Joseph A. Pinto
An impressive room, had it not been for the blood splattering the wall.
Usually Callie spoke nothing but shit, but this time she told no lies—the casino had hooked her up with a suite straight from Roman times; marbled floors and columns kissing the vaulted ceiling. Several baths bigger than her apartment at home.
Lee arrived in Vegas soon after her poker tourney had ended; just before the dead had claimed the strip. He found Callie sitting on the couch, cork opener dripping in her hand.
Fuck. He hadn’t even unpacked yet.
“Took a couple of tries,” she said, “till I drove it through his head.”
Lee looked over the remains of the bellman.
“At least I got the wine,” Callie exhaled. “2004 Ghost Horse Cabernet Fantome.”
“You’re doing well for yourself.”
Callie shrugged. “I get by. Drink now. Kill later.”
He could never argue with her logic.
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