Full House: A Laid-Back Bay Area Mystery (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 3) (17 page)

He stood up, too. So did Rosie. “I wouldn’t give you the time of day, Samson.”

“That’s very original. You’re one witty guy, Pincus. I just never know what you’re going to come up with next.”

“And you’re a loser. I’ve known jerks like you all my life.” He looked me up and down like he could see I didn’t make even a paltry fifty thousand a year.

“And what have you got, Pincus? An airhead wife? A big house? Do you ever go home? Answer my fucking questions and stop playing games. You were at their motel. You know where they are. Why are you lying?”

He sat down again, his eyes very cold, a little smile on his sculptured lips. “I wouldn’t bother. I told you once. I saw Marjorie. She was here on business. That’s all I know, that’s all I want to know. I don’t give a shit what you’re after or why.” He pushed a button on the edge of his desk and turned back to his papers.

The man must have gotten into the casino business by winning at poker. I still couldn’t read him, couldn’t shake him. I wanted to punch him out, but I knew that wouldn’t do any good, and besides, there was that button he’d just pushed.

I did not feel like being hustled out of his office by some punk, but the giant who showed up was no punk. He must have been six foot five and he was well armored with muscle.

“Okay,” I said. “See you later, Pincus.”

He laughed. “You think you’ll be able to see?”

“Gee,” Rosie said, when we were out on the casino floor again, “I thought you were going to push things beyond reason there for a minute. Maybe you two guys should meet on your high school football field and duke it out.”

I laughed. She was right.

“Think we should stick around, see what happens?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. I was thinking about Pincus’s threats.

Rosie smiled. “You’re wondering when the goons are going to fall on us.” She stopped at the bottom of the steps and surveyed the first-floor room. “I don’t see any goons here.”

That was when the man with the muscles slipped up behind us.

“Mr. Samson? Mr. Pincus asked me to see to it that you got to your car all right. To escort you, if necessary.”

I looked up at him. He had black hair, black eyes, and very white skin, the kind that looks good in bruises. “No, thanks,” I told him. “We can make it all right on our own.”

“That’s right,” Rosie said. “I’m escorting him to his car.”

The goon gazed at her blankly. “I’m not supposed to escort you, just him.”

“Well, hell,” Rosie said, “in that case I don’t know what you’re going to do.” We began to walk toward the door. He stayed behind. I glanced quickly over my shoulder and caught him watching us, and, at the same time, talking into his left hand. I guess even casino bouncers have gone high-tech.

Rosie saw it, too. “I wonder why he’s doing that,” she said. I didn’t bother to answer. When I glanced back again, he was walking about ten feet behind us. I considered grabbing Rosie’s arm and running like hell for the car. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. A man has to try, at least, to keep his dignity, and besides, I wasn’t all that sure Rosie would agree to run with me.

So we strolled casually past the poker tables, around the chaos of the slots and out the front door.

We walked very quickly to the car, got in, and drove out of the lot.

“You know,” Rosie said, “now that I think of it, Pincus wouldn’t have people beaten up in his own parking lot. It would be bad for business. Can you imagine what the customers would think if they saw people getting beaten up right outside?”

“Yes. Which makes me wonder just exactly where he does plan on doing it.” I was watching my rearview mirror. I couldn’t tell if we were being followed. A car had pulled out of the lot a few seconds behind us but that didn’t mean anything. I flipped on my right signal and cut down a side street for one block before I signaled again, turned left, and began running parallel to the main street. The car was still behind us.

“Why did you use your signals?” Rosie sounded a little scared. I know I was.

“I wasn’t trying to lose them. I just wanted to know if they were following us. Now I’m trying to lose them.” I turned right at the next corner— no signal— cut my lights, then left, left again for one block, right, left, and right again onto the main road.

“Lights,” Rosie said.

I switched them back on. I couldn’t tell whether we’d lost them or not. I’d been busy trying not to hit anything in the dark. I asked Rosie. She’d been watching out the back window.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t see any lights behind us after the second right turn, but they could have picked us up again on this street. Their headlights look like a dozen other ones I can see behind us from here.”

“Maybe they’re just trying to scare us.”

Rosie laughed. I joined her. “Let’s wear them out,” I suggested. “You feel up to spending a few more hours hanging around the casinos?”

