by David Bishop
“We have a plan?”
“You know I do this kind of thing for a living. So, sure, I have a plan. You and your cohorts are evolving to where you’ll conclude that my plan is what you need to do. It’ll all work just fine. What’d you want to see me about?”
Linda cleared her throat. She heard Ryan move. His foot scraped the rocks behind her. “I want to go to Billy’s casino,” she said. “I was thinking about tomorrow night.”
“You want me to go with you?” Ryan asked. “Billy is feeling out of sorts, less predictable. We could use the casino visit to rattle his cage some more.”
“I agree, but we shouldn’t go together.”
“Okay. I’ll get there at 8:00. Why don’t you come in about a half hour later? Plan to do some gambling, blackjack. Do you have enough cash with you?”
“I have about five hundred with me in cash. If I need more I can use the ATM. I’m guessing they have one in the casino. What’s so important about my gambling?”
“Don’t create a trail through the ATM.”
Linda heard some low nondescript sounds coming from where Ryan sat, and then felt something against her arm. She glanced over to see an envelope.
“Here’s a thousand. Hold onto your five hundred, you may need it before you’re through. Put all this on the table before you place your first bet. Give the impression you’re a high roller. In the Cranston casino, a thousand should do that nicely. That’ll further enhance the mystery of ‘who the hell is Carol Benson.’ I’m guessing Billy will arrange for you to win. If he does, when you get to three thousand, quit.”
“Why would he do that?”
“A feeble effort to make your stay in Cranston profitable, and maybe you’d then move on. Particularly if you’re simply Carol Benson, weary train traveler. You know how to play blackjack, right?”
“Sure I do. I don’t see him letting me win, but I’ll do it like you said.”
“Hell, the worst that can happen is you lose some money. But I expect you won’t. It’s possible that you might be asked to chat with the manager before leaving. If not, you may see Billy in the morning, so plan on having breakfast in his hotel.”
“Anything else?” As Linda finished her question, she felt something else touch the back of her hand. She looked back to see a small plastic wrapped tote, like a grocery bag. “What’s this?”
“Some tapes. I put a player in there along with ear phones for private listening. Listen to these tonight or first thing in the morning. You’ll learn a great deal. Share the tapes with your team at your next meeting, just don’t share the source. Tell them you’re not at liberty to say how or where you got them.”
“What do they cover?”
“They’ll explain themselves. Keep the tapes with you. Except for your fellow vigilantes, bite your tongue about all that you hear. Maybe we’ll be able to talk again after we leave the casino tomorrow night. I’ll try to figure an angle that’ll give us a reason to walk out together. You’re being followed here means that when you leave, they’ll tag along. That’ll make it easier for me to get away without being seen. I’ll give you a twenty minute head start.”
* * *
Linda reached in the bag while driving. There were six tapes. Before getting all the way back to the hotel she stopped at a fast food place to get a burger, fries, and a super-sized soda.
It was after three a.m. when she removed the ear phones and shut off the last tape.
Wow!
The tapes were an audio documentary of the shenanigans that Billy Cranston pulled in the town that carried his family name. Due to the hour and the details she’d heard, she decided to listen to them again in the morning before leaving the room.
She put the tapes back in the plastic bag and slipped them inside her bedcovers. She wanted to get with Dix and Hildy and let them listen, but first she had to get some sleep.
* * *
Earlier that same night, Sheriff Blackstone met with Billy Cranston.
“Billy, you aren’t going to like this.”
“Not going to like what?”
“I got the report from Arizona on the Benson dame.”
“Step on it. I’m supposed to have dinner with Martha tonight. I’m not in the mood to put up with much from her on top of what all’s going on, so I don’t want to be late.”
“The address in Sedona, Arizona, for Carol Benson is a vacant lot.”
“What about the lawyer lead?”
“Nothing. The Arizona state bar has no member by that name. As for those lawyer directories you told me to check, I got your attorney in Kansas City to help me on that. He couldn’t find a lawyer named Carol Benson anywhere in the country. We struck out, Boss. Sorry.”
