by Harper Lin
I could have come back with something, but decided not to. I had finally gotten him on my side for this one, so there was no need to antagonize him. I think that little gunfight he came late to had acted as a bit of a wakeup call to just how dull and unimportant his career had been. The undeserved adulation from the governor and the press must have tasted bittersweet as well, considering that breaking open the case and taking down the bad guys had mostly been my work.
I stood up. Grimal looked at me warily. I pointed to the fortune cookie.
“What does it say?” I asked.
He shrugged, cracked it open, and pulled out the slip of paper.
“You will live a long and glorious life,” he read.
I burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, growing red.
“Nothing, have a nice day,” I said as I headed out the door.
“So what are you going to do?” he asked.
“I have my own leads to follow. I’ll check in later.” I gave him a cheerful wave and walked out.
Yes, I had an idea how I might find out if the Exterminator worked for a larger organization. Unfortunately, that meant using poor old Octavian as bait.
Five
It proved to be remarkably easy. I called Octavian the next day, ostensibly to thank him for a lovely dinner. After a bit of idle chit chat I mentioned how much I missed “our little club” and wished I could bet on horses again. He jumped eagerly into that line of conversation, complaining that he never got together with the old gang any more and that life felt dull without the casino around.
I resisted the urge to judge him. Everyone has their vices, and while gambling is one of the stupider ones, it’s less harmful than some. Octavian was a bit too hooked on games of chance, but he knew when to say when. He hadn’t gotten in debt to the mobsters who ran the old place, and he obviously wasn’t hurting for cash. If he chose to waste it in that manner, who was I to judge?
Well, I did judge, but not too harshly.
“Aren’t there any other clubs around?” I asked. “Surely Cheerville couldn’t be the only one.”
Octavian sighed. “I wish I knew. I’ll ask around. I know Cynthia has been looking.”
Cynthia McAlister had been one of the regulars at the old place, and for a time had been on my suspect list for a murder. She hadn’t done it. In fact, the bored, sloppy housewife hadn’t done much of anything with her life. I pegged her as a person who once had big dreams and let them slide after she got into married life, as if a spouse and children were any reason to give up on your aspirations. Quite the opposite. What sort of example will you set your children if you end up being a depressed couch potato who has given up on life?
“Why don’t you check with Cynthia to see if she’s found something?” I pressed.
“All right,” Octavian said, the eagerness brightening his voice.
We were in luck. Octavian called back just a few minutes later. It turned out that Cynthia had a line on a place in Apple Bluff, a town not too far away. The stickler was that it was invitation only and she didn’t have an invitation. She had only heard about it second hand.
That was good enough. We got the address and started making plans to visit.
Yes, I was using my new boyfriend as a tool to infiltrate what I suspected to be an organized crime syndicate with a professional hit man on the payroll. Not a dull moment with Barbara Gold!
And yes, I did feel bad about doing that. In my line of work I’ve had to use many unwitting and undeserving people as my tools, often putting them in harm’s way. That was just part of the job. It was a crummy thing to do, not matter how much I talked about the greater good. I was in danger, my family was in danger, and Octavian himself could even be in danger. What if the Exterminator had spotted Octavian’s Mercedes when we had driven off together? Octavian might be helping himself out as much as he was helping me.
But all those thoughts, however valid, were mere justifications. In reality I was using him because it was necessary.
That didn’t sit well with me, so I decided to keep him out of it as much as possible.
The best way to do that was to go there by myself and try to keep him from going.
Making excuses for why I couldn’t make it the next day, I decided to go on my own. I hoped Octavian would keep his promise of waiting to go with me.
So the next day saw me doing something I hadn’t done in a very long time—putting on a disguise. I couldn’t run the risk of anyone recognizing me there.
I stood in my son’s bathroom—I had moved over to their place since it was safer and I had to water the plants anyway—and pulled out my old, dusty disguise kit. It came in a small suitcase and contained a variety of wigs, false beards and moustaches, hair coloring, makeup, and prosthetics. With this kit I could make myself look like anything from a middle-aged woman to an old man.
I decided not to try for being a man. I was too short to really play the part and I no longer had any male clothes that fit me. At times in the Middle East I had pretended to be a man. It brought more respect and freedom of movement. I didn’t need to worry about that here. Casino owners look at their male and female customers equally. With an equal amount of contempt.
I decided to go for a woman, someone slightly younger but obviously getting on in years. That would explain my slow movements and somewhat tremulous voice.
As a first step I decided to die my hair a bright red, such a bright red that it was obviously nothing close to my real color. Thankfully the kit came with a dye that washed out with shampoo and water. I wouldn’t want to be stuck with that color. To change the style, I frizzed it out as much as it would go, using up almost an entire can of hairspray. I gave my eyebrows the same coloring and caked my face with makeup. Then I put on a red blouse, red slacks, and a pair of red heels.
I would have liked to have changed my eye color with some colored contacts. The kit had a full range of them. Sadly, they had expired a few years ago. I didn’t dare put them in. My eyesight is bad enough already, thank you very much.
