CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Dax didn’t have any trouble picking Suzi out of the crush of people playing and paying in El Caribe’s casino. She was the tallest redhead in the room. She had the tightest skirt, a cheap little black polyester number with a zipper all the way up the side he’d last seen on Marcella-but Suzi made it look like Gucci. She had the biggest hair, all ratted, sprayed, swirled up on top of her head and held in place with a sparkly barrette. She had the biggest earrings, gold hoops, and the tightest bustier, red with little black ribbons running through it, her breasts all but spilling out of the top, the tiny black lace straps going up over the tops of her shoulders.

By any stretch of the imagination, she had the silkiest, palest skin, and there was just so much of it on display, all bare legs, bare arms, those lovely shoulders, the death-defying décolletage-geezus.

Her eyes were made up with a barely restrained hand. He was guessing Marceline’s-eyeliner, shadow, and bronzer all set on Sultry and Stun.

He recognized her, yes, but he didn’t think anybody else would. The girl was in disguise, and as outrageous as she looked, she fit right in with the rest of the casino crowd. In El Caribe, bare skin was camouflage, wild hair was de rigueur, and cleavage was the answer, no matter what the question.

And the shoes. There was nothing like a pair of trashy, black patent leather platform heels with lots of buckles and straps to really slut-up an outfit.

Talk about overkill.

She looked so freakin’ hot.

And that jerk Asher kept trying to put his hand on her ass, which Dax figured might be the whole point of the exhibition and her costume, but it still pissed him off.

He needed a life, one like he used to have, before he’d walked into the Toussi Gallery in Denver six months ago and been hit by a cosmic freight train, and he was going to get one, he swore it, right after he took charge of this little get-together and rearranged the dynamics a bit.

He started forward into the casino, working his way through the crowd, trailing Suzi and her new, fat, old boyfriend. Cutting him out, that’s what she was doing, and to think he’d had a couple more pangs of conscience when he’d been down in Beranger’s basement, slopping around in the cistern, trying to get his hands on that crate.

Well, no more. He could see her chatting Asher up, doing all the little things guaranteed to get a guy’s attention-the leaning in close, the touching his arm, the sweet smiles, doing her damnedest to soften the old buzzard up.

In that outfit, she looked like she needed paddling, and Dax was thinking he was just the guy to do it. He could sure as hell see Asher was thinking he was the guy, the way he kept trying to pat her ass. The jerk finally did get one in, and man, if the buzzard had missed the flash of Suzi’s smile turning downright tight and dangerous, then Asher was a bigger fool than he thought.

The girl obviously did have some sort of plan, and, he hoped to hell, her 9mm in the fanny pack clipped around her waist, and Dax was going to let her work her mojo up to a point. Maybe she’d get what she’d come for, which, despite the gloating expression on Asher’s face, wasn’t a good time. Dax was betting his peace of mind on it.

So he followed along, trailing in their wake, stopping when they stopped. Suzi got on a roll at the craps table, and just about started a riot shaking the dice. Asher was eating it up, being so close to the center of so much attention. He didn’t really look like a guy who was going to lose a lot of sleep over the Memphis Sphinx tonight, which made Dax think the old man had a reason not to be too worried.

Suzi’s winning streak came to an end, and the party moved on. Besides Suzi and Asher, Asher’s two bodyguards were moving along with them, and after the win at the craps table, they’d picked up another couple of girls, with drinks and champagne all around.

Yes, this was going to get interesting. Dax could tell.

Hell.

The group moved into El Caribe’s ritzy dining room, a conservatory with a domed glass roof and a jungle’s worth of plants and trees. The staff had a table set up in a grove of trees that offered some seclusion, and Dax noticed Asher dismissing the others with a wave of his hand as he and Suzi were seated.

Wouldn’t have been Dax’s first choice, but he appreciated the strategy on both their parts. Asher wanted privacy for something he didn’t have a chance in hell of getting, Dax hoped, and for Suzi, it could be damn hard to pump somebody for information with a passel of party girls in close proximity. He knew it from personal experience. Party girls had a way of distracting a guy-all kinds of ways.

The dining room was a beehive of activity, packed, and fifty dollars was the only reason Dax didn’t have any trouble finding a place to sit where he could keep an eye on their table.

And so he sat through the first course, biding his time, watching her flirt her way into more trouble than he thought she could handle, especially with Asher’s hand permanently affixed to her knee.

Sure, the girl knew what she was doing. That’s what he kept telling himself.

When his phone vibrated in his pocket and he checked the incoming number, he reminded himself that he knew what he was doing, too. He flipped the phone open and put it to his ear.

Now all he had to do was convince Erich Warner and do his best to keep that private army idea on the back burner.

“Buscando una mujer, la gringa,” Con said, leaning on the night clerks counter at the Posada Plaza. I’m looking for a woman, the American. He had a 100,000-guarani banknote in his hand, about twenty bucks’ worth of Paraguayan cash.

The “concierge,” a greasy-haired guy with bad teeth wearing a stained T-shirt, looked up, took the money, and picked up the house phone. The conversation with whoever answered the call quickly veered into uncharted, domestic territory. Con could hear the yelling coming from the other end of the phone even on his side of the counter.

He didn’t have any sympathy. Pimps running transvestites shouldn’t have it any easier than the guys running women, and the Posada was known for their elevator crew.

After a minute of listening to the argument escalate, he leaned farther over the counter. He had plenty of patience, a lifetime’s supply, but the situation called for impatience, so he delivered it.

“Oye, pendejo!” he said, slamming his fist down. “Apúrate!” Come on, asshole. Hurry up.

The man glanced up from the phone and gave him a dark look, then said, “El Caribe.”

“Bueno.” Good, that’s what he’d needed.

“Espera,” the pimp said, and Con turned back. “Quieres un nombre?”

A name? Absolutely. Con peeled another 100,000 note off his roll and slid it over the counter.

The man smiled a rotten-toothed smile, well pleased with himself.

“Leevee Asha,” he said.

Levi Asher. Perfecto.