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[color=gray][h3][sup][sup]Vincenzo emerged from the back seat of his Mercedes with a bow of his head to Mister Keene to idle. He was wearing a charcoal vest over a well-worn pleated maroon shirt, his eyes were obfuscated by rimless brown-orange tinted glasses. 

He carried himself past the flourishes of the decorative backlit fountain, past the rows of acacia trees swaying in a balmy breeze, past the faux-Corinthian pillars which line Caligula’s Palace’s valet roundabout. Ugly SUVs changed hands, with schlubby tourists passing their keys to the bowtied, waistcoated servants and vice-versa. 

Those same tourists posed for picture after picture on the marbled front step, in front of gold-glassed doors and stiff, tasseled carpet, cut and dyed as if from the cloaks of five hundred dead patricians. The ancillae held some contempt for the kitsch of the Strip’s casinos, but often it was the behavior of the customers that truly soured his mood.

Through the golden gate and past the lobby, with its little-penised marble statue (arms tastefully hacked just beneath the shoulders) beneath a vaulted, frescoed dome ceiling. Past faux-gold elevator doors, its luster dulled with countless fingerprints left uncleaned. Past half a dozen celebrity-chef eateries with trendy names in trendy lowercase typesets: [i]sizzle. the croft. fig & olive.[/i]] his shadow loomed, slaking across the glamour all too eager to be out of the even golden light as he entered the honored arena of the casino floor, whose lights raged with a far more aggressive character.

Across the pit, even amidst the overstimulation of malfunctioning slot machines, of dancing recessed lights, Vince recognized the figure. He had met Elijah Ezekiel Brace briefly at his own Elysial induction: A wispy man in a loud velvet suit, with a silver shock of hair, his fingers as heavy with rings as an ox’s neck. Jewel-eyed and handsome, squaring up with him even though he was facing away.

Screens flickering with the hectic roller coaster of wins and losses, slot arms jammed and rollers whirring as Vince walked past. The blackjack tables sat nestled between the roulette tables and the baccarat lounge, the latter dim and smoky. Vince’s nose raised into a sneer briefly at the mix of tobacco and incense, the Chinamen within wearing sweaty polo shirts and cheap sunglasses. Table five, exactly as the message had promised.
Brace was the third of three at his table: he sat beside 160 pounds of woman stuffed into a 130-pound leopard-print sausage casing, her silky hair and indigenous skin both darker than the brass-and-chocolate tones of the cocktail dress. To her right sat another man—her “date,” presumably—a fat Texan type with a bushy Sam Elliott mustache, a white ten-gallon boss-of-the-plains, a cheap bluish-silvery suit that felt distasteful even to the tasteless dilettante.

The Italian approached the table confidently, those eyes hidden behind tinted lenses, hovering over each of them as he took a seat opposite the aged man, bowing his head to the pair between them. He kept his arms off the table, letting the round play out with an almost disinterested following of the game, its minutiae amusing, but hardly interesting compared to its players. 

Brace took note of the new arrival with an eyeroll, letting his own rest back on the larger man. They chitchatted over the minutiae of the game, but his patience was running low. The Texan alternated between teaching his date how to play the game, and rattling out some advice for the aged Brujah as if he, too, was erring at every opportunity. 

Brace feigned a moment’s recognition, his glass-blue eyes widening, his wrinkles deepening with glee. “Giorgiadis? Shit, that really [i]is[/i] you! How you doing, man?! Fred, Agustina, this is Stefanos. We go back.”

Fred veered his eyes away from Agustina with the hint of a scowl towards Vince, as if more players would ruin his luck. He offered only a “Howdy” before his eyes returned to the table. 

“So what’s up? You hanging around tonight?” Brace was quick to keep the mood of the room up past the bullheadedness of the other patron.

Vince, for his part, bowed his head to Fred, thankful that he was far enough away for it to be acceptable not to kiss the lady’s hand. “It’s been too long, Henry. Joe sends his regards.” He let that hang in the air for a moment. “Mind if I watch for a round or two?” 

“Take your time. We got a few hands to go until Afaaf here—” he gestured briefly to the croupier—a withered old Arab lady with skin the same shade of tawny brown as her short, fluffy hair and a long, dignified nose—”refreshes the shoe.”

Vince returned a brief nod of his own, finishing his introductions. “Have you been having a good night so far?”

“Ups and downs. Ups and downs. Ain’t no way to win every night but to love the game.”

“There’s truth in that. Shame I can’t end up on the Strip every night.”

“Busy man. Well, track down a waitress, why don’t you? Grab a drink. Get settled. I can hold the fort.”

Vince gave a small chuckle and rose, a small bob of his head to the Texan and his ornament before putting his back to the table. He returned to the circle of light and sound to seek out the bar. The ancillae carried himself casually, his eyes wandering where they had at first been direct, regarding the lights and symphony of electronic sound with a hint of unease.