“Yes.”

I pulled into a huge casino lot. Again, business was brisk. People walking to and from cars. A couple of cars pulled into the lot while we were walking across to the casino’s back entrance, but we couldn’t be sure whether one of them contained our friends.

We went directly to the bar. Rosie ordered brandy. I was thirsty. I started with mineral water and lime.

“You know, Jake,” Rosie said carefully, “if you’re going to be doing a lot of this detective stuff, you might consider getting yourself a more anonymous car.”

“Rosie!” I cried.

“Or at least a newer one.”

I stared at her. She knows how I feel about newer cars. At least the newer cars in anything like a reasonable price range. No creativity, and, worst of all, no character.

The man sitting next to Rosie was staring at her hindquarters. He was about fifty-five, and he was wearing a plaid sports coat, beige doubleknit pants, and brown and white spectators. He had about half his hair. I tried not to notice his preoccupation.

“Forget it,” I told her, referring to the anonymous new car. “If it was built after 1959 it’s a clone.” The man spilled a little of his whiskey on the bar.

“This your boyfriend?” he asked Rosie.

“Yes,” she said, without even looking at him. Now he was staring at her neck. “I understand how you feel, Jake. I don’t mean to be insensitive.”

“You her boyfriend?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s okay, Rosie, you’re right, in a way. But I never really plan on doing these jobs, you know.”

“Y’outta Noo Yawk?” I couldn’t tell whether he was talking to me, Rosie, or Rosie’s rear end.

“No,” Rosie and I said simultaneously.

Rosie continued. “Do you think they’re out there waiting for us?”

“Probably not. Why bother? They can figure they’ve already scared us. Maybe that’s enough. On the other hand, Pincus could be the kind of man who always keeps his promises, especially if they’re nasty ones.”

“Okay. Let’s go with the plan about wearing them out.” She bought some dollars, and dropped a couple of them into the poker machine in the bar. “Want to play some roulette?” I shook my head. “Keno?” She held onto a pair of queens and drew another one. I realized I’d forgotten to tell the Tuesday night group I wouldn’t be playing poker with them. “Keno?” she repeated. I shook my head again. “I’m feeling lucky.” She played another dollar, got four on a diamond flush and drew a spade. “Well, maybe not. Do you ever play poker up here, Jake?”

“I have once or twice, but it’s too expensive. I dropped a couple hundred once, real fast, and that finished it.”

“Other people lose a lot more than that, Jake, that’s nothing.”

“Maybe it’s nothing for a rich carpenter.”

“So,” the man next to Rosie said, “Y’outta Noo Yawk?”

“How about some twenty-one?” I said.

On the way to the tables, I found a telephone and tried Arnold’s number again. Still no answer. I thought of calling Mrs. Noah, but didn’t really want to bother her. Arnold’s call probably hadn’t been that important.

We played twenty-one. Rosie came out twenty dollars ahead; I lost about the same amount. Over my objections, we tried roulette. Rosie was all over the place, betting on four numbers at a time. I played red. I won fifty, she lost her twenty.

We moved to the craps table. I played the pass line. She played the don’t pass line. Then we switched. We both lost, and went back to twenty-one for a while.

I tried Arnold’s number again at around 2 A.M. The line was busy.

By three, we were so exhausted we kept nodding off at the nickel slots.

“What do you say?” I turned to Rosie, who had dropped a nickel in her machine and forgotten to pull the handle down.

“They can’t still be waiting,” she said. “Let’s go to bed.”

But they were.

Just as we walked up to the car, two guys jumped out from behind a suitably anonymous vehicle in the next row. One of them was the giant goon. The other one was shorter but nearly as broad. The big one grabbed Rosie and pinned her arms behind her back. That was the last I saw of them before the other one was on me. I could hear Rosie yelling her head off, then a truck hit me in the stomach and I was vomiting mineral water and beer and a late-night taco all over myself. Another truck hit me in the jaw, twice. I kicked out at the truck’s knees, slipped in my own vomit, and fell against a car. He hit me a couple more times until I was on the ground. Rosie was still yelling, and I could hear people running toward us, yelling back, but I couldn’t quite get up. I raised my head and looked out of the eye that wasn’t swelling shut. The goons were gone, and half a dozen half-drunk gamblers were trying to help me up.

