Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand

Chapter 3

Finally, we were on our way. Despite all my grousing, once we got on the plane, I was convinced this was the right thing to do. The radio show, visiting Rick’s vampire friend, all of it was perfect. This was an adventure. This was going to be awesome. Whether we would have any time on the trip to spend on a vacation was up for debate. Ben kept giving me dark looks. Going to Vegas was supposed to make everything easier. So much for that.

We marched out of the baggage-claim area to go outside to find a cab. I could hear it now, my entrance music: a full Hollywood orchestra playing a zippy, peppy version of “Luck Be a Lady.” Frank Sinatra on my arm, smiling jauntily as we left the airport...

Even in September, the heat outside the airport hit me like a brick wall.

“Holy crap,” I said.

“Just remember, this was your idea,” Ben said, squinting at the glare of sun on blacktop.

“Was it? You sure it wasn’t yours?” The recording of “Luck Be a Lady” playing in my head sputtered and died.

I’d never been to Las Vegas. I was interested in seeing how the reality measured up to the hype, propagated in countless TV shows, movies, and ads. Mostly what registered on the cab ride to the hotel was the heat. Baking, shimmering, blinding heat. It made the whole city seem like a mirage rising out of the desert. The air-conditioning costs alone must have been phenomenal. It only added to the amusement-park unreality of the place: towering buildings of glass, structures representing every kind of fantasy—pyramids, castles, Italian palazzos, Roman columns, pirate ships—set down in a clump on the Strip, incongruous.

This place was on crack.

Ben pointed to a billboard for a production show: Bite. Strategically covered topless showgirl vampires leered out at us, baring their fangs. “You don’t think those are really vampires. The supernatural’s not so mainstream now that there’s really a vampire show.”

I shook my head. “Those women aren’t really vampires. They have tans.”

“Ah.”

But I had to wonder—how long would it be before someone got that bright idea?

Ben wouldn’t let it go. “But they could be spray-on tans. We could go see it in person. Check it out, just to make sure.” He looked a little too hopeful.

“I don’t think that’s really necessary,” I said. “I don’t need to go see topless showgirls.”

“It’s not like a strip joint. It’s tasteful entertainment.”

Topless fake vampires were tasteful? I didn’t want to be having this discussion. “And why are you so interested in topless girls? Topless girls who aren’t me? It’s kind of sleazy.”

“Hey, this time last year I was a swinging bachelor and most of the women I met were in the drunk tank at the Denver PD. I’m all about sleazy.”

“You’re not making me feel any better.”

He just laughed. He’d been teasing me the whole time, so I mock-punched him in the arm. He was probably getting a bruise there.

My parents were flying in tomorrow, in time to have dinner and see my show. We’d agreed that they’d have their own vacation here, and while we’d meet for a couple of meals—and the wedding, of course—their time was their own. I’d have my hands way too full with the show to be much fun. But at least they’d be here for the ceremony itself, and that was what Mom wanted. The wedding would happen Saturday, after the show was done and over with and I could stop feeling like I had to work. We’d found the Golden Memories Wedding Chapel, right on the Strip. They offered a package deal. It wasn’t as obnoxious and sappy as some of the places we looked at via online virtual tours. Which wasn’t to say it wasn’t obnoxious. I had never seen so much white tulle in one place in my life. My sister Cheryl wasn’t able to come—too busy with kids, her husband too busy with work, and she didn’t want to come without him—but wished us well, expressing gratitude that I wasn’t going to inflict a revenge bridesmaid dress on her. Now, that was an opportunity I hadn’t thought of. It might have made a traditional wedding worthwhile.

The taxi pulled into the hotel’s drive.

The Olympus Hotel and Casino was everything the name implied: a mountainous edifice with all the pseudo-neoclassical trimmings one could hope for. A marble reflecting pool led to the front portico, which was lined with tall Ionic columns. In the back of the portico, lush statues rested in wall niches to greet patrons, and above the columns, relief sculptures were no doubt meant to evoke the carvings from the Parthenon. But these showed men and women draped in togas doing things like playing slots and rolling dice.

