Dead Boogie (14 page)

This was expensive lake country with commercial development limited so as not to mar the views of the McMansions under construction at the end of lanes, well hidden from public view. Only the signs fronting the private roads—white arrows with names painted black and stacked one on top of the other, often as many as twenty or thirty—hinted at the number of summer residents lining the lakes.

Osborne tended to drive past the signs without paying attention, but today he kept an eye out. Sure enough, just past the cranberry bogs Dick Wallace had recently sold to Ocean Spray, he spotted what he was looking for—two signs, one nailed above the other: forsyth and nehlson. The signs were freshly painted and the only two marking the road.

Twenty minutes later, Osborne pulled alongside Ray’s pickup in the packed parking lot of the Moonlight Casino. Entering the casino, Osborne wasn’t sure if it was the noise, the lights, or the guy with the mullet who pushed him going through the door that got to him first. Or maybe it was the guy’s girlfriend who seemed to think her aggressive display of cleavage would neutralize an urgent need for orthodontia. Everywhere he looked things were throbbing: ropes of neon, panels on slot machines, even the air. Worst of all—outdoors was a gorgeous summer day and the place was packed. Just packed.

Ray was on his tiptoes, peering over the banks of slot machines and clouds of cigarette smoke that fogged in the blackjack tables. “Hold on, Doc. Looking for a guy I know …”

“Is there a guy anywhere you don’t know?” said Osborne. Driving out of Loon Lake forty minutes earlier, Osborne in his car following Ray in his battered pickup, he had watched his neighbor wave to every person he saw. This included oncoming traffic, kids on their bikes, mothers pushing strollers, runners. And they all smiled as they waved back.

Ray touched Osborne’s shoulder lightly and tipped his head. “See the guy in the corner, Doc? That’s who we want—Gib Salisbury. He’s been running the poker room for the last couple years. He’s a client of mine, but I never charge him.”

“You never charge him?” said Osborne.

“Referrals,” said Ray as he guided the two of them back toward the bar near the poker room. “When some guys get a run of luck and the casino needs to break their momentum, there’s nothing like a little muskie fishing. And he’s sent me some big rollers. Nice tips.”

“I guess that explains the bag of ice and bluegills in your right hand?”

“You betcha. This man
l-o-v-ves
a fresh bluegill.”

“Gentlemen, you aren’t asking the right questions,” drawled Gib Salisbury. The elderly black man sat casually at the bar, nursing a Coke on the rocks. After fifteen minutes of small talk, Osborne finally had a chance to raise the subject of Donna and her training to be a poker dealer.

He had waited patiently for a sign from Ray. But he could see that Ray had more than one reason for guiding the old guy for free. He loved his stories. And he had no intention of getting down to business without a diversionary chat. But fifteen minutes with no mention of Donna was wearing on Osborne. Still, he trusted Ray had a reason for the delay, so he curbed his impatience and listened.

In his youth, Gib had made a living playing jazz piano with the bands that toured the supper clubs of the northwoods before American families opted to spend their vacation dollars on Disneyland instead of aging lakeside resorts with their tiny cabins. As he traveled, Gib had soaked up the history of the region: tales of moonshine and secret tunnels, the clubs built with mob money from Chicago, the burned-out cars found deep in the woods where no roads ran. He’d heard the stories and could embellish them as well as any raconteur.

One day he discovered that the fingers so talented on the keys of the piano added dazzle when shuffling a deck of cards. That knack plus his inscrutable face added up to success as a professional poker player.

And now that poker had hit the big time, he had been drafted to play the other side of the table. Gib Salisbury was the dealer with the best eye in casino country for that big fish they all wanted to hook: the cardsharp.

Osborne leaned back in his chair, pondering the old man’s remark. “Did you say we’re asking the wrong questions?” He repeated Gib’s words.

“Don’t ask me about sore losers going after one of my trainees—ask me who tries too hard to get close? That’s where the trouble lies. Let me tell you what I tell my people: ‘Every table has a cheater. Your job is spot ‘em and stop ‘em. And if you can’t do that—at least scare ‘em.’

“So while the training begins with basics of the games played, the emphasis is on watching the players. You see, boys, one reason I got into poker is just that:
Nothing is more interesting than the human face.
So watch the players. It don’t matter if they’re wearing dark glasses, 3-D glasses, or shot glasses—keep a sharp eye.

