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The house is tricked out with cameras in every wall; speakers in every ceiling; and a red, orange, and yellow (“heat”) color scheme in every room, and every table is stocked with pamphlets explaining domestic violence, the charitable cause to benefit from tomorrow night's fights.
Priscilla flits off with one of her camera people to pose for a photo with the assistant mayor—only in Las Vegas would the assistant mayor attend a porn star’s benefit—just about the time I start feeling sick.
It’s my back. My skin is burning. I’m on my way to the bathroom when I get intercepted by Marchant’s cousin, Samuel. I talk to him for twenty minutes about some development ordinance he wants the city to pass. He wants me to help, and I have no fucking idea what he’s talking about, my back hurts so bad.
I mutter an “excuse me” and shake my head. “Migraine,” I croak, and he says, “Ow. I'm sorry, man. Those things hurt.”
“They do.”
“Take care.”
Fat chance.
I spend the next five minutes in a frou frou yellow bathroom, where I text Dave and let him know I haven't seen Smith or Lockwood yet.
'I'm here, outside,' he replies. 'Lwd just arrived.'
Hell, yes. I'm stepping back into the formal dining room when I feel something trickle down my back. My stomach heaves—blood—and I whirl around to step back into the john just in time to see some lady close the door. Fuck. I step toward the food-piled table, telling myself to quit being such a pussy, but the punch is blood red and there's steak laid out on a platter right in front of me, swimming in...
Fucking fuck!
I set off down the hall, swallowing repeatedly, ignoring one of Priscilla's cohorts, a pretty porn star named Cinnamon Vern. The nearest door is only steps away, and I'm reaching for the crystal knob when I hear Priscilla's voice.
I lean closer to the door, but her voice gets softer.
What the—?
I notice another door a few feet down, and walk swiftly too it. I hear a male voice, too, rising and falling in turn. I'm only standing there for a moment when I recognize it from a tape I heard in Marchant's office: It's Lockwood. He says something low that I can't hear, and Priscilla laughs.
“I ripped up his back. He’s trying to play it off, but he can barely walk.”
Lockwood chuckles, and she goes on. “Go for his left shoulder blade. I think there's some ceramic impacted. It was swollen and I noticed in the car he's not moving that arm much.”
I clutch my stomach; it feels hollow.
“I don't want to do that,” Lockwood says. I frown, confused. “I don't give a shit about the fight, and it's a bad idea to match me up with him anyway. I don't want anything to do with that sonbitch. I'm keeping my nose clean.”
“Honey, there’s not a thing about you clean,” Priscilla drawls.
He says something angrily, but for some reason it’s muffled.
“Don’t be silly,” Priscilla says, and Lockwood groans, “Just finish the damn job.”
Priscilla murmurs something I can't hear, followed by: "He doesn’t like to hurt a lady." She snorts, like the notion is ridiculous.
“Which is why you’re supposed to make him like it,” Lockwood snaps. “And get it on tape.”
She laughs under her breath. "I never have time for that."
"Yeah, because you're thinking with your pussy."
"He's a good fuck.”
"Congratulations, now do you want to do time in prison, or do you want to frame this son of a bitch and go to Mexico with me?"
"Is she still alive?" Priscilla asks softly.
"Yes," he says, after a moment's pause. "Now get down on your knees and—"
