The Long Way Down (10 page)

“Set the demon free on the spot?” Bentley said. “Oh, yes, most assuredly, at which point it will thank you with a wet and messy death. Oh, and you’ll have succeeded in unleashing a free-willed menace upon the world to spread havoc and misery however it pleases.”

Corman shook his head. “Bad play, kiddo.”

“Don’t suppose I’d have any chance in a straight-up fight?” I asked.

Bentley tapped his bony finger against his chin. “You’re talking about an incarnate demon with at least a few centuries of power and experience. How do I draw a comparison for you? Let’s see. Cormie, what was that delightful science fiction movie we watched last weekend?”

“
The Terminator
,” Corman grunted.

“
The Terminator
.” Bentley nodded. “Have you seen it, Daniel? You might find it instructional.”

• • •

I had hoped to come home with answers. Instead I brought back a fifth of Bacardi, a two-liter bottle of Coke, and a microwave pizza from the convenience store down the block. I knew I’d been having too many nights like this in a row since Roxy left, but it was a comfortable rut.

I booted up my laptop and got things ready. Time to call Artie. I kept a box of burners in my closet, cheap Nokia flip-phones with a few hours of prepaid time for jobs like this one.

“Mr. Kaufman?” I said when he picked up, trying to sound harried and breathless. “I’m so sorry to bother you this late, I’m sure you’re busy. This is Peter, Peter Greyson from this morning? Paolo’s friend?”

“Hey, Pete!” he boomed. “How the hell are ya? Sorry we had to cut things short, bro.”

“Totally understand, you’re a busy man. I didn’t leave my wallet over there, did I? I dropped it somewhere, and I’ve been going nuts trying to find it all afternoon.”

“As a matter of fact, you did. I found it in the sofa cushions just like, five minutes ago. I was about to call you and let you know.”

I exhaled with mock relief. “Oh, man, thank you, you’re a lifesaver.”

“So, Pete,” he said slowly, building himself up to it, “you said you’re a collector. Paolo said you might be able to get, you know, some really rare videos?”

“I have one that you might like. Listen, normally I’d share it for free since you’re my favorite director, but I’m in a little jam here—”

“Say no more, bro. We’re both men of the world. It’s all ups and downs, am I right? So how do you feel about a nice fat stack of cash in your hand? I can make that happen, if you’ve really got what I’m looking for.”

“Oh, I’ve got what you’re looking for.”

“Yeah?” he breathed. I felt like a phone-sex operator, getting him all hot and bothered. Grimacing, I tapped my keyboard.

“I’m not saying anything on a phone line, you know, but, well, listen to this.”

Before calling Artie, I had logged on to Netflix and took a quick spin through the horror section. I’d queued up a one-star-rated film described as “raw, brutal torture porn” and paused it on a scene where a masked killer with a drill was terrorizing a naked co-ed.

I held my phone up to the cheap computer speakers and hit play, treating Artie to six seconds of flesh-tearing shrieks. The special effects were terrible, but I bet the screams sounded pretty believable on his end of the line.

“Just saying,” I murmured into the phone, hitting pause.

“Holy shit, bro.”

“It’s three hours long. Her throat gives out about two hours in, though.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, “yeah, I think we can do business. Hey, my usual poker night is tomorrow. Why don’t you come on by, sit in for a few hands, chill with us, and then we can have a private viewing?”

“Wow, I haven’t played poker in years,” I said, “but I guess I can give it a shot. You guys play for real money?”

“Five-hundred-dollar buy-in. You could make some real money, you play your cards right.”

“I don’t know. I really need every dollar I can scrape together right now. Five hundred’s just about everything I have left.”

“Come on,” Artie said, “trust me, these guys I play with are chumps. You’ll probably steamroller them. Every dollar counts, right? And even if you lose, I’m gonna pay you a lot more than that for the video. You walk out with cash in your pocket, no matter how it goes down.”

I counted silently to five, letting the tension simmer. “Oh, all right, I’m in. What the hell, right? Could be fun.”

