Betting on Grace

by Salonen, Debra

  Nick followed the signs to the luggage area. While he walked, he looked around—curious about this town where he’d been born. He knew nothing of Las Vegas, except what he’d seen in the movies. Several of his buddies made annual pilgrimages to Nevada casinos, but Nick preferred tropical beaches or cities that interested him, like New York, New Orleans and San Francisco. If asked to join his pals in Vegas, his standard answer was “Sin City? Are you nuts?”

  Except for the shadowy images in his dreams, he had no tangible memories of Vegas or the Romani community that he’d apparently been born into. All he knew about his early years is what his parents had told him: “Your mother was killed in an accident and your father was so grief stricken he wasn’t able to care for you anymore, so he generously let you come and be our little boy. Adoption is another word for chosen.”

  Nick couldn’t remember if he’d bought that line at the time or not, but when Judy, who was the Lightners’ natural child, told him the real story behind his adoption, Nick had believed her unequivocally. “Your parents were Gypsies. They stole you from your birth family and when they got tired of you, they left you on my parents’ doorstep. Mommy and Daddy felt sorry for you so they let you stay with us, but someday the Gypsies are coming back. They’re going to sneak into your room some night and take you away. That’s what Gypsies do.”

  From that point on, Nick had refused to go to sleep without a light on and he’d suffered terrible nightmares for years. The family’s move to Detroit had helped. Nick liked Detroit and had felt reasonably safe from the threat of his past catching up with him.

  Until last week.

  Over the years, Nick had met other adopted kids. Many had expressed a need to find their birth parents. Not Nick. Although mildly curious about his mother, he hadn’t even looked into the circumstances surrounding her death. But from the reading he’d done to prepare himself for this role, he’d learned that family was extremely important to the Romani. If that was so, he wondered, then why hadn’t any member of his birth family intervened when his father had given him up?

  Not that he planned to ask Yetta when he saw her. But, he had to admit he was curious about her so-called second sight. They’d talked twice on the phone since her initial call. Each time, she’d opened up a little more about her abilities.

  “I used to feel more confident about my gift,” she’d told him last night. “But after my husband died, my brain turned fuzzy. Like someone had dropped a blanket over my head. I could see images, but couldn’t make sense of them.

  “I thought my gift was gone, but Elizabeth explained that the pills the doctor gave me—antidepressant pills, I believe they were called—somehow disconnected me from the person I know myself to be. I’m feeling stronger now, and the visions are starting to return.”

  “A vision,” Nick had repeated. “That whole snake thing, right? You’re sticking with that story?”

  “Nikolai,” she’d scolded, although her tone was indulgent, “you didn’t grow up Romani or you’d understand. In this case, you’re just going to have to take my word for it. Charles has something my Grace wants, which has made her blind to the danger he presents.”

  “He’s a scumbag. She has to be more than blind to consider going into business with him.”

  Yetta had been quick to defend her daughter. “If you’re implying that Grace is somehow involved in any wrong-doing, you’re completely off base. Charles is wealthy, handsome and successful. Grace isn’t the only one who can’t see beneath the facade that he shows in public. Blackness is more than the absence of light, you know.”

  No, Nick didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, but he was going to find out. That was his job. And in a few minutes, he’d meet the first of four “princesses.”

  Alexandra, Elizabeth, Katherine and Grace, he repeated from memory. Yetta’s late husband must have been some kind of egomaniac.

  As he entered the large, noisy baggage claim area, he looked around for his royal cousin. The Lightners didn’t have much extended family. Pete was an only child whose parents had died within a few years of each other when Nick was a toddler. Sharon had two sisters but wasn’t particularly close to either. Nick’s aunt Emily lived a mere six or seven miles away from his childhood home, but he only saw her once or twice a year. Her children, who were all older than Nick and Judy, were virtual strangers to him.

