The Highest Stakes

by Rick Reed

  Across the street Fast Eddie’s restaurant was grinding out live band music, the head-banging, kill-’em-all, garage band type that wouldn’t make it anywhere else in a civilized society but was preferred by the singles crowd inside the meat market, which was always packed beyond seating capacity. The ones that couldn’t get inside Fast Eddie’s hung around outside and drank and partied and revved motorcycles and sometimes fought. With several large colleges in the area, the place drew a plethora of nubile young women competing to show off ample chests in whatever wet T-shirt contest was going on—inside Fast Eddie’s and outside. This in turn brought out a crowd of gawking young, and not so young, men. And women.

  On the east side of the Blue Star Casino was the Evansville riverfront esplanade. It was built at a cost to the taxpayers of nearly five million dollars. Several acres of beautifully landscaped commons normally filled with sound systems, raucous bands, and summer bierstubes, were empty tonight.

  Jack parked in the casino pavilion driveway and put the FBI placard on the dashboard. He pushed through the pavilion doors and was deafened by the jukebox. He bypassed the bar and took the stairs to the second level. The motto of the casino was “A Party Every Day.” Photos of lucky winners lined every inch of wall space on the stairway. Jack surmised that if they put photos of the losers on the walls they would have to use all the walls of every building on Riverside Drive.

  At the top of the stairs was a balcony that drew one’s eye down to the main floor of the pavilion, where people were drinking, smiling, staggering, smiling, and drinking. Not necessarily in that order. Many customers, including several in wheelchairs with oxygen tanks on their laps, were gathered around a new Corvette sitting on a rotating pedestal with a sign that proclaimed, “One lucky winner will drive this away.” Marketing at its finest.

  Jack turned from the balcony view and headed toward the security office. He passed a kiosk that sold “Fine Cuban Cigars.” Off to his right was the Garden Club, the most expensive restaurant in the city. The money spent in there could feed all the hungry children in the world, or save all the mistreated and abandoned animals in animal shelters. Jack remembered taking Katie to the Garden Club once. He’d had to sell a kidney to pay for one entrée and a lung to buy dessert. He had to do CPR on his wallet afterward.

  A bored-looking uniformed police officer named Jack Daniels was standing at the side of the cigar kiosk. Jack Daniels was his real name and to Jack he was standing in the perfect place. Jack Daniels and Cuban cigars. What could be better?

  Daniels said, “Hi’ya, Jack.”

  Jack asked, “See much action up here?”

  Daniels grinned. “Just waiting for the food to go bad. The onions always go first, and then it gets a little dicey with the tomatoes.” He turned serious. “Sorry about Killian, Jack. He doing okay?”

  Daniels was a day-shift motor patrol officer. About half of the city police force worked off-duty jobs to supplement their meager salaries. Being a cop was a job you had to save up for.

  “He’s holding his own,” Jack said, and the officer ogled a blonde walking by in a short skirt.

  “Seen Stu around?” Jack asked.

  “You’ll be lucky if he is,” Daniels said. “He spends about as much time in there as Congress spends in Washington.”

  Jack left Daniels to try and chat up the blonde and walked down a small side hallway. He stopped outside an unmarked metal door with two peepholes, one at eye level and another at belly button level. Maybe the lower one was for crawling drunks. He knocked on the door and yelled, “Vice! Open up. Let the little girls go and come out with your hands off your pecker.”

  Sergeant Stu Sanders opened the door. “Come on in, old man.”

  Stu and Jack had grown up in the same neighborhood, gone to the same schools, fought the same bullies and each other, and even dated some of the same girls. Then Stu was seduced by the dark side and became an Indiana state trooper, while Jack did what any respectable Irish Catholic son of a cop would do and joined the Evansville police force.

  Stu was a scrawny kid, but you’d never believe it now. He was into weightlifting and bodybuilding big-time. With his smartly parted hair, round steel rimmed glasses, and baby face, he resembled a cross between the Hulk and Harry Potter.

  Jack stood by Stu’s desk, mimicking bodybuilder poses and grunting like he was taking a dump.

