Lucky Stiff (21 page)

Chapter 17

I check out of the office around four-thirty and stop at the bank, where I pull out five thousand dollars in cash and get another ten grand split between two cashier’s checks. My divorce settlement has me feeling pretty flush cashwise, and I figure I can afford to play a little at the casino tables tonight. After how well I did at the blackjack table last time, I’m eager to try my luck again with some bigger stakes. If I can grow my savings enough, maybe I can afford to live without a job for a while and pursue my relationship with Hurley.

I head home to tend to Hoover and Rubbish, and to dress. After mulling through the contents of my closet, I opt for a pair of black stretch jeans, topped off with a russet-colored sweater. The jeans are new—one of the few items of clothing I’ve bought for myself of late—and before putting them on, I carefully cut out the label that notes the size. Though I know the
W
on the label means “women’s,” I can’t help but think it stands for “wide ass”; and I learned during my years working as a nurse in the ER that you never know when you might have some stranger stripping off your clothes.

Hoover seems to sense that I’m heading out again, probably because he knows my usual at-home garb is sloppy sweats. He follows me around the house, watching me with his big, mournful brown eyes, sighing periodically. When I take him outside to do his business, he quickly waters a nearby tree, then runs over to my car and stands there, wagging his tail in a not-so-subtle hint that he’d like to come along.

My kitten, Rubbish, who is about five months old and growing faster than the federal debt, is even less subtle. While he initially feigns indifference by ignoring me as I try on a variety of outfits, he lets his true feelings shine through by thwacking me with a paw when I walk by the dresser he’s sitting on.

Though it wouldn’t surprise me to discover Hurley’s car on my tail during the drive up, I don’t see any sign of him. When I arrive at the casino, I feel the lure of the gambling tables tugging at me. I’m fifteen minutes early, so I decide to make a quick trip into the casino and try my hand at the slots before heading into the restaurant.

I find an empty dollar slot and plug in two dollars at a time. On my first six tries, nothing happens. But on the seventh, I hit a combo that pays out thirty bucks. Feeling flush with my success, I pocket my winnings and head for the restaurant.

The eatery is a bustling place and a hostess greets me as soon as I walk through the door.

“Are you on your own?” she asks after giving me a quick up-and-down perusal and a look that suggests pity.

“I believe there will be three. I’m having dinner with
two
gentlemen,” I say, sounding a little smug as I emphasize the number. “Either or both of them may be here already: Joe Whitehorse or Steve Hurley?”

The hostess’s pitiful expression disappears, like Georgio’s flash paper, and is instantly replaced with a cordial smile. “Ah, yes,” she says. “Mr. Whitehorse is expecting you. Follow me, please.”

She leads me across a crowded room full of diners and through double doors on the other side that have the words WINNER’S LOUNGE stenciled above them in huge, green letters. Two “hunkalicious” bodyguard-looking types are standing at the doors, barring our entrance.

“This is the party meeting with Mr. Whitehorse,” the hostess tells them. They nod, open one of the doors, and make a sweeping gesture into the room in such a smooth, coordinated rhythm, it’s as if their bodies are controlled by a single brain. But then, with bodies like these guys have, a brain can be a frivolous accessory at times.

I follow the hostess across the room and through a second door into a smaller room that has a single large dining table at its center. “Please make yourself comfortable,” she tells me. “Mr. Whitehorse will be right with you. May I get you a drink while you wait?”

“That sounds great.” I think a moment, trying to decide what to order, and the hostess jumps in with some suggestions.

“We are known for our martini bar. Might I suggest an appletini, or if you like chocolate, the Godiva martini is positively sinful.”

Sin sounds intriguing, so I opt for the Godiva. The hostess offers to take and check my coat. As soon as she leaves, I scope out the room. It isn’t opulent, but there are obvious signs of wealth present. Mahogany wainscoting lines the walls; the carpet beneath my feet is thick and cushy; the table setting features a richly embroidered tablecloth, crystal stemware, and fine bone china. On the wall to my right is a large mirror with an ornate, gilded frame. I walk over and give myself a quick check, smoothing down a few flyaway hairs and fixing an eyeliner smudge. Then, since I’m alone in the room, I also make a quick adjustment of the girls, shifting them inside my bra cups.

