Page 92 of Bad Seed
“That’s what I thought, boss.” Red starts kissing ass immediately. “Good ol’ Talong, he always liked ‘em plump and juicy.”
Their boss clicks his tongue. “Which precisely of his actions do you consider to be good?” he asks Red without taking his eyes off of me. I start to shift, wanting to cover my breasts with my hands, but that cane is an inch or two from plunging into my neck.
“Oh, no, no. It’s just a saying. I didn’t meant he’s good. Just that he’s, ya know, old. And washed up. And…”
“Talong is like a son to me,” Mr. Ato fumes.
“Right, yep. Like I said, good ol’ Talong.”
“A son who betrayed me.”
“Fuck that guy.” Red doesn’t miss a beat, unaware that he’s being plucked like a ukulele.
With a slow pan of my body, Mr. Ato gives a quick sniff. The cane drops and I take in a deep breath. “It’s her,” he says and I can hear the nails hammering into my coffin. Tipping his hat down over his bald forehead, he moves back to the door.
“What are you going to do to me?” I cry out.
Mr. Ato pauses in putting the no housekeeping hanger on the doorknob. “For now, you will sit here and wait for Talong.”
Who the hell are they talking about? I don’t know anyone named that. Or anyone in general. Was it a client? Is this a job gone completely tits up? Did I ever take pictures for a hitman?
“And if he doesn’t show?” I cry out.
Pausing in the doorframe, Mr. Ato places his cane in front of his body. Even in the shadows, his teeth glint as his invisible lips rise in a blood-curdling smile. “You’d better pray your pussy is worth the trouble, Miss Nair.”
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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
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AUBRY
The Crudité. Come for the gaming, stay for the backroom deals in smuggling unsavory goods. Like the Venetian, the forty-two story building looks like someone hefted an ancient relic out of Rome and dropped it next to the Circus. Instead of statues of dead Emperors and gods, marble busts of tomatoes and hot peppers line the entrance. There’s also a statue of a cornucopia that sprays water every half hour.
I forgot how bright this place is even in the dead of night. There’s no such thing as sleeping in Vegas, just tuning out for a few hours, then getting back at it.
Gripping the steering wheel, I stare out the window at the old place. It’s seen better days, that’s for sure. Even after the remodel, there’s still lingering traces of when it was built in the nineties. Like that fucking balcony.
I gulp, thinking of far too many harrowing meetings up there behind the stage with those skeletons left to rot. If all those families who danced to the antics of Jazzy Roma knew the truth…
Who am I kidding? Nothing would have happened. If Mr. Ato didn’t have the police on the take, the Brassica family would make sure anyproblemsdisappeared. And I’d be the one doing it.
Where would they keep her?
My first instinct is to scan the top floors—all Mr. Ato’s offices. In his words, no one looks down on him. Ignoring the fact one of the Brassica’s casinos sits right across the street at a whopping sixty-three stories. A handful of rooms have the lights on, but that’d be the staff. Probably got Goji up there sorting paperclips to make him feel important. The boss is out.
No. He wouldn’t risk keeping her there. Too many witnesses. First for dragging a blindfolded woman up there, then for dragging my dead body out. It’ll be somewhere out of the way. Maybe more forgotten…
The old celery tower.
While the Crudité is classy, emphasizing white marble and cathedral ceilings, he couldn’t help himself. Right beside the bone colored main building is an add-on tower that’s pale green with carved rivulets running up and down the entire length. Because that wasn’t subtle enough, the roof has a parapet with crenellations giving it that stalk just snapped in half look.
It’s also a good place to hide a body.
Outdated.
Crumbling.
