So absorbed in the day’s events, Kasey got as far as the lobby door when it dawned on her she hadn’t played the three quarters in the slot machine nearest the exit. She turned back, found a red, white, and blue 7 machine on the end and dropped them in. The first reel stopped on a blank.
Kasey moved on without waiting for the remaining reels to stop.
*
On her way home, Kasey pulled into the mall entrance and drove to Clementine’s. The restaurant, a rustic wood building looking like a lodge at summer camp, was independent of the shopping mall, nearer to the main thoroughfare. This early in the evening and this early in the week, Monday, only a handful of cars were in the lot.
She circled the building, checking the exits, then drove on. She’d come back at the end of the week, Friday or Saturday, when bar business was at its peak, and she’d bring along a companion. Aside from having a double set of eyes and ears, two people were less conspicuous. Over the years she’d used her mother, father, friends, and even the boarders at the house. All except Sherry had been more hindrance than help. Her father’s taste for booze had him jolly and talkative, distracting her, and worse yet, drawing attention to them. Her mother’s distaste for booze had her counting the number of drinks a customer ordered and shooting disapproving looks at those who tilted more than three. George was good, but he was reluctant to leave his grandson for too long. Once, years ago, Kasey had even taken her ex-husband, something she had vowed never to do again. The night had ended in a shouting match in the parking lot when she learned he had made a drug buy in the men’s room.
Ten minutes later, she turned off the highway onto a private road and followed the row of sycamores to her mother’s house. Every time she neared the property she felt an overwhelming sense of pride. She couldn’t imagine the ranch belonging to anyone outside the Bane-Atwood family.
A late afternoon breeze rustled the leaves, bringing an end to the oppressing dry heat of the day. Above a jagged ridge of the Sierra, the sun burned into her eyes. As she drove to the back of the house, she watched Snickers loping toward her, wagging his great head back and forth like a prancing colt, trailing a rainbow of colors behind him.
What has he gotten into now?
She parked her car under the carport between the two houses and honked the horn. She eased the door open, feet going out first in an attempt to ward off the dirty paws. “Down, boy, down. What the hell have you—”
Then she got a clear look. Fastened to a nylon line with bright plastic clothespins were towels, washcloths, and several old lace dresser scarves, items her mother insisted upon drying in the sun for that clean, sweet smell. “Oooh boy, you, my furry friend, will be one dead dog when Ma sees this.”
Kasey gathered up the nylon line and towels, engaging in a tug-a-war with the dog for the remaining ten feet. She heard the squeak of the back screen door.
“Kase? What in the world—Oh, for petesake, what has that harebrained animal done now?! Oh, lord, not your great grandmother’s handmade dresser scarves,” Marianne Atwood wailed from the back porch. “Kasey, stop him!”
“I’m trying to.” The cord wound around her ankles and threatened to pull her off her feet. “Ma, grab him before he drags me across the yard along with the doilies.”
Her mother jumped off the top step and grabbed the dog around the middle. For a moment the two looked like they were dancing, nose to nose.
Kasey rushed toward the house, towing the clothesline. She charged into the kitchen, reeled in the line until the last grimy length of lace and terrycloth slid across the threshold. The screen door banged shut. With a loud exhalation of breath, she pivoted, leaned against the refrigerator, and began to brush at the dirt on her skirt and jacket.
She looked up to see Danny sitting in a chair at the table.
“Hi, Danny. Hot enough for you?”
“You’re in good hands,” he said under his breath without looking up.
“I have magazines for you from Dr. Chambers. Sunset and Fishing the West I’ll bring them over later.”
No answer. Kasey didn’t expect one and would have been surprised to get one. The only person Danny ever responded to aside from his grandfather was Sherry Kidd. Sherry had something special. Something that charmed him out of his own private world of bright paper and TV slogans. Love, maybe. Only Danny knew for sure, and he wasn’t about to tell.
His head was bent, thick blond hair like a mushroom cap falling into his eyes, his attention focused on the piece of colored paper in his hands. His fingers painstakingly worked at the paper, folding, turning, bending, twisting. This one would be a bird of some kind, the beak and wings already distinct.
