Red Queen (15 page)

My courage caused them all to hesitate. The leader's partner, on his right, lost his smile. “Maybe we should cook, Wing,” he said to his boss.

Wing threw him a hard look. “You want to leave right after telling pretty sister my name? Think that's smart, Moonshine?”

Moonshine lowered his head. “She might be connected. She's got the look. Her eyes, they're kind of spooky. But I don't know.”

“She'd say it if she was,” the third guy said. He was short and squat, but heavily muscled. He sounded like a moron.

Wing pointed to my purse. “Hand it over or we take it, along with a little of your honey, pretty sister. Ain't that true, Squat?”

“Absolutely,” the third guy said.

Suddenly the phlogiston inside my solar plexus began to swell again. I meant the heat—yeah, I didn't know why I thought of it as phlogiston, except that I knew that the word meant heat. I felt the same burning I had experienced in the morgue. Once more it swelled in strength and size until it filled my body. The tips of my fingers felt as if they were on fire. I moved fast, without fear, until I was standing in Wing's face.

“Back off,” I swore. “Back off now or you'll regret it the rest of your pathetic life.”

Wing's eyes fixed on me, turned a cold blue, then flicked to the side, to his buddy, Squat. Wing gave an imperceptible nod and suddenly Squat came to life. He was fast. He started on my left but an instant later he was trying to grab me from behind. He clawed at my elbows, twisted them backward, lifted me off the ground a few inches.

At the same time Wing reached inside his pocket and brought out something silver, shiny, and sharp. Switchblade.

“Hold still, pretty sister, and it won't hurt so much,” Squat whispered in my ear. His words, his paws, his grip—none of that scared me. It was strange, I felt no fear. I
knew
I could handle him and his partners.

“You should have listened to your own advice,” I replied, as I shook my right arm free and rammed my elbow backward into Squat's ribs. The sound his ribs made as they snapped was distinct, sort of like a row of chicken bones caving in. Squat screamed and fell to the ground.

Wing gave Moonshine a sign and the guy closed in. A pity he was slower than Squat, and even more scared. Slashing out with my left foot, I struck him deep in the most tender part of his groin. He, too, screamed and dropped to the pavement.

“Enough!” Wing swore as his blade sliced through the air toward my exposed throat. If anything, he was faster than Squat. His blade whistled as he swung his arm, and I knew if it reached its intended target, I'd be squirting a thick red river onto the parking lot ground.

Yet my eyes seemed to switch into high-speed mode and I was able to follow his knife simply by willing it to slow down. Not that his thrust actually slowed. The newfound ability appeared to be strictly a mental trick that allowed me to study the trajectory of the blade so I had time to plan my reaction.

I reached up and grabbed Wing's wrist. My grip was as hard as a steel vise, and I
squeezed
. Again I heard bones breaking and suddenly Wing was crying for me to let go. But, like I said, I was in a bad mood. He had tried to kill me and now I wanted him to suffer.

I could have forced him to drop the switchblade—it was still in his hand—but I brought the tip close to his eyeball instead. He began to pant, to beg.

“Mother, please!” he cried. “We was just playing with you! It was all in good fun. We didn't know you was connected. You heard me ask. You heard me say . . . Oh, Lord, please don't take my eyes! I needs my eyes to see!”

“What do you need to see?” I asked. “More victims to steal from? To rape? Give me one good reason I shouldn't pluck them out?”

“Please, Mother! I have a wife! I have a wife and child!”

I turned to Moonshine, who was barely crawling back to his feet. “Is that true?” I asked. “Does he have a wife and child? You know I'll know if you lie so speak the truth!”

Moonshine nodded weakly. “He has a daughter and wife. But he never talks to—”

“Enough!” Wing cried. “Mother asked the question and you answered it. Now shut up!”

I grinned at Wing, holding the blade a millimeter from his bulging eyeball. “Enough? That's what you shouted before you tried to open my throat. Is that what you shout at your wife when she misbehaves?”

“No, Mother! I'm a good husband, I swear it!”