“I was hoping for some good news before having dinner with the ball and chain. Shit.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Shaken, not stirred
TUESDAY
Despite having turned off the light very late, Linda was awake by nine. She put the do-not-disturb sign on her hotel door, and ordered breakfast using the hotel’s room service. When the food arrived, she hunkered down to again listen to the tapes Ryan Testler gave her the prior evening. By two-thirty in the afternoon she finished listening to them for the second time. She stacked the tapes in the order she’d have Dix and Hildy listen, and started thinking about how she’d explain having the tapes. While cleaning up, she made another decision with respect to the tapes. She would hold off giving them to the others until their planned meeting at Hildy’s tomorrow mid-morning.
An hour later she took her late-lunch-early-dinner hunger to the Methodist-owned bistro. She chose the Stop By and not The Drop or the Frontier Hotel coffee shop to avoid possibly being joined by Billy Cranston. She wanted to use the time to think more about how she’d handle presenting the tapes to Hildy and Dix.
* * *
Ryan Testler walked into Billy Cranston’s casino at eight p.m. He wore a white dinner jacket, single breasted, with black slacks and bow tie. Not something often, if ever, seen in Cranston, Kansas, thus intimidating in itself. He’d made this choice to appear completely different from the older persona he’d crafted to play the hunchback who cleared tables and washed dishes in The Drop. Or the still older man using a walker he’d played while in town to start the fire at Cranston’s ranch, several days before Linda Darby arrived on the train as Carol Benson.
Fluent in 007, Ryan sauntered to the bar, straightened his cufflinks inside the sleeves of his dinner jacket, and ordered a martini, shaken not stirred. He placed his foot on the brass rail just above the floor. To his left roosted several pairs of ranch boots, mostly clean and polished, but some decorated with the been-to-the-pasture look.
With drink in hand, he strolled through the gambling area. Other than a few small grins and slight nods toward the ladies who looked him in the eye, he ignored the gamblers and stopped at the casino cashier. He pushed two thousand cash forward and requested the full amount in fifty-dollar chips. After that, he moved among the various craps and blackjack tables, watching the dealers and noticing the women.
His actions had achieved his objective to be the center of attention. He wanted to divert some of the focus that might later fall onto Linda once she arrived. After his second trip around the casino, he perched on an empty stool at the end of one of the blackjack tables. The spot allowed a good view of the entire casino pit, as well as the door through which Linda would enter.
He’d won and lost a few hands before Linda came in. She was dressed well, alluring like some of the other ladies, but not out-of-place as Ryan appeared compared to the other men. She wore a lovely, long dress held up by small straps that climbed over her shoulders. If cleavage was currency, and it may be on some level, Linda appeared wealthy, but not ostentatious. As she walked, her hips played a rhythm reminiscent of willows swaying in an easy breeze.
From Ryan’s vantage he watched Linda obtain a white wine and head to the cage. She stood behind a woman of about fifty in a short line waiti
ng for the cashier. The woman sported a rather large mole on the back of her neck which sprouted a single hair darker than the salt and pepper nest on her head. The woman glanced back and exchanged placid smiles with Linda. When she got to the front of the line, Linda converted her thousand dollars of cash into a healthy stack of ten dollar chips. She kept a comfortably sized stack of chips in the warmth of her palm, and dumped the others in a casino chip cup.
From Ryan’s position he noticed the pit boss pick up a phone, say a few words and hang up. An innocent act in a non-innocent business, or, perhaps, letting someone in a backroom know that Carol Benson had come in. Everything Linda did since arriving in Cranston as Carol Benson, certainly since she observed the killing of Carlos Molina, had been observed and reported to Billy Cranston, either directly or through Sheriff Reggie Blackstone. Ryan admired the way Linda carried herself while being the fish in the aquarium.
