by Dennis, Pat
She did a quick turn around and found herself staring into the puppy dog eyes of a thirty-something year-old man. He looked as if he were her devoted pet, one who was waiting to be fed, petted, pampered, and controlled. His black business suit was cut so well, Lori recognized it as custom made. His yellow silk tie glistened against a pristine white shirt. His watch contained more gold than her jewelry box.
She didn’t know his name, but it didn’t matter. She’d already decided his nickname would be Mr. Gorgeous. She half-smiled at the look he was giving her. It suggested she’d never again have to open a door, pull out her own chair, or pump gas if he were with her. He’d do everything for her that she ever needed done.
Men were like that around Lori. There was always a man waiting on the sidelines or standing nearby wanting to help, pleading to be of service. Her mom told her once that being beautiful made life too easy for Lori.
You won’t know what to do once life gets hard, her mother had warned. The minute she started her first panic attack, she realized her mother had been right all along.
Mr. Gorgeous stepped behind her and asked hopefully, “Are you heading to Minneapolis?”
“Just to catch another plane,” she answered and walked away knowing his eyes were following her every move. To taunt him even more, she adjusted her normally slow, seductive wiggle to rapid.
Lori chuckled bitterly to herself. She easily attracted most men and quite a few women. Everyone wanted to be near her, except for the one woman she really wanted—Lady Luck.
Long legs and green eyes didn’t mesmerize Lady Luck. Nor did the Lady care that fate took Lori’s mom away from her when she was just a teenager. Or that Lori’s father had disappeared without a word when she was eleven years old. Or even that Lori was a survivor of childhood leukemia. Lady Luck didn’t give a damn that Lori often woke up in the middle of the night, sweating through her clothes, woken up by the recurring nightmare of cancer genes eating her alive. Nightmares reminding that neither DNA, nor luck, were in her favor. To Lori, everything ended far too quickly. There was even the chance that Aunt Betty would just vanish, just like her mom and dad. And then what would she be left with? Nothing, except for the chance to finally win at something.
Chapter 5
“This sure beats breakfast at Denny’s!” Tillie cooed above the din of table chatter and silverware clanking. At 7:45 A.M. the 300-seat Hungry Moose Buffet was packed with salivating patrons. The casino’s patrons were either in line at each of eight different food stations, or happily chowing down at their table.
Betty grinned. “Sure does. They’ve actually managed to out-Vegas Vegas.”
She pointed upward to dozens of chandeliers lighting up the room. Each one featured twelve small Tiffany lanterns, with stained glass panels, suspended from bronzed shaped twigs and leaves.
The ceiling was painted to look like a blue sky, filled with cumulous clouds that moved slowly across the horizon. The visual feat was accomplished by a series of clear ceiling tiles that allowed 3-D images to be projected upon them. In the evening, the blue would slowly change to black of night and glistened above with thousands of twinkling LED stars.
“Is the food as good as the place looks?” Tillie asked, her green eyes roaming over the hand-painted Native American scenes on the walls.
Betty nodded. “Yep. I rated it a five popped buttons.”
When Betty made the decision to rate restaurants, she decided to forgo the traditional “five star” or even “five fork” rating systems. Instead, popping buttons from the strain of too much food made more sense to her. One popped button meant the food was barely edible. Five popped buttons meant not only would your pants fall down from eating too much, you wouldn’t even care.
Betty saw that many of the diners were whispering to each other while staring at Tillie. Almost everyone, it seemed, was checking out the driver’s off-duty ensemble. Black spandex Capri pants seemed painted onto Tillie’s thighs, while a skin-tight, polyester top of black and white tiger stripes hid just enough of her voluptuous torso to remain decent. On her feet were open-toed, red high heels. Glossy black and white, wooden giraffe earrings dangled from her earlobes. Her ample cleavage threatened to escape her shirt’s deep V-neck. A portion of an entire American flag, tattooed on Tillie’s right breast, could be seen waving patriotically with each breath she took.
