Vincent squeezed through brittle wood slats hammered across the doorway. It was one of thousands of decrepit buildings desperately clinging to life. Sealed off for centuries left the air stale. Musty. Thick enough to taste dust fluttering by. He preferred that over the urine vapor, though. And dried rat droppings scraping under his soles….

"Is this really what I'm doing now?" Vincent frowned at the huddle of overgrown rodents in the corner. A nest of them cuddled together in a bed of shredded cardboard and garbage. Brown and black furry bodies fumbled over one another. Shadows scurried out of the way of his spotlight. A barrage of eyes shined on him, hissing, and warning him to stay back or get injected with who knows how many diseases by their overgrown and rotten teeth.

"Dodging rats in a filthy…" He marched on, his pistol ready should any of those girthy residents want to fight. His own grumbles whispered around him down the hallway. "Just to find some machines that may or may not be here." Slowly, those grumbles morphed into a caricature. Eyes rolled. Hands swung to the tempo of his huffs. "I won the second battle at Hoover Dam! I single-handedly captured Caesar! I am the second most important guy in Vegas! I got better things to do—"

Vincent screamed. He leapt back. His pip-boy's light bounced off cratered walls and erratically dodged muzzle fire.

Rats.

One casualty so far.

"Holy shit!" Vincent shuffled over to the rodent. "I gotta show Wayne the size of this thing!"

Back in the light of day, he slapped on a pair of shades. Still squinting and scowling underneath them of course. Any morning hour was not an hour he wanted to be out and about. Humidity trickled down his back as he stomped all the way through Freeside's vacant streets. At least he didn't have to dodge rats—but honestly, rowdy tourists and locals were often worse. His destination lay at the far end of the street. The cheapest, dirtiest, raunchiest place in Freeside. The Atomic Wrangler. A dingy little casino whose main appeal was a weekly topless-burlesque act strutting on the stage dead center across from the bar—the only reason he ever went.

Until Julie needed alcohol for the Followers' efforts.

"Alright, I found your robot and got the sexy program from the guy you suggested," Vincent announced as he approached the bar. Dead, save for those regular drunks sleeping off the night before. "So, you're gonna start sending over some alcohol to the Followers or what?"

"Shh!" James Garret hissed. Leery eyes glanced down at the bar and then the empty gambling floor. "Keep it down." One of two that ran the place; the other was a twin sister. She was the intimidating one. "I don't want people getting the wrong idea. This isn't a charity."

Vincent sighed. Steadying elbows on the bar top, he leaned over. He waved the holotape pinched between knuckle and thumb. "You gonna send the goods or not?"

"Alright, alright," James mumbled. He snatched the holotape labeled sexy robot. "I'll send over a shipment this afternoon."

The strip in the morning hours wasn't any different from Freeside. Sitting on an empty bench, Vincent was content in his isolation off the main street. The misty air of the Seven's garden outside kept the desert away. Quiet, but not entirely lifeless. Maintenance workers swept the street clean; replaced light bulbs, picked trash out of shrubs, and washed away the Johns passed out in gutters. Couriers shoved print stacks in the news boxes. Caravans came from the south gate—the supply-chain only entrance—making neat lines up-and-down the main boulevard without battling crowds. Every so often one broke off the line toward their final destination. A casino or the shops on the side streets slowly being absorbed into the strip's jurisdiction. Every so often the fence would advance and whatever was in its perimeter was added to House's collection. Fixed. Sold. Taxed.

Then a suit came along and sat with him. As Vincent expected.

"Such a fresh face," he slurred, hobbling over and leaning on a cane. Fat Tommy lived up to his name. A middle-aged man who hit up the buffet in his own casino far too often. Stuffed into a white button-down—no armaments needed with those buttons threatening to burst at any moment. Hanging on his shoulders, a black blazer possibly a few sizes too small. The only fitting thing he wore were the matching slacks. "So young." A handful of rings gestured. Blocky and heavy things. Silver. Gold. Some jeweled—all gaudy. Tommy tapped his glistening forehead as he leaned uncomfortably close to Vincent. A pair of droopy brown eyes looked at him over red square lenses. "I didn't think it was true until I saw the scar."

"What did you need to discuss?"

"A young businessman," Tommy noted, speaking painfully slow—as slow as he walked too. "I like that. I asked to meet you today about a certain someone down on Flamingo. He's scalping my talents and I don't like it. Comes in snatching them up like babes in the night, gets them suckling his teats of promises…"

"Recruiting your talents." Vincent corrected. Arms crossed as he scanned the garden. Stationed at strategic points was Tommy's guard. Distant to let discussion grow, but close enough to jump to action. "That's fair competition tactics on the strip."

