God,what a question. The worst part about it was the cold lump in the pitof his stomach at the thought the answer might be no.
“Idon’t know what this is about. Your boss wants to talk to me, that’sfine. But at least let me call my girlfriend. Just to tell her I’mgoing to be late—”
Themuscle patted him down, found the phone, tossed it on the concretesidewalk.
Acar was waiting outside. The quiet one opened the door; the New Yorkthug pointed Ben inside. Ben didn’t fight, didn’t argue, didn’tresist—he didn’t want to get punched or pounded. That really would wakeup the monster. And while that might get him out of this immediatesituation, he couldn’t see how it would help in the long run. So hewaited.
Thewindows in the sedan were tinted. They blindfolded him anyway. Onlythen did he start to lose it: heart fluttering, breaths coming ingasps. He curled his hands into fists and dug them into his thighs—andthe creature inside him snarled, from a place like a cage, deep in hisgut.
Hehad to keep it together himself this time. Kitty wasn’t here to holdhis hand.
Whatwas she going to think? What if she thought he’d run off, stood her up?Part of her would. Part of her was still an insecure pup. Amazing,considering what she’d been through, how well she stood up for herselfunder the gun—and she hardly realized it.
Thinkingof her steadied him. Just like holding her hand would have. He had toget through this for her. She often talked about her wolf side like itwas a separate entity. Like the two sides argued, conversed. Themetaphor was useful. He’d adopted it. It let him say, Down,boy.
Hepressed his lips together to keep from smiling at that thought. Hedidn’t imagine the tough guys would take his smiling too well. The thugbeside him was the kind of guy who would think it was all about him.
Theyarrived. The car stopped, and the blindfold came off. The locationwas seedy. Seedier than seedy. The kind of old industrial neighborhoodwhere the windows were smashed out of the warehouses and weeds grew afoot high out of cracks in the asphalt. By the distance they’dtraveled, Ben judged they were on the outskirts of town—the deadbeat,dried-up outskirts, not the gentrified suburbs. The building they’dparked by was concrete, wind-blasted and pockmarked. Tiny windows hadbars over them anyway. It was the kind of place that didn’t have asign—didn’t need one. The line of motorcycles out front said it all.This was the kind of bar that didn’t want tourists snooping around. Hecould hear music pounding from within.
Hisescort brought him through the front door, then straight through thebar and pool tables and bikers. Didn’t give him a chance to lookaround; not that he needed one. He knew the stereotypes well enough,and the smirk he wore came naturally. But maybe it would give him somearmor. Keep him from looking a little less like a hopeless guy in overhis head.
Theynext passed through a door in back, and into another world. Ben’sprotective smirk fell.
Fromthe outside, this had all looked like more concrete warehouses, autobody shops, and so on. Here, the interior was straight out of abordello in a Victorian novel. Red plush carpeting, burgundy curtainsheld back by gold tasseled cords—not that there were any windows tocover. Sofas, chaise lounges, wingback chairs. Men in suits, smokingcigarettes and cigars like chimneys, gathered around poker games atseveral green felt tables. He wrinkled his nose to keep from sneezingat the odor. Draped over all—men and furniture both—were a dozen womenin lingerie. Like they were part of the decoration. In the back, abeaded curtain marked the entrance to a hallway. Ben could make out arow of doors. So this wasn’t just a bar.
Itwas like something out of a bad movie. Kitty has got tosee this. Heshut down the pang that came with the thought.
Inthe middle of it all sat the guy who had to be the boss. The guy whowas the source of all this ostentatious bad taste. Thin, weedy, hairobviously dyed black because he hadn’t bothered touching up his grayingeyebrows. Old, weathered. Like he’d moved up through the ranks andspent a lot of time laughing at pain. That’s what the hard look in hiseyes said.
Anold-school gangster. Pure and simple.
Ben’sescorts—one on each side—brought him to stand before the table wherethis guy was shuffling cards and nursing a bourbon on ice. The bossdidn’t look at Ben for what seemed like a long time. Making him wait,making him sweat. Ben concentrated on breathing, and not sweating. Hecould wait. He had to, didn’t he? But the smell of the women—the musky,wet smell of sex that edged the room’s atmosphere—was making himnervous. Making him want to be with Kitty even more than he already did.
Theboss shuffled the cards, slowly, like it was the most important task inthe world. Taking a deep breath, almost a sigh, he said, “So you’re thejoker who spotted my ring. Ratted me out.”
God,straight out of a bad movie. Could this getany cheesier?
“I guess I am,” Ben said.
Then,the guy looked at him. His hands paused. Brown eyes studied him. “Youknow who I am?”
Bensuppressed a smile, because wasn’t that just the right level ofarrogance? “I’m afraid not. I think I got into this by accident.”
“I’mSamuel Faber. And you are—”
“Ben.”He thought, pretend this is a movie. Just play it cool. Keep hishindbrain from panicking—at least any more than it already was.
Fabercut the deck and set the cards aside. “I want to know how you did it.”
“Ijust have a nose for these things.”
“Sitdown. Show me.” One of the goons pulled a chair out and glared at Benuntil he sat in it.
Howwas he going to explain this? His guys smelled funny. They twitchedwhen there weren’t any cards in play, giving signals. They had aspotter, and he could feel them listening. When he looked, he sawthe earpieces. It was all sleight of hand and he only saw it becausehe was a werewolf.
Nothingfor it but to play poker. Faber called over one of the girls, a bottledredhead in a black satin teddy, silk robe, and spike
