The Approach by Chris Holm Page B

Henry Ronald Blasek—was a Vegas party promoter, which mostly meant he arranged an endless buffet of booze, drugs, and women to separate rich douchebags from their money. He packed his parties with dancers from local strip clubs and had a rep for getting handsy with them once the booze began to flow. Some considered it a cost of doing business. Destiny, apparently, did not. Word was, when she rejected him, he got a little rough with her—and she kneed him in the balls so hard, he ruptured a testicle. Ronnie went down crying in the middle of the dance floor and was carted to the hospital in an ambulance. It made the news and everything. He’d been telling anyone in earshot he’d kill the bitch who did this to him ever since.
    “Do you happen to know how much Ronnie’s shelling out for the hit?”
    “A thousand bucks, from what I hear.” Well, what Lester heard, actually. He’s the one who intercepted the communiqué. “Plus a cut of the door for his next three events.”
    “Are you serious? That’s it? ”
    “Hey, don’t blame me. I didn’t come up with the number—Ronnie did. I guess he’s a little strapped for cash on account of all the medical bills. I happen to think you’re worth ten times that—”
    “Aw, shucks.”
    “—by which I mean if you pay me ten thousand dollars, I’ll do my thing and make the hitter coming after you go bye-bye.”
    “What about the cut of the door?” she asked sarcastically. “Shouldn’t you factor that in too?”
    “I’m inclined to let that portion of my fee slide.”
    “That’s real big of you.”
    “ I thought so—but somehow, you don’t sound pleased.”
    “Look at me,” she said. “You think I’ve got an extra ten K lying around?”
    I looked at her. As assignments go, it wasn’t my worst ever. She was a little older than she let on—mid-thirties, maybe, while her clothes and makeup skewed a decade younger—but there was no question she was pretty. Her platinum hair was pulled into a hasty bun. Her denim cutoffs revealed long, bare, athletic legs so smooth they gleamed in the dim light. Her low-top Chuck Taylors were held together with duct tape. Her flimsy tank top exposed sun-kissed collarbones and, in concert with the air conditioning, made it clear she wasn’t wearing a bra.
    “I take your point,” I said, “but I find it’s worth asking anyway. Sometimes looks can be deceiving.”
    She smiled. “Not this time.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, rising.
    “Wait—that’s it? You’re just gonna leave me here to die?”
    “No. I’m going to leave you here to fend for yourself. Far as I’m concerned, I’ve done you a couple favors that could serve to tip the scales.”
    “Yeah? How do you figure?”
    “Number one, you now know that your location’s been compromised. And number two,” I said, picking her gun up by the barrel and handing it to her, “next time someone barges in on you, you won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”
    “That may be true,” she said, “but don’t expect me to thank you.”
    “Fair enough,” I said.
    “You have any idea who Ronnie sent after me?”
    “Wish I did, but he was smart enough to keep the details vague. Said he planned to keep it in the family. To go with someone he could trust. You know anyone who fits the bill? Someone he’s relied on in the past—a mob guy, maybe?”
    She said she didn’t.
    An awkward silence stretched between us. The air conditioner complained. The bar band across the street began to play. In three years of hitting hitters, I’ve yet to figure out an easy way to extricate myself once a would-be client’s declined my services.
    Eventually, I wished her luck and extended my hand. She reluctantly shook it.
    As I was about to leave, a shadow fell across the window. I froze and put a finger to my lips.
    A key rattled into the lock. The knob turned. The door swung open. As it did, the music swelled—thick, dark, and bluesy. Some unhelpful corner of my mind