by Dennis, Pat
“You got a headache or anything?” the woman asked.
Betty shook her head. “I think I’m okay. The snow must have cushioned my fall.”
The woman answered, “Yah, you betcha it did. You looked like a snow angel for a moment there, your arms flapping all about.” Her eyes were warm and inviting.
Betty glanced over toward the parking lot. Boris and Mr. Ogawa were nowhere to be seen. If they had witnessed her fall, neither had come to her rescue. She didn’t know about Boris, but that seemed odd behavior for the kindly Ogawa. Immediately, she became concerned for his well-being.
“Let me walk you back to the hotel. You shouldn’t be out here alone,” the woman insisted, placing a strong arm around Betty’s shoulder.
Betty declined the woman’s assistance. She felt she needed to check on Ogawa, to see if everything was all right with him. She had no choice but to head to Boris’ trailer.
“I’m fine, really. And there’s something I need to do,” Betty said, staring at the entertainer’s bus.
The woman must have noticed Betty’s interest, and gestured toward the vehicle. She said, “I can go with you to that there bus, if you want. I’ve nothing else to do but lose another twenty on those blasted machines.”
Betty answered, “No, that’s okay. But, thank you. Thank you very much.”
“Okay, then. Promise me, you’ll be careful.” The woman took off jogging toward the hotel.
“I will,” Betty yelled out as the woman pulled a cell phone from her rear pocket. I hope I didn’t make her late for something, thought Betty. Good deeds like hers should be rewarded by the universe, not punished.
Betty started walking toward the bus, carefully doing what she now thought of as The Minnesota Shuffle—sliding a bit on icy patches. Still, it took her only a few minutes to reach her destination.
The first thing she noticed was the motorhome’s vanity plate—Baffler 777. The bus was licensed in Nevada. Betty had been inside dozens of conversion buses. The deluxe models were always featured at conventions for the travel industry. Lori and she would always make the same corny joke—when they won the lottery, they’d buy one to save money on hotels.
The unspoken punch line was that a conversion bus starting price was usually half a million. It would take a lot of nights on the road to justify spending that kind of money. The end price on the conversion coaches was limitless, depending upon the needs of the entertainer. She’d be surprised if Boris hadn’t paid a million bucks for his rig.
But that was a lot of money for any entertainer to spend for comfort, especially one who wasn’t an internationally known celebrity. Plus, she’d heard many complaints about the dwindling salaries in the entertainment world. Many of the once-famous, and now nearly-dead aging rock stars, were working for next to nothing to see their names in lights one more time—or simply to pay the bills. Even Ringo Starr played a casino in Wisconsin.
As soon as Betty reached the bus, she climbed up the metal steps and peered through the sliver of glass in the doorway. She could only make out the driver’s seat as she reached over and pushed the doorbell.
No one answered. She pounded on the door. She waited a few seconds and then jiggled the door handle. To her surprise, it wasn’t locked. The door swung open and she gingerly stepped inside, completely forgetting her promise to the Nordic Giantess that she’d be careful. She realized there was certainly nothing cautious about entering someone’s home uninvited.
“Hello?” she said in a hushed tone. Then, called, “Anyone home? Hello? Mr. Baffler?”
There was no response. She peered down the center aisle. On the left side of the aisle, a plush sofa filled the space. Across from it sat two red swivel chairs. A small foldable table rested between the two chairs. Betty realized it could probably fold up and out, and would easily sit four. The furniture on The Jetsons wasn’t as clever as the furniture designed for luxury motor coaches.
She walked down the dark aisle. “Hello?”
Though it was daylight the interior had the feel of dusk. Tapestry curtains covered the windows and blocked out most of the sun. She could barely make out the pictures in the framed photos of Boris on the walls. In every photo, the mentalist struck an elaborate pose that suggested glamour, mystery, and possible gender hopping. Vintage advertising posters from the turn of the century completed the artwork hanging in the room. Colorful images of contortionists who rivaled the flexibility of pretzels or ominous looking magicians in action seemed to leap off the walls.