"No, no. This is a slight." Tommy shook his head and jowls quaked along. "He only ever comes after my acts. And far more often than any should—any decent man should. We all have an unspoken agreement, us bosses. We don't step on each other's toes and the show goes on. But this man…" Tommy wagged a finger. "He doesn't play a gentleman's game."

Vincent hummed disinterestedly. "I'm not your personal hitman, Tommy. I don't play sides when it comes to the casinos."

"I agree but let me explain." His hoarse voice hinted at annoyance, albeit Tommy was more patient than most. Akin to the desert tortoise who recently took up residence in the Mormon Fort perhaps. "While my family has a long-standing feud with the Romeros, this sets a bad precedent for the rest of the casinos. Old and new. It snuffs out the smaller guys and what happens when all the small guys are eaten up? It's just the fat cats at the Gomorrah, the Tops, Ultra-Luxe—the three families only ever win. No new acts, no new joints, no new customers. See what I mean?"

Vincent pushed up the sunglasses sliding down his nose. A brow peaked over a lens. "The Romeros? Is it Josue?"

"Ah, I see you are familiar with his nature already."

It was always something stupid with these types. And it was Vincent they all came whining to for a fix. Someone offered my talent a better contract! Someone has lower minimums at their tables! Someone looked at me funny! It took only one day of meeting a few and sorting out their perpetual nonsense to know he loathed the strip suits. The managers, the underbosses, the pit-bosses, the big-bosses—he didn't even like his own boss—they were all the same. Catty. Scheming. Capable.

And that made them dangerous.

Two-hundred-something years ago, fiery hell rained down on the Mojave the likes of which the desert hadn't seen since the atomic bomb testing days a hundred years prior to that. However, as luck would have it, the magnanimous Mr. House foresaw the great catastrophe and pressed a shiny red button on his console. Successfully shooting down most of those bombs before they ever hit the city. And while Vincent wasn't a historian by any means, he was certain that the big swath of shimmering asphalt and blinding concrete known as Nellis Airforce Base certainly had its own defenses to utilize for the city as well—Anyway, whoever got the higher score didn't matter. What mattered was that a good amount of New Vegas remained intact. Such as the Flamingo and its giant pink birds sprinkled around their claim on the corner of Flamingo and Las Vegas Boulevard.

"Looks like we need a few lights," the caretaker grumbled.

"What?" The suit next to him squinted at the iridescent bloom above the main entrance. The infamous Josue Vincent heard so much about, usually from swooning waitresses. Tall, dark, and handsome of course. Nice enough. Pleasant, unlike most of his kind. "I ain't seeing it."

"There's a few dead spots." A trembling, liver-spotted hand pointed a pen at the neon flower. "There, there, and there." The grumpy caretaker flicked out a notepad, adding to a long, haphazardly written list. "Three pinks…"

"Pink? Don't get pink. Those are fuchsia." The suit sighed, waving his hands, and shaking his head, "Whatever. Michelangelo knows what we need."

Vincent squinted at the array. Like a lot of New Vegas, this was better looking at night sparkling fuschia and gold.

"Josue!" Another suit came rushing out, dodging day-walkers and frantically panting. "Josue, we got a problem."

"What?" Josue crossed his arms, leaning to one side as he looked at the older suit.

He squeezed Josue's shoulder. Swallowing his fear as many in his rank do when it came to bad news and telling the guy above them. Then he glanced to Vincent. "Oh, boy. Looks like we got two."

Josue turned around. Eyes darted side to side then fell at least two heads before landing on Vincent. "How long you been there, spooky-eyes?"

"Personally, I think those lights are magenta."

"Aye!" Josue threw up his hands in defeat. "Get a load of this guy. Alright, what can I do for you?"

"Fat Tommy feels you're stepping on his toes."

"I can walk any direction and step on Fat Tommy's toes!" The two suits burst into laughs.

"I ain't debating that, but after comparing talent that left the Sevens to come to the Flamingo, I might be a tad peeved too."

Josue took a step back, swaying shoulders and blasting a cocky smile. "The Flamingo always has the best shows in town." He slicked back his hair. A smooth transition landed his hands on his tie. "We rake in the dough too. No wonder—"

"Josue." Vincent raised a hand and put the man on hold. "It's too early for cocky bullshit. I'm not playing favorites. You already have a full schedule. Do you really need another lounge singer?"

"Y'know, it was I who discovered Rooney." Josue crossed his arms. "If anything, Fat Tommy stole him. I just stole him back."

