“In the United States, the only good guys working undercover are in the movies.”

 

--Brian De Palma, film director

 

 

The shoes were perfect, Sara grudgingly acknowledged. They were perfect and gorgeous and she resented those facts because she was going to have to give them BACK in a few days and it all seemed so unfair to indulge in such heavenly delight when heartbreak was just on the horizon.

 

Across from her in the lush little boutique, Mr. Peppermint was lounging in an overstuffed chair, slidng looks from her face to her slender ankles as he absently held the Pekinese, and his stunned expression was utterly gratifying. Sara shifted, crossing her legs in a slow, sexy fashion, showcasing her best feature for him.

 

Mr. Peppermint swallowed, visibly.

 

“Baby Doll liiiiiikes,” Sara teased, running a hand down her calf, stroking her stocking in a flirtatious manner. Grenadine gave a snorty yip; guiltily Mr. Peppermint loosened his grip on the little dog and petted him in apology.

 

“They’re all yours then, Foxy honey—consider them our first investment in Vegas,” he replied, stroking his goatee to hide his smile. Sara rose and sauntered across the thick carpet, putting a swing into her hips; that little swagger of faintly aggressive femininity was enough to make Mr. Peppermint laugh. He got up himself and winked at the obsequious salesgirl, who managed a tremulous smile back at the pair of them, wringing her hands softly.

 

“An excellent selection! Do you wish to wear them now, or should I wrap them up for you?” she breathed, hyperventilating a little at the thought of her commission. Sara shot a slightly smutty glance at Mr. Peppermint, who arched an eyebrow in return.

 

“She’ll be wearing these all the way up to the master bedroom,” he replied smoothly, sliding an arm around Sara’s waist and letting one big hand cup her ass. Slightly startled, Sara squeaked, pressing up against him.

 

Through the sparkling glass window of the Astrabella shop, another startled woman looked up from the display on the velvet risers, studied the couple sharply for a moment, and then turned away, shaking her head slightly. Catherine Willows tightened her grip on her shopping bags and headed along the walkway of the Sirocco’s Bazaar, fighting off the sense of déjà vu. She made her way through the lobby and passed the front desk, heading for the bank of elevators there.

 

* * *

 

Jelly Bean blearily checked his Rolex, trying to focus on the numbers, but they were giving him trouble and it wasn’t due to the lighting in the bar. Next to him, an angular blonde with a dazzling smile scooted a little closer and he felt her hand slide along his thigh.

 

“So, Dooley honey, going to show me your penthouse?” she purred in a tone meant to be seductive, but was in actuality a bit strident, even over the noise of the bar. He turned to look at his companion and managed a big grin.

 

“Sure! My uncle and almos’ aunt would LOVE to meecha . . . what was your name again?”

 

The woman’s expression soured and Jelly Bean gave an exaggerated hurt look as the hand withdrew. “Oh come on, baby . . . I can’t remember EVERY girl’s name that wants ta sleep with me, because there sure are a LOT of you  . . . help me out here—it’s . . . Lulu, right?”

 

“Allison. You know, I have to get up really early tomorrow, so—“ she slid off the barstool, already fishing in her purse for her keys. Jelly Bean blinked, and pouted.

 

“You’re . . . mad,” he deduced, waving a red straw at her like a baton. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and this time her smile was definitely chilly.

 

“No, that would take effort,” she snorted, and sailed out of the bar in long strides. Jelly Bean watched her go, a sense of regret tingeing his relief; ah, the high price of a good con. Turning back to the amused bartender, he rolled his eyes and sighed.

 

“How about you?” Jelly Bean demanded. The bartender picked up the empty glasses and considered the question.

 

“Nah, I’m not mad at you, but to be honest, I’m not your type, either,” he announced in his rich rumble of a baritone. “My boyfriend’s the jealous type anyway.”

