The following evening found Victor looking through the information on Carla, the knobby bottle empty. He was halfway through his second glass of Soul Shine already, when a sharp, irregular knock rattled his door. Not Sele?a's deliberate three-tap pattern—this was the impatient, arrhythmic pounding of someone who believed their time was valuable.

  "It's open," Victor called out, not bothering to get up. The door swung inward to reveal a thin man with nervous eyes and a suit that was trying too hard to look expensive.

  "Jackie," Victor said flatly. "Didn't expect to see you so soon."

  TwoCent Jackie slipped into the office like he was trying to avoid being noticed, though his garish purple suit with its shiny lapels made stealth impossible. His nickname came from his constant hustle for information—always looking for his "two cents" on any deal. Jackie was the kind of man who treated other people's secrets as a form of currency, and in Los Angeles, secrets were worth lives.

  "Victor, my man," Jackie said, flashing a gold-toothed smile as he settled into the chair at Victor’s desk. "Got your message about the payment." He patted his empty pockets theatrically. "Slight cash flow issue, but I'm good for it."

  Victor narrowed his eyes. "The woman from last night, your sister. I took care of her problem and kept her alive. That was the arrangement."

  "Yeah, about that..." Jackie tugged at his collar. "You know Francis the Laugh, right? Yeah, he owes me some serious cheddar but uh, kinda hard to track down. But I'll square up, I swear. Jus’ need a couple more days."

  Victor wasn't surprised. TwoCent Jackie was as predictable as sunrise—always working an angle, always short on cash but long on promises. Still, he had his uses. Information was Jackie's true stock in trade, and in Victor's line of work, good intel was often worth more than money.

  "You owe me," Victor said, his voice low and flat.

  Jackie shifted uncomfortably. "I know, I know. But hey, I might have something better than cash." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Word is you're asking about The Skimpy Devil."

  Victor kept his expression neutral, though inwardly he cursed. News traveled fast in the underworld of Los Angeles—too fast. If Jackie knew he was interested in The Skimpy Devil, others would know soon enough.

  "I might be," Victor conceded. "What's it to you?"

  Jackie's face lit up at the confirmation. "I got something juicy. The new owner, a guy who goes by Prince Charmin. Word is he got run out of Sin City. And you know how hard it is to get kicked out of Sin City."

  This was interesting. Vegas operated on a different moral compass than most places—one that pointed exclusively toward profit. For someone to be exiled from there, they had to have crossed a line even the desert city wouldn't tolerate. Did Sele?a know about this guy?

  "What line did he cross?" Victor asked.

  Jackie shrugged. "Details are sketchy. But it wasn't just about money. Something darker." He lowered his voice. "People went missing. Girls mostly. The kind nobody important would miss... except they pissed off the wrong nobody."

  Victor filed this information away. Jackie might be a weasel, but his information was usually solid.

  "Any idea where I can find this Prince Charmin'?"

  "He keeps a low profile," Jackie said. "Runs The Skimpy Devil from behind the scenes. Hardly ever shows his face in public." He hesitated, then added, "He's young. Younger than you'd expect for someone with that kind of operation. Got something to prove."

  Victor nodded slowly. A young upstart with something to prove and a trail of missing girls behind him. The picture wasn't pretty.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Thanks for the intel," Victor said, rising from his chair to indicate the meeting was over. "Consider it a down payment on what you owe me."

  Jackie stood, smoothing his purple suit. "So we're square?"

  Victor's expression hardened. "Not even close. You still owe me for saving that woman's life. I expect payment—or an equivalent favor—soon."

  Jackie's smile faltered. "Sure thing, Vic. I wouldn't cross you."

  The nervous flutter in Jackie's voice suggested he understood exactly what crossing Victor RedRose might entail. He backed toward the door, eager to make his exit.

  "I'll be in touch," Jackie promised, slipping out into the hallway.

  Victor shook his head as the door closed. Jackie was a symptom of what the city had become—everyone looking for an angle, a shortcut, a way to profit from someone else's misery. But he had his uses, and in this business, Victor couldn't afford to be picky about his sources.