Finally making it to the counter of the bar past a series of orange columns, he rested his hands on the vinyl top, his hands a half inch of plastic away from snaking obsidian patterns in the marble below. Flagging one of the attendants with one hand, he ordered a Vesper martini. It was quickly prepared by hands that could claw away thousands in tips on a single night, and had a presentation to match in a sharp crystal bowl, with a tied lemon skin being the only thing breaking the perfect clarity in the glass. 

While making his return to the lounge he felt the hairs on his arms rise under fabric. The storm of flashing lights dampened for a moment few could even notice, but the Lasombra kept as clear as his drink. Presence. A perfectly mundane weapon, wielded haphazardly by even the youngest hunters, but still sharp, still potent, drawing even the glassy, witless eyes of the slot addicts, standing even the neck hairs of the limp-skinned pensioners on end. Now, he needed to get to the business he had come here for.

Elijah was alone then, the Brujah leaning forward over the table. Afaaf was still going through the shoe, much more slowly without the presence of the charming couple. Her eyes carried a stale fear, reserved and concealed enough to impress the Lasombra.

Vincenzo was quick enough to speak. “Ah, I had wished Fred could stay around.” A flick of a finger towards Afaaf “And her?”

“She’s on the level. As for Fred, said he’s got a long drive ahead of him. Hmph. Heavy eyelids and light pockets, I suppose.”

Vinc, with nary a gesture, nary a word, bought into the next hand; placed his chips in a tidy pile. “All the same, we can enjoy some rounds. Must admit your envoy was quite the character.”

Nervous hands dealt cards deftly, and Brace picked back up. “Spooked your ghouls, did he?”

“Timothy has learned well to roll with the punches. Doesn’t mean he’s looking to get punched.” Vince paused to consider himself for a moment. “Am I supposed to take something so explicit as a test?”

“Nothing so uncouth. Besides, someone your age?—you’ve been tested aplenty.”

With the air broken some, Vince slacked in the shoulders. “I consider working with violent men a matter of course, but I had been led to believe that we deal more in implicits here.”

“Vegas is a different city than you’re used to. We can talk freely for the same reason someone like her—” he gave a nod to Afaaf—“is strictly off-limits. Caligula’s is [abbr=Malkavian]Cassandra[/abbr] turf, and Dearborn vets his people closely.”

Vince nodded, those shaded glasses dipping some on his nose. “Suppose so. Then with that, I will be explicit with you. I am looking for protection, and my sire is displeased with my recent decision.” 

Brace seemed unbothered by the assertion, smiling somberly when Vince lost out on the hand. “I’m sorry to hear that. But it’s funny you mention it, actually.” 

“Oh? I’m not the only one making [i]questionable[/i] decisions of late?”

“Does the name ‘Dandy’ Johnny Shea mean anything to you?”

Vince placed his next bet. “An old name, that. Heard about him secondhand some time ago. Has a ghost reappeared?”

“Another apostate hopeful. But unlike you, he has regrettably chosen to curry favor with another party. The [i]wrong[/i] party.”

“That so? May I ask which?”

“You may. Not that it isn’t obvious.” He won again, raking in the cash nonchalantly. The moving of hundreds of dollars was inconsequential, deft hands moving cards as if he didn’t have seven, eight rocks on his fingers. 

“Those roughneck types—the likes of whom paid your dear old Timothy a visit—dealing with them affords me a certain number of inroads. I’m not ash-on-sight at their Rants, for instance. That’s how I have it that the venerable Mr. Shea is trying to make a deal of his own. Protection—just enough Status that old grudges can’t catch up to him—in exchange for information."

Vince bobbed his head, thinking he had put two and two together. “And so you want me to try and sway a fellow errant brother?” he offered. “I have no entanglements with them, but I doubt they’d take too kindly to me.”

“I doubt there’s any convincing him.” A beat. “Best we can hope for is to make sure Baron Childers cannot benefit from what he knows. About us, sure—but also rituals. Local cults. Menhirs and altars. Any source of hard power she could use against us—against [i]you,[/i] now that you’ve cast your lot.”

“I can take him out, though I must admit it's not my usual practice. Don’t suppose you have any hatchetmen lying around?”

A hand raised in calm. “All he has to do is not talk. Doesn’t matter to me what because he won’t or because he can’t.”

“Appreciate the leeway,” Vince said, ”though I doubt someone like that has much left material to work with.” A smile. “Consider it done regardless.”

A slim, approving smile shifted across Brace’s lips. “You’ll learn soon enough, [i]‘Stefanos,’[/i] that I take care of the people who make my nights easier instead of harder. You do this for me, the Prince will be hearing some very good things at our next brouhaha. So what do you think? You still want those phone numbers?”

“Yes, that would be good. I have made nights easier for far less pleasant company.” A raise of his glass. “To easier nights, then.”

The Primogen drew a business card from the Napoleon of his velvet jacket. It read simply: Henry Karnes, Managing Director, Crusoe’s Casino & Hotel.

On the back he scrawled a name, and a ten-digit that he knew by heart. He cut into the card with his pen knife, twirled it, balanced it on the lip of Vince’s glass beside the lemon twist, their tips almost kissing. He raised his whiskey, the ice cubes long melted, the fine spirit lukewarm and untouched.[/sup][/sup][/h3][/color]