"I'm asking you to reign it in a little," Vincent stated, rather demandingly. He mimicked Josue's posture and stared in the man's darting eyes—the only way to show Josue's kind Vincent couldn't be intimidated. They were too scared to do anything anyway. They'd still posture and strut around like the cock-of-the-rock. Flashing tail feathers and squawking their head off much like the rooster that chased him down a dirt road as a kid. Until the day Vincent launched it into orbit with one swift kick. "Keep up the competition, but there are rules everyone has to abide by. And they exist for a reason."

"Alright, alright. I'll chill," Josue conceded much the same way as that rooster; ruffled and missing a few feathers. But learning something? That was up for debate. "Now, on to problemo two."

"Oh, well." The suit next to him blinked. "We, um—You might wanna sit. And get a drink."

"I'll gladly drink," Josue flicked his lapels forward and spun on one heel. "But, this suit ain't for sittin'."

The underboss looked at Vincent then took after Josue's swagger inside. He hushed his voice as he paced to keep up with Josue. "There's been a death."

"What? Where? One of the guests?"

"No. Fiore—"

"Fiore!" Josue belted back. Eyes bulged. A vein in his neck dared to burst. "Oh my god!"

"Josue! You don't want to go up there."

It was never not dull dealing with them, but the sharp edge went both ways. Vincent followed after them, tugged by that sense of curiosity Lawrence told him to cull. Sometimes he just had to defy the absent man. It wasn't difficult tailing the pair. He only needed to follow the theatrics across the gambling hall. Spot the number on the elevator dial. Then catch the next ride up. Then he'd pause in the foyer, holding his breath and waiting for the next signal; Josue screeching, "Fiore!"

He followed the man's cries down the hallway. Several incognito guards lingered by the door. Vincent peeked through the human wall. Daylight flooded the suite then went to black.

"Beat it, kid."

"No."

Vincent ducked and slipped through an opening in the wall of tall-and-wide. Snickering to himself, he passed the doorway when a hand clutched the steel hubcap guarding his back.

"Out!"

Vincent wiggled and swatted away a girthy hand. "You break that, I break you!"

"Woah, woah—" Josue's pet suit stood between them. "Ricardo, it's alright I'll handle him."

"No man can handle me," Vincent proclaimed. He whipped around and marched on towards his curiosity. And the hoarse whines in the bathroom. Two slim legs laid on the carpet. Black heels hugged her feet. Beige pantyhose—Not a tear. Vincent lowered to a squat and observed the other half of Fiore sprawled on the bathroom tile. Sequin green cocktail dress—questionable, but still on her. Arms placed as if she had merely fallen. Unless she was dragged?

No, the carpet wasn't disturbed. Pristinely flat save for the suits who had just strolled in. His eyes followed the trail left by her heels. Small circular depressions led to the center of the suit where a pair of sofas faced each other. The coffee table divided them. A full crystal decanter lay in the center with two glasses. Fiore's—as told by the lipstick print in her shade—barely a sip remained of the liquor. The other sparkling clean.

Josue threw up his hands, crying out in a fast-paced, unknown language. Hands landed on his thighs with a slap. "My beautiful Fiore!" He jumped up and out the bathroom. Hand flailed around him as he paced the window. Hyperventilating, Josue barely croaked a coherent word to his follower.

"What are you doing?"

Staying in his squat, Vincent waddled inside the bathroom. Not one mark on bare and bronze skin. And her hands, perfectly manicured to delicate white tips. Vincent pressed the back of his hand to her throat. Warm.

"What are you doing?"

Vincent hummed. A brow arched as he glanced at Josue. "Something happened here…"

"Oh, Mr. Detective has a revelation!"

"Josue." The suit followed the distraught man. A sympathetic hand reached for Josue. "We need to tell Tom—" Josue swatted his underling away and continued with his pace.

"Who found Fiore?"

"What? I did."

"Why were you up here?"

"I told him to come up here," Josue cut in. He finally paused to catch his breath. Fingers combed through curly locks and then clamped down. "We were supposed to have lunch together but I got tied up with the grounds keeper outside and knew I'd be late, so I sent him up here to tell her."

"She didn't answer the door, and…"

Josue grabbed the man and throttled him. "And what?"

"I just had a bad feeling. I thought I heard a thump or something but just thought it was someone's romp in the hay, but then she didn't answer the door."

"Was Fiore ill in any way?" Vincent asked as he stood up. Bones cracked and calves burned. He shook out a tingling leg.

"Fiore!" Josue's voice cracked. "Perfect in every way!"

