After a time, he found himself shifting the conversation to his relationship with Timmy, the things they’d enjoyed doing together. She listened, but all she contributed were monosyllables. She didn’t ask him about his background, and he didn’t volunteer any information. He didn’t like talking about the early part of his life.
But he couldn’t keep the memories from intruding as he drove. The near-slum neighborhood in East L.A., his low-income civil servant father, his alcoholic waitress mother, the crime-ridden streets, the crappy schools, the daily struggle during his teenage years to avoid the lure of gangs and drugs. If he hadn’t gotten out by joining the army when he turned eighteen, God knew what direction his life would have taken. He might have ended up in a dead-end job like Pop’s, living poor and eventually dying in that miserable neighborhood the way his parents had, Pop of a heart attack at fifty-four while Fallon was at Fort Benning, Ma two years later of too much booze, too many long hours waiting tables, too much grinding poverty.
The army had given him hope, discipline, pride, a sense of honor and justice, the desire to build a better life for himself. And then Geena had given him the rest of what he needed. He’d met her in Tucson in the last year of his tour. Driven over from Huachuca with a couple of buddies, and there’d been a party, and there she was—pretty, sweet-natured, as lonely and as hungry for love as he was. They’d gotten married as soon as he was discharged. Moved back to the Encino area when the Unidyne job offer came up, Geena already pregnant the first time. Difficult pregnancy; she’d miscarried in her fourth month. Three years later, after another difficult pregnancy, Timmy had been born. And the future looked as bright as his boyhood had been dark.
Until Timmy’s accident. Until it all collapsed.
Now he was ready to rebuild another future, one that suited the man he’d evolved into after his son’s death. The third stage of the life of Richard Fallon. Put on temporary hold by Casey Dunbar and his commitment to her, but that was all right. True peace of mind didn’t come easy; sometimes it came only after you were put to a test. This was his test. This was the price he felt obligated to pay.
It was midmorning when they reached the junction with State 163, near the Arizona border, and turned there toward Laughlin. Hotter down here than it had been in Vegas; heat mirage pulsed liquidly off the asphalt ahead. The desert country in this corner was more sun-baked, even, than Death Valley. The hottest day anywhere in recorded U.S. history, Fallon remembered reading somewhere, had been in Bullhead City in 1983—132 degrees in the shade.
When they were traveling on 163, Casey stirred and asked, “How much farther is it?”
“Less than twenty miles.”
She ran her hands along the front of her thin skirt, then extended them out toward the air-conditioning ducts. “I keep wondering,” she said then.
“About what?”
“Kevin. If he’s all right.”
“Dry heat like this should be good for his asthma.”
“Yes, but how is Court treating him? Is he allowed to go out, go to school? Is somebody watching him when Court’s working? Or is he being locked up in some sweltering room somewhere?”
“Don’t. You can make yourself crazy with that kind of worrying.”
“I’m half crazy already,” she said. “You ought to know that if anybody does.”
Despite its rapid growth in recent years, Laughlin was still a small town. The population sign they passed on the outskirts read 8,629, which made it five times smaller than Bullhead City. Most of the growth seemed to be to the south and east in the direction of bare, raggedy Spirit Mountain— housing tracts, schools, malls. The main drag, Casino Drive, followed the line of the river and was crowded with tourist-related businesses on the east side, the big casino resorts all fronting the Colorado like a miniature version of the Vegas Strip—Don Laughlin’s Riverside, named after the town’s founder, Colorado Belle, Edgewater, River Palms, half a dozen others.
As early as it was, people streamed along the sidewalks and on the river walk that wound its way behind the casinos, and you could see pleasure boats trailing milky wakes on the sun-bright water. The Colorado, the West’s most important water source, had a shrunken look—the result of the worst drought in a century, nine years long now and counting. Another couple of years and a shortage would probably be declared and the Department of the Interior would reduce water deliveries to Arizona and Nevada, if not southern California. Nature paying humanity back for its encroachment and its decades of waste.
One of the streets that angled off Casino Drive to the east was Bruce Woodbury Drive. That was where Co-River Management was located, in a new office park, in a building with three other small businesses. A sign on the front cleared up the minor mystery about its function; it was a property management outfit that handled residential and commercial rentals and leases and new home sales.
As he parked in the facing lot, Fallon debated letting Casey come inside with him. She might be able to get information more easily than he could because of her real estate license: professional reciprocity. But he decided against it. The marks on her face, the scabbing and chapping and peeling sunburn, hadn’t healed enough to be fully concealed by makeup.
He said, “You’d better wait here.” She didn’t argue, so he added, “I can leave the engine running if you want to stay cool.”
“No, I need to get out and walk. I’ve been sitting too long.”
Fallon left her and went inside. Co-River’s anteroom resembled a doctor’s office: half a dozen uncomfortable-looking chairs, tables with magazines and brochures, an L-shaped counter with a couple of desks behind it, a short hallway and a pair of closed doors. The one difference was the wall decorations: a three-by-six-foot architect’s drawing of a housing development called Sunrise Acres, and an aerial photograph of the same development under construction.
