Watch Dogs Read Online Free PDF Page B

quite a few at high-end casinos. Honker had a face that looked like it was carved from sandstone, and fists that looked like they could crush rock too.
“Hiya, Rose!” Honker said.
    Not much chance of getting past that big lug right this second , Wolfe thought.
    Delta Force training or not, Honker would be hard to take down. Of course, there was always placing a bullet in the back of the bouncer’s head, if it came to that.
    Trouble is, he didn’t know what type of guy Honker was. Easy enough to assume Honker was a brute when he worked the door at a mob casino. But for all Wolfe knew Honker could be a family man who couldn’t get another job.
    Find another way in.
    Honker glanced at Wolfe, as he closed the door behind the girl, seemed to discount the “lost junky” immediately—which was how Wolfe had figured it.
    Wolfe strolled around the corner, looking up at the roof of the building. Yeah, a couple of Club wiseguys were standing sentry up there. He could see their bundled-up silhouettes, including their AK47s.
    Wolfe kept walking, but he drew slowly in toward the building as he went until he was out of the line of sight of the sentries on the roof—unless they leaned over the wall and looked straight down.
    Behind the building was a parking lot. There were several limos in it, along with a gold colored SUV that probably belonged to some minor rapper who was into being a Player, several shiny, low slung Porsches and Jaguars, and one late model Escalade. He saw no beaters, no low-income cars, which told him that the employers had to park somewhere else. There was a sign that said Private Parking Only. It didn’’t say parking for what. A chubby cheeked parking attendant in a black watch cap and overcoat was watching something pink and squirmy on a miniature TV in a little parking lot kiosk. Chances were the parking lot attendant wasn’t going to look up from Bikini Bimbos unless another car drove in.
    Wolfe turned, walked down the alley close to the back wall of the building. His boots crunched loudly in gravel as he walked toward a patch of light at a back door. Someone was standing there, smoking a cigarette, keeping the door open enough so they could get back in. Which meant the door locked if it closed and this guy didn’t have a key. Somebody low-level.
    Wolfe glanced up, didn’t see the sentries looking down. He walked around the back door as if he were just cutting through the alley—then stopped, staring in sudden recognition at the man in the backdoor. And the man stared back at him with the same mild shock.
    It was Kurt O’Malley, an Irish-German guy from the old ‘hood. They’d grown up near each other; they’d shared a six pack or two and double dated, occasionally, just before Wolfe enlisted in the Army.
    “Kurt? That you?”
    O’Malley was wearing a white jacket, white pants. He was a gangly man with a stubby nose, rusty colored hair and a nicely trimmed goatee. He apparently worked as a bus boy at the casino.
    He gawked at Wolfe. “Man, I thought you was in prison!”
    “Was. Just a year—Leavenworth. I was framed.”
    “Hey man, everybody in prison was framed.” O’Malley laughed.
    Wolfe chose not to argue. “Listen, Kurt—I need work. I heard in this place you’re working at here, pretty much everybody has a prison record.”
    “The Hell they do!” He sniffed, wiped his nose with a sleeve. “Okay, a lot of guys do. But it’s not like it’s gotta be on your resume, fuh Chris’sakes. You got to pay Santiago to introduce you to the bosses, and maybe they’ll hire you if they need somebody...and maybe they won’t.”
    “Who’s Santiago?”
    “Kitchen supervisor. You gotta grease his palm and maybe he’ll put you up for a job and maybe not. I borrowed a hundred bucks from my Pop to pay him. This dump gets me more cash than a regular dive though.”
    “Not like they give you benefits.”
    “You can drink left over booze and eat leftover food and they pay you in cash.