If Tillie were working the Strip in Vegas—say as a drag queen imitating Dolly Parton—her outfit wouldn’t be noticed. But in northern Minnesota, a casino patron’s normal attire was a tribute to everything flannel. The men donned their best plaid while women wore pastel sweat suits with embroidered images of bunnies hopping playfully across their heaving bosoms.
“Follow me,” a short round hostess smiled and led the two women to a table in the middle of the room.
Betty pulled up a chair, while Tillie asked. “Would you mind ordering coffee for me? I’ve got to grab some grub. I’m starving.”
“No problem.” Betty smiled. She watched Tillie sashay her way to the Egg Cetera station, the name of which was proclaimed from a dangling neon sign. Throughout the day, the signs would change with the crowds, evolving from a breakfast buffet to lunch to dinner. It was a metamorphosis barely perceptible to the human requiring slow-motion photography for its intricacies to be observed.
Tillie stood in line, waiting for the omelet chef to ask her what she wanted. Her choice of ingredients ranged from freshly diced Roma tomatoes to chunks of Maine lobster and medallions of range-fed bison. Next to the station stood a variety of other egg dishes such as spinach quiche, frittatas, and various egg casseroles.
Betty’s favorite food station was titled Southern Comfort. Hot baking powder biscuits, peppery gravy, and two-inch thick sausage patties called to her as soon as she stepped foot inside the buffet. She momentarily fixated on the tantalizing scent of smoked maple-flavored bacon wafting through the room. She envisioned trays of thick slices butted up against vats of steaming grits or steel cut oats. A carving chef waited patiently, behind the counter, willing to slice off a hunk of a ham the size of an eighteen-wheeler.
A server appeared at the table and asked, “What would you like to drink?”
“Coffee for two, please,” Betty answered.
She needed caffeine. She could barely keep her eyes open. She hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. Plus, she was trying to project an upbeat, positive attitude for her tour group. She couldn’t let anyone see the concern and fear she was actually feeling.
Tillie came back to the table, carrying a plate filled with goodies. A Pepper Jack & Cheddar cheese omelet covered a third of her plate. The rest of the plate was overflowing with hash browns, fresh fruit, and miniature Stuffed Pecan French toast sticks drowning in pure maple syrup. As she sat down, she asked, “Aren’t you going to eat before you start scheduling passengers for the sheriff to interview?”
Betty nodded as the server filled their cups to the brim with steaming coffee. She stirred in a dollop of cream, took a sip and then looked around the restaurant. She could see at least ten of her clients having breakfast. Mr. Ogawa was one of them. Unless the sheriff had a hole in his head, Mr. Ogawa would be off the hook as soon as he said hello.
Betty took a big gulp and announced, “I’ll talk to a few clients on my way to Southern Comfort.”
Tillie forked another pile of hash browns and said, “Let me know if you need help.”
Standing up, Betty pulled a small notebook and pen out of her purse and headed toward Ogawa’s table.
“Good morning,” she said, and added the biggest smile she could muster. Except for Mr. Ogawa, no one smiled back. At any moment she expected to hear a barrage of complaints from her clients. She was certain their sullen mood was because of the murder. Instead, true to a gambler’s nature, she quickly found out their anger was related to their missed fortune. It wasn’t only Hannah who felt the jackpot should have been theirs.
“You heard about the dollar jackpot for thirteen mil?” Haro
ld Turner asked right before a mound of catsup-drenched hash browns disappeared into his open mouth.
“I did,” Betty said, trying to sound upbeat. “I guess that was one lucky player.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Turner said, as a few of the potatoes escaped through the side of his mouth. He didn’t notice. “Those machines never pay off,” he continued. “I don’t care if they’re supposedly linked to Vegas or not.”
Multi-linked progressive slots were linked with other machines in casinos spread across the country. The headquarters for the company running the nation-wide games was located in Las Vegas. By pressing the spin button, a player could hope to hit the same jackpot as one who was playing the same progressive machine two thousand miles away.
Turner scoffed. “Who’s got that kind of money to pay out nowadays? I’ll bet you 3-to-1 the casino says the win isn’t legit.”