 

This cracked Jelly Bean up, and he was still snorting giggles all the way up the elevator ride to the penthouse floor. His suit was wrinkled; his shirt unbuttoned nearly to mid-chest, and his hair had gone from gelled spikes to some wild shock of wilted brown frizzle. He yawned, and staggered out of the elevator into the short hall. There were only three doors here, and he made his way to the one with the gleaming gold plate on it, jabbing his door card several times at the lock before succeeding in getting it into the slot. The light went green and he pushed the door open, yelling lightly, “Hey it’s me and guess what? I almost scored!!”

 

He staggered into the suite, nearly stumbling as Grenadine waddled out and inspected him cautiously. Jelly Bean waved and squatted down; the Pekinese shuffled closer and gave the outstretched fingers a welcoming lick.

 

“Almost?” came Grissom’s sardonic question. He walked out of the smaller bedroom, and for a moment Jelly Bean didn’t say anything, too caught up in grinning foolishly. He pointed a finger at the older man and laughed a little.

 

“Wow. You look like . . . Hugh Hefner’s brother or something. Silk pa-JA-mas—very GQ, my man!”

 

Grissom glanced down at his nightwear and gave a shrug. The royal blue heavy silk was outré, and certainly not something he himself would choose to wear, but for a character like Pete Williamsen, it definitely fit. “Call it camouflage. Sit down before you fall down—room service will be here any minute.”

 

“Food, good idea—“ Jelly Bean agreed, waltzing around in a loose-jointed way, the dog following after him. “I hope they have coffee.”

 

“Exactly how much did you have to drink in the last three hours?” Grissom demanded, moving to knock lightly at the door of the master bedroom. Jelly Bean sprawled on one of the overstuffed sofas in the living room and counted on his fingers.

 

“Um . . . whisky with you, then two seven and sevens, a tequila and one and a half wine coolers. Do you think we can teach the dog to untie my shoes?”

 

“He’s smart enough,” came the absent reply. Jelly Bean looked over as the bedroom door opened, and he blinked, struck momentarily speechless by the sight of Miss Chocolate in a long satin nightgown of creamy peach, edged with black lace. It had a diaphanous robe of matching black, as sheer as a stocking.

 

“Greg, you’re a little bit wasted,” came her amused assessment.

 

“Sara, you’re a whole lot beautiful,” he blurted back. “Like, total Vargas girl pinup beeeeeeuuuutiful!”

 

“Wasted,” Miss Chocolate repeated.

 

Grissom said nothing; he couldn’t, not with Miss Chocolate standing there, like a goddess in her shimmers and gleams. The satin was thin, and clung to her in a loving caress, emphasizing her long curves and sleek build. He tightened his jaw, all too aware of his body beginning to respond to the vision of her; definitely approving in the most basic, masculine reflex.

 

“You look very nice,” came his monotone, and he turned away, moving, almost trotting to the house phone. Scooping it up, Grissom hit the number for room service, barking into the line. “This is the Golden Harem suite; where’s my Goddamned food!”

 

As if on cue a knock on the door sounded out before anyone on the line answered, and Grissom slammed the receiver down. Jelly Bean laughed delightedly.

 

“Wow. Now THAT’S the way to get service!”

 

Miss Chocolate sauntered over and pulled open the door, admitting a rolling cart covered in clean while linen and dishes of sterling silver. The short woman in the chef’s hat and coat carefully pushed the rolling table in and looked from face to face for directions; Miss Chocolate gestured to the little alcove near the balcony.

 

“We have ambrosia with kiwi, pineapple and bananas, a choice of cold salmon, roast beef and Virginia ham, a selection of croissants and rolls in white, rye and wheat, couscous with olives and mushrooms; a relish tray, an assortment of cheeses, fresh grapes and melon balls and a freshly made lemon sorbet for dessert. To go with that I have a Penfolds Grange Blush, two thousand four,” the chef nervously told them all, her voice a squeak.

 

Grissom broke the pause by clearing his throat, and striding over, nodding as he looked at the uncovered dishes. “Nice. Sorry about the . . . yelling.”

 

“Sir?” the chef asked, clearly confused.

