“In and out. Slick as owl shit, my man. Like I said. We’re way better.”
Wrassler’s mouth turned down. To stave off the looming pissing contest, I said, “We need to work the grounds and the building. Wrassler, send an electronics tech with one of Derek’s men and see if you can find anything the Leprechaun might have planted on cars or the premises.”
“I’ll go with the ET guy.”
I looked at the grunt who was speaking. He had been with Derek and me on two other jobs and survived both, but I’d never been privileged to know his name. This time he was wearing military ID stenciled on his chest pocket that said V. Angel’s Tit. My brows rose, and the guy, who was probably a mixed-race kid, with café au lait skin and green eyes, grinned at me. It seemed I was still not worthy of knowing their names. A quick glance around showed me the names, V. Martini, V. Lime Rickey, V. Chi Chi, V. Hi-Fi and V. Sunrise. “V as a first initial with a drink name after. This job’s code name is Vodka?”
“Vodka Ball Buster,” Derek said.
I assumed a ball buster was another drink. Derek’s name was officially V. Lee’s Surrender. I didn’t know what drink it was, but the Civil War note was cute. “Get ’em their weapons,” I said to Wrassler, “assign them each one of your security guys or gals, and let them get to work. If they got in over the wall, we have to assume that someone else could have too.”
Wrassler nodded and touched his headset, speaking softly into the mike. “What about you?” he said to me when he was done.
“I want to see the security console again and check out the camera placement updates I recommended. I want to look over the press entrance again. And I’m hungry.”
“The greenroom is on the third floor, off the ballroom. Snacks and sandwiches, water, colas, and coffee are available. Beer and drinks after, with a real meal, if anyone wants,” Wrassler said.
“That’s mighty white of you,” Vodka Chi Chi said, baiting the bigger man.
Wrassler said, “You want to say thanks, offer a little sip to one of the Mithrans.” He grinned and it wasn’t intended to convey humor. “They like fresh meat.”
Chi Chi sneered. “I’m not a blood whore, white boy. None of us are, except to heal combat wounds suffered in the employ of Mr. Pellissier.”
Wrassler laughed again. “Die young then, sonny. I’m sixty-four years old.” The two men looked one another up and down, while surprise blinked its way through the soldier’s dark eyes.
“If y’all are finished sniffing each other,” I said, “we have work to do.” Men.
We split up, me with Wrassler and Derek in the electronic monitoring room, where I got my first glimpse of the green-skinned security guy. He was no Lucky Charms Leprechaun, all stovepipe hat and chin whiskers. He was a little golem of a fellow, Yoda with fangs, about five-two, slender as a reed, with joints that seemed to bend the wrong way, bones that seemed too slender and too knobby. His head was too big for his body, his ears were set too far back on his skull, and when he ran, he seemed to be on his toes, like a dog or cat. His clothes were loose and baggy, hiding a full view of how he was put together, which might have been vaguely froglike.
Beast sat up and peered at him on the monitor, holding me down with a paw. She didn’t send me any images or comments, but I got the distinct impression that she wanted to kill the little green guy—yeah, he was pale green, like olive serpentine or some bread molds—and leave him for the buzzards.
I had no idea what he was, but Wrassler got word quickly that Green Moldy Guy had planted a dozen spy-eyes in the parking area and on the grounds, his actions all undetected by the monitors until the footage was viewed slow-mo and the time stamps compared to Derek’s visual of the grounds. The envoys weren’t playing fair, and clearly had an unannounced, undisclosed goal in New Orleans. It took us the better part of an hour for Derek’s IT guy to find and remove the minicameras in the parking area. We got it done just in time for the clans to start arriving.
Two months ago there had been eight clans, divided into two groups according to clan affiliation, and a stable power structure. Then a few vamps wanted more of the pie for themselves and there had been a mini war—short, bloody, and decisive. Now there were four clans: Pellissier, Laurent, Bouvier, and Arceneau. The other vamps had either merged under a surviving clan or they were dead. Or in hiding and plotting a coup, if you believed the gossips, which I did. Only Clan Pellissier had any real power, the others were under Leo’s thumb. Or his fang. Pick an analogy.
Wrassler touched his earpiece and handed one to me. “We have guests.” The vamps had started to arrive. Without seeming to hurry, but with a lot of speed just the same, Wrassler and I left the electronic security monitoring system in the hands of V. Angel’s Tit and one of Wrassler’s ladies, a whip-thin, older woman built like a stiletto and with a tongue just as sharp. I placed my earpiece in and dropped the mike to my chin, hiding the receiver under the little cape next to the handgun as we reached the ballroom.