  A voice on the speaker announced where passengers from his flight could find their suitcases. Nick hung back from the milling crowd to scan the room once more. Maybe she wasn’t going to show up. Maybe she was late. Maybe she planned to pick him up curbside.

  He’d just taken a few steps when he heard a voice call, “Um, hello? Excuse me? Are you by any chance Nikolai Sarna?”

  The name sounded strange to his ears, but he turned to look. The woman from the photo. Same large, slightly rounded eyes—a warm brown, as he’d guessed. She was a bit taller than he’d pictured, but then he looked down and saw four-inch heels. Her hair was artfully streaked with strands of gold and copper. The colors brought out the tan in her complexion.

  She was beautiful in a way he couldn’t describe. All Nick knew was that her photograph didn’t do her justice.

  “It is you, isn’t it?” she asked, smiling.

  Her smile produced a gut-level response that took him completely by surprise. What the hell was this about? a part of him wondered. So she’s pretty. Get over it. She could be evil, too. Don’t forget, if she isn’t part of Chucky’s scam she’s exceedingly stupid for getting involved with a criminal, right?

  “Mother said to look for tall, dark and blond. An oxymoron, of course. But, now I see what she meant. You do have a certain dark brooding quality despite the blond hair. Sort of Heathcliff meets Surfer Boy.”

  “I beg your pardon?” He tried to keep his tone neutral, but she made a face that a parent might give a child who’s just scraped his knee. She put her hand on the sleeve of his leather coat. “Oh, dear, I’ve offended you. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to, of course. I babble. It’s what I do when I’m harried. And I just got flack from the parking guard. You’d think this was a maximum-security prison.” She gave him a mortified look and her cheeks flushed. “Another inane thing to say. Can I start over?”

  Nick nodded because she seemed to expect it.

  She pivoted on one heel and walked three steps away then turned dramatically, held up her hand as if just spotting him and called, “Hello. Is that you, Nikolai? It’s me, Grace, your father’s mother’s second cousin twice removed…or something. Here to pick you up and bring you back into the fold.”

  He knew she was only pretending. This was just a joke to her. But the words connected with a place he never liked to acknowledge. In that place there lived a little boy who believed he’d been handed over to strangers because his mommy and daddy didn’t want him anymore. Tiny shards of glass pricked along his sinuses. Cry? Me? Are you out of your mind? a voice in his head shouted.

  Nick’s only recourse was to turn away and march to the baggage claim where he spotted his pathetic, secondhand-store suitcase. Most of his fellow passengers had long since escaped. Only one elderly woman was still at the moving ramp, wrestling with a much too large trunk.

  Nick let his beat-up Samsonite weekender continue on its journey while he hoisted the woman’s old-fashioned steamer trunk off the carousel. “Can I call you a porter, ma’am?”

  She gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you, but no. My grandson is coming for me. He’s always late, but he’ll be here. He knows his mother will take away his car if he doesn’t show,” she said, winking one watery blue eye.

  He nodded then caught up with his bag before it could disappear again. When he turned around to look for Grace, he found her still in the same spot, her expression misty.

  He approached her warily. “What’s wrong?”

  “That was so sweet,” she said. “I’m a soft touch for kindness. Although I have to say, at first glance, I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type to
help an old woman in need. I’m impressed.”

  The last was said with a saucy wink that told him she was kidding, but to Nick’s ire a swift, silly rush of pleasure coursed through him. He let out a warning growl. “I’m nobody’s hero. Don’t forget it.”

  She made a moue with her plump pink lips. “Ooh, I stand corrected. Well, if you’re ready we can go. Although you might want to lose the leather jacket. This is the desert. We probably have four or five days a year that would warrant a heavy coat like that. Today isn’t one of them.”

  Her clothing seemed to support her point. Her short black skirt was made of some material that looked like leather and adhered to her shapely butt and thighs. Above that she wore a relatively demure sweater with sleeves that stopped just below her elbows. Black and white. Her purse and shoes were fire-engine-red.