We’d hauled our luggage from the cab, and I was about to go inside when Ben pulled me toward the curb, where we had a view of the giant, flashing LCD billboard out front. I’d missed it on the drive in because we’d come from the back of the hotel.

ONE NIGHT ONLY

THE MIDNIGHT HOUR LIVE,

WITH KITTY NORVILLE

TALK RADIO WITH TEETH!

And there was my smiling face, framed by blond hair. I had a sultry, sexy look—perfect for Vegas—that made me seem like I really did want to use my teeth on something. The photographer had done a great job. It was spectacular. My name in lights, wasn’t that the big dream? And here I was. I started tearing up.

Ben squeezed my shoulders and kissed my hair. “Come on, rock star. Let’s get checked in.”

The ancient Greek theme continued inside. Placards on the wall advertised amenities like the Dionysus Bar and the Elysium Fields Spa. It was almost intellectual—if not for the wide marble steps leading to a football-field-sized room filled with clanging noises, garish lights, and swarms of people. Hordes of them, all shapes, sizes, ages, and states of dress, from sloppy shorts and tank tops to stylish dresses and slacks. And the smells—concrete, carpet, alcohol, money, sweat, and too many people. Once you went down those steps and into that chaos, there was no easy way out. The casino area was mazelike, the way the tables and machines were arranged and the way that people clustered around them. Apart from the main entrance, I couldn’t see an escape. The place didn’t want you to know where the doors were.

We had to wait in line to check in, increasing my feeling that I was surrounded and had no way out. I tapped my feet, looked around nervously, and brushed Ben’s hand, hoping the touch would comfort me. But he was also glancing around, his lips pressed in a line.

“You okay?” I said.

“Yeah,” he answered, not sounding convinced. “I never liked crowds at the best of times, but now I want to crawl out of my skin.”

We finally made it to the front desk. I asked the clerk, “Are you usually this full, or is something going on this weekend?”

“This is unusual,” the woman said. “We’re hosting a big convention. Here, I think I have a flyer.” Reaching under her desk, she produced a one-page flyer. In big, bold letters it announced: WESTERN REGIONAL FIREARM ENTHUSIAST EXHIBITION.

A gun show. The producer had booked me into the same hotel as a gun show. From a certain perspective, this was hilarious.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. The clerk maintained her smiling customer-service expression and handed us the packet with our key cards. We moved off to find the elevators.

Ben took the flyer from me and actually chuckled. “Wow. What are the odds?”

“Is it too late to change hotels?” I said. “I don’t want to sleep in the same building as a gun show. I can’t believe they booked me at the same hotel as a gun show!”

Ben shrugged. “It’s probably in a totally different part of the building. We won’t even know it’s there.”

We found the bank of elevators, which as it turned out was next to the ballroom, where a large sign on an easel announced the presence of the Western Regional Firearm Enthusiast Exhibition. I wouldn’t be able to go to my room without walking past it.

I didn’t like guns. I had recently learned more about them than I ever wanted to know, including learning how to shoot as a matter of survival. But I didn’t carry one with me. I didn’t want to. In my experience, nothing good happened when guns were involved.

Ben was edging toward the ballroom, craning his neck like he was trying to look in.

“I probably know some people here,” he said. “I may have to hang out and see if I spot anyone.”

“And how many of those people are walking around with silver bullets?” I couldn’t tell by looking. Most of the people walking past looked entirely normal. Without the gun-show sign I’d never have suspected any of them of being gun-toting maniacs. Dangerous people ought to have signs on them, facial tattoos and studded collars, that sort of thing. Named something like Brutus.

Ben tilted his head thoughtfully. “At least a few, I’m sure.”

Oh, this weekend was not starting out well. “I really doubt you know anyone here. Let’s just concentrate on the tasks at hand.”

