“Specialize is a big word. But yes, I’ve used that defense successfully on a few occasions.”
“You talk about it in the article. You say it’s hard to prove.”
She narrows her eyes. “What’s this all about, Detective?”
“How did you meet Ms. Warner?” Chen says.
“At a poker tournament in Atlantic City.”
“Did she approach you?”
“I don’t remember. We were two older women playing poker in a sea of testosterone. Naturally, we bonded.”
“Did you ever discuss your cases with her?”
“We mainly talked about poker.”
Chen senses that Braden is choosing her words carefully so as not to lie, but also not to give him any ammunition.
“Is it possible Ms. Warner sought you out on purpose?”
Braden swivels from side to side in her chair, eyeing Chen.
“You want to know what I think you’re really asking me?”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, come on…” Braden says, shaking her head in amused irritation. “We’re talking about the woman who walked into a crowded restaurant and shot a man at point-blank range. Unless her plan is to spend the rest of her life in prison, she’s going to try for an E.E.D. defense, right? A defense with which, as you know, I’m quite familiar.”
Chen isn’t surprised she’s hit the nail on the head, only that she’s so frank about it.
“The thought crossed my mind,” Chen admits. “Would you defend her?”
“I’d have to know a lot more. The E.E.D. defense is no slam dunk. It’s very difficult to prove. If it weren’t, a whole lot of people would be getting away with murder.”
“Do you think she might contact you?”
“She might. Do you think she might contact you?” Braden says, needling him. She glances at her watch. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Detective. I have a meeting.”
She escorts Chen to the door.
“Thanks for your time,” Chen says, then stops. “One more question?”
“Make it short.”
“Is Ms. Warner a good poker player?”
“She’s pretty good for someone who started late in life, like me.”
“Can she bluff?”
Braden lets out whoop. “That’s like asking a tennis player if they can serve! If you can’t bluff, you shouldn’t play poker.”
“Can you bluff an E.E.D. defense?”
Braden taps her watch. “Next hand, Detective. Say hello to Vance Packer for me. Wish him good luck!” she adds with a wink in her voice.
Chapter Twenty-six
I’m huddled against a building, trying to keep warm on this cold night. A few yards away a homeless man is curled up on a blanket with a dirty white mop of a dog sleeping beside him. I camped near him because of the dog. I love dogs. I’ve had dogs all my life. I should have known about Sklar when my old schnauzer, Mr. Spencer, bit him. Dogs are smarter than people.
It’s past three so the Gypsy’s game is definitely over. I rise quietly so as not to disturb my neighbors. I walk around the corner, checking out my surroundings before venturing into that dark alley where the stench of danger outweighs the stench of garbage from the restaurants out front.
I remember the first time I ever came here with Billy. As he led me up three long flights of a rickety, rusting fire escape toward the metal door at the top, he made me promise I’d never go here by myself. It was far too dangerous. I gave him my word, but you can’t trust a poker player. That glowing yellow light atop the Gypsy’s door eventually became as seductive to me as the green light on Daisy’s dock was to Gatsby. I couldn’t stay away. I became a regular.
I knock on the door. An eye shadows the peephole. The door opens. Pratt, the night dealer at the Gypsy’s, a thirty-year-old guy I think of as my “poker son,” looks at me in astonishment.
“Whoa. It is you, Maudzilla. You dye your hair, girl?”
“Blonds have more fun. It’s a wig, honey. Everyone gone, I hope?”
“Yup. There was a detective here tonight, asking about you…”
“I wanna hear. But first I gotta pee. Sorry.”
I dash off to the bathroom, a truly foul enclosure reminiscent of the latrine dirt pits in Third World countries where I used to go trekking. Tonight, however, it’s a heavenly oasis. When I emerge, Pratt is putting the chips in racks. The red chips are so filthy they look brown.
“What do homeless people do when they have to go to the bathroom?” I ask.
“That alley down there…? Just be careful where you step.”
