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The bait was set. Now to see if anyone came nibbling.
I walked into the Lassiter Casino. It had wide windows looking out over Arcade Square so I could observe from a safe distance. Plus, it had a reasonably priced buffet on the third floor right up against those windows.
I paid for the all-you-can-eat Gunk bar with Harpreet’s Gizmo.
The trick with Gunk is to steer clear of stuff trying to taste like other stuff. Don’t get the “Tandoori Chicken” flavorant. You’ll just be disappointed. Get “Myrtle Goldstein’s Formulation #3.” That’s good shit. No idea what the ingredients are. It could be termite carcasses and Italian armpit hair for all I know. I don’t care. It makes the Gunk palatable, and that’s what matters.
I took my bowl to a window table and sat down. I nibbled Gunk and sipped water, never taking my eyes off the bench where I’d stowed the Gizmo. It got boring after a while, but I stuck with it. This was a stakeout.
Could Lefty track my Gizmo? If he could, it’d give me an idea of how powerful he was. It would mean he had connections all the way to the top.
“Mind if I join you?” said a familiar voice behind me.
I jerked my head around to look.
Rudy. Shit. “Uh…” I said eloquently.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He seated himself and rested a Gunk bowl on the table. “As you can imagine, I have a few questions.”
“How did you find me?!”
“I tracked your Gizmo.”
“Yeah, but it’s way down there!” I pointed to the windows.
He looked out over the Arcade. “Yes, imagine my surprise when your Gizmo turned on in the middle of Arcade Square. That’s pretty careless. Doesn’t seem like you at all.”
He took a bite of Gunk. “So I figured you’d be watching from a safe distance. This is a nice, cheap buffet and a perfect vantage point. Wasn’t hard to work out.”
“Well, aren’t you Mr. Clever.” I stood. “I’ll just be on my way—”
“Sit down.”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
“Sit down, Jazz.” He shot me a look. “If you think I won’t tackle you here and now, think again. Eat your Gunk and let’s talk.”
I settled back into my seat. There was no way I could take Rudy in a fight. I tried once, back when I was seventeen and stupid as shit. It didn’t go well. The guy had muscles of iron. Magnificent, stallion-like muscles of iron. Did he work out? He had to, right? I wondered what he looked like working out. Would he be sweaty? Of course he’d be sweaty. It’d be all dripping down those muscles in rivulets of—
“I know you didn’t commit the murders,” he said.
I snapped back to reality. “Aww, I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He pointed to me with his spoon. “I know you blew up the Sanchez harvesters, though.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“Do you expect me to believe the sabotage, the murders, and you hiding out are all unrelated?” He scooped a bite of Gunk from his bowl and ate it with perfect table manners. “You’re in the middle of all this, and I want to know what you know.”
“You know everything I know. You should work on the murders instead of the petty vendetta you’ve got against me.”
“I’m trying to save your life, Jazz.” He put his napkin on the table. “Do you have any idea who you antagonized with that sabotage?”
“Alleged sabotage,” I said.
“Do you know who owns Sanchez Aluminum?”
I shrugged. “Some Brazilian company.”