Then a voice called across the hallway. “O’Farrell? Ben O’Farrell?”

Approaching us from the ballroom was the kind of figure I expected to see at a gun show: linebacker big, bald, wearing worn jeans and a ton of leather. A tattoo of barbed wire in black ink crawled around his neck and disappeared down his shirt. Chains rattled from his jacket and leather boots. He probably had a Harley in the parking garage.

Disbelieving, Ben said, “Boris?”

At least it wasn’t Brutus.

I might have expected a hearty handshake between old friends, smiles, school-reunion-type conversation about the job and kids and such. None of that happened. Instead, Boris approached, stopping about five paces away from Ben. Just out of arm’s reach. They sized each other up. I could almost hear tumbleweeds blowing in the background.

Nearby, the elevator door slid open. I tried to inch toward it, and to will Ben to do likewise, so we could sneak in and make our escape. But the two remained deeply involved in their standoff. Ben wasn’t going to budge, and I wasn’t going to leave without him. The elevator door closed, shutting off our escape.

“How you doing?” Boris said. “It’s been a while—since that job in Boise, wasn’t it?”

“That sounds right. That was a pretty bad scene,” Ben said, clearly unhappy. But Boris smiled, like he was proud of the memory.

That was when Boris noticed me. I was standing a little behind Ben, off to the side, trying to be unobtrusive because this was his gig. But Boris recognized me, and I could tell from the way he narrowed his gaze that he didn’t like me. He didn’t have to know me to not like me. This was a guy who didn’t like werewolves. And here I was. I bet he had a box of silver bullets somewhere.

Ben, astute as he was, noticed the glare. “Boris, this is Kitty Norville.”

“I know who she is. May I ask what you’re doing hanging out with a werewolf?”

If only Boris knew... I was out of the so-called lycanthropic closet, but Ben wasn’t. I kept quiet so I could see how he’d play this.

“I’m her lawyer.”

That was exactly how I thought he’d play this. I gave what I hoped was a neutral smile.

Boris crossed his arms. “That’s pretty funny, considering some of your other clients.”

“Trust me, I know.”

“Speaking of which, I heard Cormac went to prison. Maybe he should have had a different lawyer.”

“Maybe it was his lawyer who got him four years for manslaughter instead of life for murder one.”

The matched stares between them were challenging. I wondered how Ben’s wolf was taking this. I couldn’t tell by looking at him—his exterior was calm, his expression showing vague amusement.

Cormac was a bounty hunter, an assassin, and his targets of choice were supernatural. Werewolves, vampires, other strangeness the mundane authorities barely knew about, much less had the ability to handle. He was also Ben’s cousin, and my friend. That Boris knew him, or at least knew of him, said something about Boris and the circles he moved in. Now I was sure he had a box of silver bullets stashed somewhere.

Then the tension broke. I thought it was Boris who blinked. At any rate, he gave a thin smile. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“It was a run of bad luck,” Ben said, which was closer to the mark of what had happened to Cormac. “Could’ve happened to anyone.”

“You here for the show?”

“No. I’m here for her show. How about you? You always seem to have an angle cooking at these things.”

“I certainly do,” he said, without elaborating. But he kept giving me that look, like he was wincing at me through a gun sight. It made my skin crawl.

“We should probably get going.” Ben turned to me, raised a questioning brow, as if I’d had any part of this conversation.

“Probably,” I said.

“Well, then. Maybe I’ll see you around. You take care,” Boris said.

We watched him go, walking through the lobby and out the front entrance of the hotel. Ben let out a sigh.

I said, “Who the heck is that and how do you know him?”

“That’s Boris,” he said. “Same line of work as Cormac. It’s a pretty small circle, everybody knows everybody. I’ve represented half of them in court at one time or another.”

That’s my honey, lawyer to the scary. “Have you represented him?”

“Hell, no,” Ben said, frowning. “He’s bad news.”