 

 Miss Chocolate gave a throaty giggle and glided over, slipping an arm around him; instantly Grissom stiffened, in more ways than one.

 

“Aw Pete baby this looks great! You even remembered the grapes too, sweetie!“ she purred, one hand coming up to stroke his cheek.

 

The chef quickly busied herself uncorking the wine and Grissom felt hot all over. Carefully he shifted, patting Miss Chocolate gently on the derriere as he pulled away. “You bet, Baby Doll. I . . . have to go make a call. You go ahead and get started without me a sec, okay?”

 

She deliberately rubbed noses with him, and Grissom had to close his eyes as the sensory input threatened to overload every neural synapse he had.

 

“’Kay, Big Daddy—hurry back,” she whispered, trying not to giggle. Grissom managed a rictus of a smile and strode to the bedroom, remembering a moment too late that he’d just walked into the wrong one.

 

 Over on the sofa Jelly Bean managed a half-hearted tug of war with the dog, using his necktie.

 

“Come on, Gren—I really LIKE this tie. Foxy! Call your dog off already!” he grumbled.

 

Grissom closed the door a moment and took a deep breath. It was essential that the chef see them as the spoiled guests they were supposed to be; he understood that. What was difficult was reminding himself that although this role took some liberties, he himself could NOT.

 

It wasn’t Miss Chocolate’s fault she was so . . . delectable; so good at playing off of her seductive capacity. Grimly he paced for a moment, deliberately thinking of other, less interesting thoughts. The inventory for the Book Hive. The new range requirements for the Candy Shop. Whether or not the new Mercedes was developing an oil leak. When he felt he’d managed to calm down sufficiently, Grissom took a breath and came to a decision.

 

He’d have to kiss her.

 

It was as simple as that—once he’d kissed her, the tension would break and he’d be able to concentrate on the job at hand without all this stomach-tightening anxiety. Once they’d gotten over that symbolic physical act, everything would flow much more smoothly and the three of them could get through this damned con.

 

He lightly rubbed the goatee, wishing he could take it off first, but that would have to wait until right before he slept. Grissom opened the door and stepped out again.

 

The Chef was pouring wine; Jelly Bean and Miss Chocolate were on the sofa, each with a plate in hand, taking turns slipping treats to the dog, who kept his attention alternating between the two of them. Jelly Bean’s plate was at an angle inviting an accident, and Grissom moved, righting it just in time.

 

Grenadine looked massively disappointed.

 

“You need to get to bed, Lightweight,” he sneered, but with a grin. “And next time, Dooley, stick to the Daniels—less wear on the brains.”

 

Jelly Bean pouted, but lurched a little, rising to his feet. “Oh suuuuure, pick on me because I have a faster metboltabism than you. Welllllllllfine. I’ll just go eat my melon balls all by myself then!” With unexpected grace, Jelly Bean rose and swerved around Grissom, balancing his plate and singing softly to himself. Grissom shot an embarrassed look at the chef and shrugged as the door to the guest bedroom slammed.

 

“My sister’s kid—what can I say?”

 

She made no reply as she handed him a plate, but her smile was quick and warm. After settling for a roast beef on a croissant, Grissom took the spot vacated by Jelly Bean and settled in on the sofa. Grenadine gave him a wary look. Miss Chocolate held out a grape in slender fingers.

 

“We ARE in the Harem Penthouse—“ she murmured. Grissom slowly smirked. He leaned back and beckoned to her imperiously with an index finger, and Miss Chocolate batted her eyelashes at him. She slid forward, leaning close and popped the succulent green grape between his lips, never dropping eye contact with him.

 

Grissom neatly swallowed it, arched an eyebrow at her, then looked at the chef, who was blushing slightly. He rose up and handed the woman two twenties, folding them into her palm and winking.

 

“With my compliments—now g’wan, don’t worry about breakfast for us, okay?”

 

The chef practically curtseyed and scurried out, grinning. Grissom closed the door behind her, locked and turned around. Miss Chocolate went pink, having just been caught checking his posterior in the silk pajamas. She leaned over the back of the sofa, trying to look innocent; utterly unaware of the deliciously provocative sight she made doing so.

