Franny suggested they leave him in the car with the Otter, but Baba Yaga didn’t seem to be the trusting sort. Baldy had shoved a gun in his back (it was very cold against his bare skin), and Franny followed the old lady into the casino. It was a mess. Overturned roulette tables, chips scattered across the floor, the garish colors clashing against the paisley of the expensive carpet. The faces on the strewn cards looked surprised as they trod across them. The blood also didn’t look all that good on the carpet.

There were a couple of evidence techs going about their business. They straightened, and gave Baba Yaga respectful nods as she moved past them. Clearly the old criminal owned the cops in Talas. As if being beat like a drum on Baba Yaga’s say-so hadn’t been enough of a hint, Franny thought.

A skinny man dressed in a Gandhi-like diaper hurried through a door off the casino floor. The lights shone on the viscous slime that coated his body, and gleamed on his shaved head. A pungent odor had Franny’s eyes watering. It was the joker Vaporlock, aka Sam Palmer, a well-known figure around Jokertown, a pathetic loser known to the cops as a small-time thief, and a traitor to his fellow jokers. Based on Wally Gunderson’s statement Vaporlock had helped kidnap jokers for Baba Yaga’s fight club. That accusation was now proved.

“Shit, Baba Yaga … ma’am. We thought you were dead. I mean, man, were we worried when that big-ass snake whacked you. Some of the guys believed that. But not me. I knew you’d be back. Nobody can take you down.” The words emerged tight and fast.

Baba Yaga didn’t actually address Vaporlock. Instead she turned to Baldy and said simply, “Bring him.”

They started across the casino floor with Vaporlock twitching and bouncing along next to the old woman. “So what’s the plan, ma’am? We gettin’ out of here? Some of the guys have gone nuts to even think about challenging you.” Baba Yaga ignored him.

There were still bodies sprawled around slot machines and under tables. Franny reflected that being dead in a tux didn’t add any more dignity to that state. Some of the dead sported bullet wounds. Others were just dead. Probably victims of IBT’s poisonous tongue.

Contemplating tuxedos brought to the fore Franny’s most pressing concern. “Hey. I need some clothes,” he said.

“We are not a haberdashery,” Baba Yaga said.

Franny pointed at a dead man. “He’s not using them. Can we take a couple of minutes?”

Baba Yaga contemplated him in his open-backed hospital gown and the tattered slippers on his bare feet. Something almost like a tiny smile quirked her withered lips. “Fine.”

He found a man who was roughly his size, and stripped him out of his coat, shirt, trousers, socks, and shoes. Franny figured he’d go commando. Wearing a dead man’s underwear was a bridge too far.

“Bathroom?” Franny asked.

Baba Yaga didn’t bother to answer. Just gave him a look. Franny turned his back and dressed. The pants were too big and the shirt too tight, but he felt far less vulnerable. He had barely tied the shoes, a painful operation because bending over pulled at the stitches in his side, when Baba Yaga started moving again. A not-too-gentle push from B.O. propelled Franny back into motion.