Grit & Shadows Boxed Set

by J. D. Brink

  Meantime, I could really use some sleep. Besides, Petey (the unexpected second party) should be enough to keep our mysterious third party busy for the rest of the night.

  Too many damn parties going on. And we just got here.

  Twelve

  My paranoia carries over into my dreams. I wake in the morning feeling as if I’ve already been through all this several times, having played out endless scenarios in Slumberland and each one turned out… badly.

  The clock reads 9:42. Later than I’d hoped. I blame jet lag and the gin.

  I do my morning business in the bathroom, failing to brush the taste of gin out of my mouth,then give Edgar another call.

  This morning’s receptionist has a much more pleasant voice.

  Edgar, however, does not: “What?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what’?”

  “Oh, sorry,” he says. “I was kind of in the middle of something.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “You sound kind of rough yourself this morning. Long night?” Edgar chuckles. “You dog.”

  “Long night, yes,” I say, “but not in a good way.”

  “You mean you didn’t get any? Come on, Jack.” This is followed by a sucking kiss. Edgar with a casino hooker. Not an appetizing image, especially before breakfast.

  “No,” I tell him, “but I was far from lonely. I’ll tell you about it later. If you have a guest, we probably shouldn’t talk now.”

  “Nah,” he insists. “She barely speaks English. Just the sweet jargon of her trade.”

  “So you think,” I say. “Maybe that’s what she wants you to believe. She could have been sent to keep an eye on you.”

  “Man, you’re paranoid! Trust me, Jack, this ain’t no James Bond movie. The casino’s a big letdown. No guys in white tuxedoes, no eyepatches, no thugs with mechanical arms—there’s not even much for seductive sirens. Save you, of course.” This last part he says off the phone, followed by another noisy kiss.

  “I saw Petey last night.”

  “What?” Now I’ve got his attention. “Petey Jackson? That piece of shit is here?” Edgar lets out his scary laugh, the one that reminds me what a wolf in sheep’s clothing he really is (and him being the black sheep, at that). “I’ve almost missed that guy.”

  “Well, you may not get a chance for a reunion. A few unknowns grabbed him last night. I don’t know how it ended.”

  “What do you mean?” A serious tone now. He’s getting the picture.

  “I’ll explain later. I’m going to explore a little bit more, then I’ll be over. Meet me in the casino.”

  Edgar clears his throat. “Take your time, Jackie boy. Take your time.”

  He hangs up.

  There aren’t many people on the beach when I get there. The air is warm, though, and the water inviting. Under any other circumstance, I’d love to just spread out a towel and take an hour to enjoy the scenery. This, however, isn’t turning out to be the working vacation Felix thought it would be.

  I recall the view from my terrace last night: four shadowy figures disappearing down the beach. Time to see where they went.

  The waves lap at the shore in a lackadaisical manner, the water colored like steel, reflecting the grey sky. Up to the hotel property line, the beach is well kempt and wide. After that it becomes a sandy walkway, a natural alleyway that runs behind other properties. There are businesses of various sizes—surf shops, clothing stores and the like—some with patchy grass in their backyards, some with maintained private beaches. I walk casually along the ocean’s edge, ignoring the no trespassing signs, and at one point smile at a woman lying out under the semi-cloudy sky; she doesn’t seem to mind my cutting through. Within a quarter mile, the beach narrows even more, becoming little more than a strip of sand bordering an empty, unkempt lot of high grass and weeds. Beyond this, the shore is an irregular, rocky barricade against nature’s wrath. A dead end, unless the foursome went for a swim in the middle of the night.

  Of course, they could have ducked into any of the other places of business I passed to get here. That would make more sense—operating out of one of these small tourist shops or a café.

  A messenger glides down from the sky: a seagull coming in for a landing from somewhere on-high. I have to admit, it spooked me, appearing out of nowhere.

  The bird pays me little attention, intent on its own purpose. It lands several yards ahead of me on this narrow runway, slowing to landing speed with each skidding footstep until reaching its destination. There it hops about, picking at the sand with its beak until it’s got a mouthful, then it lifts off again.

  I step closer to see what’s so interesting.

  Turds.

