The Troubleshooter: Hard Luck Grift Read online

  I gave him my best playful grin. "You look like your better days are behind you, Newman."

  "Just trying to blend in with the locals, Mick. Can't do that in a champagne suit and wingtips."

  "Well, hopefully this won't last long. Just until I can stash you somewhere safe."

  He barked a wry laugh. "Forgive me if I doubt your ability to keep me safe. It's because of you I'm in this situation in the first place."

  "I don't recall being on terms with the particular wise guys you were rubbing elbows with, Newman. If they turned on you, how's that my fault?"

  "The Red-Eyed Killer deal. And the mess you caused because of it. People saw us together right before you got bent and whacked Big Louie and Pike. Wasn't hard for word to get out that I'd been involved somehow. People got nervous; I got put on a hit list. If I wasn't always two steps ahead, I'd have been smoked. So yeah, you had something to do with that."

  "Knowing too much is a double-edged sword, Ace. But I pulled through and got you outta there, right?"

  His expression turned incredulous. "Yeah, you did. Now I'm dormy at a homeless shelter in New Haven's worst locale. That wasn't what I had in mind when I came to you."

  I tried to hide my snigger and almost succeeded. "Gotta admit, it's the last place anyone would look for you."

  He glared. "Is there something you want?"

  "Yeah. Got a pic I'm sending to you. Lady calls herself Faye. I need to know who she really is."

  "This for a case?"

  "Does it matter? I'm sending it now."

  He paused, looking at something off camera. "Okay, I got it. I can see why you're so interested. She's a looker."

  "Nothing to do with it."

  "Sure it doesn't." He frowned. "Nothing comes up on the public databases. Your moll is a ghost."

  "She's not my moll."

  "Sure she's not. Look, this is going to take a while. I'll get back to you when I hit pay dirt."

  "Fine. Just be sure to call me back."

  "I can tell you one thing without having to dig for it."

  "What's that?"

  "Walk away, Mick. A girl like this is guaranteed to be trouble."

  "Thanks for the unwarranted advice, Newman. Get back with me when you get something warranted." I clicked the End button, terminating the conversation.

  Leaning back in the leather cushioned seat, my mind drifted back to the moment in the alley. Rain sparkling in the light, Faye's mouth on mine, the rawness of her kiss. For a single moment, I felt like she let me in. Let me see what lay behind her sad smiles and cool façade. For the first time since I met her, I finally saw her for what she really was.

  She was fire.

  Part 3: Deuces Wild

  I don't usually sleep, but when I do, I sleep like the dead. So when the buzzer sounded, it took a full minute for me to rouse myself from dreams of dark, churning waters and searing fire. I sat up, rubbing the images from my eyes. The blackout tint on the windows brightened with my movements, blinding me with slivers of morning sun that flashed between tenement silhouettes and morning air traffic.

  I groaned, shielding my face. The java machine in the corner nook automatically dispersed a steaming cup of Joe, which slid my direction into my outstretched hand. I sipped it black while trying to figure out what awakened me in the first place. The buzzer repeated its irritating ring as a reminder. I staggered to the wall console and clicked it on.

  Faye's composed face greeted me from the monitor. She was flawless as ever, her raven hair perfectly coiffed, and her dress without a single wrinkle. One of her eyebrows lifted in wry amusement. I imagined it was because I looked just the opposite. Bleary-eyed with a crop of fresh stubble on my chin, and with my hair disheveled like a drunken seagull's nest I was pretty sure I wasn't doing much to impress.

  "Well hello, Ms. Faye. To what do I owe the pleasure of a personal visit?"

  "Hello, Mick. Are you feeling well? You look..."

  "Like a cat dunked in a vat of ice water? Just not a morning person, is all. I clean up something fierce, though."

  A smile toyed with the corner of her mouth. "Well, if it's not a bother, I'd like to have a word with you."

  "Still swooning over that kiss? I have that effect sometimes. Don't worry, the euphoria will wear off after a while."

  "Cute. Can I come up?"