Betty continued slowly down the center of the coach, past the kitchen area, to the back wall, where a closed door was situated in the center. Behind it, Betty assumed, was the bedroom.
She lifted her hand to knock on the door and held her breath in anticipation. She discovered she didn’t have to worry about what lie ahead; it was the loud and angry voice coming from behind her that she needed to be concerned about.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the man’s voice bounced off the paneled walls.
The voice was so powerful that it shook the motorhome in its wake. She spun around to see Boris standing directly behind her. Sputtering, she said, “Please, don’t be alarmed. I realize I shouldn’t be in here, but …”
“Then why are you here?” he demanded, his muscular arms positioned at his sides, his large hands balled into fists. He looked like a gladiator posed for attack.
“I was worried about Mr. Ogawa.” Betty slowed her words, hoping he would buy into her excuse for trespassing.
“Ogawa?” Boris questioned, and then relaxed his stance. “You mean the old man that was here a few minutes ago?”
Betty nodded, relieved. “He’s one of my clients. I saw him coming down your steps. I called his name right before I fell on the ice and hit my head. I must have blacked out for a few seconds because when I awoke I …”
“You’re with the casino?” Boris asked, his tone softening.
“I’m a tour operator. Mr. Ogawa is our oldest rider. I’m worried about him slipping on the ice,” she lied. The fact Ogawa might fall hadn’t crossed her mind. What had crossed her mind was the fact Ogawa had been enraged when she saw him.
“I was afraid for him too, that’s why I insisted on escorting him back to the hotel, list or no list,” Boris told her.
Betty instantly regretted having such a vivid imagination. She’d turned a perfectly innocent scenario into something suspect. She realized it when Boris mentioned a list. Boris must be telling the truth.
She asked, “You mean Mr. Ogawa’s list of eighty-eight things to do before he dies?”
Boris smiled. “Ogawa asked me to help him with number sixty-six, learning to pull a rabbit out of a hat.”
“And did you?”
Boris shrugged. “I told him I was a mentalist, not a magician. Besides, I’m fresh out of rabbits.”
Betty laughed.
“Is that why Mr. Ogawa was so agitated?” she asked. “I could hear him yelling as he walked down the steps. That surprised me. He’s always so sweet and ...”
Boris interrupted, “The old guy’s in his eighties, but he’s still a guy. He was upset because I thought he needed help walking. Even the elderly can be macho, Miss …”
She held out her hand. “Betty Chance. I’m sorry I invaded your privacy. But, when there wasn’t an answer at the door, I ...”
“Don’t apologize. I would have done the same thing,” he said as he slowly released her hand. He then reached over and touched a button next to her. The wall partially opened. The integrated refrigerated door that flowed seamlessly into the woodwork had been hidden from site. He removed a Champagne bottle and two crystal flute glasses from an overhead cabinet.
“Mr. Baffler, I …”
“Please, call me Boris.”
“Mr. Baff … I’m sorry … I mean, Boris. I can see you’re expecting company. I’ll just be on my way.” She turned to leave.
“You’re right. I am expecting company,” Boris said.
She
took a step toward the door of the motorhome.
“But Betty,” he continued, “The company I am expecting is you.”
She turned back to see Boris smiling at full-wattage, cradling a bottle of Dom Perignon in his hands as if it were a newborn.
“Boris, I don’t have time to …”
He interrupted her. “We met before, didn’t we?” He set the glasses on the counter. He uncorked the bottle and began to fill each flute.
Betty nodded. “Yes, when you were making your rather grand entrance.”
He looked embarrassed. “I know it’s hokey to make an entrance like that, but it attracts people to the show.”
Then he did something that surprised Betty. He began to move his eyes slowly up and down her body, like he was memorizing every inch. Betty shivered and realized it wasn’t from fear or the Minnesota temperature. Boris’ powers were more than that of a master mentalist. They were sexually compelling as well.
