angel.
I called Jennifer from the car and asked for a meet. She hadn’t been too discreet about her unhappiness with Nicky lately, and I was pretty sure that “object lesson” in the basement wasn’t just for my benefit.
I cruised back to Bentley and Corman’s place to grab a shower and a change of clothes. I left the stubble on my cheeks, though. I had a feeling I’d be paying a recon visit to the good folks at the New Life Project in the very near future.
Night fell and the city woke up. I parked the car and walked half a block over to Fremont Street, drawn to the roiling of the drunken crowds and the blare of hard rock from towering speakers that were all volume, no finesse. A band on the open-air stage was ripping their way through a Van Halen tribute set and bouncing around like spandex-wrapped monkeys on crack. I waded through the cheering crowd, feeling underdressed without a plastic beer cup in my hand.
Meditation in motion was an acquired skill. I focused on my breathing and let the thoughts slip from my mind the same way I slipped through the press of bodies, letting my feet carry me along to the tempo of the drums. In the space between two heartbeats, I was nowhere at all.
Then I was in the shabby little foyer of an Indian restaurant, staring at the orange cigarette-burned carpet and inhaling the rich, spicy aroma of fresh tandoori chicken. That was how a visit to the Tiger’s Garden worked: you didn’t find the door, the door found you.
The gang was all there. Bentley and Corman held court over a feast of scarlet-spiced chicken and jasmine rice, and judging from the empty glasses, they’d gotten an early start on the night’s drinking. Mama Margaux sat across from them, nursing a rum hurricane, with her hair done up in an ornate beehive. Her profile made me think of ancient Egyptian queens. Jennifer spotted me first and waved me over to the table, gesturing to an empty chair.
Amar intercepted me halfway there. He was the Garden’s only waiter, possibly the cook and owner too, but he wouldn’t talk about anything that wasn’t on the menu. He held out a polished brass-rimmed tray bearing a single glass.
“Your whiskey and Coke, sir.”
Time worked a little funny inside the Tiger’s Garden. Your order was always placed long before you arrived, and it was always exactly what you wanted. Most of us had stopped trying to figure it out a long time ago.
“There he is,” Corman called out. “Have a seat, kiddo. Soup’s on.”
My stomach gave an involuntary clench at the sight of the food. I couldn’t help but think back to my first run-in with Naavarasi in Denver. She had her own “restaurant,” and to seal a deal I’d eaten…I still didn’t know what, not for sure, and she wouldn’t tell me. That was her game: to keep me up at night, torturing me with the possibilities until I gave her what she wanted in exchange for the truth.
The joke was on her. The idea of learning the truth scared me more than not knowing.
Thirteen
I did my best to push Naavarasi out of my mind as I sat down at the table and took a sip from my glass. Perfectly mixed, as always, and strong on the Jack. Just what I needed to get my feet back under me. Bentley looked over and frowned.
“Daniel? Are you feeling all right? You look pale.”
I didn’t sugarcoat it. These people were my family. Not by blood, but blood didn’t mean a damn thing next to what we had together.
“Just came back from a little face time with Nicky Agnelli,” I said. “Jen, you ever do business with a guy named Clay Boswell?”
“Little bit,” she said. “He runs a B&E crew out of Summerlin. Sometimes he’d snatch my kind of merchandise and I’d take it off his hands for a cut. We’re gonna do lunch next week, why?”
“Cancel your reservations. Clay went looking to make a deal with the feds. Nicky found out and gave him to the twins to play with. I was invited to watch, and by ‘invited’ I mean they stood me right in
I called Jennifer from the car and asked for a meet. She hadn’t been too discreet about her unhappiness with Nicky lately, and I was pretty sure that “object lesson” in the basement wasn’t just for my benefit.
I cruised back to Bentley and Corman’s place to grab a shower and a change of clothes. I left the stubble on my cheeks, though. I had a feeling I’d be paying a recon visit to the good folks at the New Life Project in the very near future.
Night fell and the city woke up. I parked the car and walked half a block over to Fremont Street, drawn to the roiling of the drunken crowds and the blare of hard rock from towering speakers that were all volume, no finesse. A band on the open-air stage was ripping their way through a Van Halen tribute set and bouncing around like spandex-wrapped monkeys on crack. I waded through the cheering crowd, feeling underdressed without a plastic beer cup in my hand.
Meditation in motion was an acquired skill. I focused on my breathing and let the thoughts slip from my mind the same way I slipped through the press of bodies, letting my feet carry me along to the tempo of the drums. In the space between two heartbeats, I was nowhere at all.
Then I was in the shabby little foyer of an Indian restaurant, staring at the orange cigarette-burned carpet and inhaling the rich, spicy aroma of fresh tandoori chicken. That was how a visit to the Tiger’s Garden worked: you didn’t find the door, the door found you.
The gang was all there. Bentley and Corman held court over a feast of scarlet-spiced chicken and jasmine rice, and judging from the empty glasses, they’d gotten an early start on the night’s drinking. Mama Margaux sat across from them, nursing a rum hurricane, with her hair done up in an ornate beehive. Her profile made me think of ancient Egyptian queens. Jennifer spotted me first and waved me over to the table, gesturing to an empty chair.
Amar intercepted me halfway there. He was the Garden’s only waiter, possibly the cook and owner too, but he wouldn’t talk about anything that wasn’t on the menu. He held out a polished brass-rimmed tray bearing a single glass.
“Your whiskey and Coke, sir.”
Time worked a little funny inside the Tiger’s Garden. Your order was always placed long before you arrived, and it was always exactly what you wanted. Most of us had stopped trying to figure it out a long time ago.
“There he is,” Corman called out. “Have a seat, kiddo. Soup’s on.”
My stomach gave an involuntary clench at the sight of the food. I couldn’t help but think back to my first run-in with Naavarasi in Denver. She had her own “restaurant,” and to seal a deal I’d eaten…I still didn’t know what, not for sure, and she wouldn’t tell me. That was her game: to keep me up at night, torturing me with the possibilities until I gave her what she wanted in exchange for the truth.
The joke was on her. The idea of learning the truth scared me more than not knowing.
Thirteen
I did my best to push Naavarasi out of my mind as I sat down at the table and took a sip from my glass. Perfectly mixed, as always, and strong on the Jack. Just what I needed to get my feet back under me. Bentley looked over and frowned.
“Daniel? Are you feeling all right? You look pale.”
I didn’t sugarcoat it. These people were my family. Not by blood, but blood didn’t mean a damn thing next to what we had together.
“Just came back from a little face time with Nicky Agnelli,” I said. “Jen, you ever do business with a guy named Clay Boswell?”
“Little bit,” she said. “He runs a B&E crew out of Summerlin. Sometimes he’d snatch my kind of merchandise and I’d take it off his hands for a cut. We’re gonna do lunch next week, why?”
“Cancel your reservations. Clay went looking to make a deal with the feds. Nicky found out and gave him to the twins to play with. I was invited to watch, and by ‘invited’ I mean they stood me right in
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