  I took a backward glance at my tiny apartment. It wasn't much to brag about. Aside from a minuscule kitchenette and a bathroom, there was a mattress on the floor, a battered sofa in front of the picjector, a small corner desk, and a punching bag in the corner. My clothes were scattered wherever they would find a place to rest. Pretty sure a deodorizer was probably in order, too.

  I turned back to the monitor. "Tell you what. Give me a few shakes to throw some rags on, and I'll meet you across the street at Archie's. They serve up a frittata so good it'll make you bawl like a baby."

  ARCHIE'S WAS A DIVE fashioned after the pre-Cataclysm diners. It was a long, streamlined, freestanding building clad in stainless steel siding, adorned with neon lighting and art deco accents. Sure, the siding had lost some of its luster, and the parking lot was so busted up it looked like the remains of a military bombing strike, but they cooked up some of the best grub you can find in the Flats.

  I dug into a sausage and potatoes frittata, while Faye went the healthy route with a spinach and feta. Her face brightened as she chewed.

  "You're right, Mick. This really is something."

  "Ain't it, though?" I sipped steaming java from an oversized mug. "Can't start my day without some chow from Archie's. Just wouldn't be right."

  I figured she'd tell me what she wanted whenever she got ready. Wasn't in a rush. Something about Faye's company made the stretches of silence worth it. Every moment was like a coin dropped in a tin cup, slowing adding up over time.

  I studied her over the rim of my mug, trying to figure out what it was about her that triggered my arousal without seemingly even trying. She sat there with an elegance that couldn't be faked; statuesque in a red rose-embroidered dress that stood out like a work of art against the rich green of the diner walls. I felt a jumble of conflicting emotions—lust, protectiveness, affection, but what topped it all was a comfort of presence, a calming effect I couldn't find with anyone else. I almost hated to consider what that actually meant.

  Her dark eyes met mine. "Don't look at me like that."

  "Like what?"

  "Like you're considering romantic notions."

  I smiled. "Am I that obvious?"

  "Men always are. You are creatures of passion, enslaved to emotion because you don't understand what it truly is."

  "And you're not?"

  "No. I learned a long time ago never to let my emotions cloud my mind."

  "So no attachments, then? No sentimentality?"

  "No. Attachments are shackles. Light as a feather at first, but able to drag you down at the moment you least expect. If you want to make it as a gambler, you can have nothing you won't put on the table if the game calls for it."

  "Sounds like a lonely way to live."

  "Many people confuse being alone with being lonely. I am not lonely."

  "I don't buy it. Everyone has someone they care about. You telling me you never caught the love bug? Never fell head over heels for that irresistible someone?"

  Her eyes grew distant. "There was a man. In Singapore. He was...good to me."

  I suppressed a stab of jealousy. "Did you love him?"

  She remained silent for so long I thought she might have misheard my question. Her lips pursed together as if her words were too precious to release.

  "I might have. Who knows such things? I thought he may have loved me. So I did the best thing for us both."

  "Which was?"

  "I let him go."

  "Just like that?"

  She took a sip of her chai tea. "A clean break heals the fastest."

  A silence stretched between us, and we were content. Faye finished her meal, pausing t
o dab her cherry lips with a napkin before speaking again.

  "About last night."

  I nodded. "You need my help. Consider it yours."

  "You didn't even hear my offer."

  "Don't need to. You're obviously in a jam of some sort. Details don't matter. Helping people getting out of trouble is my specialty. For you, it's a pleasure."

  A genuine smile brightened her face. "You're a good man, Mick."

  "Don't hold it against me, darling."

  Her eyes dropped downward for a second, uncomfortable for the first time since I'd known her. "My...trouble spans a long time. It has history. Follows me like some feral beast that never tires out, always trails after my scent. The man from last night is just a small part of that. He was a warning."

  I heard a sound like walnuts cracking. It was my knuckles, straining against the skin in pale ridges from how tightly my fists clenched. "Yeah, I know all about warnings. What do I need to do?"

  "Partner with me one last time."