“Swear too much and it loses all meaning,” I said.

My words had a profound effect on me. I suddenly realized I was in a situation that could not be real. When had I ever been mugged by three jerks and then casually fought them off? Never. Yet everything around me looked and felt real. I knew who I was, Jessica Ralle, although I felt like someone else, sort of like a character who was playing a part in a play.

Why did Wing keep calling me
Mother
?

At the same time, I knew I couldn't just release Wing. He
and his buddies were bad. A statement had to be made before they were let go.

I plucked the switchblade from his broken hand.

“I'll do better, Mother! Please give me a chance!”

“Fine, you'll have your chance,” I said softly. Just before I slashed downward with his blade, over his left cheek, and opened up two inches of raw flesh. He shuddered from the pain but didn't bolt as I expected. Not even as the blood dripped over his uniform. “Something to remember me by,” I said, taking a step back. “Now go.”

The three guys split; they practically flew out of the parking lot. Dropping the knife, I turned back toward the hotel. I was still plenty thirsty.

Inside I found a coffee shop with an elevated counter that overlooked the casino floor. The place was hopping. Then again, it was a weekend night.

My waitress was a heavy middle-aged woman, with a sad but knowing expression. I ordered a large Coke. She hesitated as she took the menu back.

“You want ice with your cola?” she asked.

“Sure. But I want Coke, not Pepsi.”

“We've got cola, sister. One kind, take it or leave it.”

“I'll take it.” She was calling me sister the same way Wing had. Just before he'd attacked. Thinking back, I realized it had only been when I had demonstrated that I could fight that he had switched to calling me Mother.

Once he knew I was connected.

Whatever that meant.

My cola came and it tasted enough like Coke that I couldn't complain. Drinking it hungrily, I ordered a second and turned in my chair to study the casino. The coffee shop offered a clear view of the main floor. From where I was sitting, I could see plenty of action: the poker tables, the slots, the dice pit, the blackjack tables. Only the twenty-one tables looked odd. I had to study them a moment before I realized what was wrong.

They were not playing twenty-one.

They were playing twenty-two.

The sign above the tables didn't say
BLACKJACK
.

It said
RED QUEEN
.

“Oh, Lord,” I whispered, a phrase that sounded funny coming from my own mouth. I had meant to say, “Oh, God.” I never said, “Oh, Lord.” Of course, I never sat drinking a “cola” in a casino where twenty-two was the most popular game around.

When my waitress returned, I asked her about the twenty-two tables. She looked annoyed. “What's wrong with them?” she said.

“Where are the blackjack tables?”

“The what?” she asked.

“They're playing twenty-two! What happened to twenty-one?”

“You fooling with me, sister?”

“I most certainly am not.”

The woman shook her head impatiently. “There ain't none of that played here. We play twenty-two, like we always have.”

“That's insane.”

“I wouldn't say that so loud if I was you.” She nodded as she spoke, sort of as a warning. Yet there was something about my face that puzzled her. Perhaps something in my eyes that made her wonder if she should take me more seriously. But she appeared to shake the fear off. Once again her tone grew brisk. “You going to pay for those drinks?” she asked.

I took two twenty-dollar bills from my purse and handed them to her. “Keep the change,” I said as the woman's eyes swelled.

My drink in hand, I headed toward the twenty-two tables. I wanted to see how they played, if the rules matched what Russ had taught me.

That was the first time I had thought of Russ in a long time.

Damn him, I thought, a half hour later, after having observed the dealer work through three shoes worth of cards. There was no denying the bizarre connection. Russ had taught me the identical rules this casino was using.

Twenty-two was the best hand you could get. It paid double. Aces were worth only one, not eleven. The queen of hearts and the queen of diamonds were the most important cards—worth eleven each.

No one talked or joked while sitting at the red-queen tables. It seemed Russ had been right about that as well.

“The game's older than blackjack. It has a rich tradition. It's never played just for fun, and no one is ever supposed to break the rules.”

