Streets of Shadows Read online

I tense. I haven’t told him about the card thrown by the axe-man, the one tucked inside my pocket. Maybe I should have, but if Ahmed comes to the same conclusion I did, then it’s independent verification.

  Ahmed reaches for the deck squared on the bar, and I try not to flinch. He turns the top card over, the King of Diamonds, the only king holding an axe instead of a sword.

  “Let me guess, was this his card?” The coin stills in Ahmed’s hand, the hum of power fading. I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

  Without a word, I reach into my pocket and lay the card thrown by the killer beside Ahmed’s on the bar. The King of Diamonds, one corner stained with the dead man’s blood.

  “Were Sonny and Carmen…” I gesture at the deck, but Ahmed shakes his head.

  “I don’t think so. I think someone was using them.”

  “You can’t tell who?”

  “I can’t see far enough back.”

  “Then we need to find Carmen Estavez’s deck,” I say.

  Ahmed doesn’t answer. He’s still looking at the deck – hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs – Lady Luck’s family. His family.

  Most people think playing cards evolved from the Tarot, but it’s the other way around. And before there were cards of either kind, there was Ahmed and his extended family. The symbols changed over time - coins, cups, wands, leaves, spades – but the game continued. Some suits were forgotten, some walked away.

  But now two men are dead, and the King of Diamonds is uneasy on his throne, which makes me think maybe not everyone is as happy to be out of the game as Ahmed.

  “We need better luck,” I say.

  Ahmed startles. His pupils are wide, chasing the coin-colored ring of his irises into oblivion. But slowly, he comes back, his gaze focusing on me. This goes way beyond the favor he owes me. I wouldn’t blame him for telling me to go fuck myself, forgetting himself again, crawling back to his grifter games, fleecing tourists and desperate junkies for the last of their cash.

  The tilt of Ahmed’s shoulder changes ever so slightly - resignation. He already knows what I’m going to ask him, because he knows me. I push. One more round, one more match, one more championship, one day I’ll make it big and lay down the gloves for good. But instead of a swan song, I did a dead-duck dive. I burnt up all my luck, and there was Mayflower Jones, waiting for her shot at the spotlight, and I went down.

  Now all I’m left with is a ghost; I can still feel the luck, but I can’t twist it my way. Ahmed on the other hand, no matter how much luck he uses up in his little scams, there’s always more. Maybe that’s what comes from being one of the eldest of Lady Luck’s children, instead of a washed-up boxer/ex-supplicant, hanging out in her periphery. Or maybe She just isn’t a ladies dame.

  “Come on,” I say. “It’s time to go to the Temple.”

  * * *

  Like proper penitents, we enter the Temple Casino dressed in the physical manifestation of our humility and willingness to sacrifice for our cause. What else could you possibly call four inch heels thin as needles that send a spike of pain up my back with every step? It’s not just a temple in name, it’s one of the Lady’s holy places. We have to dress the part.

  “I still say the sequins would look better on you.” I lean toward Ahmed, murmuring low. Not that it matters. The snap of cards, the tick of the roulette wheel, the constant electronic clatter of slot machines and the general susurrus of laughter and hope overwhelm all other sounds. Every bet laid is a prayer in the Lady’s name. Hearts, clubs, diamonds, spades, every win and loss adds or takes power away from them, tipping the balance a little more, shifting the tides of the game within the game.

  The base of my spine itches; I can only imagine how Ahmed feels.

  “What do you need me to do?” I ask.

  My heels sink precariously in the deep pattern of the carpeted floor. I resist the urge to hike up my dress to give my legs more range of motion. The fabric hisses with every step – all beads and gleam, uncomfortable as fuck. Thankfully, no one from the Lucky Bitch ever makes it to this side of the strip. I’d never live it down.

  With the heels, I tower over Ahmed. He smirks, but he doesn’t look any more comfortable in his rented tux than I do in my slit-high, cut-low dress.

  “Over there.” He points at a bank of slot machines, handing me a white plastic card stamped with the casino’s logo, loaded with the credits that have replaced coins in modern machines.

  “I hate these things,” I say.