And Cormac wasn’t? Never mind. “So he does have a box of silver bullets somewhere.”

“Several, probably.”

“I knew it. I knew it just by looking at him.”

“That’s just the thing, that look is kind of an act. Boris is the front of the operation. He’s got a partner who does most of the real work. It’s sleight of hand. People are so busy worrying about him, no one pays attention to the other.”

“Who’s his partner? And do you see him lurking about?” I studied the lobby, searching for suspicious figures hiding behind neoclassical statuary.

“Her. Sylvia. And no, I don’t see her. That’s probably the point.” He glanced around, over his shoulder, like he was suddenly worried. Paranoia was, after all, contagious.

Someone was going to take a shot at me before the weekend was over, I just knew it.

“One other thing: you’re my lawyer? Not my fiancé?”

“That would have taken way too much explaining. You know that.”

“Yeah. But you’re not even officially my lawyer anymore.” Apparently it was unethical for lawyers to sleep with their clients. This from a man who offered legal representation to assassins.

“Your point?”

“I’m just giving you a hard time. Mostly.”

Finally, I steered him into an elevator.

Our room was almost a suite. Ozzie had been generous making our reservations—he could have put us up in a flea-bitten budget dive on the edge of town—but not that generous. We had the typical hotel-room layout: a big comfy bed stood against one wall, staring down a TV and dresser set on the opposite wall. The patterns on the curtains and bedspread were vaguely Italian, floral and classical, in shades of green and blue. We also had a sofa and a couple of armchairs grouped around a coffee table, a well-stocked minibar, and a wide desk in the corner. Because I was supposed to be working. Drat.

I had to contact the producer; set up a meeting with her; confirm the guests we’d lined up; sort out the box of Midnight Hour giveaways—the usual T-shirt and bumper sticker stash—I’d brought to butter up the audience; double-check my cue sheets; and double-check my contingencies for when something went horribly wrong, like if the phone lines went down, my guest interviews bailed, or something even worse I hadn’t thought of yet happened.

Then there was sharing space with the gun show to worry about...

Once again, coming to Vegas started to seem like a bad idea. The window in our room overlooked the pool—a fabulous grotto containing millions of gallons of chlorinated water. Completely ecologically irresponsible, but so attractively decadent. Padded lounge chairs. Palm trees. Poolside bars with handsome bartenders beckoning me with smiling eyes. The people sunning themselves, with mai tais in their hands, looked like the most relaxed beings in the universe.

Phone in hand, I looked out the window at the pool and almost cried.

Ben was unpacking and watching me and the pages of notes and schedules I’d spread on the desk. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?” he said.

Rub my back, nibble my ears, drag me away from all this... I sighed and shook my head. “Not really. It’s all legwork, and most of the list is in my head. But thanks for asking.”

“Maybe I could just keep you company.”

As nice as that sounded, his presence made it less likely I’d get any work done. I smiled. “You’ve been itching to check out the casino. You should go do that now, because after tomorrow night I’m not going to give you a chance.” I raised a brow at him.

“All right. But for the record, it’s now officially your idea that I go play poker.”

“Or maybe you could go have a drink by the pool for me.”

But he already had his room key and wallet in hand, clearly ready to go. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Okay.”

He kissed the top of my head, squeezed my hand, and left the room. Again, I sighed.

Ozzie’s producer friend had booked a smaller theater at the Olympus. A half an hour before our meeting, I wandered down to the lobby to look for it.

There were still too many people. I wondered if I’d ever be able to calm down in this town enough to really relax. Even from down the hall, the casino lights and noises overwhelmed my senses, and Wolf didn’t like that at all. How would we know if something was after us? But that was silly. Nothing was after us. This was just Vegas trying to batter me into submission so I’d spend lots of money.

I still had to slink past that damned gun show.

