Page 99 of Never Never

But that’s not the point right now.

I stuff my hands in my jacket pockets, slip in through the gates, ignore the betting windows, ignore the bars, ignore the stands, and head straight for that ugly little awning around back.

Club Level.

Classy. Fun place to hang out. Probably the only corner of this whole operation where the drinks aren’t watered down.

Or roofied.

Just kidding, I think to no one as I open the door and jog up the steps. But also maybe not.

As I do, I feel something buzz in my pocket. I stop on the steps and pull it out. Krye. Finally has a job, I guess. Real money.

But I push end call.

That can wait. That can fucking wait.

Second level, club level, where the walls are the color of piss and the lighting’s from the 1970s. There’s only one door in the corridor, not counting the bathroom, and there’s a heavy standing outside with an earpiece. He glances at me as I flash him a grin, stitching together a cover story on the fly.

“Hey man,” I say to the door guy, nodding at the entrance. “I’m here to see⁠—”

“Sure you are.” He cuts me off, jerking his head toward the stairs. “Maybe watch from downstairs, kid.”

Already, I’m pissed off. But I manage to keep it on a leash. Keep that rage nice and bottled up for later. I square my shoulders, tip my head, try to look as charming as possible.

“You know, I’d love to,” I say. “But the thing is, I’m supposed to meet with…” I do a little pincer motion with my thumb and forefinger. “…El Jefe here. He’ll know what it’s about.”

I’m fucking bluffing on that part. The only thing he could anticipate this meeting being about that he doesn’t know about in the first place is how much he fucking hates me. And you know what? On that front, I can’t really blame him. Was it his fault to set up a kind of loophole in the game? Probably. Was I simply exploiting the rules as they were written? Definitely. Did I anticipate that whoever the big boss at the time was going to slice off three of his fingers—one for each ten thousand I made away with? Obviously not. I don’t know how these sickos think.

I swallow hard. I mean, that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?

And now Hook himself is the big boss. Few fingers lighter, new nickname, new title.

The door guy doesn’t move. And for some reason, that trips my wire.

“You got a direct line to the boss there, big guy? Huh? Is that thing even connected?” I lean in all close to him, give the little plastic coil a flick. “I know you’ve got fuckin’ creeper cameras up all around here”—I gesture at the ceiling even though I don’t even know what’s mounted up there—“so don’t act like you can’t hear me. Don’t act like⁠—”

The door opens.

“Let him in, T,” comes the voice.

A voice I know.

Instantly, I back off and straighten up, even though I’m just as tall as he is, and square my jacket on my shoulders. Force my muscles to give him my million-dollar smile even though I am vibrating with the need to punch his lights out right on the threshold of his stupid fucking club box.

You fucking pervert.

Hook, himself.

It’s been a minute since I’ve seen him in person, even seen a picture of him—low profile, this guy, and for good reason. He’s hit that part of middle age where guys like him—Italian guys, mafia guys—could be anywhere from forty-five to seventy-five, like they only get tanner and thicker in the body and grayer and thinner on top. White button-down unbuttoned a little too far, fancy slacks, fancy shoes that have gotta be Italian leather, that fucking mustache.

And holding his glass, that hand.

If he sees me staring, he ignores it. Probably used to it by now. In fact, his whole persona is calm as a Quaalude.

“Please”—he steps aside, ever the gracious host—“come in, Pan.”

Which just pisses me off even more.