  "You going somewhere?"

  "This will be a big score. Enough for me to disappear."

  "No one disappears except the dead, Faye. And even then the bodies wash up eventually. Better to square things up once and for all."

  She stared out the window, sunlight glimmering in her eyes. "What I owe can never be squared up. Will you help me?"

  I leaned back in my seat and took another swig of java. "You need to ask? Count me in."

  "The Pale Horse is hosting a high stakes poker tournament tonight. Buy in starts at five hundred large, with cash out possibilities as high as fifty mil. Maybe more. I have enough to buy in for myself. What about you?"

  I didn't bat an eyelash. "Not even close. But no worries on that score, sweetheart. I know a guy."

  DRAGO'S INCREDULOUS stare would've been comical if I'd been in a humorous state of mind. I wasn't.

  He shifted his rounded shoulders, tugging at the collar that looked to be strangling his massive neck. "Mick. You have been doing so well. Tab is almost paid in full. My boss has been pleased with how things are turning. Why would you want to ruin it all now?"

  The casino traffic was light. Tourists and amateurs listlessly pulled slots here and there, but the action was on hold until the regulars and high rollers showed up. Nothing is more depressing than a near-empty casino. It was practically haunted by the ghosts of broken gamblers.

  I shrugged and pulled a gasper from the deck, letting it dangle between my lips without lighting it. It bobbed up and down with my reply.

  "Come on, Drago. You know I'm on the ups. It's a perfect time to buy into the big league. You know—let Lady Luck work her magic. I got this down pat, I'm telling you."

  He shook his head with a heavy sigh. "What is use? I have seen this time and again, Mick. It never works out the way you think it does. But it is your funeral, I suppose."

  "That's right, Drago. So remember to bring flowers. Or better yet, bring me that five large."

  "I have to get my boss to sign off. You understand? She will have her eye on you now. No postponements like before."

  I lit my gasper, inhaling the poison with a smirk. "I'm not going anywhere, Ace. Give Madam Goryacheva my regards."

  He stared like I'd hurt his feelings before stomping over to a nearby desk, where he dialed upstairs. I strolled to the barkeep and ordered a whiskey sour. I'd just taken the first sip when Drago returned, handing me a microcard.

  "Five hundred grand, like you asked." He had the sorrowful look of a man handing over a death warrant.

  "Much obliged, Drago." I slide the card across the holoband on my wrist and watched the display light up like New Year's fireworks. "And don't get all teary-eyed on me, Mack. You're looking at a certified winner in the flesh."

  "If you say so, Mick." His expression said he didn't believe a word of it, but that still didn't stop him from trying to break all of my fingers with his farewell handshake.

  THE GAME WAS IN THE Red Room, a VIP private player's lounge at the Pale Horse. Dim lights, soft carpeting, and a single table where the high rollers came to play. Tiny drones hummed silently overhead, recording every move, every facial tick, every card shuffle. The entranceway doubled as an x-ray scanner, preventing any cybernetic augmentations to enter the vicinity. As I walked in, security was dragging away some skel in a cheap suit that had just been nabbed trying to get into the game with enhanced pupils. His frightened gaze caught mine as we passed; two men going opposite directions in more ways than one. That's what life was like in Bayside. Divided unequally, but in only two camps: winners and losers.

  Six other players waited with Faye at the table. They were a wildly diverse assortment of characters. I recognized No-Nose Nate, a flamboyant capo from the Flacco crime family. His tailored glad rags were on point, but he contrasted the dark threads with the loudest canary yellow—from his tie and hankie set to the hatband on his Trilby. His prosthetic nose was plated in the finest silver, which glinted as if newly polished, throwing flickers of light across the room.

  There was Steve Cash, a corporate scumbag who made a fortune manipulating stocks and laundering dibs for unsavory customers. He wore casual rags and oversized shades to cover the fact he was in over his head among the current crop of players.