Vincent rolled his eyes, not entirely convinced it was real. Strip folk were something else. Examining the scattered puzzle pieces again, a bad feeling as heavy as iron clumped in Vincent's stomach. If Lawrence were here, what would he think? What would he see? Eyes trailed back to the glass on the table. Umber-toned liquor glowed in daylight. Fiore's pink lip print pressed to the glass.

"Whatsit matter to you, huh?" Josue's pet suit barked.

"I think she was murdered."

"What?" Josue turned around. Brown eyes were red and puffy under drawn brows. "Shut the doors. No one in or out!"

"Josue, are you crazy?"

"I am in love!" Josue fell on the sofa. Limbs sprawled out and wriggling. "And she was murdered!"

"Wise guy adding detective to his resume, huh?" Josue's pet suit scoffed.

"Look at the scene," Vincent said. "She still has her jewelry on, so she wasn't robbed. Her dress hadn't been taken off, so she wasn't assaulted. There isn't a mark on her, so this isn't amateur hour. But that glass," Vincent stopped next to the coffee table. Newly tattooed knuckles refused to point fingers straight. "What I can confirm, is she had to have taken a drink from that glass."

Josue and his suit looked at the table. Then to the rest of the scene around them.

"Who would want to kill her?" Josue whispered. The first hint of sincerity Vincent had witnessed since meeting the man.

"Exactly," Vincent nodded. "Who would want to kill Fiore and why?"

The Romeros. Obvious rivals and competitors of Fat Tommy Russo's clan. And the Omertas. And the DuPonts. And the Chairmen. And the White Glove Society. And the—Everyone on the strip was everyone else's competitor. A friendly rivalry on the surface but occasionally people wound up dead, missing, or taking a long dive to the bottom of Lake Mead in a steel drum.

"Heya, boss," the suit knocked on the office door. He strutted inside the expansive room. Vincent followed behind him, quietly mulling over the list in his head of all the hidden weapons on his person. He didn't like being in the den of the casino bosses. In fact, he refused to meet any in their offices like this. Just a matter of safety. Yet, the palace looked exactly how he imagined it would. A view of the strip's monuments sparkled behind Tommy. Their neon lights fought the noon-sun. Adorned on his walls were memories and accomplishments of his casino. Big winners that drew in more crowds. New and old playbills of their acts. The ones of his family sat on his desk though. Close and only facing Fat Tommy. "Put those numbers together from last month's revenue."

"Leo." Fat Tommy did a double take at his incoming lackey. His chair creaked when he leaned back. A smile wrinkled his jowls. "You look like a new man. Did you grow a few inches?"

"Hah!" Leo laughed and turned around like a model for Tommy. "Nah, this is my secret—" Leo looked at Vincent tailing behind him. "Take notes too, buddy. It'll do you wonders." The suit slipped off one shoe and shrunk at least seven inches—or it could have been six. Vincent shook his head; he hadn't seen the ranger in nearly two years. "Ladies love a few inches, am I right?"

Fat Tommy and Leo shared a laugh. Vincent, however, couldn't manage the faintest smile. Instead, he took a seat at Tommy's desk and waited for the boys to wrap it up.

"Alright I gotta get back to it. See ya, boss."

"Smart, that one," Tommy wagged a finger at Leo's back. "He's helped get the numbers up since taking him on—best man I got. But that's not why you're here, forgive the interruption."

"I wish I was here with better news," Vincent said. "There was a death at the Flamingo. Some of the staff, including Josue, identified her as your niece, Fiore."

Tommy went white. His smile faded as a dumbfounded stare bore through Vincent. Lips twitched trying to form her name. "Fiore? Fiore!" His breath quickened. Sweat sprinkled his forehead. "No, no, no, that can't be! I saw her this morning. She was going out with her sister—Why would she be at the Pink Flamingo?"

"Well…" Vincent swallowed. "She was apparently having a relationship with Josue."

"I'll kill him!" He slammed a fist on the table. "He did it—"

"Tommy, I understand your anger and why you think that, but I don't believe it was Josue. They've been seeing each other for five years—"

Tommy clutched his chest. His other hand gripped his desk while the world spun around him. "Five years!"

"He showed me their letters, even had a few pictures from that photo-box thing they got by the door. Real tacky stuff…" Vincent leaned forward and laid the evidence out for Tommy to see. The casino boss delicately picked up a polaroid. He stared in disbelief. The beautiful, smiling, and beaming ray of sunshine in that picture was gone. "But to the point; Josue put the whole Flamingo on lock-down. Nobody is going in or out but me. Not to mention, if Josue wanted to sweep this under the rug, he would have. Nobody else knew about them."

Tommy slumped in his chair and hid his face in chubby hands. "What am I going to tell my sister?"

