35

Jim’s head throbbed like he was inside a bass drum. The stupid off-brand aspirin Adair had wasn’t helping. At least the cabbie was close and was able to get him out of the scene of the wreck in a hurry.

It wasn’t long after that goon dragged Erica away that he heard the sirens. He had no choice but to run as soon as he managed to work himself free.

Jim was leaving a trail of bodies and wreckage the slowest of detectives could follow, and the LVPD was not staffed with dimwits. If Miller had bought it in that rollover, Jim would probably take the rap for that as well. Not making friends these days.

He should go get his stash of cash and IDs he kept for just such emergencies and hightail it out of the state. Maybe out of the country.

He sighed. Instead, Jim Bean shoved a fiver into the same slot machine he’d won on two days ago. Sullivan’s Fortune. He pulled the arm. Looked around. The drums spun. Lights flashed. He looked up at the expensive car above the bank of machines. Pretentious.

The bells rang.

The false sounds of coins echoed far and wide in the casino, reminding other players to hold out a bit longer, feed the machines.

Winner? How was that even possible? His luck sucked. No way he wanted to waste any on the slots now. This wasn’t why he was here.

It was early in the afternoon and only hardy slot players were scattered about. One skinny old lady looked away from her own machine long enough to nod at his windfall. He returned it. Glanced at his watch. Shouldn’t be long now.

The ticket spit out.

Three hundred sixty-two dollars and seventy-eight cents. That couldn’t be right. He added that to the winnings from Thursday and it made an even thousand. One large. He needed to look around on the far side of the casino floor as well.

He’d walk right up to the cash window. One more blatant sweep should do it. He strode boldly down the middle of the casino making faces at the various security cameras, following the hideous design of the carpet as it led him toward the higher-dollar machines and the poker and blackjack tables. He stopped and ordered a soda from a middle-aged woman in a top and shorts that were too young and too tight for her. He then slowed to watch a rather lovely young blonde winning at craps.

The cash box was dead ahead. He glanced behind him. Still not being followed. Dammit.

Only one other person cashing in chips. He was first in the line.

The old guy behind the glass was pleasant enough and congratulatory. Jim was suspicious.

He looked past the old dude and saw a reflection of Banks heading his way in the polished glass behind the teller. About damned time.

“Let’s go, shall we?”

“After you.” Jim gestured as he tucked his winnings into this pocket.

Banks turned and walked away. Jim followed.

“Through there.” He nodded his big head toward an inconspicuous door.

Jim needed to calm down and do what he did best. His plan had been to go see Zant. He needed to be with the big guy to get answers he needed. “Zant want to see me?”

“Nope.” That had been the point of this little field trip. Jim wanted to see Zant and act all innocent, offer assistance in order to continue to fulfill the terms of his agreement. All he had at the moment. He needed info, the lay of the operation. He was desperate.

Banks pushed the door open and held it for Jim to go through. Polite enough. Jim looked back toward the casino. Two men had moved in behind them. Shit. He knew he’d wasted what little luck he had on the slots.

The back end of the casino was like a bright tunnel, a white hall littered with white doors. Most unmarked. The back room was coming up.

“Are you sure? I talked to the Floyd woman quite a while. I might have some information the old man needs.”

“I wouldn’t call him that if I were you.” Banks opened the last door on the right. A loading dock, empty except for three large wooden barrels with the lids lying next to them. Along with a hammer and nails. Not a pleasant thought, being killed and dumped into a barrel and then the lid nailed on. He internally shrugged. It would be a fitting coffin given the amount of barrel-aged Scotch he’d drunk in the past few years, but he wasn’t ready for that just yet. Time to think on his toes. Follow a hunch about Banks he always suspected.

“You always seemed to like the girls, Banks. Hard to believe you’d be part of selling them off like dogs. And the abuse.” Jim shook his head, tsked. “Hard to see you beating on your little girls like that.”