  Ahmed shrugs. I wonder about what he’s not saying; the less people use coins in casinos, the less his symbol changes hands in a temple of Luck, the less the balance of power tips his way. And the more chance he has of being forgotten. I also wonder why I’m trying to goad him. Ahmed’s a friend, and he’s going above and beyond for me. Maybe it’s because this whole thing has me spooked, because it’s got my skin itching and it’s got me thinking about Mel again. Or maybe it’s just the high heels and sequins putting me in a bad mood.

  I bite down on the words good luck as Ahmed walks away. I almost call after him; my presence here is pointless at best, and maybe a detriment at worse. The Lady doesn’t want to hear from me. Whatever luck I had, I burned it up in that last fight with Mayflower Jones. In the eighth round, I was hurting. Bad. My left eye was swollen shut. I was dead on my feet. But I wouldn’t quit. Only luck got me through to the next round. I could have taken a dive in the ninth. There was good money riding on me doing just that; I could have even gotten a cut. I could have walked away proud, a graceful exit for a boxer at the end of her career. But I pushed. I called on the Lady one last time. And she shut me out.

  I felt it. Whatever scraps of luck I’d been able to pull throughout my career to get me this far – gone, snuffed, like a flame. Then there was Mayflower’s fist, setting off a supernova in my jaw and I was down. For the count and for good.

  Shaking off the memories, I totter to the nearest slot machine, parking myself as Ahmed blends in, one of a dozen men in tuxedoes and suits so sharp they could cut. Luck can be capricious, I remind myself. Maybe after all these years, the Lady’s changed her mind. At very least, maybe she won’t scorn Ahmed to spite me. My button-press spins add to the luck in the room, and I watch him do his work.

  A craps table is his first stop. The glow is faint as he shakes dice, bouncing the bones lightly off the green felt background so they land just where he wants them. Just enough to keep him in the game. He loses his fourth roll, exactly when he means to, and passes the dice to the next guest, expression intent. In the instant before the dice leave the man’s hand, Ahmed plucks at the air near the man’s sleeve, as if catching an invisible thread. Then he’s gone, bowing out so smoothly, none of the other players remember he was there.

  A waitress deems me worthy of a free drink, and I do my best not to suck it down. Ahmed’s moving around the room, the shine around him growing stronger, threads of luck shimmering behind him like a web. He plucks one from a man playing video poker, another from a woman at the roulette wheel. I’m entranced, forgetting the animated spin of my slot machine.

  This time, the displacement of air is a physical force – a sudden drop in cabin pressure, stealing my breath and making the lights dim. Ahmed goes still. The space behind him is empty, and then it’s full. Even though it’s precisely what I was hoping for, it still startles me when the Lady appears.

  Coins and poker chips spill from her hair. A flurry of playing cards swirls around her feet. A roulette wheel, all blinking lights at its rim, rises behind her like wings, or a glorious crown. The Lady places her hands on Ahmed’s shoulders, then catches my eye. All the breath leaves my body again. Lady Luck winks at me. Then she’s gone.

  A waitress touches my elbow, breaking the spell. The room snaps back into focus, suddenly over-loud with the chime of slot machines.

  “From the lady.”

  I blink at the waitress as she lifts an envelope from her tray and holds it out to me. At first I think she means the Lady, but s
he gestures with the envelope I still haven’t taken.

  “Over there.” All I catch is a flash of silk – a harlequin pattern of black and red disappearing around the corner.

  “Thank you.” I take the envelope and hurry to collect Ahmed. Looks like Lady Luck hasn’t forsaken me after all.

  The elevator doors are just sliding closed as I pull Ahmed into the lobby. The lighted numbers count all the way to the top.

  “What’s that?”

  I slit the envelope open as Ahmed asks, using one of the fake nails done up in gold glitter to match my ridiculous dress. At least they’re good for something. Inside, there’s a plastic keycard for the penthouse floor. I grin and stab the button for the elevator.

  “Our lucky break.”

  There’s no number next to the slit in the shiny brass plate in the elevator, but the keycard fits and we’re going up. It’s not until the elevator starts to rise that I realize how tired Ahmed looks. He leans his head against the rich wood paneling, closing his eyes. His normally dark skin looks pale, cheeks hollow and sunken.

  “Hey.” I touch his wrist. “Are you okay?”