“Is there any food left?”
“Pizza’s all gone. Sorry.”
“It’s never all gone.”
I dig out some half-eaten pizza crusts from the industrial-size garbage can, brimming with dirty paper plates, soda cans, and beer bottles.
“Maudzilla dumpster diving!? Icicles are forming in hell,” Pratt laughs.
I stretch out on the ripped, springless couch, scarfing down leftover pizza crusts. I think about my poker journey which began on the Internet, then went live at Billy’s Poker Palace, and pretty much ended here in this dismal loft, operated by an elusive character known as The Gypsy because he often sports a red bandanna and an earring. No Poker Palace amenities here. The poker table, under a single hanging lamp, is the only bright spot in a vast room reeking of Thai cuisine from the restaurant directly below. The wall-mounted TV has a lousy picture, much to the fury of players who bet on sports. Whereas my tablemates at Billy’s were a cross-section of Washington’s elite, here at the Gypsy’s, I played with a more colorful, diverse crowd, including felons and felons-in-waiting, guys I knew only by nicknames like Night Fox, Zombie, Joker, Cowboy, Big O, Professor, Beast, and The Great North American AJ, aka Sasquatch Man.
This is back alley poker—a filthy, dingy, depressing space with players who make their living at the game. The Gypsy’s is as far a cry from Billy’s Poker Palace as fois gras is from Spam. Yet I feel more at home here than I did at Billy’s, or even in my own house growing up. I’ve gone to the underworld. I’m comfy here.
“So tell me about the detective,” I say, gobbling a pizza crust.
“Asian guy around forty. The Gypsy got a call from someone and let him come. An accommodation so they don’t shut us down.”
“What’d he want?”
“You, dummy! You’re a fugitive, remember?”
“So did he think I was just gonna be here playing poker so he could arrest me, or what?”
“You are here. So how crazy is it for him to think you might be here? He was just asking about you. What people thought of you. When’s the last time we saw you. Did you ever talk about Sklar? I think he was just trying to get a feel for who you are.”
“I give up. Who am I?”
“Fuck knows! That’s some crazy-ass shit you pulled in that restaurant, Maudzilla. I’m not even gonna ask why you did what you did. I gotta wonder if you even know.”
“Pratt, just to be clear: I know exactly what I did and why I did it.”
“I call…Why?”
“I thought you weren’t gonna ask.”
“I lied. Why?”
“Because it had to be done. That’s why.”
“Gee, thanks! That clears it all up.”
“And FYI: It’s not over. Are you still with me?“
“I gotta do the bank and get the chips locked away. Then we’ll get going. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I knew I could count on Pratt.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Sklar stares at himself in the cheval mirror in his bedroom, trying to decide who he will be for this gala evening at The Met. He knows all eyes will be on him. Jean Sunderland’s accusations are now common knowledge. Many of his clients have called to expres
s their concerns about the situation which eerily reflect Maud Warner’s similar claims against him years ago. He’s assured them all that there are two sides to this story, just as there were in Lois Warner’s case, and that everything he, personally, has done is aboveboard. Still, he knows that the odor of Sun’s bigamy is wafting around him like foul air, so he definitely needs to strike the right note this evening. He’s pleased with the way he looks in the Tom Ford tuxedo he bought for the occasion. It makes him look killer elegant.
He’s got it: Bond…James Bond.
Cloaked in this persona, Sklar walks down the hall to the guest room where Danya is staying. So far, she’s seemed singularly unimpressed with all his efforts to please her. He was excited to show her his two-bedroom aerie he decorated with her in mind. She hardly noticed the sweeping views of Central Park, the yacht-quality woodwork, the stainless-steel fittings, or the custom-made furniture covered in gray microsuede. She said the (fake) Cy Twombly hanging frameless over the steel-rimmed fireplace looked like, “a bunch of scribbles.” She didn’t even appreciate the guest room he’d furnished just for her in shades of pink and beige.