Every time Kasey looked upon one of his paper masterpieces, she felt a sense of wonder. No one had ever taught him origami, a technique of paper folding originating in Japan, and where he had picked it up was a mystery even to his grandfather. Yet, limited only by his imagination, he produced the most astonishing creations—flowers, animals, many-sided boxes, and birds, like the one he was constructing before her eyes. The only problem was a shortage of paper. His fingers, although slow and at times unmanageable, remained busy every waking hour. Kasey and the roomers collected all the paper, magazines, and newsprint they could get their hands on. Slick paper with colored pictures held the most appeal.
Behind him on the tea cart sat the portable Sony TV, the volume turned low. Danny absorbed everything and, like a parrot, repeated the more repetitious phrases.
Kasey opened the refrigerator door, careful not to disturb the dozen black-and-white glossies stuck there with magnets, more photos from George Quackenbush’s endless collection. She stared inside, debating between a diet Pepsi and an ice tea Snapple.
“Thirsty, Danny?”
“Have you driven a Ford lately?”
She opened a blackberry Snapple and set it in front of Danny. George insisted his grandson eat and drink products that were as close to natural as possible. She took a Pepsi for herself, popped the tab and drank it down, stopping only when she ran out of air and the ice-cold carbonation began to burn in her throat. She breathed deeply, rolled the can against her wrists, and studied the photos. The one that caught her eye was of the entire cast of Bonanza. The set for the original series was located on the Ponderosa Ranch, a local tourist spot no more than forty minutes from Reno-Sparks. When she was a kid, her father had taken her there and she had guzzled sarsaparilla from a tin mug, a mug that featured the entire Cartwright cast on it. She wondered whatever had happened to that mug?
“That was shot right after their first episode in ‘59,” George said, entering. “Did you know Michael Landon was doing stand-up comedy in Sparks at the time?”
Kasey shook her head. “I thought the only comedy he did was in that werewolf movie. What was the name of it?”
George chuckled. “I Was a Teenage Werewolf!” He tousled his grandson’s hair before sitting down next to him.
Kasey glanced out the window. Her mother and Sherry Kidd were trying to drag Snickers out of the vegetable garden. Sherry, wearing hiking boots and OshKosh bib shorts over a tank top, tugged, then fell backwards on her bottom. When Marianne bent over to help her up, the dog jumped both women, knocking them to the ground.
Kasey opened the back door and called out, “Want me to find that spray bottle, Ma?”
“Very funny,” she called back. “Get the BB gun. No, make that the 20-gauge.” Both women struggled to their feet, doubled over with laughter.
Kasey shook her head, chuckled, gathered up the clothesline of dirty linen, and put it on the washing machine. She was removing the clothespins when her mother and Sherry entered.
The women were still laughing, picking leaves and dirt from each other.
“What a sweetheart,” Sherry said of the dog. “I can’t wait for him to get all growed up.” She brushed at the seat of her overalls, stepped to Danny, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Hi, handsome, did you miss me today?”
Without raising hi
s head, Danny nodded. He thrust out his arm and pressed the paper bird against her stomach.
“For me? Oh, Danny-love, it’s the best one yet.”
“Go for the gusto,” he said. “Be the best you can be.”
“Wise words.”
“Sherry, are you busy Friday or Saturday night?” Kasey asked. “I could use you on a new assignment.”
“Friday looks okay. How long?”
“A couple hours. Ten to twelve?”
“Yeah, I’m free. As long as I’m in bed before midnight.”
Kasey knew she wasn’t referring to her own bed here at the house. Sherry worked on the weekends at the better hotels downtown, where the companion—usually a conventioneer or highroller—was registered. There was no safer place than a casino hotel. High security and the hotel’s preoccupation with guest privacy gave her a certain peace of mind. Prostitution was legal in certain counties of Nevada, but not in the downtown clubs where Sherry hung out. She resisted the local cathouses, the famed Mustang Ranch east of Sparks, and the Kit Kat Ranch outside Carson City. She preferred to take her chances in the clubs, working for herself. Sherry thought of herself not as a hooker, but a companion, a business woman. The difference, she told Kasey, was that although she accepted a fee for accompanying a certain man for the evening, she slept with only those she liked. She wasn’t interested in developing lasting relationships with her customers; she never accompanied the same man twice. Her goal in life was to one day become active in politics, and the less time spent with a companion, the less likelihood of his remembering the encounter later on.
