[color=gray][h3][sup][sup]Teresa walked along Lake Mead Boulevard. Night hid the ugliness of the city. The filthiness of the streets no longer as obvious beneath the dimming street lights. The strip malls that she passed bathed the sidewalks in warm rays. Neon signs beckoned. Offering all kinds of services, and always, always, satisfaction. Pawn shops adorned with gold. Bail Offices promising freedom at ever falling prices. Strip Clubs dealing in flesh. And late-night burger joints dripping with grease. Teresa felt a sense of revulsion. It was wrong. All of it. The buildings crammed too close together. The people pushed against each other. The writhing mass of humanity that surrounded her. Touching her, no matter what she did to avoid it, leaving a sickly sweet smell on her skin that she couldn’t remove. No matter how hard she scrubbed. The throbbing, oozing heart of the city that she fed on. That she needed.

The adrenaline had faded. Not that it had ever been there. Not really. It was a memory. A hollow husk she knew only by the emptiness it left inside of her. The slowly simmering anger she felt was real though. Connie was gonna fuck it all up. He was gonna get himself ashed by some week old fledglings. And she’d be the one stuck explaining to Brace how it was all his own damn fault.

Teresa stopped, letting out a weary sigh. She had walked off enough of her frustration. Her hands found a pack of cigarettes in her pocket. A fleck of orange glowed between her fingers as she blew puffs of smoke into the air. She watched the cars zipping by, wondering if it was too late to buy a flight to Paris. The burner phone in her pocket began to vibrate, ringing silently.bFishing it out of her coat pocket, she stared at it warily, letting it ring several times before she flipped it open, mashing the Call key, “Crusoe’s Casino & Hotel, hiring—uhhh…— department. How can I help you?”

A nasally male voice crackled over the cheap quartz speakers, “Yes, we were looking for some help regarding a temp assignment, Mister Karnes recommended we speak.”

“One moment, please,” Teresa said, burying her frown in the collar of her coat, holding the phone away from her as if it was some rotten thing. Strangers didn’t call her. Not ever. Not unless Brace handed them the number to her latest burner phone. [i]Malas noticias.[/i] Bad news. [i]Simepre[/i] bad news, for someone, and she hoped it wasn’t her. She knew she should be wary. But she was curious. The scraps of meat were there. Right where she could see them, where she could smell them. Brace wasn’t in the habit of doing anything for free. To help the stranger was to help Brace and to help Brace was to earn her keep. They were dogs. Connie and her. But even dogs grew hungry…and they couldn’t hide forever.

She tossed the halfsmoked cigarette to the pavement, stamping out the fire as she put the phone back against her ear, “You’re in luck, we’ve got some openings. Let’s meet for a quick chat. Taormina Restaurant, 347 North Nellis Boulevard, in two hours. The cannolis are good. And tell them Sofía sent you.”

The caller said nothing at first, although Teresa thought she could hear a pen scratching on paper, the person on the other end of the line scribbling down the address. There was a muted muttering that she couldn’t quite make out, before the voice replied, “Thank you, Sofia. Be sure to bring anything you have on file for Johnny Shea—you might know him as Dandy.”

She tried to remember the name, but nothing came to mind. There were enough kindred lurking in the shadows, feeding on the kine that flocked to Las Vegas. Enough faces to remember. And more than enough names to recall. She wasn’t a big shot like Brace. Connie sure as fuck wasn’t either. They were the problem solvers. The ones who put in the work. They only knew the big wigs in passing. When they needed them to do something. Teresa tapped her leg with her fingers of free hand, as if it might jostle some forgotten memory, “No problem. I’ll see if we have a resume from Mr. Shea. Thank you for your call.”
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