Like an adolescent boy with a mega crush, Sklar can’t believe he could be so passionate about Danya if she didn’t feel the same way about him. In the years they’d spent together, he’d convinced himself that it was only her perverse loyalty to Sunderland that prevented her from expressing her love for him in any way. But now Sunderland’s gone. Danya’s been living in his apartment for two days. Tonight he’s Bond…James Bond. James Bond would definitely make a move here.
Sklar knocks softly on Danya’s door, not waiting for an answer before barging in. She’s in sweats, lounging on the bed, reading Cosmopolitan.
“Burt!” she cries, startled.
“How do I look?”
“Swell,” she says, going back to her magazine.
“Come with me. I want to show you something.”
She reluctantly tosses the magazine aside and follows him into the den.
“I wish I could take you to the party tonight, baby. I’d love to show you off. But before I go, I want you to hear something.”
Sklar presses a button on a remote control. Roberta Flack’s famous love song, “The first time ever I saw your face,” fills the air.
Sklar moves to take her in his arms. She feels she has no choice but to comply. They dance to the love song. She feels his erection as he sings along: ‘“The first time ever I saw your face, I thought the sun rose in your eyes, And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave to the dark and the endless skies, my love…’”
His breath smells like low tide in the Chesapeake Bay. For Danya, this moment is even scarier than that time in high school when Mr. Potts, her portly, pockmarked math teacher promised not to fail her if she pulled up her blouse and let him fondle her breasts. She ran away then and would love to run away now. Except she’s terrified of Sklar, knowing what he’s capable of.
“You know I’m in love with you, Dany. I have been for years,” Sklar whispers.
He’s been wanting to tell her that for as long as he’s known her. He was going to do it over the celebratory dinner he had planned for them when all the papers were signed. But the time seems right now because he’s Bond…James Bond.
Danya artfully extricates herself from Sklar’s arms. They stand facing one another as Danya tries to think of a gentle way to let him down.
“Look, Burt, I’m, like, you know, flattered and all that. But now’s just not the right time for me.”
“Will it ever be the right time?”
“Who the fuck knows? I’m not ruling it out. But I just got out of the relationship from hell. I need a breather.”
“Okay. I’m not going anywhere. I just want you to understand how deeply I feel about you.”
Danya watches warily as he unlocks the bottom drawer of his desk and removes a bunch of letters secured by a rubber band. He drops the packet down on the coffee table in front of her.
“Read these when I’m gone,” he says. “Make sure you notice the dates.”
The minute Sklar leaves for the party, Danya starts opening the letters. They are all love letters from Sklar to her, some of them written years ago when she first met him and Sunderland. These letters prove he was obsessed with her, and would have done anything to have her. She knows a certain person will be very happy to know these letters exist. They are an unexpected bonus in the grand scheme of things. These love letters are pure gold, and a lot more.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Magma Hartz loathes the term “cougar.” Do they name men who prefer dating younger women after predatory animals? No! It’s only women to whom they give sharp teeth and claws if they dare to break a societal taboo. That being said, Magma does feel slightly couger-esque when it comes to Brent Hobbs, the cute writer she met at Greta’s house the night of Sun’s shooting. She Googled Hobbs after he took her home that evening. She was surprised to find out that she is fourteen years older than Hobbs—not that he needs to know that. Magma’s lied about her age since forever. Only Greta knows the truth and she ain’t talkin’ because that would reveal her own age. Age may be “only a number,” as the optimists say, but like money in an offshore account, the bigger the number the more secret it should be.
Despite their heavy necking on Greta’s couch, Hobbs never called her. So Magma bit the bullet and called him first, inviting him to escort her to a black tie dinner at the Metropolitan Museum’s great party venue, the Temple of Dendur. He sounded thrilled to accept. She’s spent quite a lot of time getting ready for this date. Wearing a short black cocktail dress with a plunging neckline displaying the ample, if slightly crinkled, cleavage which got Hobbs’ attention, Magma looks as sexy as a woman of an uncertain age can.
