A few minutes and a lot of silent swearing later, the little Marley sat immobilized, with a full roll of toilet paper stuffed in its mouth and the cords from the window blinds tied around it about nine times. «That won't hold it for long,» Billy said dubiously, as the tiny alarm vibrated with indignation. A few wisps of paper drifted out of its mouth and floated to the floor as we watched.
«It doesn't have to.» I lifted the sash and jammed it open with the plunger Billy found under the sink. «They'll know we've escaped soon enough anyway—this place is warded all to hell.»
I began quickly sorting through the pile he dragged in the window and decided that, overall, he'd done a good job. My gun was back and I even had an extra clip he'd rounded up somewhere, plus he'd dropped a set of car keys on top of the shirts. On the down side, the tops were not exactly what I would have chosen. I should have specified no hooker wear, but a gal can't think of everything. My boots and mini looked cute and sassy when I was adequately covered up on top; spilling out from the most conservative of Billy Joe's finds, I looked like I ought to be charging by the hour. I pulled my hair into a ponytail using Louis-Cesar's clip, but although it was neater, it didn't make me look much more innocent. I took one last look at my appearance in the mirror, sighed and pocketed the keys. As soon as I managed to find the garage, I'd take out the stress of the day on a certain old acquaintance and probably feel much better.
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Chapter 6
Tony is a scumbag, but I can't fault his business sense. Dante's, on a prime stretch of land near the Luxor, had a crowd even at four thirty in the morning. I wasn't surprised: it's perfect for Las Vegas. Modeled on the Divine Comedy, it has nine different areas, each with a theme corresponding to one of Dante Alighieri's nine circles of Hell. Visitors enter through a set of huge wrought-iron gates decorated with basalt statues writhing in agony and the famous phrase ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE. They are then rowed across a shallow river by one of several gray-robed Charons and deposited in the cavelike vestibule, where a red and gold layout of the place is painted mural-sized on the wall.
A guy dressed like King Minos—with a convenient name tag explaining that he was the guy who assigned sinners to their punishments—was handing out paper copies of the map when I arrived, but I didn't need one. The layout was kind of logical: the buffet, for example, was in the third circle, where the sin of gluttony is punished. It wasn't difficult to figure out where to look for Jimmy; where else but circle two, where all those guilty of the sin of lust are chastised, to find a real, live satyr?
Sure enough, Pan's Flute was the watering hole for the second circle. In case you somehow missed the Hell and damnation theme the lobby had going, the bar was a bit more blatant. I didn't so much as flinch on entering, since I'd seen similar rooms before. For someone a little more sensitive, however, it must have been a shock to enter a room that was decorated almost entirely with dismembered skeletons. Renaissance Italy, where Tony had been born, experienced regular outbreaks of plague. Seeing their friends and family die and hearing of whole villages being wiped out made people somewhat morbid. Ossuaries, chapels built entirely out of the bones of the deceased, were the era at its most extreme, and Tony's homage was no exception. Elaborate chandeliers made of what looked like—and, knowing Tony, possibly were—human bones swung from the ceiling, interspersed with garlands of skulls. More death's-heads were used for candle holders, and drinks were served in skull-shaped goblets. They were fakes, with tacky glass «rubies» for eyes, but I wasn't so sure about some of the others. The napkins showed the Dance of Death in black on a red background, with a grinning skeleton leading a parade of sinners off to perdition. After guests adjusted to all that, I guess the waiters weren't as big a surprise.
I had expected humans in togas and furry trousers, but the creature who greeted me at the entrance was the real deal. How the hell they convinced people that their waiters were only wearing elaborate costumes I'll never know. The rudimentary horns that poked out of the satyr's nest of mahogany curls could have been as fake as the ring of acanthus leaves he was wearing, but his costume—consisting solely of an overstrained leather G-string—did nothing to conceal his obviously real fur-covered haunches and glossy black hooves. It also showed without a doubt that he approved of the plunging neckline of my purloined black spandex top. Since satyrs generally approve of anyone female and breathing, I didn't take it as a compliment.
«I'm here to see Jimmy.»
The satyr's big brown eyes, which had been sparkling with pleasure, clouded over slightly. He took my arm in an attempt to draw me against him, but I stepped back. Of course he followed. He was young and handsome, if the whole half-goat thing didn't make you want to run screaming. Satyrs tend to be well endowed by human standards, and he was gifted even for one of them. Since sexual prowess is the defining element in satyr society, he was probably accustomed to getting a lot of attention. He didn't do much for me, but I didn't want to appear rude. Satyrs, even the old, bald ones, think they're God's gift to women, and messing with their happy fantasy tends to have bad results. Not that they turn violent—they're more likely to run than fight—but a depressed satyr is a miserable sight. They get drunk, play sad songs and loudly complain about the duplicity of women. Once they get started, they don't stop until they pass out, and I wanted information.