I promised to be there at seven sharp and hung up the phone. The poker invitation stank like a rotten fish. He wanted the video that badly, practically drooling into the phone, but we couldn’t meet to trade it before the game started? Or tonight, even? My gut said Artie didn’t intend to pay me a dime. He believed I was a desperate man in dire straits. Desperate and reckless enough, maybe, to be pushed into putting the video on the table when I’d lost everything else.

The lion’s den awaited. Artie Kaufman, a sadistic killer expecting a prize that I didn’t have. Carl Holt, a corrupt cop with everything to lose. Caitlin, who had literally clawed her way out of the pits of hell. Then there was Nicky Agnelli’s connection to the whole mess, a big fat question mark dangling from the barrel of a gun.

I only had one chance to yank the rug out from under Artie. If we made it to the end of the night and he figured out my “movie” was nothing but a blank DVD, no way was I getting out of his house alive. I didn’t like my odds. Still, I had two good reasons not to drop the job and walk away: Jud and Stacy Pankow. They both needed my help to move on, in their own ways. I’d live, if I walked away, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

Twelve

I
woke with the dawn and guzzled a bottle of water to chase away my hangover. Then I stumbled into the shower, letting the warm spray blanket me while I rested my forehead against the cool tile wall. Hazy dreams slipped between my fingers, dancing at the edges of my mind. I thought I had dreamed about Caitlin. Imagined her standing there, in the darkness of my bedroom, watching me sleep.

I toweled off but didn’t get dressed yet. Instead I went to my closet and pulled out a couple of dog-eared books, flopping down on the bedspread to page through them. I needed an edge for tonight, a card up my sleeve in case things went sideways.

“The Harlot’s Curtains,” I read aloud, my finger sliding across the page. “Oh, Aleister, your magic was dodgy, but you sure knew how to sell it.”

The enchantment called for a lodestone, some powdered amethyst, and a dram of pigeon blood, among other ingredients. While it’s true that you can get anything you want in Las Vegas, that’s a privilege generally reserved for high rollers. The rest of us have to improvise.

Once you know how magic works, once you’ve tasted its waters, you realize how few concrete rules there are. Most sorcerers come up with a deeply personal catalog of symbols and patterns expressing their unique approach to the art. I knew a guy who collected those advertisements for escorts you find scattered all over the sidewalk on the Strip. He read them like tarot cards.

If you can figure out another magician’s mindset, you can take their spells and translate them into your own metaphor. Half an hour of legwork gave me a list of equivalent ingredients, my own version of the Harlot’s Curtains. All that remained was to put the enchantment together. I pushed the bed aside, uncovering the patch of floor where I’d carefully cut away the carpet and exposed the bare wood underneath. Chalk dust from a hundred rituals scuffed and streaked the faded boards.

Four hours later I sat cross-legged, my naked body glistening with cold sweat, and blood roaring in my ears. The room danced with light from a triad of black candles. The last words of my invocation fell from my lips with the last of my energy, gutter-Latin escaping my body on a gasp. I had lost track of time along the way, carried aloft by a spell that wove itself from the desert air. A white poker chip from the Sands Hotel, a long-gone legend of the Strip, glistened in my open palm like a beacon in the shadows.

It seemed like such a tiny thing, but it would have to do. I took another shower and got ready to fight.

• • •

I rang Artie’s doorbell at five minutes to seven, and he opened it so fast he must have been standing just on the other side.

“Hey, hey!” He beamed, pulling me into an awkward hug. “Look who’s here, the man of the hour!”

I’d been patted down by professionals. Artie’s clumsy slapping at my hips and back, disguised as a friendly greeting, was anything but.
No, I’m not carrying a gun
, I thought.
Why are you worried that I would be?

I did have a sealed puffy mailing envelope tucked under one arm, with a blank DVD inside. Artie eyed it greedily as he stepped back.

“Is that it? The real deal?”

“Real as a heart attack,” I said, patting it. “I’ll show you thirty seconds of the footage, from anywhere in the video, to prove it’s legit. If you like what you see, we talk price.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he said, leading me into the living room, “but first I hope you’re ready to play some serious poker.”