"Tell her I'll find out what happened to her daughter. Now, is there anything you can tell me that you think could be useful?"

For the first time in eight years, the Flamingo closed its doors again—the first time being due to nuclear devastation. Four securitrons guarded each entry point. The casino's guards stood inside behind bullet-proofed glass. Vincent knocked on the door and a guard strut over from the gathering in the middle of the lobby floor, then Vincent spun around in hopes of hiding his laugh. There was something about a pink and yellow floral print button down shirt, beige cargo shorts, and tube socks that were not intimidating. But here came the swaggering peacock in wrap-around sunglasses and a tactical fanny-pack.

When Vincent finally stepped inside, any funny business escaped out the door with the AC's draft.

"Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is? Let alone the cost."

Josue and a man that looked like a much older and more serious Josue went back and forth surrounded by more incognito casino security.

"There is a dead woman in my room!" Renewed passions animated Josue like never before. He paced. Flailed hands and spat colorful words under his breath. "The love of my life! And all you care about is the caps?"

"Get these doors open."

Vincent marched over to the two. "There's a murderer in the building—"

The older man turned to him. Thick peppered brows narrowed over dark eyes that fell on Vincent. "And you think you're going to catch him?" Ferdinand laughed.

"You open those doors and I'm going to block the whole place with securitrons."

Chuckles disappeared. Ferdinand shoved his hands in his pocket and straightened his hunch. His chest broadened. His glower simmered. "Those fucking robots can't step foot in here."

"I don't need them to. They don't have feet anyway."

Those looks of contempt Ferdinand's kind gave Vincent sent a bubbly feeling through the young man. Absolute elation and joy like no other. Starting from his feet and fluttering all the way up to his head where he flashed a cocky smile, a wink, and went on with his day.

"So tragic…" Julie sighed. She stood up and carefully stepped over Fiore.

"Josue told me he has a drink every day at lunch," Wayne said. He light-footedly circled the coffee table. "She lets herself in. Pours a drink for both of them." Hooded eyes squinted at the two glasses, but lingered Fiore's. Barely a sliver of bourbon left. "She drank hers. Starts to feel unwell and gets up to go to the bathroom." Wayne straightened his posture with a wince. "But it's too late."

"Her pupils are dilated which is unusual and lean towards poisoning like you think, but I can't determine a definitive cause of death without tests I don't have the technology to do."

Wayne rustled his mustache. A husky hum flexed his belly. "Problem is, only people we know have a key are Josue, Fiore, and housekeeping. I don't like how that looks."

"There's actually another angle," Vincent announced. "Josue said the decanter was brought up this morning by room service. Y'know these types never do anything for themselves. Even the murder."

"Always drinks at lunch…" Wayne plucked out the comb from his vest pocket. Wood teeth smoothed out the kinks in his beard. "And kept her secret. Then maybe the girl wasn't the hit."

"Or she wasn't intended to die," Julie pondered. "A girl like Fiore is worth a lot of caps to traffickers. Or she could have had a secret admirer."

Vincent's brows furrowed. "A knockout that turned accidental death?"

"It wouldn't be anything new to me," Julie said regrettably. "I've had countless instances of women being assaulted while passed out. Usually after a handsome stranger buys them a drink at the bar. It's pretty easy to stalk someone in a place like the strip."

"That's possible," Vincent acknowledged. He glanced at Fiore. Color flushed away from her by now. "I didn't see any signs of assault. Those dresses are a pain in the ass to get out of, I can only imagine trying to put it back on a limp body…"

Wayne looked at Vincent. He nudged the young man next to him and muttered, "How you know that?"

"I know things…"

"Get her name next time, son."

"The perpetrator may have got scared and left," Julie shrugged. "I hope nothing happened before she died. We should give her some dignity though." Julie took a folded linen sheet from the back of the sofa. "Wayne, would you mind helping me?"

"Of course, darlin'."

Strutting up and down the hallway, Vincent tapped the pen to his lips. He flipped between a fresh page and the prior one in his notebook. A mess of doodles, motives, names—Lawrence would have a conniption trying to parse it all. Who did it? Ferdinand had a motive. So did Tommy. Or maybe it was some nameless, faceless stranger and the girl would be another unsolved murder lost to the history of New Vegas and the city that preceded it.

Sighing, Vincent's shoulders slumped. He stared down the long hallway. Identical to the maze above and the maze below. Endless rows of doors. Each one a question he couldn't answer. Passing into the elevator lobby, he paused.

