Vigilante 01 - Who Knows the Storm (6 page)

A boot to his thick neck and some whispered threats were all it took to realign Brownigan’s priorities in life. He swore off selling Dead Bolt and devoted his crafty brain and nimble fingers to making it easier for people to rip off the casinos and steal from the hotels. That was something Nox could get behind.

When Nox needed favors from him, he tripped over himself to fulfill the order. He made Patrick Mullens come alive via plastic and fake accounts—he allowed Nox to move about The District.

N
OX
POCKETED
the all-access white square as he assessed himself in the mirror. From the deep recesses of his father’s closet, he’d pulled out a vintage double-breasted Valentino tux, a remnant of his parents’ old life, when they spent his mother’s inheritance on globe-trotting adventures.

Then he was born and his mother’s precarious mental state became impossible to ignore.

It felt strange to look at his reflection when he dressed up to be “Patrick Mullens”—trimmed beard, styled hair, the cut of the black tuxedo almost a perfect match to his body. He looked like his father, a humbling and confusing visual, because nothing about his life said “successful investment banker.”

He might accept “workaholic” and “loner,” though.

Or even “stand-offish.”

He had a moment of guilt—his father was dead and couldn’t defend himself or give his reasons for being away so much. He couldn’t take back the missed holidays or birthdays. Everything had been swept away in the storms and the violence no one had expected, and Nox wouldn’t hold it against the memory of a man whose life had been cut short.

“I think you’d be proud,” he murmured, and then he slipped from the room, leaving the ghosts behind.

He used Patrick’s name when he went to the casinos for information gathering or earning money. He used it when he chatted up the models, paid money for a blowjob here or there to make it look legit. It was ironic, in a way, pretending to be the kid who had been well on his way to being Nox’s “first”—something he never did get around to having, not in any sort of meaningful way.

The real Patrick died during the storms in a small plane accident with his family—they made it to Teterboro, made it on the private plane. Made it to somewhere over a mountain in Pennsylvania before they crashed. Nox didn’t hear the news until almost a year after it happened; he was a father by then, surviving as best he could, living in fear. Later, when Brownigan asked for a name for the fake ID, Patrick immediately came to mind. A recollection of a better time, an innocent mindset—when he could have grown up to be dashing and debonair and a high roller.

With Sam asleep and the security system engaged, Nox left at a quarter to midnight. He wore his black jacket and hood as he left the neighborhood—his shadow known enough to keep him from being stopped—and reached the edge of The District. What used to be Columbus Circle had been transformed into a gateway into another world: The District—welcome to Las Vegas’s sluttier cousin.

Nox rolled his overclothes into a tight ball and zipped them into his backpack. He tucked everything into a slight opening created when several trees and stone walls collapsed near the edge of Central Park. It was a common hiding place of his, someplace to leave supplies and extra ammo on those busier nights.

Warm weather, the summer holidays. Higher body counts.

Central Park West—now just called West Street—began just past the old circle; it looped in from the Freck Memorial Highway, which was commonly traveled by cabs bringing visitors in from the ferry station. Planes landed at the newly built Manhattan Memorial Airport on what was left of Staten Island; tourists took the rest of their trip by boat, an ironic mode of transportation considering how many people had died trying to escape on them.

It made locals crazy: one bridge to ferry goods in and out, boats to cater to the tourists. The rest of the people? Stranded as much as they were seventeen years ago.

Sticking to the shadows, Nox walked along the road. It was newly repaved and a slick black, well lit for the most part, but Nox knew how to avoid the light. A cab—its top flashing green, which meant it was free—approached, most likely heading for downtown to see if it could pick up random fares.

Nox stepped onto the thick white line delineating the road from the shoulder and raised his hand as the cab’s headlights fell on him.

The driver slowed, then stopped as Nox came into view. He opened his window as he coasted to the side.

“You lost?” the man asked, his dark suit and tight tie the standard uniform for drivers in this town.

“My date didn’t show—I’d be upset, but it was a favor to my sister, you know? I was going to head to the casinos for a little consoling.” Nox let his face relax into a friendly smile as he winked.