  “Not that the coat doesn’t look great on you,” she said, giving him a toe-to-head perusal. “Wait till Kate sees you. She already thinks you might be a mob hit man, and you do look the part.”

  Nick’s antennae went up. As part of his manufactured bio, they’d alluded to underground connections and a history of violence in and out of prison, but surely, Katherine wouldn’t have access to that kind of information.

  “So, is this really all your luggage?” she asked. “Wow, talk about traveling light. I thought Mom said you were moving here permanently?”

  “You’ve got stores, don’t you?”

  “Tons,” she said with an effusive gesture. “I just heard the other day that Vegas had surpassed New York as the current shopping mecca. Art, jewelry, fashion—if you can afford it, you can get it here.”

  With that, she turned and started off. Motioning for him to follow, she said, “It’s a bit of a hike. I apologize, but it’s not my fault. Some guy in a Hummer cut me off, and I pulled into the wrong parking lot by mistake and they wouldn’t let me change without paying. Which just isn’t right, is it?”

  She went on without waiting for Nick’s answer, which was a good thing since he was having a hard time keeping his mind on her story and off her legs.

  “It’s not the money, it’s the principle. And I firmly believe in sticking up for your principles…unless you’re wearing four-inch heels. If I’d known I was going to have to walk a mile, I’d have worn different shoes.”

  Nick was glad she’d picked the shoes she had on. They showcased her great calves and ankles. Shapely. Not pencil thin like the models in the magazines. This woman had substance. Hips that made him want to run his hand from her waist to her… Good Lord, I’m lusting after a perfect stranger, who could be a suspect. He frowned.

  Grace had stopped to extract her keys from her shiny red handbag and was scrutinizing him. She hesitated as if debating something, then told him, “A word of advice. Personally, I think that dark, squinty look is rather sexy, but my sister, Alex, runs a day-care center and there are always a lot of kids around the compound where you’re going to be staying. So you might want to tone it down when we get home. Alex will hurt you if you scare Maya, my niece, or any of her friends.”

  Nick gave her a look that always worked on junkies, informants and crooks. Grace’s eyes widened. Her bottom lip disappeared for a moment then she put her hand to her chest and laughed.

  “Brilliant,” she said shaking her head. “Oh, my, that was Dirty Harry and then some. Kate’s going to love you. She’s big on wilting glares, too.”

  With that, she marched away. “Do you mind if we hurry?” she called over her shoulder. “I have to make a quick stop at the Xanadu before your welcome-home lunch. And I thought we’d take the long way around so you can see some of the sights.”

  Welcome-home lunch? Nick’s stomach lurched until his cop sense zeroed in on the first part of her statement. Xanadu was the name of the small casino that Charles owned an interest in.

  In one of his e-mails, Zeke wrote that he felt Chuck was positioning himself to buy out his partners so he could introduce a more “exotic” venue for guests, one that included sex for hire.

  “What’s the Xanadu? A bar? I could use a drink.”

  “It’s a casino. Just off the Strip. My friend is part owner.” She stopped suddenly and looked at him. “You know what? Charles might give you a job. He has a number of family members working for him. My uncle, my cousin, my cousin’s wife. In fact, MaryAnn is his personal secretary. I should have asked her this morning if she knew of any openings in personnel.”

  “Would he hire an ex-con?”

  Her smile seemed so compassionate, she reminded him of his mother, who only saw possibilities whenever she looked at a student. “Absolutely. MaryAnn’s husband, Gregor, has had a couple of brushes with the law. Nothing terrible, but not the kind of thing a potential employer would necessarily welcome. Charles put Greg right to work when he opened his insurance center. Most of the work is pro bono, but he pays Gregor very well.”

  Pro bono? She actually believes that? He could tell she did, because she launched into a discourse about how an insurance company had made life more difficult for her family after her father’s stroke. She apparently thought Harmon was some kind of saint who looked out for the little guy when insurance companies tried to bully a victim into settling for less than a claim was worth. Was Harmon that good an actor? Or was she the most gullible woman he’d ever met?