  He slipped on his trench coat and adjusted his fedora. The Soul Shine had dulled the worst of his pain to a manageable throb, and the night was young. It was time to pay a visit to The Skimpy Devil.

  Victor had barely made it down the crumbling steps of his building when a familiar voice stopped him cold.

  "Mr. RedRose. Just the man I was looking for."

  He turned slowly to find Detective Isabel Cartwright leaning against a weathered sedan parked across the street. Her partner, Detective Rick Laney, stood nearby, thumbs hooked into his belt loops, trying to look intimidating and not like a soggy sandwich.

  Cartwright pushed herself off the car and approached, her steps measured and confident. She was in her mid-thirties, with sharp eyes that missed nothing and a no-nonsense ponytail that swung with each step. Victor could grudgingly admit she was probably the last good cop in the city, but she was also a naive, nosey, girl scout who thought the system would eventually work. Unaware that the system was a poisoned well, tainting the city that it was supposed to nourish.

  "Detective Cartwright," Victor acknowledged with a curt nod. "Didn't know stalking was part of LAPD protocol these days."

  "It's not stalking when it's surveillance of a person of interest," she replied, stopping a few feet away. "Interesting company you keep. That was TwoCent Jackie, wasn't it? Still associating with bottom-feeders, I see."

  Victor's jaw tightened. "What do you want, Detective? I've got places to be."

  Cartwright studied him with those piercing eyes that had probably broken many suspects in the interrogation room. "Heard an interesting rumor today." She pulled out a small notebook, flipping it open with practiced efficiency. "Word is, the bruja is back in town."

  "The bruja" was Cartwright's not-so-affectionate nickname for Sele?a. The detective had been trying to build a case against her for years—something about unauthorized practice of medicine, fraud, and suspected involvement in several disappearances. Nothing had ever stuck.

  "And naturally," Victor said, "you figured the first place she'd go would be the rat-infested nest of her old flame." He gestured to his dilapidated building.

  Laney snorted, speaking for the first time. "That's one way to describe this dump."

  Victor ignored him, focusing on Cartwright. Under the harsh streetlight, she looked tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from swimming against the tide of corruption that defined Los Angeles, yet it hadn’t dulled the fierce spark of life in her eyes.

  "Sorry to disappoint, Detective, but I haven't seen her," Victor lied smoothly. "And I wouldn't exactly be running toward her with open arms if I did see her again." He paused, letting a cold smile touch his lips. "Unless those arms were firearms."

  Cartwright wasn't amused. "We have reports of an incident at Club Inferno last night. A man fitting your description was seen at the scene." Her eyes narrowed. "Witnesses described someone with your... unique approach to problem-solving."

  A muscle in Victor's jaw twitched. Of course someone had talked. In this city, even the walls had eyes and loose lips.

  "A man fitting my description? In this city?" Victor shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. "Must be Tuesday." He straightened his coat collar. "If you want to question me about something, set up an appointment with my lawyer."

  "We both know you don't have a lawyer, RedRose."

  "Then I guess we'll have to postpone indefinitely." What was she going to do? Claim he killed a man and turned him to dust? The country was corrupt, but it hadn't gotten that far yet.

  Detective Laney took a step forward, his meaty hand settling on his holstered gun—a gesture meant to intimidate. "Listen here, smart ass—"

  Cartwright raised a hand, stopping her partner. "It's fine, Rick." She fixed Victor with a steady gaze. "Just so you know, I'll be keeping a closer eye on you from now on. Someone fitting your description seems to be at the center of a lot of weird shit around LA."

  "I'll try not to take that personally, Detective." Victor tipped his hat mockingly. "Now, if we're done with this lovely chat, I've got business to attend to."

  "We're watching you, RedRose," Cartwright called after him as he walked away. "Whatever you're mixed up in, I'll find out."

  Victor didn't bother turning around. He just raised a hand in a dismissive wave and continued down the street.