LORENZO
Ah, the lights and glitter of Las Vegas.
I fucking hate it.
I came here once a few years ago as part of an intelligence operation. Why anyone would plop a city down in the middle of the goddamned desert is beyond me. I hate the noise. I hate the lights. I hate the casinos. I hate the scent of desperation that somehow seems to permeate the very air.
I push that aside as irrelevant as I follow Inez's directions to the club. It's a massive, imposing black block of a building, the name "CLUB SIN" spelled out in mammoth blood-red letters on the side over the covered front entrance. It's located in a remote industrial area, tucked away behind warehouses and office buildings and manufacturing plants, hidden behind a snaking line of jagged-edge hills. It sits on a plot of several acres of blacktop parking lot—clear sightlines in every direction, with one way in to the lot and one way out.
It's nearing noon, so the lot is empty, save for a row of Mercedes G-Wagens parked on the west side near an inconspicuous black door.
Inez directs me to park our stolen car beside the expensive SUVs. She's out of the car before I've shut off the motor,marching for the door. She inputs a six-digit code into the keypad above the knob; a green light flashes, and she yanks open the door. Fluorescent lights illuminate a staircase leading down.
I follow her down the steps—the floor at the bottom is pale gray epoxy with blue flecks; a long hallway extends away from the stairs, featureless, unnumbered doors on either side.
Voices echo, chattering excitedly, coming toward us—female voices.
"Boys? Is that you?" A woman calls, with a slap of bare feet on the floor. "We hadn't heard anything in a few days so—"
A woman appears from the other end of the hallway, her words cutting off as she sees it's not who she was expecting. She's gorgeous—blond hair, blue eyes, beautiful body. She's wearing tiny black skin-tight workout shorts and a black sports bra, and she's sweating, panting.
"Sorry to disappoint, Myka," Inez says. "Gather the others in the common room. Now, please. We have a situation."
"Inez?" The woman—Myka—queries. "Who's your…friend?"
We're standing close, Inez and I. Hip to hip, the kind of close contact you share with someone you know very well. Inez doesn't put space between us.
"His name is Lorenzo," she answers. "No questions. Just gather the rest of the girls for me. Who is on duty upstairs?"
"Toro is in the security booth," Myka answers, “and Taj and Fonz are roving. Should I call them?"
"No. Just the girls, for now."
Instead of doing Inez's bidding, Myka takes a few steps toward Inez, one hand outstretched. "Inez, your face. And you're limping."
A series of expressions crosses Inez's face—confusion, surprise, irritation, and something like wonder or stunned amazement. "Hazards of the job. I'm fine."
Myka shakes her head. "Inez. Don't bullshit me."
Inez's lower lip actually trembles—it's very subtle, but I saw it. "I was Rafael's…guest, briefly. It wasn't pleasant, but I've been through worse. I promise, I'm fine. I appreciate your concern, however."
Inez's face has actually healed remarkably fast since we sprung her from that basement. Bruises still shadow her face in florid greens and blues and yellows, and her lips bear the scabs of having been split. But if Myka had seen Inez even after we got her cleaned up, she would have known that what Inez went through was far, far worse than merely unpleasant.
Myka, judging by her expression, seems to understand that Inez is still downplaying the whole thing. “Is one of the guys hurt?"
Inez shakes her head. "No, everyone is okay. But time is of the essence, so let's get going."
She breezes past Myka, and I follow her. The hallway opens into a common room—an open floor plan kitchen and den. It's industrial but homey, somehow.
Two other women are seated on a large black leather sectional in a U-shape around a coffee table and a massive flatscreen TV—a reality show is playing, and the two women are facing each other on the couch, painting each other's toenails. One of the women is Indian—or from that part of the world, at least—and the other is very tall, athletic, and red-haired; a walking cane, intricately hand-carved into a helix with a sharp, hooked, beak-like handle, hangs off the back of the couch by the handle.
I hear Myka knocking on doors and murmuring. A couple of minutes later, A few more women pour out of the other rooms: another fairly tall woman, perhaps the same height as Myka, with long, jet-black hair, wearing a knee-length skirt and tank top; a short and very curvy woman with scarlet hair; a mediumheight woman, willowy, with auburn hair and a shy, observant manner.
They all gather in the common room, finding seats on the sectional; they sit in a tangled cluster, an intimacy of proximity despite the size of the couch. I lean against a pillar at the center of the room as Inez stands with her back to the TV.
"Hello, ladies," Inez says, her voice low and quiet. "I trust you are all well."
The Indian woman speaks. "We are all quite well, thank you." Her voice is lilting and musical. "It seems you have received some manner of violence. Are you alright?"