“Miss Donna was doin’ okay ‘cept for her socializin’ at the bar. She was way too friendly with some of the folks who’ve been playing here. Not that it was her fault. They was layin’ it on thick. I told her so. Maybe I was crude, but I told her that poker ain’t like sex. At these tables, man, you fake it—you lose.’

“What do you mean exactly?” said Osborne.

“She had to learn to keep friendship out of her job. Those people buying her drinks and talkin’ so sweet. They aren’t interested in Miss Donna the human being. They’re just interested in a Miss Donna they can charm to look the other way when they mark a card or short the pot. I mean, these guys are amateurs, always trying the obvious: weasel the dealer.

“So what you want to know from me, boys, is not who was sore—but who was
courting
the little lady.”

“Were they hitting on the other trainees, too?” said Osborne.

“Donna was the only woman in the class—our first female poker dealer.”

“I see,” said Osborne. “Who was it that was leaning on her?”

“Couple of fellas—regulars. They’ve been showing up almost every Saturday for the last three months. Into the house for so much that we’ve cut ‘em off until they pay in a percentage of what they owe. Ed Forsyth and Parker Nehlson.”

At the look on Osborne’s face, Gib chuckled. “Thought maybe you’d know those boys. Everybody around here does. Those two got the same problem with alcohol as they do with gambling—they drink too much. And you can’t play smart cards drunk.”

“You think they’re out of control?”

“Somebody does. Parker’s wife won’t let ‘em come without that driver they got. She sends ‘em over with that guy and he brings ‘em home. That’s smart, too. Put one of those two behind a wheel and somebody’ll get killed.”

“Who’s the driver?”

“I dunno. He always sits on the side, plays the slots while he waits. Skinny little guy who dresses like a cowboy. Always wears the same dirty jeans, the same blue-checked flannel shirt. Bow-legged. He had a few conversations with Donna, too. But just friendly-like—not like the other two hanging all over her. The little guy—I kinda think she knew him from somewhere else.”

“Anything else you can tell us about him?” said Ray. “Doesn’t sound familiar to me, and I know a lot of people.”

Gib nursed his soda. “Yeah, well, that driver is a strange one. He has a tattoo up his left forearm you can’t miss: a praying mantis.”

“So Joan Nehlson never comes to the casino herself—she sends the men over in a car,” said Osborne, making a note.

“I didn’t say that,” said Gib. “She doesn’t come with the boys—she comes alone. Thinks she’s smarter than everybody, too—though she only plays with women. Comes in on Wednesdays when we have amateur ladies poker night.

“She’s got one move and she pulls it off half the time—the bully bet. She sits down to a game of Texas Hold’ em with a huge stack of chips. All the other gals are trying to keep their bets under ten dollars but she’ll bet the whole stack. Out to intimidate the table.”

twenty

In seeing some of the new fishermen on the old riffles, I’m reminded of a friend who told me he’s recently taken up golf because he likes the clothes.

—John Merwin

Osborne
swung down the narrow paved road that led toward the Forsyth and Nehlson properties, past the sign that read private road/no trespassing. Past two more signs that read private/keep out.

He was three-quarters of a mile in when the road forked into two unpaved lanes. He knew where he was—midway up the Pickerel chain. Along this chain, the lakes could be small, some tiny, and so ringed with bogs that buildable land was at a premium.

While some people avoided the boggy acres, likely breeding grounds for mosquitoes, others preferred the remote locations and built long, long docks that extended out over the bogs to where they could launch their boats. If you wanted privacy and limited access to your property by water—this was the land for you.

A quick study of the plat book before leaving the casino parking lot had indicated that, the Nehlson name on the sign aside, it was the Garmin Family Foundation that owned significant acreage back in here. Nothing was marked as owned by Forsyth, but the plat book was outdated by three years—enough time to buy and build.

The more Osborne saw, the more that made sense. Where the road forked, it dropped down and away, making it easy to see the rooflines of two lodge-style houses set about three hundred feet from each other. The one to the left was tiled in rust-colored shingles—a style from the thirties and forties when wealthy Chicagoans built summer mansions. The boggy lowland stretching south and east of the property offered a magnificent view of the lake beyond.