I examined myself in the mirror. The result was dreadful. I now looked like some aging party girl desperately trying to hold onto her misspent and long-departed youth. In other words, I looked the exact opposite of the sensibly dressed, anonymous grandma I usually looked like. It pays to be unobtrusive in my profession, and that had become a habit even in civilian life. Now I was hiding in plain sight.
Hmmm … not plain enough. While the look was convincing, my face still retained too close of a resemblance to my own. I could fool the casual viewer, but not someone experienced like the Exterminator. While I had only had a brief glance of him, I suspected he had been watching me for some time before he had made his move. He knew exactly what I looked like. A professional like him would not be fooled by this get-up for long.
I needed something more, something radical.
The disguise kit had just the thing.
I opened a little tin that contained a variety of prosthetic moles. I picked out the biggest one, which came complete with two long, black hairs sticking out of it. Adding a bit of adhesive to the bottom, I stuck it on my cheek close to my nose.
I examined my handiwork. All eyes would be on that mole. No one would remember the rest of my face.
“Barbara Gold, you look simply dreadful,” I told my reflection.
I paused a moment and thought. Then I adjusted my stance to an easy swagger.
“I’m not Barbara Gold, I’m Celeste Tammany, and I do believe I need a drink. Which one of you lucky men is going to buy me a gin and tonic with extra gin?”
My voice came out brash and slightly slurred.
Perfect. Casino people always love a drunk.
Apple Bluff looked much like Cheerville. Good to its name, it stood on a bluff overlooking a meandering river, although I saw no apple orchards. Those must have been from a previous century when all this had been farmland. Now the town was a collection of middle-class neighborhoods, parks,
and shopping centers. Quite dull, just like Cheerville. No doubt it had its reading clubs and topiary societies just like my town. I wondered if there was a retired secret agent here solving murder cases. It might be fun to look him or her up. Compare notes over tea.
I found the place easily enough thanks to Cynthia’s directions, in a strip mall at the edge of town. These mobsters seemed to have a thing for strip malls at the edge of town. Apple Bluff’s secret casino was set between Ye Olde Cheese Shoppe and Elegance Florists and Funeral Displays. All things being equal, I’d prefer the cheese, thank you.
The storefront in between had shaded windows and a modest sign saying “Apple Bluff Charity Society”. A smaller sign on the door said “Members Only”.
I saw all this as I drove slowly by the storefront in my bright red convertible. Rented, of course, to go with the disguise. When I rented it (still looking normal so I’d match my photo ID), the kid at the counter asked me if I knew how to drive a stick shift. I told him that every model of tank I had ever driven used a manual gear shift so I didn’t see how a car would be much different. He took another look at my license after I said that. Probably searching for some small print that read, “Mental case. Do not allow to drive under any circumstances.”
I found a parking spot, pulled out a little bottle of gin from my purse, and took a swig. Not so much that it would actually affect me, mind you, just enough to loosen the vocal chords and give me that lovely odor I remembered so well from the British MI6 agents in South Asia. They loved their gin, claiming it protected them from malaria. They drank the stuff like it was going out of style.
After taking a last look in the rearview mirror to make sure that awful mole was in place, I put on a saucy expression that told the world I was ready for anything, and got out.
My high heels clacked along the pavement as I sashayed to the door of the “Apple Bluff Charity Society.” Or at least tried to sashay. I discovered that my sashaying days had left me and I had never noticed. Perhaps I would have found it easier to sashay without the heels, but then what would have been the point?
A middle-aged couple with a little girl of about five passed by me on the way to Ye Olde Cheese Shoppe. The girl spotted me first.
“What’s that thing on her face, daddy?”
Daddy glanced in my direction.
“Hey good looking!” I called, adding a note of drunkenness to my voice.
Daddy replied with a horrified look.
His wife looked at me too, but I ignored her.
“Whatcha doin tonight, Daddy?” I called.
The wife picked up the pace, tugging along both her husband and the kid, who kept asking, “Daddy, what’s that thing on her face?”
Daddy didn’t respond. He just kept staring at me over his shoulder as he retreated. I blew him a kiss.
Approaching the front door of the illicit casino, I saw a security camera installed just above the front door and covering the approach. Whoever sat on the other end of that camera had seen me hitting on a married man half my age. Good. Whenever you’re in disguise it’s wise to establish your character early on. This guy was probably already telling his coworkers about me.
The door opened just before I got to knock.
A compact man standing about 5’10” stepped out and quickly closed the door behind him. He had pale European features, blonde hair tucked back in a pony tail, and a remarkably fit body. He moved like a fighter. This was obviously the bouncer. The last place had a bouncer too until I put a bullet in him.
That wasn’t an option now. I hadn’t dared bring my gun along. If they had found it, my cover would be blown and I’d be in more trouble than an eleven-round 9mm clip could save me from. Best to go incognito on some jobs.
“May I help you, madam?” he asked in a French accent.
“Oh, are you Eye-talian? I just love Eye-talians. So handsome!” I gave him a waft of boozy breath and a pinch on the cheek.
