John Shirley - Watch Dogs - Dark Clouds

Walking along the southern edge of The Loop, backpack with his laptop in it over one shoulder, Wolfe turned the collar of his coat against The Hawk. Putting up his collar didn’t help much. The cold wind stung his eyes, burned his ears, made his lips feel numb.

If he could find that casino, he’d get out of this November wind. But he might get tossed back into it pretty quick.

He looked around, saw nothing that looked remotely like a casino—but since it was illegal, it wouldn’t look like one on the outside. There were half a dozen casinos in outlying areas but gambling was still illegal within city limits. Didn’t matter, the Four Clubs was run by, guess who, The Club mob, so it didn’t have to be legal. It just had to be discreet. If Wolfe could find it, he might be able to get Verrick alone…

It was Friday night but not much action in this neighborhood; just the occasional cab passing, and the corkscrewing of trash swept along by the Hawk on this corner of Van Buren. That it was Friday, with Verrick likely at the Four Clubs, was one piece of good luck. And there was another bit of luck who was now getting out of that cab in front of that old, unmarked brick office building on the corner: a tall, modelesque blonde in a rose and blue outfit. She wore a tight, upscale rose-colored party dress, with a light blue short jacket, with rose-glass necklace, rose purse and pumps.

If that was Rose Blue, and that antiquated four-story office building on the corner was the front for the Four Clubs casino, then he just might be within spitting distance of Major Roger Verrick. Retired….

Wolfe crossed under the raised tracks of the L Train, angling to pass fairly close to Rose Blue—close enough he caught a whiff of her rose scented perfume—but acting as if he were planning to head around the corner of the building. He put on the groggy “lost junkie” act he’d sometimes used in Morocco when meeting his CIA contact. He didn’t have to try hard at the moment to come off like a street person. Lulu was right, he looked pretty shabby.

He glanced past the elegant call girl as the door opened for her—someone had seen her through the peep hole.

“Evenin’, Honker,” she told the bouncer.

Honker was the bulkiest thug in a tuxedo that Wolfe had ever seen—and he’d seen quite a few at high-end casinos. Honker had a face that looked like it was carved from sandstone, and fists that looked like they could crush rock too.

“Hiya, Rose!” Honker said.

Not much chance of getting past that big lug right this second , Wolfe thought.

Delta Force training or not, Honker would be hard to take down. Of course, there was always placing a bullet in the back of the bouncer’s head, if it came to that.

Trouble is, he didn’t know what type of guy Honker was. Easy enough to assume Honker was a brute when he worked the door at a mob casino. But for all Wolfe knew Honker could be a family man who couldn’t get another job.

Find another way in.

Honker glanced at Wolfe, as he closed the door behind the girl, seemed to discount the “lost junky” immediately—which was how Wolfe had figured it.

Wolfe strolled around the corner, looking up at the roof of the building. Yeah, a couple of Club wiseguys were standing sentry up there. He could see their bundled-up silhouettes, including their AK47s.

Wolfe kept walking, but he drew slowly in toward the building as he went until he was out of the line of sight of the sentries on the roof—unless they leaned over the wall and looked straight down.

Behind the building was a parking lot. There were several limos in it, along with a gold colored SUV that probably belonged to some minor rapper who was into being a Player, several shiny, low slung Porsches and Jaguars, and one late model Escalade. He saw no beaters, no low-income cars, which told him that the employers had to park somewhere else. There was a sign that said Private Parking Only. It didn’’t say parking for what. A chubby cheeked parking attendant in a black watch cap and overcoat was watching something pink and squirmy on a miniature TV in a little parking lot kiosk. Chances were the parking lot attendant wasn’t going to look up from Bikini Bimbos unless another car drove in.

Wolfe turned, walked down the alley close to the back wall of the building. His boots crunched loudly in gravel as he walked toward a patch of light at a back door. Someone was standing there, smoking a cigarette, keeping the door open enough so they could get back in. Which meant the door locked if it closed and this guy didn’t have a key. Somebody low-level.

Wolfe glanced up, didn’t see the sentries looking down. He walked around the back door as if he were just cutting through the alley—then stopped, staring in sudden recognition at the man in the backdoor. And the man stared back at him with the same mild shock.

It was Kurt O’Malley, an Irish-German guy from the old ‘hood. They’d grown up near each other; they’d shared a six pack or two and double dated, occasionally, just before Wolfe enlisted in the Army.

“Kurt? That you?”

O’Malley was wearing a white jacket, white pants. He was a gangly man with a stubby nose, rusty colored hair and a nicely trimmed goatee. He apparently worked as a bus boy at the casino.

He gawked at Wolfe. “Man, I thought you was in prison!”

“Was. Just a year—Leavenworth. I was framed.”

“Hey man, everybody in prison was framed.” O’Malley laughed.

Wolfe chose not to argue. “Listen, Kurt—I need work. I heard in this place you’re working at here, pretty much everybody has a prison record.”

“The Hell they do!” He sniffed, wiped his nose with a sleeve. “Okay, a lot of guys do. But it’s not like it’s gotta be on your resume, fuh Chris’sakes. You got to pay Santiago to introduce you to the bosses, and maybe they’ll hire you if they need somebody… and maybe they won’t.”

“Who’s Santiago?”

“Kitchen supervisor. You gotta grease his palm and maybe he’ll put you up for a job and maybe not. I borrowed a hundred bucks from my Pop to pay him. This dump gets me more cash than a regular dive though.”

“Not like they give you benefits.”

“You can drink left over booze and eat leftover food and they pay you in cash. Sometimes you can find a poker chip on the floor, cash it in. You really on the down and outs, huh?”

“Yeah, man.”

O’Malley tossed his cigarette butt into the alley. “You come back tomorrow, and I’ll…”

“I’ll need that talk with Santiago tonight, man. Just let me in, I’ll find him.”

“Can’t do that.” O’Malley started to close the door. “So long.”

“You want to smoke a joint, Kurt?”

The door didn’t quite close. O’Malley stuck his nose out again, and glanced up and down the alley “Never could get you to indulge. So you’re into it now huh?” O’Malley looked over his shoulder. “Uh—sure. Just a sec.” He pulled a mop from where it leaned against the wall inside, used the handle to block the door open. “Gotta make this quick! Just a couple of hits…”

Just one hit. An uppercut to the chin.

O’Malley was out cold. The Delta Force training was still there in Wolfe’s hands. Wolfe caught the slumping man, dragged him inside. The warmth of the building’s back hallway rolled over him as he looked around. No one in the hall but a lot of clackety-clack came from the kitchen down the hall, along with shouts for orders, cooks grumbling. Wolfe could smell food cooking, and coffee.

He dragged O’Malley to a utility closet, opened it, shoved him in with the cleaning products. He pulled off O’Malley’s coat and belt, used the belt to tie the busboy’s hands behind him, then shoved an oily rag into his mouth. “Sorry, Kurt,” Wolfe muttered. “I’ll try and remember to let you go when I head out…”