He placed a filled glass of the chilled imported bubbly in Betty’s hand.
“I don’t have much time,” she said.
“Ah, but there’s always time for champagne,” he said and lightly clinked her glass. A single, perfect note rose from the crystal glasses and hung in the air.
Betty didn’t know what shocked her more—the fact that the bedecked, bejeweled and over-the-top Boris was attempting to seduce her, or that she was totally enjoying it.
Chapter 16
Rivers of black mascara created dark crevices against Lori’s once creamy foundation. Grey eye shadow caked around the edges of her lids gave her a diseased look. For a change Lori didn’t appear beautiful. In fact, she looked downright ugly. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror suggested she’d been on a bender for a solid month. And she felt worse than she looked.
She fell back against the wall and slid down onto the marble floor. Her knees folded upwards. She grabbed onto them and began to rock back and forth. Since her first panic attack in her teens, she’d always found secluded places to hide. Closets, bathrooms, the back seat of a car, were among her preferred places to isolate until she could breathe again. Small, enclosed spaces helped to make her feel protected.
A familiar voice drifted through the cracks and crevices. Lori could hear Tillie calling out her name while knocking on the hotel room’s door. “Lori?”
Tillie continued, “Lori, are you in there?”
Lori didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Not yet. She didn’t want to take the chance that Tillie would figure out what was going on with her at the moment. There was no way she’d let Tillie know she was in the midst of a full-blown panic attack. If Tillie knew, she’d run to Betty for help.
That was something Lori couldn’t let happen. Even Betty didn’t know Lori suffered from panic attacks.
If Betty had an inkling, she’d ask questions. Lori wasn’t ready to explain her anxiety. Not until she figured out a way to repay Take A Chance Tours. Besides, the attacks lasted only a few minutes. She could wait them out. She always had.
“Lori?” Tillie called out once again, as she knocked on the corridor door. When silence followed, Lori breathed a sigh of relief. Tillie must have given up.
“Thank God,” Lori uttered, as if each breath could easily be her last.
Her first panic attack had happened at eleven years of age, a few hours after her mother announced her father had disappeared without a trace. She felt her chest cave inward, shattering her heart into a million pieces as if made from cheap crystal. She knew she would never see him again.
Although young, she was mature enough to keep it a secret. Her mother was dealing with enough already. Her episodes continued sporadically and then suddenly stopped on the anniversary of her father’s disappearance. It wasn’t until her mother was diagnosed with cancer that they returned. The same pattern repeated itself until the attacks mysteriously ceased exactly one year after her mother’s death. They didn’t start again until she began “borrowing money” from Take A Chance Tours.
The petty cash box in the office normally held hundreds of dollars. The money was on hand to pay for an afternoon pizza, or to provide change to clients who paid for their trip in cash.
Whenever Lori borrowed any money she promised herself to replace it the very next morning. She was filled with good intentions, often saintly in nature. She vowed to return more money than she took.
Lori didn’t bother to tell her aunt or Gloria about the overnight loans because they were, after all, no big deal. The women wouldn’t notice the money was missing. Or if they did, Lori could easily come up with an excuse. She’d say she wanted to buy office supplies on the way home, or take a client to dinner.
It didn’t matter, really. She was confident she’d replace the borrowed cash with her winnings from gambling, or at least with a credit card advance. When her credit cards maxed out, her panic attacks returned.
Now, sitting inside a hotel room’s bathroom in the late afternoon, it felt like her worst fear was coming true. Her chest once again felt like it was collapsing under pressure. Sweat began to seep through her clothing. Her breaths arrived in quick fire succession.
But once again, the miracle occurred. The thousand pound weight slowly lifted from her chest and her tremors subsided.
She pulled herself up off the cold, tiled floor. She leaned against the vanity and stared into the mirror. Her color was coming back. Her breathing stabilized. She was fine.
