The Badass Longcoat Battle [Hippo]

Aleksandr Sokoll lifted the heavy glass to his lips and sipped carefully, politely, allowing the taste of the powerful alcohol to just barely touch the tip of his tongue. The man across from him nodded and smiled, nodded and smiled, looking absurdly pleased that he had convinced his guest to even sip the drink. It was bourbon, aged to perfection (or so he claimed), a drink reserved for the highly wealthy or the chosen beneficiary of a highly wealthy person. Aleksandr puckered his lips for a moment and swallowed the thimbleful of alcohol with grace.

The man who sat across from him was abhorrently obese. All stereotypes of the wealthy, fat, old white men of the United States had apparently coalesced to form this one perfect embodiment of stereotypical vileness. The mustache that drooped over the sides of his mouth and the messily thick eyebrows over deep-set, watery blue eyes made him look like the hick ever denizen of the United States of America wished would die. The mane of cultivated brown hair, darker and much greasier than any attractive brunette hair color, was untidy and badly styled. In point of fact, the only thing that gave this man an air of respectability, if that air could be so generously gifted with such a descriptor, was the slate-gray Armani suit he wore.

All of which, Aleksandr noted, did extremely well at masking the killer intellect and intricately well-versed personal knowledge he had developed. His name was Simon McCleary, and he was the owner of a moderately-sized casino that catered almost exclusively to the supernatural crowd in Las Vegas, Nevada. As far as Aleksandr had been able to judge, the man was more efficient at controlling and maintaining relative peace within his small sphere of influence than many major governments would have been.

"Good, right?" he asked, tipping his own (much fuller) glass of bourbon forward.

"It is memorable," Aleksandr replied, setting his glass down with casual disdain. "I would like to discuss the matter you alluded to over the telephone. The artifact you mentioned—is it in your possession, or do you simply have knowledge of its whereabouts."

"Straight to business, then. The second one. A couple of vampires own places here in town," he said, gesturing out his large window to the city skyline surrounding his casino building, "and one of them has your book. It's either Tommy Jonas at The Feral or Michael Lister at Sandy's Place. Either way, they've got a bunch of vampires and goons and both of ‘em are way rich. It may look cheaper to steal it or something, but buying it will keep you in one piece."

"I see. You expect a finder's fee, of course."

"It's only natural," the big man grinned like the Cheshire cat, bloated hands folding across his generous midriff.

Aleksandr reached into his coat and pulled his wallet out long enough to sheaf through the dollar bills he carried with him. Ten hundreds fell onto the desk with a light whisk and disappeared as quickly as they fell. He smiled politely and folded his hands in his lap for a moment, staring at the portly casino owner as he thought.

"Do you know the names of any experienced vampire hunters?"