The bouncer blushed, actually blushed. I hoped he didn’t have a thing for older women. That could take this mission in a direction I didn’t want it to go.
“I’m French, madam.”
“So exotic! Where are you from, Rome or Venice?”
To his credit, he didn’t get offended. In fact, he seemed to find the whole thing amusing.
“Are you lost, madam? Are you perhaps looking for the cheese shop?”
“Cheese? I love cheese! No, I’m here to play the horses.”
The bouncer tensed.
“I wouldn’t know about that, madam.”
I gave a conspiratorial look around me. A bored-looking shopper was walking past on the sidewalk. Then I leaned in close to the bouncer and in a whisper loud enough for the passerby to hear I said, “You know, betting on the races. This is the place! I was gonna join the casino in Cheerville but they—”
“Madam, I am sure I don’t know what you mean,” the bouncer said in a loud, clear voice. “This is a charitable organization for members only.”
“Oh, I see.” I gave him a broad wink. A couple walked by and I turned up the volume. “A ‘charity’ club. Very clever. Wouldn’t want the cops to find out, would we?”
“Madam, I think you need to leave.”
“Oh, relax, baby,” I said, putting a hand on his cheek. His face, already blushing from the pinch on the cheek, turned a deeper scarlet. That must have been from embarrassment and not attraction, right?
“Madam …”
I opened up my purse to reveal a large wad of fifty dollar bills.
“Here, what’s the membership fee?”
The bouncer’s eyes goggled. I had taken out two thousand dollars. With his practiced eye he probably estimated the amount precisely. This was a slick outfit.
He still looked uncertain.
“Um …”
“Come on, be a sport! Like I said, I was about to join the Cheerville club. John was gonna get me in. Then it closed up! Is four hundred enough? Plus a fifty for you because you simply must be the most gorgeous doorman I’ve seen since the Paris Ritz.”
He took the money, hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. No casino could pass up a rich drunk.
“All right. But you need to be a bit more circumspect, like me.”
“Oh, are you circumcised? I didn’t know Europeans did that!”
“I mean don’t talk about the club!” he said, frantically opening the door and all but pushing me inside.
Just beyond the front door a short corridor led to the right before opening up into a room. The wall looked like it had been hastily added and was only there to screen the view from the outside. A few quick steps in my increasingly uncomfortable heels got me to the end of the little hallway and I stepped out into a single large room.
It looked much like the casino I shut down in Cheerville. The storefront had been converted into a gambler’s paradise. Televisions fixed to every wall showed greyhound and horse races. In front of each, small clusters of men sat at tables sipping beer. They all had that hypnotized look to them I remembered from the last casino.
Scattered across the rest of the room were various roulette and blackjack tables. A row of slot machines ran the length of the back wall, except for the far corner where a door, closed at the moment, led to the back room. I suspected that like in the Cheerville casino, what had been meant as a storeroom had been converted into a security center for the cameras as well as an office.
The place was pretty busy, busier than the Cheerville operation. I counted about forty people, mostly men and mostly older. It was only just past five. I supposed the after-work rush would start soon.
What struck me most about this place was how quiet it was. The televisions had the sound off since they all showed different races. The people watching them barely said a word. At the blackjack and roulette tables there was a little more conversation, but this was muted, curt, the kind of conversation you might have with someone on an elevator.
Why? Were these people ashamed, or simply so into figuring t
he odds that the rest of the world had disappeared?
Two employees went around the table serving drinks. Both looked like they’d do well in a fight. I also noticed the entire interior was monitored by security cameras.
“You have to fill out a membership form, madam,” the bouncer said.
“No problemo, my Eye-talian friend!” I said this loudly enough that a few heads turned.
I clacked over to the nearest free seat, my ankles in agony, and sat down by a couple of men and one woman watching a horse race.
“What’s your name, pretty boy?” I asked the bouncer once I was settled.
That earned me an amused look and a faint smile. “Pierre.”
“Oh, I love those Eye-talian names. Bring me that form and a double martini, and get one for yourself. You must be tired after standing at the door all day. After the drink I’ll give you a foot massage.”
One of the men at my table choked on his drink. The other grabbed his racing form, got up, and left. The woman couldn’t stop staring at my hairy mole.
Pierre scampered off. I had completely disarmed him, except for the gun he was sure to have hidden inside his jacket. I’d have to get that later.
He returned with the form, which was a simple one-pager asking for my name, address, and phone number. It also required a photo ID that they’d photocopy.
I had anticipated this, and an old connection at the CIA had whipped one up with a photo of me in disguise and a fake address. He’d delivered it by courier less than twelve hours after I sent him the picture. It’s always good to have a well-funded national organization at your back.
In case you’re wondering, providing retired agents with a fake driver’s license for an unapproved mission is not legal. We don’t always have the luxury of doing things the legal way. We’re the Central Intelligence Agency, not the Girl Scouts.
At least I rented the car with my real license. Car rental agencies check licenses on the national database, you see. Illegal casinos do not.
Hopefully.
“Too bad your place in Cheerville closed,” I told Pierre when I handed him my fake license. “Got any others closer to my home?”