A fresh question popped in his head: what the hell was he doing? Playing investigator? Solving a murder? He shook his head as the shaft rattled. The needle in the overhead dial slowly crept towards the next floor number. And above the half-circle dial, a camera. Smack right overhead both elevator doors, peering down their respective hallways. The elevators dinged. The door opened to exactly who he wanted to see.

"Josue." The usually flamboyant man seemed drained of color and energy standing under a buzzing light. "Do these—"

"We got a big problem."

Meanwhile, downstairs all hell broke loose.

Sparks flew across the lobby. Upturned blackjack tables shielded the Romero's men. Terrified yelps and cries echoed from the casino floor. Guests hid behind the bar, the slots rows, and took up the excuse to check out the high roller's lounge before a bullet would find them.

The securitrons kept true to their orders. They stood out of range at the doors. Merely facing inward to observe because even Mr. House needs entertainment sometimes, or so Vincent wondered as he ran muzzle first to the standoff.

"Stand down!" Vincent roared. Behind him, the Romeros' guards held the frontline where the casino floor began. In front of him, the intruders sheltered behind tables commandeered in their advance. A few casualties on both sides lay in between.

"How's playing detective working for you?" Ferdinand shouted from the casino floor. "Fat Tommy sent his regards."

"You're Russo's men?"

Tables muffled their whispers. One jumped up. Shots echoed and Vincent ducked. A bullet to the head and one to the gut sent the nameless man falling back. The machine gun spat out its swan song on the walls and tall ceiling. Slot screens exploded on hit. The surviving Russos scattered in a frenzy.

Wayne plucked Vincent up as the young man gawked at him. Of course, the old man wouldn't miss the fun. Ferdinand's guards closed in on the opportunity and surrounded the intruders. "Don't kill them."

Ferdinand paraded over to the two, shaking his head like a scolding parent. "You don't give orders in my casino."

Vincent whipped around. "Your casino is going to be mine if you start a turf war and get civilians killed!"

"They came here. Not the other way around."

"I doubt they just strolled in gun-a-blazin'," Wayne said.

"No. They wanted to talk," Ferdinand cocked his head. Now Vincent knew where Josue got it from. "I felt sorry for Fat Tommy, so I agreed to discuss the situation. Then the guns wenna-blazin'. Guess he don't feel so sad anymore."

"You're not above suspicion here either."

"Oh, you think I did this? I caused this embarrassment?"

"Do not kill any of those men. Send one over to get Fat Tommy here because we solve this shit right now."

Crammed inside a dark room behind the scenes of the Flamingo was Vincent, Julie, Wayne, Ferdinand, Josue, Fat Tommy, and Leo—No guns. No goons.

Tense was an understatement.

"Show me floor 28."

A wall of screens watched almost every inch of the place. Some squares were blacked out. Damaged or irreparable cameras—but the really important views were the ones over the tables.

The mouth breather at the console ignored Vincent's demand. Instead, he stared at Julie watching the screens next to him. She shifted on her feet and tried her best to ignore the odd fellow. Vincent leaned towards the man.

"Hey."

He jumped in his chair. Timid eyes flickered on Vincent then faced forward. "28?"

"Yes."

The main screen blinked. A live feed of floor 28's elevators took over the view. "Take it back to a little before eight this morning," Josue requested. "That's when Roberta comes by my suite for cleaning and brings in my bourbon."

"Alrighty." The controller hunched over his terminal's keys. Swift fingers tapped keys and a string of black and green commands grew across the first line. The feed above him flickered again. "Let's just speed this up a bit…"

A housekeeper appeared in the frame. She approached Josue's door and opened it as she had done for years. Noticeably, a decanter on her cart among other things left in Josue's suite.

"So, we can confirm nobody else left the decanter," Vincent said. "Now let's see if anyone stops by. When did Fiore get here this morning?"

"She left the Sevens half-past eleven," Fat Tommy said.

Josue shrugged. "Yeah, she usually arrives around noon."

Pleasing clicks kept up their tempo and the feed fast-forwarded again. Guests left their rooms for the elevator. Others exited the box, departing either to the left hallway or the right. Vincent focused on the right. Unblinking eyes studied each of them disappearing out of frame and past Josue's door. Except one. "Stop."

The whole room lurched forward and squinted at the pixels. A mask obscured the suited man's face—not that he was looking directly at the camera anyway.

"White Gloves…" Leo whistled. "Y'know they always gave me the creeps."

"No way," Josue guffawed. "Ain't no way they got beef with me or Fiore. Maybe that Marjory chick. She's just jealous cause she lost that pageant last year."

Fat Tommy hummed. "Many envied Fiore's beauty."

"I wouldn't trust those creeps as far as you can throw them," Ferdinand muttered.