Sherry was Kasey’s favorite work companion. The girl was funny, friendly, and sharp. Accustomed to sizing up people and keeping her eyes open for potential danger. Sherry had an innate creep detector and could usually hone in on trouble well in advance.
Years ago, hoping to steer Sherry away from the clubs and hooking, Kasey had offered her a full-time consultant job. Sherry had refused, explaining that she liked her job. “I’m fussy, Kasey. I pick the guy, not the other way around. If it turns out bad, it’s my goof. I don’t goof too often.”
But she did goof. And on those rare nights, Sherry would tap on the door of Kasey’s bungalow. Like a battered, hurting child, the smell of sex still on her, she’d curl up in one of Kasey’s comforters on the living room floor. Kasey would make her a hot chocolate with miniature marshmallows and, with no words between them, rock her until she fell asleep.
Kasey finished her Pepsi, then crossed to her own bungalow. She made up a plate of deli potato salad and pickled herring on wheat crackers and poured a chilled soave. She sat on the natural wicker in the bright kitchen with its potted herbs and flowers filling the garden window and paper mobiles hanging from the ceiling, basking in the last rosy glow of the setting sun. When she had eaten all of the salad and half the herring, she opened the envelope and began to go through the security logs, sipping wine and nibbling crackers.
Two hours later, she stuffed the last sheet of paper back into the envelope. Three months of daily logs, three shifts, told her something was certainly out of kilter there. The past several weeks showed a substantial rise in hotel guest complaints and what seemed like an excess of unauthorized entries throughout the hotel casino. She made notations of the reports she intended to pull and go over the next day.
She stretched. Where had the day gone? The first day on a new job always flew by. Many jobs were completed in one sitting. Others were ongoing, one day a week or month. She usually had more than one going at a time, and no two were quite the same.
She finished the last of the wine in her glass. It had become warm, tasting of vinegar. The sourness took her back in time, to her youth, to the many times before the divorce of her parents when her father had worked all-nighters at the bar in the resort they owned along the Truckee River. On those mornings when Kasey came in to help with the cleanup, he reeked of vinegar, bitters, and sourmash whiskey. The bitters he drank at first light in an attempt to ward off the hangover. The vinegar smell, brine from the pickled eggs kept in a two gallon jar on top of the bar, permeated his shirt front and both arms to the elbow. Whiskey consumed throughout the night seeped from his pores and fouled his breath.
Kasey tried to recall her daily horoscope. Something about a loved one being perked up by a visit. She sighed, ran fingers through the front of her hair. She had planned to look in on her dad. She’d completely forgotten.
Dotus Atwood was a night owl. He’d still be awake at eleven. She dialed his number, heard it ring in his basement apartment across town. After seven rings, she waited for the answering machine to pick up. Another ten rings and Kasey finally gave up. He was either out or passed out. As she hung up, she wondered what had happened to the answering machine she’d given him for Father’s Day.
Chapter Nine
The Monk got the call on the two-way radio at half-past midnight, minutes before the swing shift ended. Guest escort.
When he showed up at the cashier cage, he found a very drunk and belligerent man talking in a loud voice with the floor manager. The man was shoving hundred-dollar bills into his pockets when the Monk joined them. The Monk remembered him from the main pit. Loud, obnoxious, and on a hot streak on the dice table. One task of security was to keep close tabs on drunks and heavy losers. They were the most likely to cause a scene. The Monk liked to keep an eye on the big winners as well, particularly the ones who got soused.
The floor manager, a skinny guy with black, thick-framed glasses, was saying, “Mr. Nicker, we have security boxes for our guests right here at the cage. I really wish you’d reconsider and take advantage of it. I’m afraid we can’t be responsible for anything lost or stolen in the hotel unless it’s been secured.”