“I called the cops,” one of them said.

“Thanks,” Rosie’s voice said from somewhere. “We’ll take care of it from here.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We’re okay, now. Thanks.” They were reluctant to leave us, and I hate having people watch me bleed, so Rosie helped me get in the car, took my keys, and drove us away from there.

“Are you okay?” she asked. She looked rigid with rage.

“Take it easy,” I said. “I’m fine. Better than I look. How about you?”

“Nothing wrong with me,” she said through gritted teeth. “That gorilla held my arms through the whole thing. I couldn’t throw him or smash his instep or his shin or anything. I tried. I really tried. Nothing worked. He was huge and he read all my moves before I made them. He just held me there while his friend beat you up. After all, it wouldn’t have been right to beat me up, too. I’m a woman. Goddamn sexist pigs.”

“Let’s go to Jerry’s Jackpot,” I said. I wanted to tear the place apart.

“Are you nuts? We’re going back to the motel and check you over and see if any thing’s broken. Then you’re going to get some sleep. And so am I. We’re in no shape to play any more boyish games tonight.”

I didn’t argue. I felt like all my bones were broken, and I didn’t smell too good, either.

I asked Rosie to give Arnold another try while I washed off some of the damage.

When I limped out of the bathroom, smelling sweeter and feeling mean, Rosie was sitting in the desk chair waiting for me.

“She’s dead. Marjorie.”

“Dead?”

“Murdered. Shot. Dumped on the Emeryville mud flats. Arnold’s been with the cops, and with ark people, and with Mrs. Noah. It’s a mess. He wants us back there right now. He says to stop wasting time out here and get back where the trouble is. I told him you were hurt and that we’d head back first thing in the morning. That we’d be there before noon.”

Rosie drove home. I could see okay; the eye was better. But my right knee was giving me some trouble. I’d fallen hard on it when the goon had knocked me down the night before.

We arrived home before noon, all right, stopping on the way to pick up Alice, but I decided to go to the house first, before dashing down to the corner to soothe Arnold. I wanted to check my tape again, maybe even get my bearings.

My father was watering the geraniums.

“If I’m not here does everything die?” he said by way of greeting.

“Rico was taking care of the cats.”

“I know, I know, I meant the flowers.”

“How was Napa? Or Sonoma? Or wherever you were?”

“She’s fine. She likes you, I think. You should call her. What’s wrong with your face?”

“A couple of bruises.” I continued on into the house, trying not to limp.

Eva was making lunch. “You’re limping,” she said. I hadn’t even caught her looking at me.

“I fell.”

“I told Lee you went to Lake Tahoe. I didn’t tell her you went with Rosie. Sit down, have some soup. A sandwich. I bought some turkey loaf.”

“I’m not hungry.” My refusal was part bruised stomach, part turkey loaf.

She asked a couple of times, but she didn’t push.

I limped into the bedroom to check my answering machine. No messages.

“If you’re looking for messages,” Eva called out, “I got a couple for you.” I trekked back out to the kitchen. “Some girl named Beatrice called. Said it was important. This morning, early. Something about you should call Arnold and when are you getting home. And another one, June. You should call her.

“Thanks.” I went to the bathroom, found an Ace bandage in the linen cupboard, pulled up my right pant leg and wrapped the knee. Better. I looked at my face. Blue jaw, black eye. And my stomach. Two fresh bruises, nestled in the remains of the skinning I got the night Pa got bashed.

I found the morning paper on the table in the living room and sat down on the couch to look it over. The story was on page three, at the top. East Bay woman found dead on Emeryville mud flats. There was a photo of a part of the flats, and a couple of lines under the photo that said an Oakland woman identified as Marjorie Burns, twenty-three, had been found lying partway inside the driftwood tent near the sculpture-on-a-stick of the World War I airplane.

According to the story, she had been found by a stroller the day before. A Berkeley woman walking her dog down by the Bay, on the mud flats where at least two generations of artist-citizens had created a permanent exhibit of fanciful, sometimes funny constructions that stretched for hundreds of yards along the bayfront. Permanent but organic, growing, shrinking, slowly changing as one piece falls into decay and another takes its place.