Over the bog ran a wide, planked dock, weathered gray by the elements. At the end of the dock was a pontoon that looked large enough to carry a party of thirty.

All he could see of the other house was a new roof of burgundy metal. A metal roof in the northwood has a surface slippery enough to prevent snow buildup, is guaranteed to last a hundred years—and is quite expensive. Osborne was so taken with it, he never heard the footsteps coming up from behind.

“Looking for somebody?” The voice was gruff and unwelcoming, its tone implying less a question than a suggested time of departure. The man stood off to the left of Osborne’s open window, hands on his hips and arms akimbo. The sleeves of the blue-checked shirt were rolled above the elbows, and there was no missing the praying mantis gleaming black along the inside of his left forearm.

“Yes, the Nehlsons,” said Osborne, starting to open his car door.

The man took two steps toward Osborne. Although he was small and skinny, the black eyes glittering under the shaggy, uncut hair were hard and uncompromising. His face—either deeply tanned or just plain filthy—was in bad need of a shave. High-heeled cowboy boots, scuffed with the toes turning up, anchored his bowed legs. The boots poking out from under worn and dusty Levi’s, along with a leather-handled bowie knife strapped to his belt, gave him the appearance of a miniature outlaw.

“Not here.” He yanked his thumb as he spoke. “Out. Thatta way—” The rudeness caught Osborne by surprise. He resisted an irrational urge to jump out and punch the guy.

Instead, he said, “Hey, you, back off, bud. I’ve got official business here with Joan and her husband.” He didn’t, but he could sure as hell make something up.

“I told you—
not home.”
The punk stepped closer to Osborne’s car, blocking him from opening the door.

“All right, all right,” said Osborne. He wasn’t sure if his heart was pounding from fear or fury.

“Georgy! What you got there?” A tall, broad-chested man dressed in tan golf shorts and a lavender Polo shirt came striding up the driveway from the right. The silver-gray hair was swept back and up over a high forehead that emphasized a long, bony face, tanned and smooth as if burnished with affluence.

“Trespasser,” said the punk, spitting the word out. He did not back off.

Osborne decided to get out of his car and introduce himself—even if it meant banging the punk with his car door. The guy backed off just far enough—his eyes never leaving Osborne’s face.

“Dr. Paul Osborne from the Loon Lake Police,” said Osborne over the short man’s head to the newcomer in the golf shorts. “I’m looking for the Nehlsons—Joan and Parker.”

“And why would that be?” the voice slurred. “We’re investigating her sister’s death and I have a few more questions. Do you mind if I ask you who you are?”

The man rocked on his feet. “Peggy’s dead?” A breeze wafted the unmistakable fragrance of whiskey Osborne’s way, and the man blinked hard as if trying to get past seeing double. Osborne knew that feeling.

“Yes …” Osborne waited, not sure how much he wanted to say if this was who he thought it was.

“S’okay, Georgy. I’ll handle this. Ed Forsyth, Mr. Osborne. I’m their neighbor. Close friend.”

“Doctor
Osborne,” said Osborne, correcting him. Forsyth weaved as he extended a hand. Osborne took the hand—but managed to grasp only the fingers.

“Sorry about George, but he’s under orders. Sch-trict orders.”

“You get a lot of people trespassing back here?” said Osborne, relieved to find a neutral subject.

“Sightseers, mostly. Now what was that you said about Joan’s sister? You said she’s
dead?”
Forsyth’s voice squeaked on the last word.

“Yes, I did,” said Osborne, crossing his arms and leaning back against his car. A crafty expression had moved into the man’s eyes, and he seemed to grow more focused. It was as if he was calculating through an alcoholic haze and the numbers were coming up positive.

After watching Forsyth weigh the news in silence, Osborne said, “I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”

“Hell, I just drove up from the city. Got in half an hour ago. You’re sure … she’s dead?” It was the third time he asked the question. “Come on down to the house—let me offer you a drink. Martini? No, no—what am I thinking? You’re on official business. Thas’s right, right?” Again, the slow weave on the feet.

“Right. But thank you. Since the Nehlsons aren’t here, I’ll be on my way.” Osborne got into his car thinking he should stay, stay and press Forsyth for information on the debacle with Peg’s surgery. But the guy was so smashed. He must have been drinking the entire drive up from Milwaukee. Osborne shuddered to think that Mallory was driving the same highway.