The guy’s gaze narrowed; he was fifty, maybe older. His inflection told Nox he wasn’t from around here originally—maybe another Midwesterner come to make a buck amongst the ruins.

Nox broadened his smile, willing the man to trust him. “I have cash, if that’s okay….”

Most people didn’t bother with it, but a few enterprising individuals were trying to bring it back into fashion. Easier to keep the government from tracking it. Or you.

A quick nod and the driver gestured to the backseat, disengaging the automatic lock. “Get in.”

Twenty minutes later, Nox stared out the window at the blinding lights of the District. Hotels took up four or five city blocks. Casinos sprawled like small cities across eight or nine more. In the center, a slender tower of glass and steel—only thirty stories, but the oldest and most exclusive of all the establishments.

The Iron Butterfly.

The first. The best, or so their advertising claimed. Electronic billboards flashed all around the hotels, reflected back in their dark mirrored windows.

Gambling.

Dancers.

Shows.

Food.

Sex.

No such flair for The Butterfly—no. They simply unveiled their wares in brief bright pictures on their very walls.

Blackjack.

The most beautiful company in all of New City.

Faces illuminated as if by magic, each more attractive than the next. Nox watched them change and flicker until—

There he was—the lying piece of talent he’d had under him just a few hours before.

Cade
Creel
read the flowery script a second later.

“Stop here,” Nox said to the driver, who eased the vehicle to the nearest median. Traffic crept past them as Nox slid over a wad of neatly pressed bills through the opening in the Plexiglas divider.

“You have a good night, now,” the driver said as Nox slid out of the cab.

Nox straightened up, smoothing his tux as he looked up at the Iron Butterfly. As if by design, Cade’s face appeared once again.

“Let’s find out more about you, young man,” Nox murmured. He stuck his hands in his pockets and set off for the Butterfly.

Chapter Five

C
ADE
’
S
DRESSER
was named Killian, a whiz with a needle and thread, capable of turning any suit or tux into a slightly sluttier version. He loved working for Cade—at least that’s what he told him all the time—because his body was made perfectly for the current trend of menswear.

Lightweight material, body conscious, and all tucks and corners to accentuate the male form. Between Cade’s broad shoulders and slender waist, his alterations were mostly just to better show off his assets—and Killian’s ability to take in a pair of pants to accentuate Cade’s ass was legendary.

According to customer feedback.

Tonight’s ensemble was Kyto, a Japanese designer who did a retro thing Cade quite liked. Notched lapels on the jacket, a slight sheen to the midnight-black material of the vest and pants—everything tightly fitted to show off Cade’s muscular thighs and arms. The black-and-white polka-dotted tie and leather gloves were perfect finishing touches, as were the shiny black shoes.

He did a slow turn for the young tailor, earning a round of applause.

“Are you showing appreciation for my ass or your excellent work?” Cade asked, watching in the round mirror in the corner of Killian’s room as he smoothed his carefully done spiked hair. Clear mascara accented his hazel blue eyes, and an understated gloss drew attention to his lush mouth. The Friday-night regulars were in for a treat.

“Both,” Killian said with a wry twist of his mouth. In another life, Killian and Cade would probably be hanging at a tractor pull in South Carolina, bitching about the taste of the shit beer in the back row before disappearing behind a truck to swap blowjobs. Instead, they exchanged high-fives and Cade headed out the door to the casino floor to sell his body for a shitload of money.

Rachel met him at the model entrance, a narrow hallway lined with mirrors on both sides so they could make sure every visible inch of their bodies was ready for viewing. Cade watched himself move, checking out the way the suit curved around his body.

“You’re late,” Rachel called. She was wearing a tiny silver dress; more sequins than material, with a matching collar around her neck. Her hair, gathered, curled, and draped over her left shoulder, fell past her hem.

She gave him a peck on the cheek when he reached her; the five-inch fuck-me heels finally brought her to the height of his shoulder.

“You owe me five minutes at least,” he said, dry and bemused as he fiddled with his cuff links. “As your favorite and all.”