  Nick figured he’d find out soon enough.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “JUST RELAX, George. This will be over in a minute. We’ll take the tissue sample and get out of here.”

  George. The gaujos, or non-Romani, all called him George. Only Yetta still used his given name: Jurek.

  He closed his eyes and tried to picture Yetta. The image helped block his doctor’s voice, the bright lights and antiseptic environment of the outpatient operating room. The drugs they’d given him that morning had helped take the edge off his fear, but they couldn’t keep him from remembering.

  Facedown on a table exposed to the steady hand of a man he barely knew was a bad, bad thing, a voice said.

  A bead of sweat materialized along the neckline of his paper gown. This man is my doctor. I trust him.

  But when it came to trusting others, Jurek didn’t. He’d learned at a very young age not to put his faith in anyone.

  In a few months—if he lived that long—Jurek would turn seventy-five. The vast majority of those years had been shaped by one childhood lapse in judgment. Guilt—not cancer—was now eating his guts from the inside out. He’d paid dearly for his mistake, first, at the hands of the Nazis, then through his own weakness and stupidity. Now, the finishing touch would come courtesy of an insidious disease that his body had chosen to host.

  “This looks encouraging, George. These polyps aren’t pretty and we’re taking tissue samples, but it’s not as bad as we feared.”

  Liar. Doctors were good at telling you what you wanted to hear. His doctor, a specialist, was stalling. When the lab reports came back, he would sing a different song. He would say, “I was wrong, George. I’m sorry. You were right. The Nazi doctors did plant a tiny cancerous seed deep in your bowels when they worked on you. Like one of those time-release pills you see in commercials, it was just waiting to erupt. And, now, it’s too late to do anything about it. You’re dying, my friend.”

  Jurek closed his eyes and blocked out the sounds of the machines, the ventilation system, and the nurses moving about. He stopped feeling the external stimuli and went to the one place that provided sanctuary—home. The camp where he’d once lived with his mother, father, sister and brother, cousins, aunts and uncles and other Romani relatives. Twenty-five people, perhaps, in their close-knit group. He knew them all and they knew him. They spoke a language that set them apart.

  Life wasn’t easy for the Romani. They weren’t liked and they knew it, but in the circle of their campfires, a child felt relatively safe. Which was an illusion.

  In the worst moments of his life—when he was being violated by the soldiers who made him march till he dropped, or
surrounded by death and despair too harsh to fully comprehend, or, even weeping at his beloved wife’s graveside—Jurek would reflect on how his life might have turned out if he’d listened to his conscience that morning, instead of his cousin.

  The early summer day had begun like any other. The men gathered together talking seriously about grownup matters that didn’t concern a boy who was eight, going on nine. The women were still discussing the birth of two-month-old Yetta. “Child of the north wind,” they called her because of the storm that blew up the night she was born. But when she cried out the next morning, the sun was bright, the day still. Jurek had loved her from the first moment he held her.

  He told himself a boy should have no feelings for a tiny infant, but he did. He liked her far better than the other pesky girls in camp. Perhaps to reward his attentiveness, Yetta’s mother had asked Jurek to watch over things while she went to an adjacent wagon for some dried herbs. Baby Yetta was asleep in the back of the wagon in a small box that had once held apples. Alba and Beatrix, her older sisters, were playing a game in the dirt not far from the open cooking fire. They ignored Jurek, which was just as well because three of his cousins, all older than Jurek, invited him to sneak off to see the new puppy they’d found.

  The dog was a secret because they knew their parents wouldn’t welcome another mouth to feed. The boys were keeping it squirreled away in a small pen by the horses. Jurek knew he should stay where he was. He told them no, but they pressured him. He was a fast runner. He could see the dog and return before the little girls even knew he was gone. Yetta was asleep. She would be fine.