 

“Blue is definitely your color,” she commented, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. Grissom fought the urge to cross his hands over his lap and instead, walked over to her. He shot a careful glance towards the closed bedroom door, then back down into Miss Chocolate’s face.

 

He leaned closer. “I’m going to kiss you. You’re having too much fun provoking me, and my . . . response . . . is definitely unsettling. Frankly one good kiss between us will do a lot to bring both our tendencies to heel.”

 

“Oh you thinnnmmm—“ Miss Chocolate began, and her words muffled themselves against Grissom’s mouth as he cupped her cheeks and lightly dove in, his mouth dropping on hers with tender certainty.

 

Miss Chocolate’s kiss was soft and shockingly warm; Grissom pressed on, savoring the plump sweetness, the responsive surge of it back against his own mouth. Reluctantly he pulled back after a few unforgettable seconds, and caught his breath, looking down into her face.

 

Her liquid brown gaze was half-closed; she licked her bottom lip in a dreamy daze, breathing a little accelerated.

 

Not that his own was particularly steady--the pleasurable flush all through his body, inside and out--left him physically tingly and aching, but that didn’t matter.

 

His mind was clear.

 

Settled.

 

Rational again.

 

Grissom gave a slow sigh. “All right then. Much better.”

 

“Y-you’re telling . . . me . . . “ Miss Chocolate blinked, flushing a delicate rosy color. “Yah, better. Can we do it again?”

 

Grissom let his fingers slide down her warm cheeks and he straightened up, giving a thoughtful nod. “Yes, we probably should. About once a day would help—if you’re willing.”

 

Miss Chocolate nodded unsteadily, blinking. “Um, once a day? Like--a vitamin? Like some sort of . . . prescription?”

 

“Exactly. A therapy to keep the tension from building up too much and potentially causing a problem for our charade,” Grissom murmured decisively. “I see it as a perfect . . .  failsafe.”

 

Miss Chocolate wore an interesting expression.

 

***   ***   ***

 

The pool at the Sirocco curved in a crescent moon, and highlighted with tropical palms artfully landscaped around it. Green and gold awnings with Arabian designs on them shaded tables and guests as waitresses circulated, refilling drinks.

 

Sara lay face down on a lounge, drinking in the warmth of the late afternoon sun. One advantage Las Vegas had over San Francisco was heat, and for the moment, she appreciated it. Her sun block was nearly in the three digits of course, but that didn’t stop her from enjoying herself.

 

She knew in a few minutes she’d have to get up and start getting ready for the dinner with Portia Richmond; that would require a bath, serious work with a hairdryer, and the full war paint. Normally that sort of intense preparation would drive her crazy, but right now Sara needed the distraction; welcomed it in fact. Anything to take her mind off Mr. Peppermint and his infuriating proposal.

 

Men.

 

She’d known he was attracted to her; known since their dinner in Washington, D.C., and it was mutual, certainly. Normally she didn’t usually go for older guys, but Mr. Peppermint had something about him that appealed to her on a lot of different levels. He was brilliant—there was no denying that—and modest. He had a sense of humor, and clearly could think on his feet, which made him reliable in a tight squeeze.

 

However, he was elusive, and despite their natural partnership certainly not used to working with women. She wondered if he was involved with someone already, and that thought left her feeling a needle of jealousy. Nothing in his file indicated any significant others in his life beyond his widowed mother, and given the kiss he’d laid on her, he certainly wasn’t gay—

 

That kiss. Soft, commanding, and sweet in a way that made her toes curl even now. Chaste, as kisses go, but with enough heat to show he knew what the hell he was doing. Mr. Peppermint was no virgin, not with that lip lock in his repertoire.

 

Sara sighed, thinking back to the previous night.