  “Up yours, Murphy,” Stu said and chuckled.

  “You wish.” Jack sat on the edge of the desk. “I was just driving through the neighborhood.”

  Stu answered, “You think I work 24/7?”

  “Truthfully . . . yeah. What else are you going to do? Lift weights, hang out here, lift more weights, pose, lift again, and pose again.”

  “You’re just jealous, Murphy.”

  Jack grinned. “Actually I need you to find someone up in your system or ask around for me.”

  “This about Killian?” Stu asked.

  Jack said, “This is a long shot, and you have to keep it between you and me. I have info that says maybe two cops are involved in the shooting.”

  “No shit?” Stu said.

  “Can you look some names up for me?”

  “You have their names?” Stu asked.

  Jack gave Stu a brief rundown of the investigation to date, including the two names Coin and Reverend Payne gave. Stu cocked an eyebrow, and a smile crept over his face.

  “Did I say something funny?” Jack asked.

  “No. It’s just that I finally know something you don’t. I can tell you who the cops are. One of them at least.”

  Jack felt his heart beating fast.

  Stu went to a filing cabinet and took down a 5x7 photo in a cheap frame and handed it to Jack. It was taken at a weightlifting event. Several muscle-bound apes stood around in the background, while Stu, wearing a Speedo, was deadlifting about a million pounds.

  “This is making me uncomfortable, Stu. Maybe we should have a chaperone?” Jack handed the photo back. “I thought you were going to tell me about Moon Pie and Modock. You know I’m not interested in guys. And besides, I’m dating someone. A girl. Well, a woman really. Very feminine. With developed... woman parts . . . and stuff.”

  “Sure, sure,” Stu said and handed the photo back to Jack. “Word has it you can’t get a date, but that’s not where I was going with this. Take a look at the guy in the background. To the left of me.” He pointed to a squat figure looking directly into the camera.

  “That’s Moon Pie,” Stu said.

  Stu was pointing at a guy about twenty-five years old with a pale complexion, light blond hair, close-cropped. He had the exaggerated features of a serious muscle head; round face, lips too thick, and eyes like marbles in that oversized head. They were the kind of features that gave the word oxymoron a double meaning. Jack had seen him around the police station.

  Stu said, “With that head everyone on the weight-lifting circuit calls him Moon Pie. His real name is Skippy Walker. And before you ask, I don’t know who his partner is. Moon Pie complains about working with an old man.”

  “I know who his partner is,” Jack said. “Shirley West.”

  “West was a Detective Sergeant, until he shot that kid by mistake. Right?”

  “Yep,” Jack said, thinking, Coin couldn’t describe the two policemen very well, but here were two policemen. He’d have to check them out.

  “I heard he was an alcoholic too. How does a guy like that stay on the force? Why would he want to?” Stu asked, and his desk phone rang. He answered, listened briefly, and put the receiver down. “A sixteen-year-old male got onto the boat somehow. They don’t know what to do because he won big at the slots and wants to cash out. How he got on board I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. I’ve got to go and spank him. I mean the guard, not the kid. The problem with the boat is that it hires just about anyone for security guards. There are three Indiana state policemen assigned to this tub, which means only one of us is on each shift. How the hell can we babysit these guys
? Why don’t you come with me and tell me some more? I’ll give you the nickel tour.”

  * * *

  Jack had never been in the casino area of the boat. His idea of gambling was dating. Jack went to the escalators, but Stu, being a fitness nut, insisted they take the stairs. When they reached the pavilion, Stu went into tour-guide mode.

  “Blue Star Casino covers twenty acres, not counting the two hotels. The pavilion’s main floor is one massive room with two entire walls constructed of glass. Near the center of the room is Hoosiers Lounge, an open bar/entertainment area separated only by wood railings. Hoosiers Lounge features free entertainment every weekend with name acts. Crystal Gayle was just here, and Eddie Money will be here next week. Tonight is a local fifties band. The Duke Boys,” Stu said as if he was reading off a cue card.

