One-Eyed Jack (23 page)

Something was up with Doc. He had come over all quiet since we caught up with him, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was about, except to shrug and turn his head away and say it wasn’t my lookout.

The Russian wanted to go after his partner right away—“The ghosts can find them, right? So if they’re still at the Paris, we head back—”

“What about Tribute?” Stewart would as soon leave him to hang, but I had to ask. He might be a bloodsucker, but he’d acted in good faith so far. “Besides, there’s something more complicated going on here than we thought.”

The Russian leaned back against the cinderblock wall between the loading dock and the street, folding his arms. “What could
be
more complicated?”

But Stewart’s mouth twisted in acknowledgement. I had to admit, he looked adorable in the Russian’s carelessly chosen clothes with his hair down in his eyes. “Jackie’s right,” he said. “Although, I dunno—it could just be more players, not necessarily new angles.”

It felt good to have him standing there disagreeing. “Which is why a Promethean is in there—”

Something
bright
flared overhead, lighting the sky in red-gold like flame. My first thought was that the observation tower on the Stratosphere was on fire. It was about the right direction, and as I stepped around the wall to get a look—

Boom
.

I actually think the Russian hit me before I registered that what we’d just heard was an explosion. I blinked and found myself flat on my back; the widow had sheltered Stewart much less dramatically, just pulling him into the lee of the wall and the refuge of her own body. The Englishman had simply ducked, though I noticed that he—weirdly—had his hat over his partner’s head, rather than clutched to his own.

I thought my ears were ringing. A second later, I realized it was a car alarm. I tried to push the Russian off; he pinned my shoulders to the asphalt and looked up, scanning the sky.

“What the hell—”

A hard blink, and he seemed to snap back into himself as if somebody had released a stretched elastic. “Good grief.”

“
What?!
”

I heard falling glass, more alarms, shouts of awe and denial. The Russian climbed to his feet as Stewart and the widow came apart. The widow helped me up, her partner dusting my shoulders, and we all followed the Russian around the corner of the building. It was still there, a twisted pall like the afterimage of a firework, like the nebula that remains after the death of a star, spiraling creases of smoke following the paths carved by chunks of debris as they plummeted through the sky.

“The plane,” the Russian said, and put one hand out on the fender of a Jaguar that was shrilling disgust and alarm. “The unspeakable son of a
bitch
blew up the plane.”

We stood there, clustered like fools, just looking up, while I tried to remember how many seats there were on a 737, until Stewart tugged gently at my arm. I realized that the pressure against my mouth was the back of my hand. I gave it to Stewart instead, and he clutched hard enough to pinch my fingers. “He was willing to cause that much collateral damage?”

The Russian shook his head, Stewart’s hairstyle starting to fall into unmaintained crumples around his ears. “More. He was willing to kill my partner—rather than trying to own him—and one hundred and fifteen innocent bystanders to get me and her”—a jerk of his chin at the widow—“out of the way.”

I swallowed. Trust him to know to the decimal point how many people were on that plane. I bet he even knew their names.

The Russian grabbed my elbow, leading me and Stewart away. The rest of the spies were already moving. I kept looking up at the fading smoke trail. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t even turn my head away. Stewart kept me from falling.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What does that mean?”

The Russian sighed and let go of my elbow, the better to scrub his hands through his hair. He didn’t look like he had any idea how to explain.

The Englishman cleared his throat, tapped the crown of his bowler with a forefinger, and set it jauntily on his head, although his mouth stayed set in a grim line. “It means the game just changed.”

Tribute and the Ghost in the Gray Flannel Suit.

Hoover Dam. Summer, 2002.

I woke in harsh light, on hard stone, and lay still for a moment, listening as hard as I could.

There are advantages to a heart that doesn’t beat and lungs that don’t need air. I could hear the gentle sound of trickling water, the patter of a human heart, and the rustle of soft cloth on skin. Not too much farther away, some giant machine or engine spun, its vibrations energizing the rock and metal under my cheek and palm. There was a heavy cuff on my ankle; I thought I felt a chain attached by the way the weight fell.

I drew in air, shallowly, and tested for scent, and did not like what I found, layered atop cold concrete and machine oil and water.