  Dick Styles was an edgy fashion designer popular with the brat crowd, playing renegade with urban wear that got most of his clientele profiled by the cops. His personal style was the polar opposite—elegant in a velvet smoking jacket over his tweed vest and slacks. He chatted amicably with Dean Norton, a premier film actor with a penchant for daredevil behavior.

  The group was rounded out by Harry Gutierrez, a tiny woman with a pixie cut and stylish tuxedo who happened to be the proprietor of the most popular underground gambling ring in New Haven. She was known to come up for air in a legal game on rare occasions, usually to clean her opponents out.

  Faye was already there when I showed up. Her expression remained cool, fixed in flawless nonchalance, but I saw the flicker of relief in her eyes. She didn't know if I was going to make it or not. Felt good to surprise her.

  The dealer was a synoid named Felix. Tall, slim, angular-faced, with a pencil mustache. He looked human the way all synthetic humanoids do, like an intricately detailed mannequin might look if you glanced at it. Too perfect to be human, which left him just a creepy facsimile of a real person. He gave me a polite nod as I took my seat.

  "Mr. Trubble. Thank you for joining us."

  "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Mack."

  A discreet cocktail waitress silently floated by with drinks. She set a Bulleit Neat on a napkin beside me, a reminder of the surveillance that tracked not only your actions, but your habits as well.

  I grinned and downed the bourbon in one swallow. "So. Who's ready to gamble?"

  IN POKER, IT'S JUST as important to know the players as it is to know what's in their hands. Players generally fall into certain categories of behavior. The play-it-safe types, the by-the-book types, the maniacs, the noobs, the sharks. No-Nose Nate was a maniac. A fiend for action, he liked to stir the pot with big bets for no logical reason, all the while shooting off with bad beat stories like we were all close friends. Just when it seemed a recipe for complete disaster, he'd hit big and make the rest of us look like amateurs. It was aggravating, but only a matter of time before his luck ran dry and he busted out.

  I'd pegged Dean Norton for a noob, because he lost chips like a dispenser the first few rounds. But I quickly picked up that he only lost small hands, trickling dibs until he got everyone relaxed. Then the dagger struck, revealing him to be a shark in disguise. Pretty impressive. Turned out Dick Styles was the noob, busting out after betting the house on an obvious bluff. He laughed it off as he left the table. I figured it was just a regular night for a rube like him.

  Steve Cash turned out to be pretty damn passive, despite his flashy last name and background. He folded early and often, and refused to take any betting risks. He'd just scowl at his cards like they were pi
ctures of his ex-wives, betting in the most timid fashion I'd ever encountered. It was like he was scared of winning anything. Only a matter of time before the antes increased and his stash slowly burned out.

  I didn't pay him much mind. Same for No-Nose Nate. I kept my focus on Harry and Dean. Faye was technically an opponent, but our agreement ahead of time made us allies with an even split no matter who won the final pot. There wasn't much wiggle room for any sort of codes or signals, but neither of us really needed them. We'd formed an instinctual sort of bond by that point, and knew each other's styles and habits on a near intimate level.

  Besides, I was in a zone.

  I like to think I hate mathematics and probability, but the time with Faye at the tables taught me I had a natural talent for it. Things just clicked, allowing me to predict values and odds, almost as if I could see what cards where in the other players hands. After a few rounds, I felt like a magician, making the cards dance to strings only I could see. After a while, even ol' Harry gave a disbelieving grunt when I topped her quads with a straight flush. The antes raised, the chips stacked higher, and the cards flew faster.

  Steve Cash flew into a savage rage when he busted his bankroll, and had to be dragged out by security goons, all the while accusing us of being every sort of cheater. The play resumed in short order, after another round of drinks.

  "Think I don't know what's going on?" No-Nose Nate leered behind a cloud of gasper smoke. "You and the china doll. Trying to be all cute and partner up, get an edge on the winnings. What did the broad tell you—that she'd split the pot?" He sniggered and pushed thirty grand in black chips forward, raising the bet. "Yeah, I bet she did. You might not know it since you're new to the high roller suite, but your moll's got a bit of a reputation."