She forced herself out of the bathroom and fell onto the bed. She remained prone, wondering if she could find a fix to her financial problems.
Gambling. Her real problem wasn’t that she had lost money. The real problem was that she hadn’t won any. Winning at poker was the only way she knew of to pay off her debts. Once she won enough she’d never look at a card again.
“Damn Gillette,” she said out loud as she stood up. She probably wouldn’t have gambled at the casino if it weren’t for him. She knew that this time, this particular reckless binge wasn’t her fault. She’d been an innocent by-stander.
She returned to the bathroom and picked up a jar of face cream. She unscrewed the wide cap and gently applied the cream to her face. As her fingers moved across her cheeks, she reflected upon the last hour.
Playing cards with Gillette had flipped on that switch button inside of her that was so hard to control. An hour after she left him at the poker table, she’d found herself seated in the High Limits Slots area.
Mistakenly, she’d sat in front of a twenty-five dollar slot instead of a five-dollar machine. Although she realized what she had done, she was too transfixed by the lure of winning to change machines. She slipped in a fifty-dollar bill and waited as her brain went into hyper drive.
What harm could there be in losing another fifty bucks? I’ve spent more than that on face lotion. And remember what they say, the bigger the bet, the bigger the win.
She hit the Play Max credit button and the wheel spun around until one red seven, and one white seven appeared, followed by a blank space. Her Ulysses S. Grant was history. She threw in another fifty in case the gods were on her side and merely testing her. The wheel spun again and three single bars appeared. In a matter of seconds her second fifty-dollar investment had yielded five hundred bucks in return.
Thirty minutes later, after a roller coaster ride of spectacular ups and devastating downs, Lori lost another $1500, the same amount she’d received from cashing a check forty minutes earlier. Unless she could come up with a way to cover it, her check would bounce.
Lori could still feel the pain as that last hopeless spin registered a loss. She removed the final bit of make-up from her face and stood there, trying to let it sink into her denying skull that she didn’t have a dime to her name. If she were starving to death, Lori couldn’t afford a Happy Meal at McDonalds.
The phone’s ring startled her and she rushed into the other room and picked up the receiver.
“Hi there.” Lori answered, trying to sound cheery and upbeat. If she pulled this off she sh
ould be awarded an Oscar for Best Performance.
“I miss you,” a low, deep tone echoed. It was Gillette.
Instantly, she felt rage at the man who had led her astray earlier. She said, “Tony, I can’t see you. I ...”
He interrupted, “What about dinner? You have to eat.”
She hesitated. Gillette would be willing to stake her again. She could win it all back. Every dollar. When she did, she’d never gamble again. Her anger started to dissipate. Tony was actually an ally.
Somehow, for a brief moment, sanity returned to Lori and she knew better than to flirt with temptation.
“I have plans with Aunt Betty,” she told him, grateful it was true. Gillette was too dangerous to be around. Not only was he a sweep-any-woman-off-her-feet-while-getting-her-to-drop-her-panties handsome, his lifestyle centered on the one thing in her life she desperately needed to control.
He continued his plea. “What about dessert?”
Lori felt her resolve weaken. She said, “I can’t. Our tour has been given tickets to see Boris the Baffler’s show. I need to be there.”
“Midnight?” he suggested.
He’d never give up. Gillette was the top dog in any arena he chose to romp in.
“I …” she hesitated.
He counterattacked. “Midnight in the poker room, then. I’ll stake you five grand.”
She could actually feel her heart come to a complete stop before it started again. She managed to say, “You’re kidding?”
“I never kid about gambling.”
It would be wrong to accept. Very wrong. She didn’t even know the man. “Alright,” she answered, putting a seal on whatever deal he was proposing.
Tony hung up abruptly. There was no good bye, no fond farewell my princess. Gillette was already acting as if he were in control.
I’ll call him back. I’ll cancel, she thought a millisecond before a floodgate of possibilities opened in her mind and rational thinking ended.