circled the bike, measuring, maybe even admiring.
She crouched, ran a thumb along the foot peg. “Is this your father’s?”
The question was too direct, and for a second I couldn’t speak. “Yeah,” I said. “Built it from a box of bones. He liked his machines loud.”
Calypso smiled. “Mine too. He ran a Honda, though. Got me on a Superhawk at twelve.”
I let myself laugh. “You ever drop it?”
“First week,” she said. “Scraped off half my ass. Dad told me that’s how you learn. Pain’s a better teacher than pride.”
I sat on the curb. Calypso joined me, and we watched the traffic for a few minutes—just the endless streak of headlights and the occasional howl of a tourist or junkie. She handed me a cigarette, and I took it.
“You scared?” she asked, voice quiet.
I thought about it. “Not of her. Of what happens if I lose.”
Calypso nodded. “There are worse things than fear.”
“Like what?”
She tapped ash onto the blacktop. “Like letting someone else write your story. I watched my sister do it, and she never got it back.”