I saw what happened to a player who tried to evade the rules. He was a young man, kind-looking, definitely out of place in the company he was keeping. He was playing with a small amount of chips when the dealer got twenty-two. Like Russ had done to me in his hotel room, the dealer took all the bets off the table and demanded an extra 100 percent of each bet from each player. Everyone paid up quickly, including the guy in question.

But then the dealer got twenty-two again, and he not only gathered all the bets, he demanded that the players pay him another 100 percent of their previous bet. For most of the players that was a lot of money because, as Russ had demonstrated, the rules forced a player to immediately try to win their money back. So their bets were now
four times
what they had originally been.

The shock of two huge increases hit the players hard. The young man not only ran out of chips, he was suddenly in debt to the dealer. He stood as if to leave, but the dealer quickly pushed a button. A pit boss the size of King Kong appeared out of nowhere and stopped the guy.

“Is there a problem?” the pit boss asked.

The dealer nodded to the young man, who stood fidgeting, obviously scared. “I got hit with two naturals,” the guy stuttered. “I can't cover it. I mean, I can but I have to go to my room to get the cash.”

The pit boss nodded politely but his cold eyes said,
You ain't going nowhere, mister.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.

“The Dunes,” the guy replied. I had heard of the Dunes but thought the hotel had been torn down years ago.

“Show me your room key,” the pit boss said.

The guy searched his pockets. “I don't have it on me. My wife has it.”

“Where is she?”

“Next door. Please, let me go and I'll return in a few minutes.”

The pit boss gave him a hard stare. “We'll need insurance that you'll return.”

By now the guy was shaking in his shoes. “I have none to offer, sir.”

The pit boss stretched out a heavy arm. “Come with me.”

The guy took a step back. “No, a moment, sir, please. I can get the money. My woman has it.”

I don't know what prompted me to intercede, except for perhaps three small facts: the guy was lying; the pit boss knew he was lying; and the pit boss hated liars but loved to deal with them harshly.

Opening my purse and reaching for my cash, I suddenly stepped between the young man and his assailant. Kissing the
guy on the cheek, I glanced at the pit boss out the corner of my eye.

“Hello, honey. Sorry I'm late.” My glance at the pit boss shifted to a full-on stare. “What's that look you're giving me? Is there a problem?”

The pit boss studied me closely. He liked what he saw but also feared it. He bowed his head. “You this man's wife?”

I smiled. “I ain't his sister. What can I do for you?”

“Your husband has run up a small debt. We'd like it settled before he leaves.”

“How small is small?” I asked, although I knew the number.

The pit boss hesitated. “Five hundred even. But we'll take four hundred in cash.”

My grin turned to ice. I thought it odd that he was trying to cheat us when my supposed husband was standing right beside me. It was like he expected a negotiation.

“I think you'll take three hundred in cash, since that's all my man owes you,” I said.

The pit boss backed up a step. “I thought you just arrived?”

I stepped toward him. “I've been here long enough. My husband owes you three hundred and not a penny more.” I paused. “I do hope you're not thinking of cheating us, are you?”

Now it was the pit boss's chance to fidget. “No, Mother, never. Why don't we make it two hundred and call it even?” He added in a worried tone, “Does that sound fair to you?”

“Mighty fair.” I peeled off two hundred-dollar bills. The
cash looked darker than what I was used to; there was more red in the ink than green. But when I studied the bills up close I saw the familiar Benjamin Franklin staring back at me.

I held the cash out for the pit boss to take. But before he could reach the bills I let them go, let them float toward the floor, so he had to bend over to recover them. The move was designed to make him bow to me, and the weird thing was, it felt natural.

The pit boss quickly picked them up. “Thank you, Mother.”

“Thank my husband, please. And apologize.”

The pit boss bowed. “I apologize for the misunderstanding, sir. Please feel free to play here again, with your room and food comped, of course.”

“Of course,” the guy said.

“Come along, dear,” I said, grabbing the guy's hand and pulling him away from the tables. I didn't let go until we were near the exit. By then the guy was ready to prostrate before me.