Angel
.

She wasn’t moving, other than breathing slowly, and she smelled
confident
.

Which didn’t make me feel any better at all.

I rolled over on my back and sat up, blinking hard against the light. I rose facing in the wrong direction, crouched—one hand on the concrete, giving me an excuse to check out the chain on my ankle, and then pivoted on fingertips and the balls of my feet, turning to face her.

No reason to give the whole game away right at the top, and the drop-forged chain on my foot was good enough to keep even me from going anywhere Angel didn’t want me going. And the chain might be the least of my worries; I was standing on a sort of artificial island. Water ran in a shallow trench all around.

Yeah, I know, it’s stupid, but I had to get into the Venetian through the parking garage.

“Good morning, King,” Angel said. “Welcome to Hoover Dam.”

That explained the vibrations. Although not how she got us in here. The dam’s guarded, inside and out, and access is tightly controlled. Still, I suppose genii have to have their ways that they don’t share with the rest of us, necessarily. And this didn’t look like the sort of room you’d expect to find in an industrial facility. The black stone mosaic under my feet was the first clue; it was inlaid with steel and brass in patterns that looked like a star chart, not unlike the one up on the dam’s promenade. The ceiling overhead was vaulted, decorated with stars and so forth like the zodiac in the roof of Grand Central Station, and the details of the room were art deco, from the wrought-iron railing around the far side of the water trap to the furl like tall wings bracketing the brass door. Not a hastily constructed holding cell for an unexpected vampire guest, but something else, converted to the purpose.

“Angel,” I said, and shook my hair back out of my eyes. “I didn’t know you worked with ghosts.”

“He won’t be a ghost for long,” she said, and grinned at me.
Interesting.

“I meant Bugsy,” I said, watching her face. Charitably speaking, I can’t say I’ve worked with better actresses, but then, I wasn’t in a charitable mood. A moment of sheer transparency crossed her features before she schooled them into arch, superior interest. I didn’t think she had any idea what I was talking about.

Which was interesting, because Bugsy had Hollywood links.

The assassin was playing a
very
complicated game.

Jesse, are you there?

“Where the hell else would I be?” he said, scornfully, hands stuffed into his pockets. “It’s not like there’s much I could do, but I’m stuck with you.”

“Bugsy’s useful,” she said smoothly, but I could see by the way her palms stroked her jeans that I’d worried her, even if a flash of fear didn’t spike her scent, just then. “It’s a pity we lost Stewart,” she continued, unable to resist the role that had her gloating like a movie villain. “But it’s fortunate we have you in his place. Has it been a while since you fed, King? Healing a gunshot wound is hungry work, I bet.” She slid a little knife from the fifth pocket on her jeans and flicked the blade open with her thumbnail.

It cost me to keep it off my face when she stroked the knife across the back of her hand and let the blood run down her fingers to spatter on the stones. The scent was heady and clean; my stomach clenched in anticipation of the hot, ready stream that should follow.

No. I could handle it. I had a lot of practice handling it, when I was with Sycorax.

God have mercy on my soul.

I didn’t look down at the droplets of sweet dark blood on the black stone floor. I didn’t look away from Angel’s smile as she wiped the blade on her jeans and folded it back into the little pocket. “Ciao,” she purred. “I’m going to have to run, King. But I’ll be back in a day or two. When you’ve had time to work up an appetite.”

The brass doors were elevator doors, I saw; they split in the middle and she vanished in between them, leaving me alone with the hum of machines and the tang of blood.

It didn’t last. Bugsy Siegel stepped out of the elevator a moment later, slicking his brains back into his skull with both hands. He was wearing the dark glasses again. It made him easier to look at. “Tch, King,” he said. “I’da thought you had more cool than that.”

“She’s not supposed to know about you, Bugs?”

He showed me his teeth. His hand, red with the memory of his own blood, carved a gesture in the air. “You’re not going to talk about it, are you, King?”

And no, I wasn’t. Which scared me worse than anything else so far. I’ve never heard of a ghost working magic before. “So tell me a story, Bugsy. Is this about you and Hollywood, or is this about something else? Something personal maybe?”

