To start at the beginning of the story go here.
I stared at the Russian on the casino floor. When I had no better answer to Jasper’s question of what I would do about him, I said, “I guess I’ll go say hello.” Not entirely certain what that meant, I spent another moment continuing to scan the monitors. Floating over the blackjack tables I spotted another familiar, unhappy face and something like a plan began to form.
The employee entrances onto the casino floor are tucked out of the way so the patrons don’t have to see the help enter and exit the stage. I doubt most of them could find one if their lives depended on it. I picked one that let out in a section other than blackjack, instead cruising by the Russian as I made my way there. He didn’t disappoint – I picked him up in my wake, slowly prowling behind me, his stubbled skull poking out from the crowd like a dorsal fin.
Gaspard was lording over the blackjack tables, pit boss of his tiny domain. He saw me coming; a flash of recognition preceded him tapping a subordinate on the shoulder and whispering to her. Finished with whatever warning he passed on, he faced me, planting his feet on the floor like he didn’t expect my mass to stop and it was his duty to keep me from crashing into the lucrative card games. I doubt he even noticed the actual danger of the Russian behind me.
I gave him plenty of time to do it, though, swinging by a few games, pretending to check out the action. When I stopped in front of Gaspard his features descended from his receding hairline in downward Vs and, if I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought I was late for work. Despite his obvious disapproval we exchanged, “Bon jour.”
I didn’t see any point in wasting time. “I won’t be showing up for my shifts for awhile.” I didn’t think he deserved any further explanation, but I added, “I’ve been given some additional duties to tend to. By management.”
Gaspard’s expression was only emphasized by his putting his hands behind his back and raising his height, briefly, up on his toes. “We know.”
I watched him bob up and down, then added, “Well, it’s good we’re all on the same page.” Not certain why, I didn’t give him the usual French goodbye, but said, “I’ll see you around,” and moved past him to leave.
I didn’t head out the employee entrance as I usually would, but made for the front, heading towards the same steps Sartre had thrown Mitnick down. There was a soft spring shower blowing in from the sea, so I sheltered under the glowing marquee, watching the first few luxury cars pull up to let out their VIPs. I pretended to consider hailing a taxi, giving the Russian time to catch up, then shrugged, opened the umbrella, and headed down the Promenade.
I followed the same stretch of walkway next to the thoroughfare that Atwell had driven up on me with his BX the first night I had met Lanzo. I fantasized about that happening now, him pulling up next to me, honking at me from across the bollards, and me feeding him to the Russian.
Even as the sporadic vehicle noise would provide the Russian with some kind of cover if he wanted to approach me, I continued to head east, unwilling to take him in the direction of Sophie and our tenement. This early in the evening there was enough pedestrian traffic on the Promenade’s footpath that he wouldn’t be able to try anything, but the increasing rain was driving people indoors, giving me a limited time before he might be afforded an opportunity for action.
I made it a few blocks before I spotted one of the few brutalist structures in Old Town. Standing as tall as the most resplendent of the city’s noble palaces, its bare concrete walls were covered in art banners and officially sanctioned graffiti, anything to hide the fact that a parking garage had been built in the heart of the district. After all, not all of the gamblers who came down here were wealthy enough to be chauffeured to the gate or live close enough to just saunter in. But they still had money to lose.
The entrances to the garage were any number of open metal doors that I had never seen closed. Through them was the structure’s cement belly, ribbed with arches between pillars that kept one level from crushing the next under the combined weight of automobiles and concrete. It was well-lit, but I knew there weren’t any security cameras – after all, the plebes didn’t have nice enough cars to worry about. I knew there was usually an attendant or two on the first level, so I scanned for them while shaking off my umbrella and coat. When I didn’t see anyone I moved further inside. When I heard footsteps behind me, I headed up some nearby stairs. I made enough noise that Army Intelligence could have followed me.
The pillars provided some constant spots of darkness, deep pools of shadow that stood out starkly in the harsh halogen lights. On the second level, I hid in one of those, picking one that was close to the stairs I had come up, and waited.
When the Russian made his appearance, I decided he was smarter than lucky. He moved onto the floor of the parking garage with a caution that said he suspected something wasn’t right. He must have wanted to find me pretty bad, though, because he came anyway, poking his head through the door, scanning from side-to-side, then moving out into the open space. It put me close enough to get my first good look at him.
To read the next chapter, go here.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
To read a polished and published prequel to this story go here.
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