suffered a loss of his own. A plan that he’d spent months putting in motion had just gone awry. He’d just learned that his inside man was now in jail, awaiting arraignment. It would take weeks of plotting to reorganize and resurrect what he’d wanted to do.
“Señor, cómo está—”
The servant’s question never saw daylight as a bourbon bottle whizzed past his head and broke against the red tile wall at his back.
“Get out! Get out!” El Gato roared, forgetting in his anger to speak in the Spanish tongue.
After all these years, he still thought in English and had to translate to Spanish in his head before speaking. When he was frustrated or angry, his native tongue always took precedence.
As the servant scurried from the room, the man tried to channel his emotional rage into planning.
It would have been impossible to guess his age. He was simply a weathered survivor of life. With no spare flesh on his body and no hair on his head, his skin had the look of leather about it, and his pale blue eyes stood out from their sockets. On his left cheek he had a trio of parallel scars that he’d gotten when he’d first gone over the border.
Young and alone, certain that he’d been betrayed by those he trusted best, he’d been lost in the South American jungle for exactly four days, weak and hungry, nearly eaten up from the insects bites when it had happened.
To this day, he had only a vague memory of leaning over a riverbank to get a drink and then seeing, along with his own reflection, the jaguar poised on a limb above and behind him. He remembered jumping to his feet and then throwing up an arm to ward off the animal’s attack. Days later, he woke up in a village with some local’s daughter crooning over him like a baby.
When he left, he took the woman with him. She soon abandoned him, but the scar remained. A lasting reminder that survival of the fittest still held true. It hadn’t taken the superstitious natives long to attribute this man’s strength of purpose to the mark the cat had left on his face. Thus, El Gato , The Cat, was born.
And yet, alone in the opulence of his home and wealth, El Gato was still the same young man at heart who’d bolted across the border with the syndicate, as well as the law, right at his heels. He’d escaped with his life and little else. It had taken him years to recoup what he’d left behind, but no amount of years could ever account for the thing that burned deep in his bitter soul: revenge! El Gato wanted…needed revenge. Only then could he go to his grave a happy man.
Lucky had been on the job at Club 52 exactly three minutes when someone overheard Manny Sosa call her by her name. The whispers had flown like wildfire among the players at the tables. There was a new dealer named Lucky. The fact that she was a young and beautiful woman hardly entered into the scenario. Many dealers were women. For the serious players, it was the game and the winning that counted, not who dealt the cards. But if they were superstitious enough to want a real live Lady Luck actually dealing their cards, so be it.
She stepped behind the green felt with a surge of elation. If only Johnny could see her now. And as she thought it, she knew that if he were here, he’d be on the other side of the table, waiting to place a bet.
Four players watched with jaundiced eyes as the manager oversaw the switch in dealers while the pit boss looked on from a short distance away. Lucky smiled casually at the players, then, as if she’d done it all her life, took the cards from the shoe, the box that held the four decks of cards that each dealer used, and began to shuffle.
Precisely. Competently. With no show of the magicianlike skill that she’d given Manny Sosa the day before. The hours that she’d spent observing yesterday also stood her in good stead. She’d made a mental note of every casino rule regarding dealer behavior. Both hands in plain view at all times. No casual brushes of hands
“Señor, cómo está—”
The servant’s question never saw daylight as a bourbon bottle whizzed past his head and broke against the red tile wall at his back.
“Get out! Get out!” El Gato roared, forgetting in his anger to speak in the Spanish tongue.
After all these years, he still thought in English and had to translate to Spanish in his head before speaking. When he was frustrated or angry, his native tongue always took precedence.
As the servant scurried from the room, the man tried to channel his emotional rage into planning.
It would have been impossible to guess his age. He was simply a weathered survivor of life. With no spare flesh on his body and no hair on his head, his skin had the look of leather about it, and his pale blue eyes stood out from their sockets. On his left cheek he had a trio of parallel scars that he’d gotten when he’d first gone over the border.
Young and alone, certain that he’d been betrayed by those he trusted best, he’d been lost in the South American jungle for exactly four days, weak and hungry, nearly eaten up from the insects bites when it had happened.
To this day, he had only a vague memory of leaning over a riverbank to get a drink and then seeing, along with his own reflection, the jaguar poised on a limb above and behind him. He remembered jumping to his feet and then throwing up an arm to ward off the animal’s attack. Days later, he woke up in a village with some local’s daughter crooning over him like a baby.
When he left, he took the woman with him. She soon abandoned him, but the scar remained. A lasting reminder that survival of the fittest still held true. It hadn’t taken the superstitious natives long to attribute this man’s strength of purpose to the mark the cat had left on his face. Thus, El Gato , The Cat, was born.
And yet, alone in the opulence of his home and wealth, El Gato was still the same young man at heart who’d bolted across the border with the syndicate, as well as the law, right at his heels. He’d escaped with his life and little else. It had taken him years to recoup what he’d left behind, but no amount of years could ever account for the thing that burned deep in his bitter soul: revenge! El Gato wanted…needed revenge. Only then could he go to his grave a happy man.
Lucky had been on the job at Club 52 exactly three minutes when someone overheard Manny Sosa call her by her name. The whispers had flown like wildfire among the players at the tables. There was a new dealer named Lucky. The fact that she was a young and beautiful woman hardly entered into the scenario. Many dealers were women. For the serious players, it was the game and the winning that counted, not who dealt the cards. But if they were superstitious enough to want a real live Lady Luck actually dealing their cards, so be it.
She stepped behind the green felt with a surge of elation. If only Johnny could see her now. And as she thought it, she knew that if he were here, he’d be on the other side of the table, waiting to place a bet.
Four players watched with jaundiced eyes as the manager oversaw the switch in dealers while the pit boss looked on from a short distance away. Lucky smiled casually at the players, then, as if she’d done it all her life, took the cards from the shoe, the box that held the four decks of cards that each dealer used, and began to shuffle.
Precisely. Competently. With no show of the magicianlike skill that she’d given Manny Sosa the day before. The hours that she’d spent observing yesterday also stood her in good stead. She’d made a mental note of every casino rule regarding dealer behavior. Both hands in plain view at all times. No casual brushes of hands
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