Page 135 of Double Down
So why poke us and Calhoun in one go? If the Savannah Mafia is pumping tainted shots and fentanyl through our spa and suites, they aren’t just making a buck. They’re trying to sink the whole Titan-Wynn enterprise.
If it were just business, I’d get it. We’d still shut them down in a torrent of blood, but I’d understand their motivations.
And yet…something about this feels personal. That’s the splinter I can’t dig free. All of this because we put a few of their henchmen in the ground? Because they grabbed Phoenix, and we made them pay for it?
Nah. That math doesn’t make any sense.
It can’t be about the money. We offered to wipe her father’s debt clean. They are acting like they want to draw this out, not get paid.
And they wanted her to spy on us before they ever touched her. This isn’t a rushed play. This isn’t something they stumbled on. Whoever it is, they’re playing the long game.
I can’t figure out the why, and that’s the aspect that’s making me itchy.
Phoenix is the one who said I know people. I can tell what makes them tick. It’s why I’m good at the promo shit, and why the regulars keep coming back.
So I should be able to see what the fuck is driving this. But I’m missing something.
Conrad is glued to the lawyer, voice cool enough to frost glass: termination paperwork, injunctions, “cooperation” letters drafted with velvet-covered barbs.
Atticus is buried in his hydra of monitors, tracking Officer Danner—the dirty cop who threatened Phoenix and, surprise, is the number the spa called when it needed more “supplies.”
Storm is downstairs interrogating every spa employee, trying to root out anyone else who may have known or been involved with any part of this. Several of the ODs happened after hours, so someone was supplying parties.
This leaves me with nothing to do but pace my office like a mad man.
I pass the bar cart twice and don’t pour. I pass the window that overlooks the casino and catch my reflection—smile dialed to “host,” eyes to “kill.” The casino’s sounds bleed through the double panes: coin-drop jingles, the soft roar of the HVAC, laughter that’s half-hope, half-ache. The house is alive, ignorant, hungry. I’m supposed to feed it.
My phone buzzes, and I want to throw it across the room. Then I see ‘day manager’ flash across the screen with an SOS text, and I answer the call.
“What can I do for you, Sally?”
“Mr. Maverick,” she says, tight. “We have a situation. I tried to locate Mr. Masterson and wasn’t able to…you’re going to want to handle this personally.”
Sally doesn’t rattle. She sounds rattled.
“Define this.”
“Well, you know all the stuff with Mrs. Langford…Senator Langford is in the lobby now with his wife.”
“Shit. On my way.”
I grab my jacket. Phoenix is already at the door, like she heard the whole conversation. She threads her arm through mine. “I’m coming with you.”
“Obviously,” I say, and pull her close to me as we walk towards the lobby. “By the way, love this new corporate femme fatale look.”
“Yes, well, once I got rid of that whole slutty babysitter thing you guys had going, it was a no brainer.”
“I guess I deserve that.”
“You really do.”
I hear Karen Langford berating my staff before I see her, but once I look she is impossible to miss.
She continues to wear her big hat and sunglasses, even into the evening, along with a posture that says she expects the world to kneel. Beside her stands the senator—Langford—with his expensive haircut, practiced indignation, and two staffers with leather folders in one hand and tablets in the other.
The lobby’s morning tableau freezes around them: a bellhop stalled mid-stride, a bachelorette party in pastel athleisure pretending not to gawk, a cocktail server deciding if she should flee or spectate. PR’s worst nightmare, live on marble.
“Mr. Locke,” Langford says, extending a hand I have no desire to touch. “I was expecting Mr. Masterson.”