  What look to me like three brown turds lie in the sand. I came all this way to stand in a giant cat box.

  Wait. There’s a glimmer in the sand, too, something shiny and half-buried.

  Birds don’t eat shit, do they?

  I shake my head at the idea of investigating animal waste, but do it anyway. Another gull comes in for a snack, but I chase it off with a wave of my arm and straddle the scattered pile. There’s discoloring on one turd, a frayed end on another, and some dark spots drizzled across the sand.

  My eyes widen when I realize that the discoloring is a glossy fingernail. The frayed end is the tip of a chewed cigar. And the brass rim of a cigar cutter juts from the wet sand, mostly washed under by the rhythm of the surf.

  I stoop to one knee, shocked by the revelation.

  These aren’t turds. They’re Petey’s fingers.

  Thirteen

  I’m cautious on the way back to my room. I fall into step behind a woman and her kids coming in from the beach and join them in the elevator, posing to any onlookers as the father of the family.

  Upstairs, I do the old shit, shave, and shower, put on a tie with my poor, permanently spotted jacket, and head out. I leave my things here for now; the airport is on this island and we have to come back one way or another. Although, given recent developments, we may want to complete our business and fly home tonight, rather than tomorrow.

  A taxi gets me to the dock. The tan-faced attendant says the ferry takes about an hour to reach Tinian. As I’m boarding, I look for a fingerless potbellied stove, or a big Samoan, or even a little boy to play cards with. The boat’s half-full, but with no one I recognize. It’s possible they could have taken an earlier ferry, or the island-hopper at the airport, or even that they won’t go over to Tinian at all. But since that’s where Ms. Ming and her tiles are, we’ll likely be having a criminal convention there. I just hope Edgar is watching more than the women.

  I take a window seat and slouch down on the padded bench. Once we’re out on the water, I’m able to relax a bit, being suspended out here with no more surprises possible.

  Unless we sink, of course.

  The sun’s finally winning out over the clouds as the sky clears. We pass a few other boats—fishing and recreation vessels—making the most of the day, but they quickly become rare. The scene empties of everything but the vast blue sea. Under a brighter sky, the color becomes truly magnificent. Uninterrupted by land or man, just the depths above reflected in those below.

  And the hypnotic motion of the waves. And me, still sleep deprived...

  I wake again as we’re docking. The boatload of us shuffle off the boat and now board a black- and white-painted bus, the casino its only destination. The road is cracked and neglected, barely wide enough for this one vehicle. It winds over sandy soil and high grass, and passes dilapidated huddles of grey, weather-worn houses.

  The appearance of the hotel, then, is like Oz from the dark woods. It’s a stout tower, seven stories of white stone and glass, perched on a blanket of perfect green grass and hedged by squared shrubs. An animated marquee flashes colorful lights above the main doors, proclaiming this palace as Dynasty and welcoming the Hayashi Corporation’s fifth annual executives’ convention. Our bus parks under the marquee and we all file inside.


  The first lobby is spacious with walls of white marble, lit by chandeliers and comforted by red couches. A sign points new arrivals in various directions: to the hotel for check-in, down the way of the promenade to spend money in their dumpy little shops, or over to the casino. There’s also a friendly Japanese woman in a red Dynasty blazer to help us find our way. Patrons already made comfortable wander here and there, but the place isn’t exactly booming with business.

  At the casino entrance, a man in a furry mustache offers to take my jacket (which I, of course, decline) and asks that we leave our cameras and other valuables behind, here in lockers for safe keeping. The tourists all file dutifully into the locker room. I go on.

  The casino begins with a welcoming row of ATMs, then a community of slot machines, all winking and calling to me, trying to attract my attention with their lights and cheerful noises. Past them, the floor opens to the casino itself. It’s small compared to any sinful castle in Vegas, but serves its purpose for this small Pacific isle.

  A circular bar holds the center. Two bartenders see to the gamblers’ needs with a handful of waitresses coming and going with glasses, both empty and full. From this base of operations, the room splits in two: another city-like grid of slot machines on the right side, and green-felted tables like a golf resort on the left. Each table offers a card, dice, or wheel game and promises big winnings… or, at least, a good time losing your shirt. The tables are the main attraction, peopled with Asian businessmen and American tourists, and a hodgepodge of other partakers.