“Don’t you fucking call me that, punk. I’m Mr. Siegel. Ben if I like you. Which I don’t. Anyway, it’s my city. I got a right to maintain an interest. And this’d go better if you helped us. Better for you, and better for us. I never liked working with broads.”

“Us?” I showed my teeth, too. Mine might have been sharper, but it was a near thing. “Not you and the assassin. Not in your league. And the
broad
doesn’t know she works for you, does she?”

He shrugged. “Never tell ’em anything they don’t need to know, that’s my motto. King, we pull this off, it’s the golden age of Hollywood and Vegas and America all over again. You can’t say no to that. How could
you
pass up 1955?”

“You were dead by ’55.”

“Yeah,” he said, and lit a cigar by looking at it. I couldn’t smell smoke. “I was always sorry I missed it.”

“Before I say yes—” His eyes lit up avidly. “—who’s your partner, Ben?”

He smiled like a girl who got just the date she wanted for the prom. He puffed his cigar, and then stared at it thoughtfully, trickling smoke over his upper lip. “A Mage,” he said. “A real live Mage. We’ve got some—muscle—too. You know, physical types.” He wheezed laughter at his own joke, leaning his shoulders against the wall beside the elevator door. “The ones who helped out with you and your nigger friend.”

Some of us haven’t kept up with the times real well, I guess. “I always heard you did your own wet work, Mr. Siegel. Murder, Inc. and all that.”

He shrugged, and put a hand on the railing. “A good leader knows when to delegate.”

Not so useful. “If I agree, do the chains come off?”

“Not just yet,” he said. “We require some evidence of good faith. Even from you, King. Sure you understand.”

“Sure.” My tongue was cold when I licked my lips. “What kind of a gesture do you want?”

“Take the broad up on her offer.” He stuck the cigar between his teeth and slapped the button for the lift. I tried not to stare as the doors slid open, just as if he was flesh and bone. “We’ll be in touch.”

One-Eyed Jack, On the Lam.

Las Vegas. Summer, 2002.

We spent that whole damned night on the run. I was good. I was sharp. I was doing all right—and I didn’t kid myself that it had anything to do with anything, except Stewart being there to hold my hand. Yeah, I know I’ve got it bad. Stewart and me, we’ve been through a lot. He put me back together again after Laura died, and my old man. The one who never bothered to find out where I was, or if I’d even been born all right. Funny to find out it mattered, after forty-odd years—

See, my old man was the governor. Not that I ever met him. He sent my mother south, which is where she bore and raised me. And saddled me with my father’s name. I had good skin. I passed. Did fairly well in the gold rush in Rhyolite, got well out of it before the crash, married a good Mormon girl in Saint Thomas, and settled down. Heard my father was dead in 1904. It didn’t bother me much, I thought.

And I kept thinking it right up until Laura died, too. Oh, sure. I don’t much like girls, that way. But in those days that wasn’t much of a barrier to marriage.

So I thought I’d start over in Las Vegas. Population about thirty back then, and there were railroad jobs that fall. The first train ran in January, 1905.

I made it until May 15th before I got drunk on sour mash one night and put a bullet in my eye. The city of Rhyolite was gone by 1907.

When the city claimed me, it came with Stewart. And Stewart was a revelation to me.

Thirty years later, the dam came and Saint Thomas went under the water, and I figured Laura and the house I bought her with Rhyolite gold were just more ghosts at the bottom of the reservoir—

Anyway, the widow and the Russian thought the assassin would be gunning for us, and though I vetoed the spies’ plan to go back to the Paris and look for their partners, I didn’t see any reason that Doc and John Henry couldn’t go looking, once we were safe, for whatever values of safe we could swing. They couldn’t feel the scholar, which didn’t make the Russian happy. But they could feel the athlete and the American. Half a loaf, you know?

I really wished, though, that there was some way Doc could dial a cell phone.

Better if we stuck together, I figured. Although that was going to take a pretty damn big car.

Fortunately, Cashman Cadillac is still there, and they still know me on sight. Funny story: Elvis used to go down there at three in the morning and buy cars by the dozen, and then give them away. It’s where he got the one he gave me.