“What kinda place you running here, anyway? You telling me it’s not safe to carry cash around in your hotel?”
“Well, sir, you did win a lot of money tonight and there were dozens of witnesses at the table, and you have had…” the floor man let the sentence hang in the air.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, so I’ve had a couple drinks, zat a crime?”
“As a precaution—”
“Look, I’m ready to turn in. If the rent-a-cop wants to tag along, make sure I get to my room in one piece, that’s fine with me; but my winnings go with me. You, in the uniform,” Nicker pointed at the Monk, “do your duty.”
The Monk nodded to the floor man, then followed the man. In the elevator, the man rambled nonstop about himself, his life, his business. He had his own vending company in Auburn and occasionally he took these two or three day jaunts to Reno-Sparks to have some fun and get away from the family grind.
“You ever win a lot of money? Ever win five grand at a table? Eighteen straight passes. Eighteen. You ever roll eighteen straight passes, buddy?”
“I don’t gamble.”
“You drink?”
“No.”
“Drugs, huh?”
“No.”
“Well, hell, Mr. Clean, what do you do?”
“I do my job.”
“I do my job,” Nicker mocked. “Okay then, do it. Get me a broad. A blonde. One with big tits, I like ‘em full-bodied, if y’know what I mean. Have her in my room within a half-hour.”
“Not part of my job.”
“Don’t shit me. Isn’t that what you guys do when you’re not hassling derelicts or busting heads or just wandering around trying to look like big important men?”
The Monk stared at the lighted floor numbers.
“Not very talkative, are you?” The man bobbed drunkenly, tilted his head, looked at him askew with one eye. “You’re kinda young to be a security guard, aren’t you? I mean, most of the ones I’ve seen around here are old geezers. Military and retired cops. You’re too young to be retired. What are you? Thirty-five, forty?” When he didn’t get an answer. Nicker went on. “Betcha wanted to be a cop, huh? Wanted to be, but couldn’t cut it for one reason or another. You like the uniform, the gun. Yeah, I betcha lik
e to play cop.”
The elevator stopped on the sixth floor; the doors opened and the stocky man lurched forward. The Monk grabbed his arm and the back of his neck. The hand at his neck squeezed hard, forcing the man to one knee.
“Ooww!” Nicker quickly came up, pulled away from his escort, rubbed at his neck. “Hey, you stupid sonofabitch, what’re you trying to do? Shit, that hurt.”
“Yes,” the Monk said flatly
“Get lost.” Nicker pushed at him. “I don’t need you.”
“Which room?”
“I said…” As he looked into the Monk’s icy eyes, his jaw suddenly went slack. “I, uh, I can manage from here.” The mocking tone gone.
“Which one?” the Monk repeated quietly.
Nicker glanced nervously down the abandoned hallway. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple seeming to go into a spasm. “It’s clear down at the end. Really, I can—”
The Monk took him by the arm and began to walk down the hall. The man stumbled along, turning to look behind him several times before they reached Room 634. “Hey, thanks, buddy, I…”
“Open it.”
“Listen, if I said anything back there that didn’t sit right—”
“Open it.”
The Monk thought he heard the man moan as he reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a keycard. With trembling fingers, he attempted to insert it in the slot. The Monk took the card and unlocked the door, holding it open. Once inside, the man quickly turned and tried to close the door. The Monk’s shoulder blocked it open. In the dark entry, the Monk could see the light from the corridor reflected in the whites of the man’s eyes. Light, overshadowed by raw fear.
The man dug into his pants pocket, brought out a bill, and shoved it at the Monk. It floated to the floor. The Monk held the door open, bent, retrieved the hundred-dollar bill. He slowly turned it over in his broad hand. He rose, again staring hard at the man.
At that moment a door across the hall opened. From the corner of his eye, the Monk saw a young couple come out, saw them glance their way. The Monk kept his back to the couple, watched Nicker’s face, which seemed to go into a paroxysm of darting eyes and twitching muscles.
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