Betty had heard the same gripe about wins being legitimate before. Rumors were spread throughout the gaming world about local casinos using bogus excuses to refuse big jackpot payouts. It didn’t help that every slot machine was tagged with a sign reading, Machine Malfunctions Voids All Pays.
“Mr. Turner, Moose Bay is a very reputable casino,” Betty explained. “In fact, it was voted one of the …”
Turner interrupted her, “Has the jackpot winner been paid, yet?”
“I have no idea,” Betty answered honestly, assuming the man had been paid, but sometimes with a payout that large there’s a delay until the win is verified.
“And who knows who would have won it if we hadn’t been late?” Mildred Pudlowski said, her razor-sharp lips forming a pout. “I could’ve been the one playing that machine.”
Betty sighed. There would be no choice but to repeatedly apologize on this trip, though being late seemed to be a trifling matter compared to what Mr. Farsi suffered. She said, “Again, I’m sorry we arrived late. But to be honest, considering the weather, I’d still insist the driver took a break. The roads were very icy.”
Mr. Ogawa reached up and touched her arm. “There’s no need to apologize, Miss Betty. We arrived safely and that’s what counts. If I’ve learned one thing in my eighty-eight years, it’s that no one can predict the future.”
Mildred rested her fork and admitted, “That’s for sure. In fact, I’m getting so old I can’t even remember my past, much less figure out what’s going to happen next. Well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter who won the money. If I had, I’d end up putting it back into the machines.”
Betty grinned. “If I remember correctly, you only play penny slots. It would take you a while.”
“Oh, if I won the big one, I’d move up to nickel slots in a heartbeat.” She pointed at her table companions. “I’d even pick-up the breakfast tab. Maybe even lunch.”
The entire table burst out in laughter, except for Turner who continued to scowl. Nothing seemed to make him happy. He acted as if he was looking for a fight.
“I’m going to grab a bite to eat. If each of you could stop at my table on the way out, I’d appreciate it,” Betty said, and left without waiting for a response. She didn’t want to take the chance anyone would refuse, especially Turner.
On her way to Southern Comfort, Betty stopped by another table of six passengers and asked them to do the same. When she finally reached the station, she grabbed a large plate but filled it with tiny portions: a half of a biscuit, a tablespoon of gravy and a single turkey sausage link. She’d stop by one more station to try something new, something to review on her blog. But it, too, would be no more than a mouthful. Just because she wrote about food, didn’t mean she had to eat an entire portion to know how something tasted.
She didn’t want to pack on any additional pounds. Not when it took her as long as it did to lose ten. She cruised over to the next station, Griddle Me This, and wistfully looked at the variety of pancakes, Belgian waffles and French toast. She chose one small silver dollar pancake, and a miniature chocolate covered waffle.
She reached for a giant-sized blueberry & mango pancake, paused, and muttered out loud, “You have enough, girl.” She turned back to her table, shutting her eyes as she passed trays of jelly-filled donuts, custard filled Danish, and still-warm-from-the-oven, almond croissants.
By the time Betty made it back to the table, Tillie’s plate was clean.
“Is that all you’re eating?” Tillie asked, pointing to Betty’s plate.
Betty grinned. “I have enough,” she said, using her favorite phrase before reminding herself one more time, I have enough. For her, it was a string of words that kept her centered and on track, whether she was talking about money, food, family or friends. Betty always tried to remember that, in so many ways, her life was abundant.
After her husband deserted her, any comfort she could find came with accepting the fact that she was so blessed, and even without Larry, she had enough. She had enough money to subsist, enough friends with shoulders to cry on, and enough family to be with during the holidays. She had enough.
Of course, there were times when she wanted more, but having all she needed was all that really mattered. As long as she kept an attitude of gratitude, Betty knew she could handle anything that came her way.
Then she saw it coming.
The tiny, angry vintage steamroller was heading in her direction.
Anything that came her way, she reminded herself. Or anyone.