"Play that part again." The feed rewound. Vincent clutched the controller's shoulder and gave him another fright. "Again."

He played it back several times, much to the annoyance of the audience in the back.

"What are you looking for?" Julie inquired.

"Look at his shoes." Ferdinand and Josue groaned behind him. Fanciful words of another language spoke over the others. "And then look at his legs."

"I'm not followin'," Wayne added.

"He's not actually that tall…" Vincent tilted his head. Wayne and Julie studied the still image. The person of interest's knee bent mid-stride while the other leg planted firmly on the carpet. "Look at his thigh. Then look where his knee bends."

"I see it," Julie whispered. "You're right; he's not as tall as he appears." Julie stretched her hand to the screen and using a pen, she traced imaginary lines of evidence over the still. "His arms, body, thighs all look proportionate but below the knee, his legs are too long if you measure down to his heels—"

"So, the guy was wearing fancy shoes," Josue commented. 'What's is that supposed to do for Fiore?"

Vincent turned around to face the killer. Fat Tommy swung his cane and a terrible crack tore a cry from Leo. Thick hands clamped down on Leo's neck. Rings pressed reddening flesh. Fuming and frothing at the mouth, the only words Tommy could get out was; "You killed her!"

"Boss—" Purple spots burst through Leo's red cheeks.

"Oh, no I ain't fallin' for this act," Ferdinand declared as he stepped in front of his son. "You tried to kill my boy!"

"I would never stoop so low as to employ the Omerta's methods." Leo slid to the floor gasping for air while Tommy turned to face Ferdinand. He sliced a hand through the tension with a vigor never anticipated in the man. "The children are off limits!"

Ferdinand hesitated. "Then why was your man in my home? Going to my son's room with poison."

"I think I know why," Vincent spoke up.

"Well, you sure ain't gonna get it out him like that," Josue observed, nodding to Leo hacking and coughing on the floor.

"You mentioned Leo is a bit of a rising star, right?"

Fat Tommy smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt. He straightened his tie and tugged the ends of his blazer. "Until now."

"This morning I met with Tommy. He told me Josue has been recruiting the Seven's talent a little too much and wanted me to get you to stop."

"Yeah, yeah, I said I'd chill…"

"I think somebody wanted to score brownie points with the big boss. Ferdinand," Vincent turned to him. "If Fat Tommy wanted to kill your son, he would have never came to me about this. Even if that was part of the ruse itself, this execution attempt wouldn't have been piss poor."

Ferdinand pursed his lips. Dark eyes looked to Leo then Fat Tommy who's glare never departed the soon-to-be-dead man. "Yeah, probably. My kid ain't the one who's dead though." He turned to Josue, wagging a warning finger at the young man. "Keep fuckin' around and I might be the one to do it."

The Flamingo's doors swung open in no time. While the guests were rightly terrified and others believed the Romeros and Russos showdown to be the next kind of New Vegas entertainment, things were mostly as normal as they could get on the casino floor. However, there was a standoff in a reclusive part of the Flamingo. Guarded from tourists and workers, Fat Tommy Russo and Ferdinand Romero stood in front of each other in the garden habitat. Birds chirped high up the lush trees. Ponds sang like a lounge piano. The waterfall cooled the garden to a pleasurable chill in the mid-summer heat.

The boss's entourages stood at the sidelines while Vincent's heart nearly stood still. His hand hovered on his pistol's grip. A bead of sweat licked his brow. It trailed down his temple and got lost in the brunette hairs of well groomed sideburns. That lasted about five minutes before the boss's both began a slow nod of approval for the other.

"I owe this man the most sincerest of apologies," Fat Tommy said. "I was irrational. I jumped to conclusions. I did not keep a tight enough leash on my man to prevent this, and now I mourn my sweet Fiore as the price." He crossed the dividing line with an open hand. "From one don to another, I ask for your forgiveness."

"Y'know, I didn't really appreciate your guys dropping by the way they did…" Ferdinand reached forward and shook Tommy's hand. "I would have done the same though, if I lost my son like that."

"Ah these kids," Tommy shook his head. His free hand patted Ferdinand's. "Like wearing your heart on your sleeve."

"Hah! Ain't that right buddy." Ferdinand managed a believable smile. "Now, I oughta go take care of mine right now. He's a mess."

Fat Tommy turned his attention to the sidelines. "And this young man." He gimped over on his cane to Vincent. "I owe something I cannot repay. You avenge my Fiore's death. You uncover a snake in my home. I did not want to believe it was Leo, but he earned his pair of concrete shoes. I have had one too many heartaches today, my young friend." Fat Tommy donned his sunglasses as if Vincent hadn't seen that teary glimmer in sagging eyes. He patted Vincent's shoulder and with his entourage surrounding him, he departed the Flamingo's little stake of paradise.

