“No idea.” I swerve around a car to get in a better lane. “First he shows up at the club last week, and now he’s waiting for me in the garage.”
“After all these years, he shows up in Vegas. It don’t make sense.”
I digest Samson’s words. “It also don’t add up that he’s waiting for me in the garage of Wicked, spitting out all kinds of cryptic bullshit.”
“What was he saying?”
“Calling him and I friends. Talking about the Pit in Brooklyn. He even mentioned Cheryl and Portia.”
“What the fuck?”
“Then he says I better be careful ‘cause I have enemies coming at me from all directions.”
“Big fuckin’ surprise.” Samson barks out a laugh. “You and me got a lot of enemies from the old days.”
“Just gave me a weird feeling, like he was looking through me or some shit.”
“Strange, but I’ll ask around. Maybe Jax heard something.”
“I couldn’t help thinking Frank might know something, especially since Sal ran the Pit for him before he gave it up to the Russians.”
“Give him a call. See what he knows.”
“Traffic is fucked up.” I lean on my horn as a guy cuts me off. “I’m gonna be so damn late.”
“Give Portia a hug for me.”
“Will do.”
We disconnect the call, but I can’t get Sal out of my head.
What the hell he is doing in Vegas, and why would he approach me? It didn’t make any sense, but if he comes near me again, I’ll put an end to it even if I have to enlist the Serpents. Keeping Portia and Cheryl safe is my main priority, and I don’t need anybody fuckin’ with it a few days before Christmas.
I pull into the school parking lot at 7:45. Would’ve been here twenty minutes sooner if there hadn't been a shit-ton of traffic and Sal hadn’t wasted my time with bullshit. Of course, there’s no damn parking, so I pull out, circle the block, then twist my Maserati into an illegal fire lane space, praying the whole damn school doesn’t light up on fire.
I speed-walk to the front door of the school, pull on the lever, but, of course, it’s locked. I hit the buzzer and wait. Not my favorite thing to do. Ten seconds later, I push the buzzer again, and a harrowing thought hits. Everyone’s in the auditorium watching the concert, and no one’s manning the door.
I lean on the buzzer like an obnoxious fuck, but no one comes. Then my eye catches a guy pushing a garbage can on wheels. The janitor. I bang on the glass. He looks up at me, then keeps going down the hall. I bang harder, and he abandons his garbage and heads for the door.
“Can I help you?” he says through the glass.
“Can you buzz me in? I’m going to my daughter’s concert.”
He stares at me through the glass for what seems like an eternity. “Are you on the list?”
What fuckin’ list?
“I’m Nick Sinclair. My daughter, Portia, is in the fifth-grade holiday concert.” I shove my hand in my pocket, pull my license out of my wallet, and slap it against the glass.
“And your daughter’s name is Portia?”
“Right.” I flip a glance at my watch. 7:54—Fuck.
He turns and slowly, very slowly, saunters into the office before returning with a clipboard. “I see a Portia Benson, but her two guests are Cheryl Benson and Nick Santoro.”
“Fuck!” I bellow.
The janitor’s eyes widen.