Not everyone who came to Vegas for a gun show was like Boris. They couldn’t all be in Cormac’s line of work. Edging down the hallway from the elevators until the doors of the main ballroom came into sight, I watched the comings and goings of people. Know your enemy, after all. For the most part, the convention-goers were completely unremarkable. More men than women by a good factor, but there were some women. Most were casually dressed: jeans, shorts, T-shirts, tennis shoes. Of all ages—a few people even had kids along—the stream of people leaving and entering the ballroom seemed an unremarkable cross section of middle America. Firearm enthusiast. That didn’t sound so dangerous. These were hobbyists, people who went target shooting at the range and collected rare guns. Perfectly innocuous. Surely I didn’t have to worry about bounty hunters or assassins, not in the middle of a casino with its intense security. Especially not any who had a thing against werewolves and might take an opportunity—like, say, me sitting onstage under bright lights—to use me for target practice.

But I couldn’t help but think about how many people in this hotel were carrying handguns around with them right at that moment.

I’d started toward the casino and another hallway that led to the Jupiter Theater when my shoulders went stiff. Somebody was following me. Wolf felt it, or heard it, or smelled it, or all of them in the combination that made that side of me hypersensitive. I took a breath to keep from panicking and resisted jumping to the wrong conclusion.

When I turned, the woman looked startled, like she hadn’t expected me to know she was there. She was shorter than me, thin, with a tanned face and short, curly brown hair. She wore sandals, faded jeans, and a white blouse. Her earrings and necklaces were silver, her makeup understated. Inconspicuous in every way.

She recovered from her surprise quickly and offered a smile. “I’m sorry, I guess you must have seen me coming.”

“Yeah, sort of.”

Now she looked nervous, but the smile didn’t dim. “I don’t mean to bother you. This must seem really rude, but—you’re Kitty Norville, aren’t you?”

Ah, there it was. I ducked my gaze. “Yeah.”

“I recognized you from the article Time did last winter.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” I said, grimacing, trying to be polite. Last fall, the Senate held hearings on, of all things, vampires and lycanthropes after a secret NIH project studying paranormal phenomena was made public. I was called to testify, and for various reasons Time chose me as their poster child. I would never live it down.

Doing the radio show, no one ever had to know what I looked like. I liked it that way. But after the hearings and publicity, not to mention being outed on live TV, it seemed silly trying to stay anonymous. Hence the possibility of my own TV show.

“Oh, you shouldn’t be embarrassed, it was a good article,” she said. “Interesting, anyway. Good publicity for you, I’m sure.”

Interesting in the Chinese-proverb sense. “Well, thanks. I can’t complain.” I expected her to make some more apologetic noises, then scurry away. Maybe I was secretly hoping she’d ask for an autograph. Secretly disappointed that she wasn’t asking for an autograph. But she just stood there, smiling up at me. Studying me, and it was making me nervous. “So. What brings you to Vegas?”

“I’m here for the show,” she said, nodding over her shoulder at the ballroom and gun exhibition. I surreptitiously glanced over her to see if she had any holsters or concealed weapons. Didn’t see anything. She looked so normal. “Well, you look busy, so I won’t keep you. But it was really nice talking to you.” She turned to walk away.

Occasionally, I was spotted in public. Not enough to ever get used to it. But having it happen here, right outside the gun show, was too much for my paranoia. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it wasn’t. I glanced around for a big bald man in leather and didn’t see him. But that didn’t mean much.

On a hunch, I called, “Sylvia?”

She glanced back.

We met gazes. Her look darkened for a moment, but then she smiled. This wasn’t a normal, friendly smile. It was sly, challenging. Like she’d scoped me out, learned what she needed to, and didn’t care if I knew all about her. I resisted an urge to run.

She turned back around and merged with the crowd filing in and out of the ballroom.

My heart was pounding. I wasn’t sure what had just happened, but it couldn’t be good. I continued on, looking over my shoulder the whole way.

Maybe the bounty hunters weren’t really after me. But if they were, with all the sensory overload going on here, I might never hear them coming.