His face twisted in anger as he moved in close. Jim didn’t back up. “I ain’t never inflicted an ounce of pain on any of my girls. I talk big, but they all know my job is to ensure they’s safety.” His attempts to cover his background in a higher vocabulary, like he had been in the casino, faltered with his indignation.

“I saw Lola and her friend. Beaten, raped—”

“Lola?” He grabbed Jim up by the shirt. Pressed the business end of a long sleek blade in the soft part of his neck just below his right ear. Deadly spot. Quick. Painless, at least.

“Figured she was one of yours. Pretty girl … once. Had that little beauty mark on her left cheek.”

“Once?” Banks pushed the blade in harder. Punctured the skin. “What do you know about Lola? We thought she ran away from the Pony. I looked for her for two days.”

“She didn’t run, Banks.” Jim tried to keep his balance, but it was hard with Banks holding him up high enough so his toes barely made contact with the ground and a shaft of steel pressed into his neck. “Zant is selling them. He’s torturing your girls beyond even your imagination, then selling them.”

“The hell you say.” He shoved hard, sending Jim stumbling back and falling to the ground. He landed on his ass, banging his elbows on the concrete, facing Banks, who still had that blade in his hand and ready to throw. Instead he pounced on Jim, landing as if he were going to cut his throat, but not applying near enough pressure.

“We got her out. Lola.” As Jim spoke, despite the blade compressing his voice box, Banks rolled them over, putting Bean on top, loosened his grip. Enough Jim could breathe, anyway. Jim would probably still have more than a shaving nick across his throat, but Banks was still playing the game. Listening. Yet not killing him. “We found her and a little blonde at a small ranch south of town. She’d been in a dog crate. Beaten. Drugged to stupidity.” The rough man’s face fell like a lost little puppy. “Zant … he sells them to the high rollers as sex slaves. I have tapes of the torture, the rapes. I can prove it to you.”

Banks shook his head. Pretended to struggle and then rolled them back over. A big knee pressed into Jim’s chest. Banks swung and gave Jim a halfhearted punch to the face. “Even that fucker is not that crazy.”

“Yes. He is.” Jim still had to shake off the weakened punch, happy Banks believed him enough to go light. But he hadn’t stopped. “That’s why Chris Floyd was dancing at the Pony. Working undercover to try and get girls out. She’d figured it all out. Four or five girls he takes out of the clubs several times a year. How many went missing on you over the last few weeks, Banks?”

He held tight, but his thoughts were clearly with his girls. “Three, out of my club.”

Jim got his feet under the man’s meaty thigh and shoved. He lumbered back. Even scrambling to stand as fast as he could, Banks had recovered just as quick. Quicker. A jaw-rattling punch landed across Jim’s chin. He fell back to the cement floor. Dang. He had to kneel for a moment to clear the stars. The metal taste of blood filled his mouth. Jim spit, looked at Banks. He was about to run out of time. Erica and Chris were missing. He had to convince Banks that Zant was hurting his girls.

The small glance Banks made to the camera in the corner was almost imperceptible as he picked up his lost weapon. This was a performance for the benefit of the viewing end of that feed. It had to look like he was beating up Jim for the camera, while he was deciding whether he really wanted to beat Jim to a pulp or believe the story.

“You can beat on me all you like. But he’s doing it. Zant’s taking your girls. Selling them in Mexico.”

“Motherfucker.” He looked down. Shook his head. Walked toward Jim, knife pointed at the ground. “Gonna have to. Private feed in his office. If I don’t kill you …”

So Zant was watching. Evidently with no sound. Banks pulled Jim up off the cold concrete once again and gave him a blow to the ribs, still holding him close. “Tell me about Alexis.” The punch connected, but it wasn’t as hard as should have been. Jim overreacted, jerking. “Is that what Zant did with her?” His big eyes narrowed.