  There are enough people with enough to keep them occupied that our minor bit of business should go unnoticed.

  Unless my friends from Saipan have followed me here.

  I order my usual at the bar and peer around the casino.

  Two more chambers sit on opposite ends of the casino. I’m reminded again of The Wizard of Oz by their unusually tall doors, which stretch nearly as high as the fifteen-foot ceiling. At the south end, these doors are closed. A large plaque above labels the space as The Prince Room. The northern chamber, The Princess Room, is open for business, though there’s a guard in a red Dynasty blazer posted there. Next to him stands a sign: Invited Guests Only. I sip my gin and tonic, peering past him. Inside is a handful of elite high-rollers, enjoying the status of privileged gamblers.

  No sign of Petey. No Samoan. No skinny Filipino in an alligator jacket.

  But there’s Edgar, not in the Princess Room but at one of the common tables. He’s hard to miss—if his voice isn’t loud enough, his shirt is.

  I swim through the crowd of Asian businessmen and aged Americans, and arrive just in time for Edgar to howl with delight. The little ball on the roulette wheel must have landed on his number, and, as usual, he’s the center of attention. I excuse my way through the wall of applauding onlookers and fellow players. The girl at Edgar’s elbow plants a kiss on his cheek. She’s a beauty: slim, narrow hips and modest breasts, smooth skin like coffee and cream, light brown hair almost to her butt. Her blue spaghetti strap dress strategically exposes cleavage and rides high on her legs. She sees me watching and flashes a warm smile.

  Finally, Edgar notices, too, and calls my name. A stranger grins like an idiot and claps a hand on my shoulder: Any friend of Eddie’s...

  “Hey, pick a number.” Edgar pushes a handful of pastel pink chips into my hand. “Put them anywhere. I can’t lose!” I put them in my jacket pocket and give him the look. He nods and points a finger at me. “Lunch. Let’s do lunch.” Eddie scrapes his chips into a cup and assures the spinner that he’ll be back.

  We walk away from the table: him, me, and the girl. I stop when I notice the extra baggage.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” He wraps an arm around her narrow shoulders. “Jack, this is Alma. Alma, Jack.”

  We shake hands, mostly fingers. “Nice to meet you,” I say, my tone dry.

  “Nice to meet you,” she says. “That’s an appropriate name you have there, being in a house of cards, don’t you think?”

  Her comment takes me by surprise; a little more clever than I’d expect from a casino girl. Then again, she’s probably used that line a few times.

  I give half a smile. “Thanks, I picked it out myself.”

  “And I take it you’re an agent, too?”

  “Agent?” I give my partner the look again: “Agent” is not a low profile.

  “It’s okay, Jack,” Edgar says hurriedly, “I told her. Normally I wouldn’t, of course—I like my prospects to act natural around me—but I thought she was a special case. Doesn’t she have a face made for TV?” He places a hand under her chin. She smiles with marble cheekbones and amazing chestnut eyes. There’s something about her eyes. The color is brilliant, or something behind them is.

  “She sure does,” I reply. “And to answer your question, no. We can’t all be bigshots like Eddie. I’m just a humble art dealer.”

  “But also from California?”

  “Yes.” I start moving again, even if to nowhere in particular—I just need to end this so we can go on.

  “Alma’s from the Philippines,” Edgar says.

  “Is that right? Look, Alma, do you mind? We have a few things to discuss.”

  “Oh, of course.” She gestures at us with open hands as she backs away. “Paintings of actresses to review, no doubt.”

  I give a genuine smile this time; again, more clever than I expected.

  Edgar promises to find her soon and she steps into the casual foot traffic of patrons, flashing me a friendly look on her way.

  Ed leads me toward the far corner of the casino. “So, what do you think of her?”

  “I think she’s too smart for you. And she’s not buying the whole ‘talent agent’ line. You know that.”

  He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, she still digs me.”

  “She’s not the same one from this morning?”

  “No. She’s too classy for that. I just met her about an hour ago.”