 

Mr. Peppermint had taken her silence as some sort of agreement to his bizarre proposal and had gone to chase Jelly Bean out of the guest bedroom. In turn, Jelly Bean had staggered out and curled himself up on the over-stuffed sofa with Grenadine at his feet, leaving herself to climb into the king sized bed of the master suite and TRY to sleep. It had taken a long time, and she’d debated one rash move after another, eventually dropping off somewhere around three.

 

In the morning, she was alone with the dog: the note left behind for her indicated that Mr. Peppermint was off for eighteen holes of golf, and Jelly Bean was going to look around the Chip Harrington lot at the corner of Rainbow and West Sahara.

 

So she’d taken Grenadine to the spa with her and they’d both had their nails done.

 

He was a surprisingly good listener, and Sara, who never before had considered talking aloud to a dog, did so for most of the afternoon; currently Grenadine was snoozing up in the penthouse while she lay here at poolside. A shadow fell across her, and Sara shifted to look up at her visitor, being careful not to expose too much from her untied top.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Your shoulders are getting pink,” Mr. Peppermint observed calmly. Grudgingly Sara scooted over to make room for him at her hip, and he sat, looking exactly what he was supposed to be: another rich tourist. His lime guayabera shirt and beige slacks gave him the look of some plantation owner, but she couldn’t see his eyes behind his silvered aviator sunglasses.

 

“So maybe you better rub more lotion on me, Honeybear—“ she purred loudly, reaching for the bottle and lazily passing it to him. In an undertone Sara asked, “How was your game?”

 

“Off,” he retorted, squeezing the sunscreen out and coating his palms. “Rental clubs, crowded course . . . “ he trailed off and Sara felt a surge of impishness fill the moment. Poor Mr. Peppermint was going to have to touch her, right here in public.

 

She deliberately slid her arms up and folded them under her chin, waiting patiently, knowing what she looked like in just her tiny red bikini bottom and silver toe rings. Then, very softly Sara felt the press of Mr. Peppermint’s hands along the middle of her back.

 

“If this is some sort of feminine payback for my sensible suggestion of early this morning . . .” he murmured in a voice meant for her ears only, “ . . . then touché. However, the point is that you’re very distracting for me. I’m NOT trying to be controlling or play mind games, Miss C—I simply need some way of coping with . . . this.”

 

Sara turned her head, breathing more quickly now. The glide of his hands along her back left undeniable tingles. “This?”

 

Before he could reply, a voice called out across the pool to them, loud and petulant. “Okay guys, I am NOT your dog sitter here!”

 

Jelly Bean stalked over, carrying Grenadine under one arm like a football; the dog didn’t seem to mind at all by the wagging of his fluffy tail. When Jelly Bean set him down he waddled over to Mr. Peppermint and sniffed his shoes. Jelly Bean started up again, putting more whine into his tone. “It’s not my JOB to take care of your spoiled dust mop here, Foxy!”

 

“You don’t HAVE a job, Dooley, so drop the sulky face, kid. Now come on, we’re all having dinner with someone who’s got REAL class in this town, and I’m not having either of you screw it up. Foxy, baby, wear those fancy shoes I got you—Dooley, no God damn jeans, you hear me?”

 

“What the hell? I have plans for tonight, Pete!” Jelly Bean snapped back. “Big plans!”

 

“Fuck’em. We’re having dinner with Miss Portia Richmond, kid. Most guys would give their left nut for a chance like this.”

 

“Who’s that, Baby?” Sara interrupted softly, pulling her towel to cover her chest loosely as she gracefully sat up, long legs sliding off the lounge to the cement. Mr. Peppermint sighed patiently, aware of a few people at the pool beginning to listen in.

 

“She’s . . . big, okay? More money than a camel-humping Arab, and real class. Vinnie Correrra introduced me back in Chicago last year and it’s only right I pay back the visit here in Vegas.”

 

“Greeeeat, some old zombie with crayon colored eyelids who used to dance in the chorus line when Moses was playing craps. Just who I want to meet,” Jelly Bean whined. Sara bit her lips to keep from laughing, but Mr. Peppermint rose up and casually, brutally backhanded the younger man in one swift swing.