Jim balanced himself. So, Banks did know Jim’s cousin. Most had. She’d lived with Zant for over a year. She thought the scumbag was going to marry her. Delusions of a young dancer in Vegas. A showgirl, taken in by the money, the jewelry, the nice trips. But she learned who Zant was in a hurry and she’d wanted out. Not many people got to walk away from the man with the knowledge Alexis had—thanks to Jim’s doing some things he hated. All that and he’d ended up still owing Zant in the long run.

She’d asked and Jim had intervened, made her disappear. The same way he had from Ohio eight years before. New name. New city. New everything. Even Jim had no clue where she’d ended up. Cost him every dime he’d manage to save and gamble for. Found a body, set it up to look like she was dead. After the funeral, Zant nailed him. Jim hadn’t put a thing over on the fucker. But he gave Jim a deal anyway. Zant was to leave her alone, never search her out. And Jim would owe him … favors. And the big man had called on that marker more than once.

Each time Jim got the call, Zant toyed with him. Had him do things, small things. Make one piece of evidence disappear, supply another to take its place. None of it had hurt anyone so far. The biggest cost had been Jim’s integrity. Amazing how much a guy missed something like that. Something unseen was virtually irreplaceable. It was a gaping hole that Jim tried to fill with Scotch as often as possible.

Here stood Banks. The big man looked concerned about Alexis. As Jim suspected, there was a soft spot for the ladies. “You knew her?”

“Was her protection for a while. She was a sweet girl.”

Jim tried to go on the offensive. Landed one punch to the chest before Banks threw him off.

“Is she dead?”

Jim rolled away. He again found himself on his knees. “No. She’s not. Last I knew, she was in a safe place. But Zant appears to be unhappy with me. And that’s my weakness, isn’t it? Puts her at risk again.”

Banks lifted Jim to his feet. “I got no orders to kill her. Just you. Fuck. I always liked her. Was afraid she’d been dead this whole time and he’d lied to me about you and the arrangement.” A good punch to the breadbox made Jim double over. He spit some blood from the cut lip for show.

“I can’t take you being easy on me much longer, big guy. He’ll use Alexis too if I can’t stop the trafficking now and nail him. He’ll have her killed as soon as he can find her. And we both know he’ll find her.”

Banks slowed. His big leathery face contorted with the strain of such a large decision. Let Jim go or kill him. “I have to hurt you.”

“No. You don’t.”

He pulled Jim up. “Yes. I do.” He placed the blade at his shoulder and shoved. “Sorry, man.”

Jim growled, maybe screamed. He wasn’t sure what it was. It fucking hurt. Banks’s aftershave and his own blood made for a very unpleasant odor and it filled his senses, mixing with searing pain as the sting of the metal tore through his shoulder.

Oh shit. He was going to pass out. Couldn’t do that. The floor beneath his feet was undulating like a breaking wave about to crash over him.

“Hold your shit, Bean.” His body jerked as Banks maneuvered them so his back was to the camera. Zant couldn’t see more than broad shoulders and bald head. “Take the knife, return the favor, and go. Keys are in the red van, over the visor.”

“Really?” Seemed too easy. Jim didn’t have time to think, much less the ability. He head butted the big bouncer. When Banks’s head whipped back, Jim did an easy spin and kick move. None of which helped his own brain function, but even with the major miss, the little contact of his boot to Banks’s upper arm and the whiplash took the bouncer off balance. Jim grabbed the blade and twisted, hard. Banks let it go. Jim stabbed with little aim.

The blade penetrated Banks’s upper thigh as he fell backward. The big man yelled in pain and rolled to grab his wound. Jim hoped he hadn’t just castrated the guy.

He glanced up at the camera. Time to go. Jim hoped it had all happened fast enough to be convincing on film. If Zant knew that Banks had let him off that loading dock, even with a stab wound and a busted lip, Banks would be a dead man. The bouncer was not the only killer on Zant’s friend list.

And that was now Jim’s number-one problem.