  Good. Somehow I’d have been disappointed in that.

  There’s a small bistro roped off in this corner, set up with little round tables and chairs. A petite Asian girl, maybe in her teens, offers us a seat and menus, and promises water.

  Edgar continues: “No, that chick from last night...” He kisses the air. “That girl was a professional, honed in her skills.”

  He picks up a menu and is quiet for about eight seconds. Then asks me, “You ever wonder if you might be a superhero and don’t know it? I mean, your secret identity is so goddamn secret that you don’t even know about it?” My eyes tell him I’m not interested, but he continues anyway. “I was just thinking that, with my luck, my secret superpower would be that every time I have sex, the chick gets pregnant. That’s my luck. You know, screw Cat Woman, I get kittens. Bang Wonder Woman—BAM—Wonder Twins.”

  “This is what goes through your head?”

  He shrugs.

  “Besides,” I add, “your luck was looking pretty good to me. Winning at roulette, pretty girl on your arm…”

  “Yeah,” he says dismissively. He gives the lunch options another six seconds of consideration before opening his mouth again. “And you mean to tell me,” shaking the menu at me, “that on that whole damn island, you couldn’t find one good chick to fit the bill?”

  “I was working.”

  “What are you suggesting?” He feigns injury. “That ole Edgar isn’t a professional? That I haven’t accomplished anything? Hey, I’ve had my fun, sure, but I’m a man who enjoys his work. And I try to encourage the same in others. Which is why I decided to show that young lady a good time last night. And then pay her for it... Hey, don’t look at me like that, everyone got what they were after. It might do you some good sometime, too, you know.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Naturally, I told Edgar about my run-in with Jerry and his two-man posse, but I kept the bit about the Lotus Blossom Tea House to myself.

  The waitress returns with two glasses of ice water. Edgar asks for t
he spaghetti plate and I order the twelve-dollar BLT.

  “Twelve bucks?” Edgar grumbles. “That’s some hellacious bacon!”

  I glance around. There’s only a few other people in the bistro and no one seems to be paying any attention to us. One guy nearby is having a late breakfast, eggs and sausage links. The sausage reminds me of my morbid discovery this morning. I give Edgar the story about last night and what I chased the gulls away from a few hours ago. We speak in our subtle code, using terms and gestures to keep our conversation private.

  Edgar’s face sours, then lights up again and he snickers: “You thought they were turds.”

  There’s a rare moment of silence as Edgar reflects, fingers laced behind his head, replaying the image in his mind’s eye. His Tom Selleck mustache widens across his upper lip. “Ah, that’s a tragic story, Jack. Just tragic. My poor little buddy Petey.”

  “Yeah, I figured you’d be all broken up about it. The bad news is that the rest of him could show up any time, and if he’s alive, he’s pissed.”

  “Hey, me and the girls weren’t none too afraid of that guy when he had two hands, much less one. I mean, he has to scratch his ass and smoke his cigar, so what’s his stumpy hand going to do?”

  Speaking of the girls, with his arms up and Edgar’s shirt stretched over his portly figure, I can see the handle of his snub-nosed .38 bulging at his hip.

  “Hey,” I snap, “I can see Lavern poking out.”

  He sits up quickly. Shirley is a .22 caliber holdout, also hidden somewhere on his person. This little back-island casino’s pretty lax on security and has no way to keep the girls from slipping in. Probably isn’t much threat of robbery here, since it’s an island with nowhere to run. Hopefully, we won’t need to do any running while we’re here, either.

  Our food comes.

  Between bites of expensive bacon and flailing slurps of spaghetti, we continue to discuss business. He gives me the layout of the place: the Lady Luck Lounge, where winners celebrate with champagne and losers drown their sorrows in beer; the cash cages in the far corner for exchanging chips for greenbacks; all the ways out of the casino, including the kitchen our food has just come from and where each door leads (at least as far as he managed to get, before politely being asked to turn around); the large swimming pool out back and the towel shack next to it; the big yard surrounding this palace, contained by an eight-foot stone wall; where the guest and service elevators are; how the windows are secured and how to force them open; and even how the mattress in his room sags in the middle.