 

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth, Dooley. You wouldn’t know real class if it flew out of your tiny asshole and crowned you Miss America you little punk. You’ll come to dinner and you’ll be bowing and scraping because if you don’t, so help me to mother-fucking GOD I will forge your induction papers and have you shipped to Iraq, you little weaselly cocksucker!”

 

Stunned, Sara reached for Jelly Bean, nearly dropping her towel, and if it hadn’t been for his quick, amused wink to her, she’d have thought he was seriously hurt. As it was, he wiped his mouth, leaving a smear of blood across his lower lip.

 

“That’s right Pete, keep pushing. One of these days . . . “ Jelly Bean warned in a shaky voice. He glared around, defying anyone to meet his gaze, and slowly slunk away, shoulders slumped. Sara watched him go, and drew a deep breath. She looked up at Mr. Peppermint, who had taken off his sunglasses and had hung them on his shirt pocket.

 

“He’ll be fine. Come on Baby Doll—we’re dressing for dinner.” With that, he scooped up Grenadine and turned to look at her. Sara caught a look of concern on his face, and she smiled, faintly in return.

 

Game on.

 

***

 

The Seraglio was centered right in the heart of the Tangiers, an opulent open courtyard five star restaurant showcased by lovely Moroccan grille walls and towering palms. Portia Richmond made her way to her usual booth, led by her bodyguard, and followed by her secretary. Heads turned, voices rose and fell as she passed; Portia managed a few brilliant smiles for old friends and new admirers. She wore an embroidered tunic suit of  charcoal that set off her white hair and ropes of pearls to perfection.

 

Vartann checked the area, discreetly, helped her into the booth and did the same, lingeringly, for Reggie. Portia felt vindicated for that—the girl looked stunning in her chocolate velvet dress, and sooner or later she’d HAVE to notice young Samuel’s admiration.

 

“Ma’am, your guests are on their way,” Vartann murmured, taking up his usual spot just behind her right shoulder. Portia nodded, and took a moment to brace herself.

 

Chip arrived, and Portia noted sourly that he was already carrying a drink in his hand as he lumbered towards the table. The plaid suit of the day was a sorry blend of avocado green and butter yellow, with tiny red and blue lines through it; Portia was reminded of trailer park upholstery. She smiled though, and held out a hand to the man now looming up at the booth table.

 

“Chester—it’s been a very long time.”

 

He made a face. Chester “Chip” Harrington was a long tall man in the shape of a T, with broad shoulders and lanky arms. He had a stiff crewcut of white hair and shaggy dark eyebrows; a slightly crooked nose and thin lips. The eyes were startling though—a pale watery blue, capable of sparkling or going glacial depending on his mood. At the moment he seemed only slightly annoyed.

 

“Portia,  you KNOW I hate being called Chester,” he reminded her in a low, Okie twang. “Jest as much as you’d hate being called Patty.” He scooted into the booth and eyed Reggie for a moment. Portia sighed.

 

“I legally changed MY name—Chip—Thank God for small favors. This is Miss Owens, my secretary,” she added politely. Chip managed a smile and lightly shook her hand.

 

“Well, ain’t you a SOLID gal! Looks like you’re getting the most value for your money with her, Portia—“ he commented with a tight little smile. “Per pound that is.” Portia sensed Vartann growling slightly under his breath. She shot Chip a quelling look as she lightly patted Reggie’s hand; the girl was blinking and trying not to show any reaction.

 

Las Vegas was a hard town sometimes.

 

“Oh she’s taken Chip—besides, I’m sure you’ve got quite enough to handle with your what is it now--three? Ex-wives?”

 

Moodily Chip finished off his drink. “Bitches, every one of them. Vampires, bleeding me dry . . . “ Before he could finish his lament, Vartann bent down and whispered to Portia once more. Overhead, the glittering glass ball began to turn, throwing sparkles of green and red light around the dining area.

 

“Your other guests are here, Ma’am.”