After a few minutes, the manager, Creswell, came into the gambling area and stood near the pit-boss counter in the center of the tables. He looked about, but mostly watched Carol. Ryan saw him nod at the dealer of Carol’s table.
Carol began winning more hands than she lost, including the house busting each time she doubled down or split a pair. Her stack of chips, despite ebbing and flowing through the fortunes of the game, grew steadily. Her success started to attract a small audience. She requested a chip tray from the pit boss and filled a good part of it with her winnings. Then headed back to the cashier where she converted her ten dollar chips into chips of fifties and twenties. She left the tray on the counter and again used one of the casino’s plastic cups. The value of her stack had grown to nearly three thousand. She stopped at the bar for a drink.
As Ryan walked toward one of the craps table, two narrow shapes with high breasts and saucy eyes moved past him. The thinner of the two sported a skirt cut high enough on the sides for her creamlike upper legs to wink over the top of her thigh-high nylons. The other woman featured an attention-gathering cowl neckline. Their looks were a bit risqué, but the dresses were quality and they carried themselves with self-assurance.
Billy Cranston apparently approved a couple of the girls from his brothel to cross pollinate with customers in his casino. As Ryan leaned into the rail around the craps table, he noticed that Carol had finished her drink at the bar and returned to play more blackjack.
Twenty-five minutes later, Ryan started a ruckus by confronting the croupier, claiming one of his three-hundred dollar bets had been inappropriately picked up. That it had been a winner not a loser because it was on the adjacent spot which had been a winning wager.
The worker at the table, who had scooped up Ryan’s three-hundred, and Ryan stepped closer to each other. The croupier pressed a button. A security man nudged through the crowd and approached Ryan. His bulk shadowed the end of the craps table. He was, in turn, shadowed by a second member of the security force who took a position behind Ryan. This one appeared to have barn barrels inside the sleeves of his gray security uniform, a thick neck, and a small earring in his left lobe.
“You’ll have to quiet down, sir,” the front security man said in a baritone voice.
“My winning bet was scooped up,” Ryan proclaimed. “It paid four to one. I’m owed twelve hundred. No one takes my money. I blame you for that.”
“How can it be my fault, I’m not a dealer.”
“I didn’t say it was your fault. I said I was blaming you.”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken, sir,” the croupier said, chiming in on the now-heated conversation Ryan was having with the security officer. “My dealers do this professionally. They are seldom wrong.”
“Seldom is not never. This is one of the exceptions. I want my money.” Ryan spoke loud enough to be heard by the crowd of onlookers circling the scene. Linda was one face in the growing crowd.
Ryan saw Creswell incline his head to the side. Then he pointed a thumb as wide as a loosely wrapped cigar, the universal gesture for throw the bum out. The lead security officer put his hand on Ryan’s forearm. Ryan shook it off.
“Don’t put your hand on me,” Ryan said in protest. “That’s battery. If you do it again, I shall defend myself.”
Creswell moved in close, to Ryan’s right, from where he again nodded. The front security guy put his hand onto Ryan a second time. At that same moment, the security behemoth standing behind placed his hands on the sides of Ryan’s shoulders. He did not grasp strenuously, just enough to be able to guide Ryan toward the door, his feet spread at shoulder width to provide leverage.
Ryan had seen security men such as this pair more times than he cared to count. Bulked up to look powerful, they exhibit physical strength sufficient to win through intimidation and the aura of authority that comes with wearing a uniform, including a holstered gun. He knew if they were highly skilled in hand-to-hand, they would not be employed in a small casino, in a small town, in the middle of Kansas.
Ryan glanced at Creswell, and, after a slight shake of his head, stomped down on the arch of the front security man’s foot. Almost in the same motion, he raised that same leg up hard behind him until his heel made firm contact with the groin of the man holding his shoulders. Both men relaxed their grips. The man in front instinctively leaned downward over his foot. Ryan struck him in the face sending him careening into the backside of a blackjack table spilling several stacks of chips. From there he fell forward onto the floor. Ryan then spun around to find the one behind him stooped, his hand failing to comfort his privates. Ryan kneed him in the chest and punched him in the throat. He then drew his own gun and kept it on the two men while he removed their handguns from their holsters.
