“In federal custody?” Fannie said, resting on a little blue settee, a cigarillo lit in her long, manicured hand. “No thank you. Wes Taggart is Buster’s goddamn dog. If it’s Ole Yeller time, then he better be holding the fucking gun.”

“You’re right,” Ray said, slipping out of his jacket and setting it across the king-sized bed. The soft gold light shone into the curtains and across the white carpet and dark furniture. He walked over to the bar and scooped out some ice into a glass and filled it full with Glenfiddich.

“When Wes was at your place did he talk much about us?” he asked. “Family business and all?”

“Not really,” Fannie said, plucking the cigarillo back into her mouth and stretching out her long legs, studying the toenail job she’d gotten down at the spa, cotton still between her toes. “Man was too goddamn pussy-blind to talk about much else. He and his buddy Hood just wanted to let me know I was nothing but a yipping dog at the table. Did I tell you what they did to my office?”

“You did.”

“A couple fucking animals,” she said. “Food and cigarette butts everywhere. He screwed that girl Twilight so hard on my desk, they cracked the glass. Cost me nearly a thousand dollars to get it repaired.”

“Send me the bill.”

“I sent it to Buster.”

“Tread easy, Fannie,” Ray said, taking a seat across from her. “Buster White isn’t in a joking mood. This casino is on its last legs and it looks like he’s going to have to double down on our business at the Rez.”

“Jesus Christ,” she said. “Goddamn Sitting Bull and his tribe of thieves.”

“Don’t worry about all that,” he said. “We made nice with the Chief.”

“Only way to make nice with Chief Robbie is to ram a goddamn tomahawk up his ass,” Fannie said, offering a sweet smile. “Would you be so good as to pour me some champagne, doll?”

Ray stood up, feeling a little light-headed and tired, holding on to the arm of the chair, before pushing on back to the bar. Fannie was on her feet, holding his arm and walking with him. “Are you all right?”

“Fine and dandy.”

“Your face has gone a little gray.”

“Two hours with Buster, him talking nonstop bullshit, and you’d go gray, too,” he said. “Now, where’d I put my goddamn cigarettes?”

“That dumb son of a bitch,” she said, letting go of his arm and making her way to the minibar, pulling out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot rosé. She twisted off the cork and poured a glass, making her way back to the little sitting area, pulling out the cotton between her toes, before taking a sip.

“Taggart has become a real problem,” he said. “He knows stuff no one should hear about. He opens his mouth and he fucks us all.”