Two, and by far the most important, I will be paid. Not necessarily in cash, but I will get paid. Prime example: one of the Old Town girls, Gail, had a trick run out on her. How he got away with her money and out from her knots and handcuffs I'll never know, but I found him, smacked him around until he apologized, and got her money (plus a little extra to smooth things over between 'em.) Now, I ain't the type to take money from a working girl, so I took payment in her stock in trade. Still have the scar on my back, in fact.
I have a reputation. I'm a Face. Like that fella Dwight over there, (by the by , you might not want to stare; tends to make him a mite jumpy.) Or like Marv used to be. People know me, and I know them. They know I get things done most others can't. They know that I'm one of only two people to publicly take on the Roarks and live to tell about it, (funny story actually, but it's not relevant to our current tale.) So, when Shelley told me someone was looking for me, it wasn't too big of a surprise.
Shelley pointed me to the back of Kadie's. 'The Pitch' they call it, since it's dark and intimate. All manner of unseemly activities goes on back there. All that flashed through my head as I sauntered back. I ignored the sounds of sex, of violence, and headed straight for my booth. I rapped twice on the door, and heard the lock slide clean. I thumbed the hammer on my gun, and waited a bit.
Just as the door began to open, I caught a whiff of something. Something beautiful. A perfume so strong I almost lost my breath, but so intoxicating I didn't mind. As I sat down inside and shut the door, I could barely make out anything. Sensory overload's a bitch.
Somewhere nearby, a woman's voice spoke to me. I couldn't make it out, though.
"Doll, gimmie a sec. Josie's got some band backin' Nancy up, and they're so loud my ears're ringing. Give it to me again." I rubbed my temples, and willed my nerves to work again.
"Certainly, Mr. MacNamara. May I call you Joseph?" I could swear I'd heard her voice before, that mix of innocence and know-how, of naive indifference. I looked up, trying to see who she was. No good. The light was off.
"Sure. What the hell do I call you?"
"I am Drucilla Danvers, heir to the Danvers fortune. Perhaps you've heard of my father, Conway Danvers?" I nodded, then, remembering she couldn't see me, spoke.
"Yeah. I've heard of him." Who hadn't? The only name other than Roark more pervasive in Sin City was Danvers. He owned Danvers Chemical, two newspapers, seven restaurants, and five casinos back home, wherever that was. Under the table, he was kingpin of a massive smuggling cartel that made mob boss Wallenquist sick with envy. Add to that the most successful counterfeiter in Sin City history, and you had a very wealthy man who employed thirty thousand people. Like most freelancers, I'd done some jobs for him, mostly spreading around his funny money. Paid well, as I recalled. He did rat me out to Wallenquist once, but that was over a perfectly legitimate conflict of interest, Besides which, rule three is "don't let personal shit get in the way of business." I called Shelley back here, and ordered a full bottle of Bushnell's Original whiskey. Best damn whiskey in the world.
She continued after Shelley I could hear her smiling. "Good. My father spoke highly of you, saying that you had... how did he put it? 'The biggest balls in the industry.' Rather uncivilized, but I understand. Joseph, I have a problem that requires your talents, and your... gumption, as it were. My father is dead. Murdered. Shot twice in the back with his own gun."
That bombshell almost had me choke on my brew. Well, that was perfect. Either Wallenquist took Danvers' old holdings, or the Roarks did. Either way, it was going to mean a lot of bodies. "Great. What do you want me to do?"
She still spoke with that smile. "Why, find who killed him, of course."
I snorted rudely. "Sorry, doll. You want his body lugged to the Pits, fine. You want transportation out of the city while this goes down, fine. You want a private dick, you hire one. Here, I got this guy; Japanese, but he works wonders. Here's his card; Yama-something, I think..."
She slammed whatever she was drinking on to the table; the smile was gone. "Damn it, Joseph! Don't you understand? I am the heir to his fortune; all of it."
Oh, for the love of God. This dame had it in her mind to take her old man's legacy, and wanted me to help her. "No way, sister. Sure your father did me a good turn or two. Sure he's– was– better than the alternatives. But it's not. My. Job. I'm sorry."
She sighed, and again the scent of her perfume threatened to wash me away. I drowned it in Irish whiskey, relishing the burn. "If that's the way you want to play this, Joseph. At the very least, allow me to hire you as security? I know you do that."
Damn. Once upon a time, I had taken a one-shot job for her dear dead daddy babysitting a crate of guns from Germany, and now it was biting me in the ass. Welcome to Sin City, MacNamara. "Okay, fine. Geez. But at double my standard, you hear me? Double."
The smile returned. "What does that work out to, five hundred thousand? That's fine." The sound of paper rasping against wood, and something tapped my hand. A thick envelope with what felt like an inch of bills. "There's half. The rest when I'm established."
Goddamn dames. I agreed to take the job, and she left. As she was leaving, I caught the briefest of glimpses at a red-headed woman.
Ten minutes later, and I was back on the road. I took the Bushnell's with me; nothing gets a man ready for some action like the fire of perfectly blended Irish whiskey. A three minute phone call back at Kadie's meant that my guns were unlocked and ready. Sure, I don't kill for money; doesn't mean I'm not good at it. I stopped briefly in Old Town to pick them up; one's small and sleek, but powerful. I've seen it leave holes the size of basketballs in men's chests. The other is huge. Calling it a cannon would almost be an insult. Meet Cheryl and Nicole, two of my close friends.