When she opens the door for Hobbs, he draws back and gives her a raunchy once-over.
“Wow!” he exclaims like he really means it.
Hobbs looks very “writerly,” Magma thinks—a little soft around the gut, like a man who sits a lot and enjoys his grog and vittles. His tussled brown hair could use a comb and a cut. His tuxedo is old and his dress shirt a wee bit frayed around the collar. His cuff links are cutesy typewriter keys of his initials: One B, one H. His clip-on tie is crooked. His black needlepoint dress slippers—one embroidered with a red pen, the other with a red sword—give the tired ensemble a touch of humor. Despite the lack of chic, Hobbs seems entirely comfortable in his own literary skin.
As Hobbs helps her on with her coat, he leans in and gives her bare neck a lingering kiss with some tongue involved. Magma feels a thrill. There’s chemistry between them. She likes that. Hobbs grabs her hand and leads her out the door. His grip is strong. She likes that too.
The ancient Temple of Dendur is aglow in red and orange lights. Guests milling around its perimeter look excessively ruddy.
“You think the Temple of Dendur was Egypt’s first tanning parlor?” Hobbs cracks.
“Oh, Brent, you do make me laugh!” Magma nuzzles his shoulder.
They stroll through the crowd. On the arm of this clever, younger guy with his irreverent air, Magma feels like a goddess. She’s always preferred macho to money when it came to men. She’d rather be with a cute young guy than a billionaire her own age. Magma proudly introduces him to everyone she knows. Brent spots a couple of the titans he writes about in his blog and points them out to Magma, supplying her with juicy tidbits about their private lives and private planes.
“How do you know so much about these people? I’ve known most of them for years and I don’t know half what you know,” Magma says in wonder.
“I have my sources,” Hobbs says.
“I’m surprised you didn’t find out about Sun. What a sordid story that is! Jean’s a great friend of mine, as you know.”
“Success breeds discontent. You’d be surprised how many of these people want to b
e something other than what they are. A lot of them lead double lives. Maybe not as flagrant as bigamy, but dangerous nonetheless.”
“And yet they all look so happy!”
“One of the first things I ever learned as a reporter: Don’t trust smiles in life or in photographs,” Hobbs says.
As they head for the bar, Magma spots Burt Sklar heading toward them.
“Turn around!” she orders Hobbs, grabbing his arm. “I don’t want anything to do with that man.”
Magma is in Jean’s camp now, firmly convinced Sklar knew all about Sun’s bigamy and abetted him in the cover-up. Too late. Sklar accosts them.
“Magma! How’ya doin’, sweetheart?” Sklar says, as if he’s oblivious to the fact she’s just fired him.
“Don’t talk to me, Burt. I think what you’ve done to poor Jean is absolutely disgraceful!” Magma says.
“You made that very clear on the phone, Magma. And as I told you, I’m only carrying out Sun’s wishes.”
“Following orders…just like the Nazis. I need a drink. You coming, Brent?”
Sklar notices Hobbs. “Hobbsy! I didn’t recognize you. Long time, no see.”
“You know each other?” Magma asks incredulously.
“I’m a big fan of his work, aren’t I, Hobbsy?” Sklar says.
Burt Sklar is one of Brent Hobbs’ prime sources. They’ve had an arrangement for years. Sklar gives Hobbs inside gossip. Hobbs boosts Sklar’s friends and clients in his blog.
“Are you coming, Brent?” Magma says impatiently.
“Give me a minute, baby,” Hobbs says.
“I’ll be at the bar!” Though she loves when he calls her baby, she walks off in a huff.
“Well, well, well…fancy seeing you here, Hobbsy!” Sklar says.
Translation: What’s a humble scribe like you doing in the exalted Temple of Dendur at a gala costing twenty-five hundred dollars a head?
“How come you don’t return my calls?” Hobbs asks.
“I’ve been a little preoccupied, as you may have heard.”
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