  Ahmed opens one lid, the gold coin of his eye turning to me, but he doesn’t answer.

  “Thank you for what you did back there. I couldn’t do this on my own.”

  The faintest of smiles touches Ahmed’s lips, but they’re pale, too – startling against the stubble thickening into a beard.

  “I do have some professional pride.” He pushes himself upright as the elevator doors open, and I know he’s not talking about grifting. His shoulders are straight as we reach the penthouse door, but I can see the tension.

  Just as I’m wondering whether to knock, the penthouse doors open and a bouncer bigger than any I’ve met in my years working the strip frowns down at me – not an easy feat in my four inch heels. I flash my best smile, holding the don’t-fuck-with-me stance in reserve in case things go south. I flash the keycard after the smile. The bouncer scowls, but lets us inside.

  It’s like stepping into a different world. Winter, to be precise. Long tables covered in elegant beds of ice hold frosted bottles of vodka and champagne, alongside glittering pyramids of glasses. There are oysters and caviar and delicate sorbets. Scattered between the tables are long, winter-stripped branches set artfully in oversized vases.

  “Woah,” Ahmed says. “Swanky.”

  Where we blended before, we look gaudy now, but it’s too late. The woman in the harlequin-patterned dress catches my eye, leaning against a luminous bar the color of freshwater pearls, lined with more bottles and glasses. Amidst the ice, she’s the one spot of color, toying with a cherry from a drink of the same shade. I tug Ahmed’s sleeve, pulling him after me.

  “I see you got my invitation,” the woman says without preamble.

  Her gaze flicks to Ahmed for a moment, and I can’t tell if it’s discomfort or dismissal when her attention comes back to me. She takes my measure with an amused glance, lingering on my feet with a mischievous grin.

  “No one would think you’re gauche if you slip those things off. It’s already clear you don’t fit in.”

  She touches my cheek, runs her finger along my jaw where I’ve done my clumsy best using make-up to cover the bruise. My pulse does something complicated, and I remember how long it’s been since I last got laid. Then I’m thinking about how much longer it’s been since I kissed a woman. Not since Mel. And my pulse kicks into a different rhythm.

  “Jo.” The woman holds out her hand, breaking my reverie. Her nails are evenly divided between the same cherry red as her beverage and black. It takes me a moment to realize she’s holding a card – a playing card, of course.

  “The Lady hates doing her own dirty work,” Jo says. I glance at the card. The motley fool keeping a quartet of suit-symbols circling through the air. Jo. The Joker. Of course.

  “Maybe she’s getting old.” Jo’s lips quirk upward again; behind me, I feel Ahmed stiffen.

  Jo’s still looking at me, though, ignoring him. I snag one of the glasses on the bar, chilled to perfection, and pour from an expensive-looking bottle that refuses to do anything so crass as advertise its brand.

  “So how do you fit into all this?” I ask. I’m trying to play it cool, too cool, and from the expression in Jo’s eyes, I can tell she sees right through me. At least I didn’t offer to light her cigarette, or ask what a classy dame like her is doing in a joint like this.

  “I’m an agent of chaos.” Jo taps the card in my hand with one perfectly manicured nail. “I don’t owe allegiance to any suit. And for you, I’m your lucky break.”

  “Oh?”

  “Carmen Estavez had a pack of cards on him when died, one that was no longer with him by the time his body found its way to the morgue.”

  I don’t bother to ask how she knows. Jo reaches into a beaded clutch bag, red and black, like her dress, like her nails. As she rummages, I notice there are bells woven into her long, blonde hair.

  “Ta da!” She produces a square package, wrapped in a black silk handkerchief. I stare at the deck without unwrapping it. Jo frowns; it’s slight, only mock serious.

  “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

  Without saying anything, Ahmed shifts his weight, drawing my attention. I’d almost forgotten he was there. The back of my neck prickles. For just an instant, Jo’s frown deepens, becoming more than mock-serious, then her expression clears like quick-silver.

  “Well, maybe some other time,” she says. “You have my card.”

  Her fingers trail across my arm as she sweeps past me. Despite myself, the flesh puckers tight, every one of my hairs standing on end.

  “Are you done flirting?” Ahmed’s voice is low, strained.