“It doesn’t matter. McClannaugh’s plane was delayed by weather. You have a free evening.”

Cade sighed. “If I had known, I would have slept longer.”

“I’m not running a spa, my love. You’re here to make money. Go out there and tease some wallets so I can book you up for the rest of the weekend.”

After a well-placed slap on the ass, the door opened and Cade stepped into the bright chaos of the Iron Butterfly’s main floor.

The posh luxury of the Iron Butterfly was miles away from the standard casino fare: no sirens or flashing lights, no machines spitting coins. Every game on the floor had a human behind it, every table designed for comfort. From the lavender-silk-draped ceilings and walls to the massive round light fixtures that looked like starbursts, the low lights and luxurious carpet, the curved seats—everything had been engineered to make you want to sit and gamble for hours.

Waitpersons in various states of barely dressed—each with a chain of butterflies tattooed around their neck for ready identification—circulated the floor, whispering offers of assistance. There were no menus at the Butterfly—ask and ye shall receive.

Cade walked down the center of the floor. The circle patterns were everywhere—subtly textured into the textiles, the rugs—including the way everything was laid out. Six bars were stationed within the room, ten gaming tables situated like spokes in a wheel around them. He skirted the outermost tables; those were reserved for the lowest-tier guests. A deposit of ten thousand dollars didn’t leave much room for him to make money.

The top-tier tables—those were his destination.

He caught some nods from regulars, smiles from waitstaff, and a wink from the second quadrant bartender, who was an insatiable flirt and hot enough to expect a promotion as soon as someone washed out.

At the far end, fanned out against the front of the building’s floor-to-ceiling windows, the top tier waited. Here sounds were muted, the staff-to-client ratio was one-to-one, and Cade could seed a week’s worth of business by bending over to pick up a dropped napkin.

Over at blackjack table one, Alec held court, a sultan’s sister giggling against his shoulder. She wore jewelry worth enough to feed a small country, sparkling against the black sheen of Alec’s suit. They made a striking couple.

Cade shifted over to the roulette wheel, where a small crowd had gathered to watch Mr. White perform his usual Friday-night routine. Cade caught the older man’s eye, then flashed a subtle thumbs-up, which gained him a gloriously bright smile from his favorite client. They exchanged a nod. Then Mr. White turned his attention back to his other favorite thing at the Iron Butterfly—gambling.

Twenty-five thousand dollars, as long as it would take him to lose, only at the wheel. Only bet red. Several whiskey rocks, a lobster dinner, and a reminder to Cade he would see him next Thursday. For their date.

The crowd—thankfully—gathered for the former, not the latter.

Cade lingered for a few minutes. Mr. White, looking like an extra from a James Bond film, cut a serious figure with his signature gray pompadour and a tuxedo that was at least thirty years old—the man rolled old school and classy from top to bottom.

Someone bumped against his arm, and Cade turned to bestow a charming smile on the person’s direction. Models never frowned. Models were always wrong and the customer was always entitled to whatever the hell they wanted.

“Sorry,” he said, focusing on the man standing next to him.

“No problem” came the smooth response.

Cade struggled to place the man—the neatly styled sable-brown hair and trimmed beard, the vintage tux that shone under the subdued lights of the casino floor. Put-together and drop-dead gorgeous, with technicolor blue eyes and lush eyelashes and the jaw of a matinee idol, just hanging around in the high rollers’ area.

This was Cade’s favorite type of customer.

He extended his hand, working the sleepy bedroom eyes like the pro he was. “Cade.”

“Patrick Mullens,” the man said, his voice husky and charming. He slipped his hand into Cade’s.

Firm, confident. Callused.

Cade blinked but never lost his game face. A working man’s rough palms hadn’t graced his presence very often; it was stranger yet to find them in the top-tier area.

“So, Mr. Mullens, what brings you to the Iron Butterfly tonight?” Cade angled his body towards him, brushing their arms together. “In the mood to win?”

“Always” was the response. Mr. Mullens did the full body scan—from the tips of Cade’s shiny black loafers all the way up to his face, where a big smile awaited. “Are you a good luck charm?”