 

Portia looked up and noted the three strangers, feeling a thrill surge through her—it had been a long time since she’d pulled a Con, but for dear Heather . . .  She held out a hand to the commanding gentleman in the black St. Laurent suit; he handed her a long stemmed rose in return. Startled, touched, she smiled and took it.

 

“Portia, you look as great as you did in Chicago last year! Foxy here, she asked me just today, she said, “Petey honey, is Portia Richmond as classy as everyone says? And I tell her oh yeah, Baby Doll, you bet. And this is my sister’s kid, Dooley. Introduce yourself, boy.”

 

She smiled. He was good, this one—he’d managed to tell her all three of their names in his opening comment, and establish a prior relationship as well. Portia held out her hand to the young man, who stammered a little and went red.

 

“PleasedtomeetyouMa’am,” he mumbled shyly.  Portia smiled and turned her gaze to the young woman in the slinky forest green Vera Wang mini dress and leopard print heels. The lights glittered off her glossy curls.

 

“And this is the girl I’ve heard SO much about, Peter—oh she’s definitely foxy. I’m sure you have your hands full with her.”

 

Portia noted that HE blushed; she didn’t.

 

“This is Chip Harrington an old . . .  friend of mine,” she reluctantly admitted. Harrington nodded to them all and let his gaze stay on the girl. A cocktail waitress glided up and took orders.

 

They moved in, fitting nicely in the horseshoe shaped booth, murmuring softly, talking in quiet voices. Vartann kept a quiet steady stance just off Portia’s right shoulder. She discreetly checked her watch; forty-five minutes until the show at the Atlantis. Enough time to eat and be gracious. When the waiter arrived, she smiled at him.

 

“Ivan, how good to see you again. Miss Owens and I would both like the house salad and couscous please, with a glass of wine. Chip? Peter?”

 

“Lamb, but scrape the mint and shit off of it,” Chip muttered. “No point in whoring up good meat.”

 

Portia caught a quick look between the mysterious Peter and his lady friend; a glance of common distaste that immediately endeared them to her. She hid her smile as Peter spoke up, looking over the menu.

 

“What would you like, Foxy?”

 

“Um . . . polenta, please, with some yogurt?” the woman murmured. He nodded. “And I’ll have the Moroccan chicken then. Dooley, what looks good to you?”

 

“I dunno—I never heard of this sh-stuff before. Kabobs I guess,” came the slightly sulky reply.  The waiter nodded, collected the menus and slipped away, leaving a little silence in his wake.

 

Portia cleared her throat and spoke up, softly. “Well Peter, I’m so glad you could finally get to Las Vegas—tell me, what’s new with you?”

 

It was the perfect opening, and she listened attentively as the handsome man in the goatee spun out a history of his work in reclamation and repossession, skip tracing and collateral transportation, winding down with “. . . And so because of my God damned ulcers, the doctors tell me it’s time to get out of the high stress end of the job. I’m looking into getting into another line—maybe something with fleet services or cars. Less of a pain in the ass, easier on the stomach.”

 

“Cars, huh? There’s more to it than repossession, buddy,” came Chip’s slightly morose interjection. “Sales are a whole different ballgame.”

 

“I’m willing to pick it up, if the price is right,” came the indignant counter. “Repo takes balls, not bullshit.”

 

“Repo takes heat, I’ll grant you that, but it sure as hell isn’t work, not compared to what I do. All a repo man does is grab and run—nothin’ much to THAT—“

 

Samuel Vartann suddenly noticed that through the whirling red glints moving across Portia Richmond’s profile there was now ONE red spot, centered on her temple, that didn’t move. He reacted, slipping between her and the light, and turning to face the direction it came from even as he tried to reach for his holstered Sig Sauer.

 

He didn’t make the draw. A soft ‘zing’ filled the air and a flock of fabric erupted on his right jacket sleeve, just a few inches below his shoulder. Blood gouted out in a quick spray. Vartann sucked in a breath and twisted, staggering to push Portia down. Another ‘zing’ shattered the wine glass in front of her. Reggie yelped.

 

Immediately the restaurant exploded in panic.