  “Just about.” I down the rest of my drink, ignoring the burn.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Ahmed steers me toward the door, and once we’re through asks, “You really didn’t feel it?”

  “What?”

  “It’s not just Jo. That place was crawling with cards.”

  The way he’s looking at me makes my skin prickle in a whole new way, about one hundred and eighty degrees opposite from the effect produced by Jo. It’s more than incredulous; it’s expectant. After a moment though, Ahmed shakes his head and moves toward the elevator.

  I weigh the wrapped deck of cards, oddly reluctant to open it.

  “That was too easy,” Ahmed says, breaking the silence. I tuck the deck into my bag, trying not to be relieved by the distraction.

  “Yeah. Luck is one thing, but the whole thing doesn’t add up. If the King of Diamonds could just pop in and out of the casino without using the door, why bother to use Sonny Malone as a distraction? Unless he was flexing his muscles, proving that he could get one of his minions to off himself?”

  I look to Ahmed for confirmation. The strange expression is back on his face – looking at and through me.

  “Or, someone wanted to get your attention.”

  “Why would the King of Diamonds want my attention?”

  “Who said it was him?”

  * * *

  The thing about Las Vegas is, it’s a city of illusion. It makes you think you’re about to hit the jackpot when you’re really on the cusp of losing it all. It makes you think the night is still young when it’s almost dawn, and you’ve spent it all laying bets against money you don’t have. It’s a magic show, a city where you can rent luxury cars by the hour to feel like a big shot, where they keep lions in hotels, and run a roller coaster through a replica of Manhattan, where you can dine under the Eiffel Tower and visit the pyramids in a single day without setting foot on a plane.

  But all that glitz can be blinding. That’s the real magic trick: It makes you want to believe. Maybe the magician really did cut his lovely assistant in two. Maybe the stripper really did fall in love with the boxer and ask her to take her away from it all.

  I work the bag over, sweat slicking skin, muscles burning. Idina, the gym’s owner, has a framed poster
up on the wall: Athena Washington, back in her glory days. Back before I hit the mat because I refused to take a fall. Idina lets me use the place whenever I want, free of charge. But tonight, no amount of punching lessens the ache in my jaw – the ghost of Mayflower Jones, written along the bone. It does fuck all for the tension between my shoulder blades, or the low-grade headache squatting in my skull. It does nothing for the fact that I want a drink so bad I’m almost shaking, and nothing to kill the nagging feeling prickling at the back of my neck.

  I think about Ahmed’s words, about someone wanting me in game. But who? Not the King of Diamonds, surely. Someone in his court? Maybe Sonny Malone was in over his head and picked a fight hoping I would save his life, and when things went south, he bit down on a poison capsule rather than facing the King’s wrath. But that doesn’t add up either.

  And where does Carmen Estavez fit? I still haven’t unwrapped his deck. I’ve been avoiding it, and I’m not sure why. Scratch that. Yes I do. It’s because of Mel. It’s because I can’t shake the idea all this has something to do with her, and I can’t shake the idea that Ahmed’s right. Sonny Malone died for no other reason than the make me sit up and take notice.

  The rhythm of glove against bag falters.

  “Shit.” I pull off the gloves, unwinding the tape from my knuckles.

  My bag slouches in the corner of the ring, and I slump down beside it, toweling off and retrieving my water bottle. The wrapped deck of cards lies beneath it. I retrieve it, feeling its weight in my hand.

  I don’t remember the night Mel disappeared, not clearly. Chances are I was drunk. What I do remember is waking up alone, the blinds rucked high, throwing blade-sharp sunlight all over the messy bed. I remember cursing, knowing I would never leave the blinds that wide open - I’m not a morning person – thinking it must have been Mel’s form of revenge for something I did the night before.

  It was a moment before it hit, and then it hit all at once. No smell of coffee from the small, cramped kitchen; the indent in Mel’s pillow, the perfect shape of absence. Her boots weren’t by the door, her jacket not on the hook. The closet was still half full of her clothes, but I knew she wouldn’t be coming back for them. No note on the refrigerator, just a single playing card, the Queen of Hearts, wedged under the light switch plate by the door. Just that, and a cold feeling, a sluggish beat to my pulse, and the memory of alcohol still thick on my tongue.