Hannah abruptly stopped in front of Betty and began to tap the tiled floor with the tip of her metal cane. In Hannah’s hands, the cane was more than an aid to the elderly. It made her look like the high commander of a senior citizens’ SWAT team.
“Good morning, Hannah.” Betty smiled sweetly while preparing herself to be pounced upon verbally. She swallowed hard before uttering her next words, “Would you care to join Tillie and I?”
Tillie jumped up immediately. “I’m through eating. I have an appointment at the spa for a manicure.” She raced out of the buffet as quickly as she could, considering the shoes she wore. As she did, her swaying hips knocked into more than one table along the way.
Betty didn’t blame her. If she could have done the same, she would have. But, her job called for her to sit and listen to whatever venom Hannah would spew forth.
Hannah sat down across from her. She rested her cane against the table and snapped, “I called Lori this morning to complain. As far as I’m concerned, she’s the only good thing about Take A Chance.”
“Lori is wonderful,” Betty agreed. “She told me you called. Hannah, I promise that you’ll get a full refund.”
“Refund? I don’t want a refund. I want my thirteen million.”
“Hannah, a jackpot belongs to whoever wins it, not who wants to win it. If that was the case then everyone here would …”
Hannah interrupted, “Everyone here knows that it was my machine that hit the big one. I play that machine every time I’m here. I only leave it to eat or sleep, and at my age I don’t do either very long.”
“Look, we’ll give you back your money for the trip, and I’ll personally cover all your meals.”
Hannah just glared, her rheumy eyes taking on the sharpness of a sniper. “I could cover my own meals, if you give me my jackpot.”
Betty took in a sharp breath to calm herself before responding. “Hannah, you do realize I have bigger problems than you not winning a jackpot? You do remember one of my clients was murdered?”
“He deserved it,” Hannah said, frowning.
Betty felt as if someone had slapped her in the face. “What do you mean he deserved it?”
Hannah shrugged. “He was grumpy. He wouldn’t talk to anybody on the bus. He even refused a stick of sugar-free gum when I offered it to him.” Hannah paused before adding, “I don’t offer gum to just anyone. The way he refused, you’d think I was being a flirt.”
Betty’s demeanor changed and she pulled her lips together, tightly. She knew better than to laugh out loud. Did seventy-one year old Hannah really think
a man deserved to die because he refused her token of friendship? Even more astounding was the chance that Hannah was offering more than just a Chicklet to a man who was more than a decade younger than she.
Betty shook her head in wonder. Homo sapiens, especially the older ones, never failed to surprise her. Nearly every male under the age of ninety acted as if their aging body were a Halloween costume that could be discarded at any given moment if the right opportunity presented itself. Betty decided it was good that an older woman could see herself in the same, misguided light.
Hannah grabbed her cane and held it midair. “I’ve already called my son, the attorney. He told me I could sue if I wanted.” She turned around swiftly and scurried away, pushing servers and customers out of her way with her cane as she headed toward Ogawa’s table.
Betty’s mood shifted into a downward spin. If Hannah’s litigious son was anything like his mother, Take A Chance Tours was driving straight into bankruptcy.
Chapter 6
Tom Songbird repeated the M-word again as he and Betty waited for the sheriff to arrive. “Money! We’re going to lose a lot of money.”
For a change, Tom wasn’t the cool, calm and witty stud in the room. Instead he was openly worried about the casino losing money. His tribe would also lose money in the process. For Tom, family and friends were all that mattered. If he was acting like a nervous nelly for a change, Betty knew his concerns were serious.
Tom tapped the conference table rapidly with the tips of his perfectly manicured fingernails. He once told Betty he spent a small fortune every week at his hair stylist. Plus, he’d willingly hand over a week’s pay for the perfect pair of shoes. Tom represented his tribe to the people he encountered while on duty. He was determined to be treated with respect, and not merely brushed off as if here some low-level security mall cop.
He and Betty were waiting inside the conference room they had been in the night before. Betty nicknamed it Interrogation Central. Songbird continued, “There’s no way about it. Gamblers are suspicious. Murder isn’t good for business.” He tapped again.