When things calmed, Ryan looked at Creswell who said, “You get born and eventually you die, everything in between takes money. I understand your concern for yours.” He turned to the croupier, “Pay the gentleman what he feels he has coming.”
“Creswell,” Ryan said. “I won’t take the money. Don’t want anyone claiming this was a robbery. You keep the money. This has been more fun.”
“Sir, please talk with me for a minute, in my office.”
“Certainly,” Ryan said. “With the understanding this’ll get a lot messier if you or any of your people contact the police.”
“Neither of us is in favor of involving the police.” Creswell turned to his men. “This is over. You get paid to handle the rough stuff with no guarantee you’ll always come out on top. Nothing more’s to come of this. Get things back to normal. Drinks on the house for everyone,” he said waving his hand turning toward the crowd dotted with faces disappointed the fracas had ended.
“This way, please.” Creswell moved through the crowd, Ryan followed.
On the way toward the office, Ryan noticed Creswell stop to say something private to his head pit boss and then incline his head toward Carol Benson.
Inside his office, Creswell offered Ryan a seat facing his desk. Ryan moved the chair to the side of the desk, a location that allowed him to see the door back into the casino and an interior door which he knew entered the counting room. Creswell smiled. He understood.
Creswell took time to light a pipe and draw and recycle a measure of smoke. He pointed the stem of his pipe toward Ryan. His index finger curled around the bowl, giving the appearance his pipe was a semi-permanent part of his hand.
“Are you the same gentleman I talked with in this office last weekend, late, just before I left for the evening?” He looked down on his pipe and lightly blew into the bowl creating a bright red ball of tobacco.
“Not to my recollection, Mr. Creswell,” Ryan said. “What makes you think so?”
“The manner in which you handle things, the way you carry yourself. I could be wrong.”
“You are,” Ryan said, before grinning, more a smirk than a smile. “Now, why did you want to see me?”
A light knock on his door stopped Creswell from answering. Both men looked up to see a lovely young-to-middle-aged woman walk in. “The usual?” she aske
d. Her leg parted the slit in her dress as she stepped toward the desk, the slit high enough to reveal a fully tanned hip bone. When Caswell nodded, she went to a small refrigerator in the side wall, opened it and removed a bottle of dark beer and a frosted mug. After carrying them to Creswell’s desk she turned the frosted glass dark, a half inch whitecap riding to the top. When she offered it to Ryan, he accepted. She returned to the fridge and repeated the process until both men held full glasses. She moved her head to toss her hair back from her face before leaving as quietly as she entered.
“I could use some additional security,” Creswell said, as if their conversation had not been interrupted.
Ryan raised his mug as a symbol of thanks and set it back down without tasting it. “After what I saw out there, I agree.” The two men shared a grin. “Would this be security for Billy Cranston, or security to protect you from Billy Cranston?”
“I’m sorry?” Creswell said. “I don’t know what you mean. Billy Cranston’s a very prominent member of our community. A leading businessman, banker, but he’s not involved in the casino.”
“We both know better than that. Thank you for your offer, but I’m not interested.”
“May I ask why not?”
“Already you’ve been less than honest with me. That’s not the basis for an important relationship. Maybe we can talk further in the future, should circumstances change.”
“How can I reach you?”
“If things change enough, I’ll get back to you.” Ryan got up, shook Creswell’s hand and left his office. He had not drunk his beer. On his way out through the casino, Ryan saw Linda, who appeared ready to leave, her purse no longer bulging. Her other hand held a plump green cloth moneybag emblazoned with the casino logo.
“It appears you did quite well for yourself. Would you like an escort out to your car?”
“Thank you, sir. After what I observed, I’ll certainly feel safe with you along.”
“Perhaps I could follow you back to town and we could share a drink.” Their exchange was easily overheard by the people nearby.