  They crossed the pavilion floor, and Jack saw a young security guard sitting behind the podium at the entrance of the boarding gates. He didn’t appear to notice as they entered the double glass doors. Stu hooked a thumb over his shoulder as they walked into the long enclosed ramp that led to the boat. “See what I mean about spanking these guys? Jeez!” He told Jack to wait a minute and walked back to the guard. Jack could hear Stu chewing out the young man, and then he returned. As if nothing had just happened, he continued narrating the tour.

  “The Blue Star Casino Riverboat consists of three levels providing one thousand plus slot machines and forty table games. Mechanical, boiler room, et cetera, are in the lower level. Most nights during summer the outside upper deck is elbow-to-elbow people, with live entertainment and a plethora of free alcoholic beverages. And don’t ask me to spell plethora.”

  Stu explained the outside upper deck was inaccessible to customers right now because it was undergoing reconstruction after an inspection revealed there were only two lifeboats for the entire boat. Then he whispered, “The only reason the casino wasn’t shut down during this ‘refitting’ is because of the millions of dollars in revenue the state draws from the boat’s operation.”

  Stu gave a brief synopsis of the history of the Blue Star. In July 1993, Indiana Governor Evan Bayh approved a bill that resulted in the Indiana Riverboat Gaming Act. The law, he explained, was supposed to spur job growth and help develop economically depressed areas in Indiana. Apparently, the economically depressed areas referred to in the bill were only along Indiana’s waterways, because the bill mentioned only counties along Lake Michigan and the Ohio River.

  The Blue Star Casino was the first to apply for and receive a gaming license from Indiana, but it took two years for this to become a reality in 1996, after a citywide referendum resulted in a fifty-one to forty-nine vote in favor of the casino. “I’m sure there was a separate secret vote behind closed doors with a lot of political handshaking and palm greasing,” Stu said.

  The same year the Blue Star opened its doors in Evansville, the Argosy Casino & Hotel riverboat in Lawrenceburg, Indiana, received its license. That was the floodgate the gaming industry was waiting for. Four more riverboats received gaming licenses in 1996, and now ten riverboats operated in Indiana.

  “Under Indiana Gaming Commission rules, the riverboats were required to sail for several sessions each day. Boarding was every two hours for a thirty-minute window. That all changed recently and now there’s continuous boarding.”

  They entered a door on the second level. Jack was hit by the smell of cigarettes and cigars, and the raucous noise from the slot machines and talking. It was like walking into a festival—only inside. Slot machines and table games filled most of the space, and there wasn’t an empty seat. People were lined up waiting for their turn to play. A plump lady bumped into Jack, said, “Excuse you,” and waddled off into the smoke-filled room.

  “So this is where my Medicare money goes,” Jack remarked, surveying the elderly clientele.

  Stu’s laugh sounded like a snort. He pointed to one elderly woman sitting alone at a slot machine.

  “That’s Agatha Barning,” he said. “She’s eighty-five and spends at least thirty thousand a week here. She was worth about five million is what I heard.”

  Agatha’s appearance was that of a bag lady, not a multi-millionaire.

  “Is she married?” Jack asked straight-faced.

  “She’s mine,” Stu said and laughed.

  “Does she have a sister?” Jack persisted.

  “Not one that’s alive.”

  Stu led him to the aft stairway where a security guard stood post. This one was young with a face cratered by acne.

  They walked through the fire door and down a set of stairs. “We’ll skip the first deck,” Stu said. “It’s a repeat of this one.” They walked down another set of stairs to a locked door that opened into the bowels of the boat.

  They were in a maze of hallways, and as they passed doors, Stu explained what was in the various rooms. Stu pointed to a heavy steel door and said, “That’s the surveillance room. I can’t show it to you, but there are over fifty monitors in there. Everything is recorded. Of course, most of the monitors are dedicated to the ticket counter, the money rooms, and the dealers. Pretty impressive, huh?” Stu asked.

  “How much money is here on a given day?” Jack asked.

  “Fifteen to twenty million. There’ll be even more money with the Thunder on the Ohio boat races coming up this weekend.”

