Rarities Unlimited 02 - Running Scared

sorted through recent memories. “It’s a Fire-something. Old American carmaker, like Ford or Chevy, but not that.”
    “Pontiac?” Ian asked.
    “Firebird?” Shane said at the same instant.
    “That’s it. Glad you boys remembered. Things like that drive me nuts at four in the morning.” She squinted at Shane. “Hey, ain’t you that rich gambler fella? Prince Midas? Saw your picture on the news after that shooting.”
    “A lot of people think I look like him,” Shane said. He moved his fingers, and three fifty-dollar bills fanned out.
    A wide, yellow grin split the woman’s face. She grabbed the money and started shoving it down her sweater.
    As the door shut behind them, Risa said, “You should have given her another fifty.”
    “Why?” Shane asked.
    “Two doesn’t go into five evenly, which leads to the question of where she stashed the last fifty.”
    Ian snickered.
    Shane said, “Want to ask her?”
    “No, thanks. I’m thinking I don’t want to go there.”
    “I’m thinking you’re right,” Ian said.
    Shane gave a long look around the parking lot of the motel and the street beyond. So did Ian. The roof of a red car was just visible halfway down the block, parked between two pieces of road iron that looked like they hadn’t moved since the last rain.
    Shane lifted his eyebrow in silent question.
    “Not yet,” Ian said. “First we’ll see if can find out who’s following us without tipping our hand.”
    Risa said, “He picked us up when we came out of the employee parking lot.”
    “Is he the one who chased you through the casino?” Shane asked.
    “Wrong color hair. Bozo’s was dark.”
    “Too bad. I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
    Shane’s smile made Risa uneasy. “Do we search for the kin he visited,” she asked, “or do we go yank Covington’s chain?”
    “We could divide up,” Shane said. “Ian can go door-to-door with the photos, and we can do Covington.”
    “Why don’t you do the door-to-door thing?” Ian asked without real hope.
    “Two reasons,” Shane said. “The first is that, thanks to the camera-happy media, a half-blind old lady can ID me. The second reason is simple. Covington wouldn’t give you the time of day, but he’ll roll out the red carpet for me. Nothing personal. Just money.”
    “Figures,” Ian muttered, reaching for his communications unit. “If Niall buys it, I’m out of your hair. Otherwise, get used to making like a dune buggy.”
    “A what?” Then Shane laughed. “Got it. Three wheels and you’re the third.”
    Risa put her hands on her hips and turned her back before she said something rash about not needing one bodyguard, much less two. But she was afraid she did. Bozo’s rough question kept echoing in her mind.
    Where’s the gold?
    She didn’t know. But she knew one thing. That kind of money on the loose brought out human predators. Cherelle knew it, too.
    That was why she was running scared.

Chapter 41
    Las Vegas
    November 4
    Late morning
    J ohn Firenze grabbed his private phone like it was a winning lottery ticket. “Yeah?”
    “Sheridan left with Tannahill and another man. They haven’t returned.”
    “Where did they go?”
    “Out.”
    “Jesus Christ, I could have guessed that!” He glared across his office to a window that overlooked the construction of another huge resort/casino. The problem with hiring relatives was that not all of them were real bright. At least his cousin Frankie had more wattage than numb-nuts Cesar. “Out where?”
    “Place called the Jackpot Motel. The old bag there said they asked questions about Cherelle, Tim, and a dude called Socks. Cost me fifty bucks to find out that she didn’t know anything so they didn’t learn anything useful.”
    Socks. Shit. They’d made his fucking stupid nephew. “What are they doing now?”
    “They split up. The second guy is going door-to-door with two photos.”
    “Who of?”
    “I didn’t get close enough to see. Want me to?”
    “No. Get Sheridan alone and give her the message I gave you. Got it?”
    “Yeah, but it won’t be easy. Tannahill’s all over her like a rash.”
    “Don’t tell me your problems. I got plenty of my own.”
    Firenze disconnected and punched in the number he’d memorized simply by using it so many times in the last hour. The answering machine picked up again. He didn’t wait to hear the message. Like the number, he had it memorized by now: Mr. Shapiro of the Second Chance Loan Exchange is with a