A professional-grade poker table took a place of honor in the heart of the room, the sofas and chairs pushed back against the wall. My psychic senses strained in vain, but the Black Eye was back in place around my neck to protect me from Nicky’s seer. The Eye’s power weighed against my lungs, a constant suffocating pressure, the kind of frustrating ache that keeps you from getting a moment’s rest. If I needed to use the chip in my pocket, the Eye would have to come off first. On the other hand, if things went that far sideways, crossing Nicky Agnelli would be the least of my problems.

Kaufman’s buddies were the kind of low-rent hoods you’d expect to see brewing meth in a trailer park. One wore a pair of amber shades and a visored cap, like he thought he was competing in the World Series of Poker. The other one couldn’t keep still for five seconds at a time, his head and hands constantly twitching. Whatever he was on, it wasn’t the expensive stuff. Shades and Twitch gave me lethargic waves from the sofas, then looked at Kaufman as if waiting for a cue.

Caitlin emerged from the kitchen, saloon-style doors swinging behind her, and the breath caught in my throat. She wore a green satin gown that clung to her body like a raindrop to a leaf, scooped dangerously low in the back. It matched her eyes. She handed me an open bottle of beer. Her touch lingered just a moment longer than it needed to.

You’re not seeing what you think you’re seeing
, I told myself, remembering Bentley’s warning. It didn’t help.

Artie came up behind her and grabbed her ass. I almost recoiled from the sudden look in her eyes, a glare of pure burning hatred. I saw how fast it melted into a charming smile as she turned to face him. I fought my overwhelming desire to take my bottle and smash Artie’s face in. Woman, demon, I didn’t care. This was wrong.

“Do you require service, Master?” she asked him.

“No, but I sure as fuck do,” called out Detective Holt as he stomped his way up the hallway. “C’mon, we got time for a quickie.”

“No, we don’t,” Artie said. “Game’s starting, everybody to the table.”

Carl’s brow furrowed. He tugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the back of a chair, openly wearing his shoulder holster, before closing in on Artie. “Sorry? Didn’t hear that.”

“Later. You can have her after the game.”

Carl hissed through gritted teeth, “We have a
deal
, Artie.”

“We talked about this last night,” Artie said, pitching his voice almost too softly for me to hear. “We agreed—”

“Fine,” Carl snapped, throwing up his arms and dropping into his chair at the poker table. “Fine, be that way, fuck it. Everybody, get your asses over here. Let’s get this over with.”

I concealed a smile and sat down opposite Artie. My theory was right: Carl acted like a heroin addict jonesing for a fix, which made Artie his dealer. Whatever Caitlin did for the detective behind closed doors, it had long since warped from a desire to a desperate need.

That wasn’t good news for me. The only thing more dangerous and unpredictable than a junkie is a junkie with a loaded gun.

The five of us paid cash into the pot, and Artie dealt out stacks of plastic chips. There were a few too many back-and-forth glances between him and his two friends for my liking. I saw a setup coming from a mile away, but with the Eye weighing down my neck like a millstone I couldn’t do anything but watch close and try to stay sharp.

Half an hour later, I was down by three hundred dollars and looking for the number of the truck that hit me. Lady Luck was colder than a woman scorned, but I’d figured out why. As expected, the bastards were hustling me. They’d worked out a system and kept it tight. A tug of the ear here, an anxious finger tapping on the emerald felt there, little signals to help them work with a singular purpose: burning me down. I figured they’d split the take after they sent me home empty-handed. That was their plan, anyway.

Carl didn’t seem to be in on it. He was too impatient and distracted to be any good, burrowing down to his last stack of chips even before I did. He’d take himself out of the game soon enough. I deliberately threw the next few hands, watching every discard, working out the nuances of their system. It didn’t hurt that Twitch barely knew what game he was playing, and Shades couldn’t keep himself from grinning like an idiot every time he caught a decent hand. If not for the hustle, this would strictly be amateur night.