After several minutes perusing the art hanging on the walls, most of which is nature paintings, the door opens and Joe Whitehorse walks in, with Hurley on his heels.

“Good evening, Mattie,” Joe greets, smiling broadly. His teeth appear stunningly white against his dark complexion. “You look lovely tonight.”

“Thank you,” I say, blushing. Hurley watches this exchange from just inside the door; there is a faintly amused smile on his face. I notice that he and Joe are both carrying drinks; Hurley’s is already half gone.

Joe walks over to the near end of the table and sets down his drink. Then he shoves aside the place setting at the head of the table and sets down the briefcase he is carrying in his other hand. “Have a seat,” he says, waving me over and pulling out the chair next to the setting he claimed with his drink. I walk over and settle in, letting him scoot my chair toward the table for me. “Has anyone taken your drink order yet?” he asks, settling into the seat beside me, while Hurley takes one across from me.

“They have. I’m about to experience my very first chocolate martini.”

“Ah, you are a woman of indulgent tastes. I like that,” Joe says. I see Hurley roll his eyes.

The door to the room opens and a waiter enters carrying a domed platter. He sets it down on the table—which seems ridiculously huge with only three of us sitting at it—and then removes the dome with a flourish, revealing an assortment of scrumptious-looking hors d’oeuvres.

“I have taken the liberty of arranging a meal for us tonight. I hope you don’t mind,” Joe says, looking from me to Hurley. “I think you’ll find the food to your satisfaction. But if there is anything you don’t like, just let me know and I’ll see to it that you get something else.”

“I’m sure anything you chose will be fine,” I tell him. It’s a pretty safe statement, given that I can count the number of foods I don’t like on the fingers of one hand.

Hurley shrugs. “I’m not picky,” he says, looking faintly amused in a way that makes me nervous.

Hurley and I back up our comments by grabbing at least two of everything on the platter: delicately fried butterfly shrimp, some kind of cheese and sprout stuff on toast points, melon and prosciutto on sticks, bagel chips with a chickpea and radish topping, crostini with tomato and feta cheese, and tiny puff shells stuffed with a crabmeat salad. Before we are done heaping up our plates, the waiter returns with a plate of fresh fruit.

While Hurley and I chow down, Joe takes a handful of grapes and eats them one at a time, watching us. “The food here is good, yes?” he says.

“So far, it’s fantastic,” I say.

“Superb,” Hurley agrees.

“Good! I think you’ll find the rest of the meal follows suit,” Joe says, looking like a proud papa.

My chocolate martini arrives, and after one sip, I’m pretty sure I want to move out of my cottage and into the casino.

Joe opens the briefcase he had set on the table earlier and removes a stack of paper-filled folders. “I have information on the employees who were on duty the night Mr. Allen won his jackpot. We can look them over during dinner, if you like. Several of the employees are on duty tonight, as well, and if you want to talk with any of them, I will make them available to you.”

“I appreciate that,” Hurley says. “It’s a start, but I might need to look at all of your employee files. The fact that an employee wasn’t working the night Jack won his jackpot doesn’t necessarily rule out that person. I’m sure word of something like that travels fast.”

“Those files are the property of the casino, of course,” Joe says. “But I can provide you with copies of any or all of them that interest you, just as we are doing with the tape.”

“The tape?” I say between bites, looking confused.

Hurley says, “I called earlier and asked Joe to pull the security tape from the other night to see if Denver was telling us the truth.”

“Oh, right,” I say, recalling Denver’s alibi. “How much of his time here will we be able to verify from the tape?”

“All of it,” Hurley says. “There are cameras aimed at every square inch of this place, and they record everything that happens and everyone it happens to.” Hurley points toward the ceiling. “See, they even have cameras in here. We were upstairs in the control booth watching things right before we joined you.”

I look up where he’s pointing and spy a small dome-shaped camera. A quick scan of the rest of the ceiling reveals three more of them. Then it hits me . . . the little adjustment I made in front of the mirror back when I thought I was alone in the room. I look back at Hurley, who is watching me with a self-satisfied grin on his face. I realize why he has looked so amused all along; my face blushes hot from my chin to the roots of my hair.

