Whoops and whistles erupted from Chantelle's drunken admirers as she maneuvered her tray over their heads without spilling a drop. Within minutes, the recipient of Chantelle's expensive liquor became clear. She sidled up to the chair of Senator Baron Westerfield and thrust her tits into his face.
"Cherry fizzy-pop? Seriously?" taunted an oily, Midwestern accent from the crimson drapes behind Asrael's shoulder. A medium-built man emerged from the booth's curtain and slid behind the table. "Are you trying to ruin my reputation?"
Asrael's fist whitened over the tankard of blood-red suds. "I didn't have you paroled for your lip."
"Comes with the package. Get used to it."
Even in his disguise as an aging, bearded sodbuster, everything about Henry "Hank" Sharpe was average: his height; his weight; his balding pate and brown eyes. He was the type of man whom people didn't notice in a room, especially if those people were female.
Nevertheless, in certain circles, Hank had earned a reputation for standing head-and-shoulders above the crowd. To his clientele, who preferred that their business transactions remained anonymous, Hank was known as The Ventilator.
"So the gang's all here from Galveston," Hank drawled.
Asrael tossed him a withering glare. "I had hoped a man of your reputation would be eager to rectify his error, not gloat about it."
"You mean your error, pard," Hank retorted, tugging a pouch of tobacco from his duster pocket. "You picked the window."
"And what, pray tell, was your excuse on the grocer's roof?"
"Get off your high-horse." Hank began rolling his quirley. "You said to throw suspicion on the sodbusters and make Baron look like the target. That's what I did."
"Except, of course, nobody died," Asrael sniped in a low, exasperated tone. "I had to get rid of the Neanderthal myself."
"Serves you right for changing the plan at the last second."
"I'm the reason you're still alive! You should be thanking me!"
Hank snorted. "You mean 'cause you kept getting in the way?"
A muscle ticked in Asrael's jaw.
Hank struck a match with his thumb. When he bent his head to puff his smoke, a ruddy glow illuminated his harsh and grizzled features beneath the brim of his chocolate-brown Stetson. He was watching a blond gunfighter in black duds. Cassidy was shooting tequila shots at the bar and glaring daggers at Chantelle, who was diligently trying to entice Baron away from the craps table.
A muscle ticked in Asrael's jaw. "Must I remind you, Cassidy has never lost a gunfight?"
"It only takes one."
"Don't be obtuse. I've kept Cassidy from learning you're in town and hunting you down. In case you've forgotten, you're the reason that Injun pal of his can never show his face again in Burnett County. Lynx would have been lynched for that church offering you stole, if Cassidy hadn't busted him out of jail. Cassidy's young, but he's not stupid. You'd be wise not to underestimate him."
Hank exhaled a perfect smoke ring. "He'd be wise not to underestimate me."
Asrael's chest heaved. The Ventilator was entitled to his boast. Hank had never lost a gunfight, either. But the vermin's real value lay in his ability to make murder look like an accident: a hoof to the head. A stampede. A drowning. An avalanche. A broken axle wheel. Hank was particularly crafty at rigging backfiring pistols—which would be the end of Rexford Sterne if the ex-Ranger became a serious threat to Asrael's ambitions.
"Since you're obviously feeling your oats," Asrael said irritably, "find a way to exercise your creativity. Bodine has become a nuisance."
"What's the deadline?"
"The end of the conference."
Hank smirked. "Oh, goodie. Rush jobs cost double."
Loath to be baited by such lowbrow humor, Asrael moved briskly to the next topic on the meeting agenda. "Have you found where she's hiding her spawn?"
"Not yet." Hank exhaled again with great gusto.
Asrael waved away the stench of cheap tobacco. "How hard can it be? There are only five hotels in town."
"They're crammed full of sodbusters. Even if she registered under an alias, no clerk has seen hide nor tail of a big-busted blonde, traveling with a kid."
"Try the brothels."
Hank hiked an eyebrow. "What kind of mother—"
"Exactly," Asrael interrupted in a low, venomous undertone. "A whore like that doesn't deserve to live."
Hank chuckled, flashing yellow, mongrel teeth. "Sounds like one more reason to enjoy my work."
"Glad to hear it." Palming a small, clanking tin, Asrael slid it across the table to Hank.
"What's this?"
"A little treat for the brat."
"Perfected the formula, did you?"
"Let's just say I had to bury a lot of dogs."
Hank grunted, pocketing the tin. "And the will?"
Asrael stiffened. The will was a particularly sore topic. It was the main reason why Hank had agreed to kill Ferraro and Cassidy in the first place. Asrael had entertained second thoughts about silencing Cassidy, mostly because Hank was as trustworthy as a viper. Cassidy, on the other hand, possessed a glimmer of conscience that could work to Asrael's advantage. Especially if Hank strayed too far out of line.
"I'm working on it," Asrael hedged.
Hank's eyes narrowed, coldly accusing. "That's what you said last time."
"These things can't be rushed."
"Hell, all you have to do is name yourself the executor."
Asrael tamped down a surge of resentment. Few people knew Hank was kin, and worse, that he hailed from the wrong side of the blanket. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship. Asrael sent attorneys to rescue The Ventilator from the law, while Hank discretely eliminated sodbusters, politicians, lawmen, ranch hands—in short, anyone who stood in the way of Asrael's ambition to live in the governor's mansion.
And maybe even the White House.
Hank's name could never be associated with Asrael's, of course. Fortunately, they shared a common interest—the estate—because the only other thing that kept Hank under control these days was the staggering payoff the vermin earned each time he successfully carried out Asrael's bidding.
"The document must be copied precisely," Asrael said tartly. "One tiny mistake could throw the estate into probate for years. I see no reason to tempt fate, and certainly not with haste."
Hank made a derisive noise. "Have you taken a good look at Baron lately? The man's got one foot in the grave."
Asrael shot the regulator a daggerlike glare. Baron's ailment wasn't all it appeared to be. That carefully guarded secret was another Ace up Asrael's sleeve. One that needn't be played tonight.
"I promise you: Baron is going to win this election."
"Because you're nothing if he doesn't?"
Asrael stiffened at this insult—an insult that had struck much too close to the truth.
"Just for the record, dear boy, if I die before the age of 100—for any reason—you get nothing from my estate. Furthermore, should I die of unnatural causes, my Last Will and Testament instructs my attorney to deliver to the U.S. Marshal's Office a catalogue of your less publicized crimes, the ones that I've worked so diligently to keep out of court, lest they send you to the gallows."
"Is that a threat?" Hank's face had turned florid. He leaned across the table and stabbed the air with his cigarette. "Are you threatening me?"
"Don't be absurd." Asrael was careful to hide a smirk behind the mug of sarsaparilla. "I've always been of the mind that blood is thicker than water."