"That kind of surprised me," Vincent said. "Didn't think his kind could admit when they're wrong."

"I think you got another someone who wants to talk to you," Wayne noted as he pinched his hat's brim for the approaching woman.

"I'll meet you at the Baron."

Jackie slipped through the thinning guards and exchanged quick small talk with Wayne. She stopped at the railing next to Vincent. Hunched over, Jackie peered into the pond and watched the fishes swimming at the bottom. They all had a mottled pattern of black and orange and white, some with two heads, others with one and maybe a third eye, but they all swarmed with each other. Curious ones came to the surface, opened mouthed and waiting to be fed.

"I went to the Lucky 38 and that, uh, cowboy securitron told me you were here…"

"Yeah, it's been a day." Vincent leaned on the rails with her. "How are you doing?"

"I'm still going."

"I'm glad you're still going."

Jackie glanced at him. A faint smile dimpled her cheeks but faded as fast as it came. "I don't like it when my feelings get the better of me. I was upset, stressed, afraid—"

"You don't have to justify why you felt the way you did."

"I…" Jackie sighed. She looked up to the sky. Not a cloud present. Just endless blue a few hours from sunset. "Being discharged was the tipping point, I guess."

"Why were you discharged?"

"A few days after the dam, I was interrogated. They asked me about you, Lawrence, Mr. House, some plan about Hoover Dam. They grilled me for hours. I had no idea what was going on. And then they gave me an ultimatum." Jackie's eyes fell back to the pond. A larger audience of fish gawked up at her. "I had to tell the truth, or they would discharge me from service on suspicious of espionage and treason, and I could be potentially investigated for those down the road."

"Because of me?"

"Because I knew you. Because I knew Lawrence."

"I'm so sorry that happened Jackie. I should have—"

"No, no." She blinked away her frustrated chuckle. "The thing is, I don't know the truth. I feel betrayed. But I realized it wasn't really because of you. I gave eight years of my life to the republic. And that meant nothing. Like everyone I lost at the dam, in the wars, to raiders, to legion, to this fucking desert. It meant nothing…"

"It's not meaningless. The republic—the government—is the problem, not you. You were thrown away because they think their people are expendable. But you were the ones fighting. You and all those people at the dam—first or second time around—the people who died. The republic owes you a hell of a lot more than you owe them."

Down in Freeside and at the bar of the Baron's Bull, all that strip nonsense could be washed down with a drink and some decent food. By late afternoon, every market stall was open under the canopy of a blank screen waiting for its time to shine. Life emerged in the desert oasis. Gathered at the watering hole and prepared for a fresh night. Kings loitered on their usual corners. A few now shared with securitrons flat against a wall and hidden in narrow alleys. The new permanent fixture, much like the old man waiting at the bar, perusing a menu he had seen a hundred times before.

"Wayne." Vincent marched over to his spot. "I've been waiting to tell you this all day."

Bushy brows rose over eyes still locked on the menu. "That right?"

The stool creaked as Vincent jumped on it. "I found a giant rat. A king rat, living in that old robot factory-warehouse place around the corner. Humongous. Gargantuan. I was in awe and shock of this beast. Remorseful even, for having killed it. But only because I didn't see how enormous and majestic this creature was. Very healthy. Then there was that drama on the strip, but look at this!"

"What?"

Vincent snatched an unattended newspaper off the bar top and flipped open the recent newsprint out of the NCR. Late by a week, but news none-the-less. Wayne squinted at the headline: Trial of the Century!

The latest circus in the New California Republic. Caesar, otherwise addressed as Edward Sallow, on trial for crimes. Crimes of war, crimes of humanity, crimes of whatever surmounted to the judicial system the republic could throw at him to appease their citizens.

"Y'know—" Vincent continued on. He smacked the newspaper down on the aged wood top before the old man could read any further. "I'm not even mentioned in this! The only reason they have this asshole is because of me."

Wayne blinked. "Scandalous."

"Personally, I think any punishment is too good for him," Vincent said swiveling from side to side in the seat. "Death is mercy. Lock him up for life, but he gets free food and shelter. Publicly humiliate him—I bet he gets his martyr-rocks off on that."

"I can guarantee ya, son, men like him suffer in the hands of the law."

"Anyway, I'm starving," Vincent pushed aside the paper. "What's the special today?"

"I think that rat you found would be more appetizin' than the radroach casserole."