Joe says to me, “As I explained to Detective Hurley earlier, I went ahead and scanned our tapes this afternoon before you arrived. So far, it seems Mr. Denver was telling you the truth. But we’re talking about a nearly twenty-hour period of time here. I can tell you he was in the casino from ten o’clock on the night in question until about four o’clock in the morning. But I haven’t had time to scan the hours between four
A
.
M
.
and five
P
.
M
.
on Christmas Day. You’ll have to finish that on your own.”

Over the next hour, Hurley and I wade through the employee information sheets we have, looking for anything that might scream “suspect!” while Joe keeps the food flow going. We enjoy a light squash soup, followed by a main meal of beef tenderloin, garlic and cheese-whipped potatoes, and broccoli florets bathed in a scrumptious herbed butter sauce.

By the time dessert arrives—an exquisite chocolate mousse, which I enjoy with a second drink, opting for a White Russian martini this time—we have waded through the stack of sheets Joe provided for us. And nothing out of the ordinary has popped up. In fact, all of the employees have been carefully vetted with extensive background checks and appear to have squeaky-clean reputations.

Frustrated, Hurley says, “I don’t see anything here to raise any eyebrows. The casino seems to be very thorough.”

“We take our responsibilities quite seriously,” Joe says. “In fact, after talking with you last night, I authorized an investigation into the current financial status and recent activities for all of our employees. We have a stable of excellent private investigators we use who are discreet but thorough. I had them start with the folks whose info you have there,” he says, gesturing toward our pile. “So far, nothing has turned up. But if it does, I’ll be sure to let you know. And you have my promise that if something does point to one of our employees, we will deal with it swiftly and emphatically.”

“Fair enough,” Hurley says. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

“My pleasure. And speaking of pleasure, may I invite the two of you to enjoy some of our gaming tables tonight while you’re here?”

“Sure,” I say.

“No, thanks,” Hurley says at the same time.

The two of us exchange a look, though a “stare down” might be a better term. Apparently, Hurley can sense my determination because he backs off first.

“I suppose a little fun is in order,” he says. Then, more pointedly, he adds, “As long as the stakes aren’t too high.”

Chapter 18

Hurley and I head for the blackjack tables. In no time at all, we’re settled in at a table with a five-dollar minimum. I buy a hundred dollars’ worth of chips and start off betting five bucks at a time. I win several hands and decide to up my bet to twenty dollars. Hurley, who has lost some fifty bucks, raises his brows at my new bet, scrapes his chips off the table, and says, “That’s it for me. Come on, Winston, you’re up quite a bit. Now is when you should quit.”

“I’m on a roll,” I say, shaking my head. “I want to see how far it will take me.”

“It will take you straight to the poor house,” Hurley says irritably.

I dismiss his objection with a wave of my hand. “I’m fine. Besides, with the money I have from the divorce settlement, I can afford to gamble a little. I think I’ve earned some fun time.”

“Fine,” Hurley says, shoving back his chair and getting up. “Have your fun. I’m outta here.”

Some small part of me is sad to see him go, but the pull of the table makes me quickly forget him. That, and the drinks, which keep on coming and get better with each new concoction I try. But though the drinks keep flowing my way, the money changes direction. I start losing, and in an effort to make up for each loss, I bet a little more with each hand. I win a hand, and then lose several more in a row. When my initial pile of chips is gone, I buy some more and keep on playing. To turn things around, I decide to leave my current table and move up to one with a fifty-dollar minimum and a maximum bet of a grand. Walking proves to be surprisingly difficult, however—no doubt from sitting so long—so I detour to the ladies’ room, where I can pee and also splash some water on my face. While I’m at the sink, I wash the handful of chips I have left for good luck. I don’t do much better at the fifty-dollar table and end up cashing in one of my cashier’s checks. Hoping to make up for lost ground, I move again to a higher-stakes table—this time with a maximum bet of two grand.

The remainder of the night passes by in a blur of shuffling cards, cash draws, and shifting chips. When I finally decide to quit, I have spent both of my cashier’s checks and have only one chip left. I shove it in my pocket and glance at my watch, startled to see that it’s almost three in the morning.