  “And here I have to squeeze George Washington until he spits out his wooden teeth,” Jack said, and Stu snorted again.

  “You and me both, brother,” Stu said.

  Jack hadn’t noticed any special security at the money rooms. A countertop with bars that ran to the ceiling and a sturdy-looking door were all that separated the cashier from the customers. He’d seen one security guard so far, and he was unarmed.

  This seemed a little slipshod to Jack considering the kind of money at stake. On the starboard side of the boat, they passed several doors marked ELECTRICAL, MECHANICAL, ENGINE ROOM 1, and so forth. The lower deck had an unreal feel about it. The air didn’t feel quite right. Sound didn’t travel well. He was glad when they reached the starboard stairs and headed up.

  “The elevator doesn’t work?” Jack asked.

  Stu patted Jack’s stomach. “Just trying to get you some exercise, buddy.”

  “Thanks for your concern,” Jack said.

  They went up several flights of stairs to the third level and through double steel doors that led to the outside upper decks. The air out here was like standing in an oven. He wasn’t surprised to find it was empty of customers or even crew.

  A dozen or more steel boxes were being welded to the deck but there was no construction going on tonight. Stu explained that the metal boxes were for emergency inflatable boats. Dozens of large wooden crates were piled up here and there.

  As they approached the wheelhouse, Jack saw two crew members in blue jumpsuits standing near the railing. They were smoking something pungent and passing it back and forth. When they saw Stu, they flicked it over the side and made themselves invisible. Stu didn’t seem to care. Except for the marijuana involved, the crew’s actions reminded Jack of his own office when the chief of police would come in. Newspapers would go in desk drawers, and people would suddenly be on the phone or remember an interview they had to go to. Thankfully, he’d never had that problem. It’s not that he didn’t goof off from time to time. He just didn’t care who saw.

  The wheelhouse had an unremarkable door. Not even a name on the outside. He thought it should at least have a big, wooden ship wheel attached to the outside, or maybe the head and bust of Dolly Parton.

  “I’ll introduce you to the captain. If you behave, maybe he’ll let you drive,” Stu said and winked.

  “I don’t really have the time to go out on the river, Stu,” Jack objected.

  “Then you’ll have to start swimming,” Stu said. “We left dock right after we got on the boat.”

  “Well, I guess since I’ve been shanghaied, you can lead on.”

  Stu entered the wheelhouse with
out using a key, and Jack wondered if this was a breach of security. He wasn’t exactly worried about a terrorist hijacking—Stu had explained that the riverboat traveled only ten knots at top speed—but he didn’t want some irate or drunken gambler taking the boat for a joyride while he was onboard.

  “Hello, Captain Bruce.” Stu shook hands with a man about Jack’s age.

  The ship’s captain was wearing something similar to an airline captain’s uniform. He was of average height and had a sturdy look about him that inspired confidence. Jack assumed he was a fitness nut like Stu, so he was surprised to see the captain light up a huge black cigar.

  “Jack Murphy,” Jack said and shook the captain’s hand. His grip was firm.

  “I know who you are,” Captain Bruce said. “You were in the paper a while back.”

  “I’m a legend,” Jack said.

  The captain smiled and asked, “You smoke these?”

  “Not for a while.”

  Captain Bruce took a glass cylinder from his shirt pocket and handed it to Jack. It was marked Black Cohiba Gigante. Jack shook the cigar out into his hand and used the pointed end of his handcuff key to poke a hole in the tightly wrapped end of the cigar and bummed a light. They smoked in silence for a minute.

  Stu—always the health nut—opened his mouth to say something, but Captain Bruce cut him off.

  “I know. I know. My body is a temple, and I shouldn’t abuse it. Well, consider this a little incense for the temple. So what brings you all the way up here?”

  “Jack’s an Evansville police detective, Captain, and a good friend,” Stu said.

  A deep voice said from the door behind them, “I didn’t know you had any friends, Stu.”

  Jack turned around and saw a giant black man somewhere in his forties, tall and even more muscled than Stu. He was dressed in a uniform similar to Captain Bruce’s.