Behind the counter were two women, one a youngish redhead, the other middle-aged, both of them working on computers. The middle-aged one pasted on a professional smile as Fallon approached, stood up to ask what she could do for him.
“I’m looking for one of your clients,” he told her. “A man named Courtney, Steven Courtney.”
“Yes?”
“He’s a professional musician. Plays piano.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve heard he’s good and I’d like to talk to him, hear him play, maybe offer him a better deal than he has here. I own a small lounge up in Vegas that’s just been renovated and I need some new talent for the reopening.”
“I see.” Her smile had slipped some; the bright version was reserved for prospective clients. “Why have you come to us?”
“I don’t know where Courtney is working or living in the area,” Fallon said, “but I understand he receives his mail here. So I thought you might tell me how to get in touch with him.”
The rest of the smile disappeared. “We don’t give out personal information about our clients.”
“Not even if it’s to their benefit?”
She shook her head. “If you’d like to leave your name and number, I’ll see that Mr. Courtney gets it.”
“I would, but I’m pressed for time. I need to hire a piano man as soon as possible. Couldn’t you make an exception in this case?”
“No, I’m sorry, I’m not authorized to do that.”
“Who is authorized?”
“Our director, Mr. Sanchez. But he isn’t here. He’s gone to a meeting in Fort Mohave.”
“When will he be back?”
“I don’t know,” she said, tight-lipped now. “Possibly late afternoon, possibly not until tomorrow morning.”
“That might be too late for Courtney and me. Couldn’t you at least tell me where he’s working in Laughlin?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
The young redhead had been listening to the conversation while she tapped away on her computer keyboard. She said, “Oh, Lord, Jeanette, that’s not privileged information. Why don’t you just tell him?”
“Mind your own business, Kristin.”
That came out sharp, and the redhead bristled and glared. “Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not in charge here.”
“Neither are you.”
Fallon said to the redhead, “Mr. Courtney will thank you for it,” to take advantage of the friction between them. “I really am interested in hiring him.”
Jeanette said, “I’ve already told you—”
Kristin said, “He’s working at the Wagonwheel Casino, in their Sunset Lounge. I just looked up his file.”
The older woman swung around angrily. “Mr. Sanchez will hear about this. Don’t think I won’t tell him, because I will.”
“Go ahead. I’m just helping out a client, that’s all.”
“Now you listen here . . .”
They weren’t interested in Fallon any longer, and he wasn’t interested in their workplace bickering. He made a quick exit into the morning heat.
“I knew Kevin was here,” Casey said. She’d taken off her sunglasses and her eyes were bright. “I knew it!”
Fallon said, “Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?”
“Bobby J. knows I’ve been asking questions and he’s probably alerted Spicer by now. Spicer doesn’t know who I am, but he can put two and two together and it’s bound to spook him. If he’s spooked enough, he’s liable to start running again.”
“But not this soon. He must believe you’re still in Las Vegas, that you don’t know he’s in Laughlin.”
“Maybe,” Fallon said again.
“Kevin’s here. I know he is, I can feel it.”
“In any case, it’s time we let the law take over.”
“The police? In a little town like this?”
“Bring in the FBI, then.”
“No,” she said. “No.”
“Why not?”
“They’d take their time before they did anything, that’s why. Agents would have to come down here from Las Vegas to interview us, then they’d check with the management company, the casino, God knows who else to make absolutely sure Steven Courtney and Court Spicer are the same person, and then they’d have to plan and coordinate before they acted. I almost went crazy when Kevin was kidnapped, waiting for somebody to do something. You’re in the security business, you must know that’s the way they work.”
He did know it. The law was methodical; no agency was going to rush out and arrest a man who might or might not be Spicer, and if they found the boy, hand him over immediately to his mother.
“It could take days,” Casey said. “And what if that gave Court enough time to disappear with Kevin again? I’m so afraid for him, Rick.”
Fallon said nothing.
“There’s another thing, too. The authorities don’t know Court like I do. He’s capable of holding Kevin hostage, hurting him or worse. I think I’ve convinced you how dangerous he is, but what if I couldn’t convince them?” “They’re professionals. They won’t put Kevin at risk. If Spicer’s still here, they’d arrest him while he’s at the Sunset Lounge, separated from the boy.”
“We could do the same thing in reverse, and much more quickly—wait until Court’s at the lounge, make sure Kevin’s safe, and then contact the FBI. That makes sense, too, doesn’t it?”
“In theory. It would depend on where Kevin is, whether he’s alone or being guarded, how easily he could be rescued.”
“It won’t take long to find out, now that we know where Court’s working.” She gripped his wrist with fingers like talons. “I’ve waited so long, I can’t wait much longer. I want my son back now.”
“It’s not going to happen immediately, no matter what we do.”
“But soon. Soon. Just you, us, no police or FBI yet. Please?”
It went against his better judgment, but she was so eager, so desperate. There was no good argument against spending one day trying to locate the boy themselves, as long as they were careful. At the very least, they should be able to find out by tonight whether Spicer and Kevin were still in the Laughlin area.
There was another thing, too—Fallon’s promise to Sharon Rossi. She’d brought them to this point; he owed her the effort to keep it.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.”
TWO
THE WAGONWHEEL HOTEL AND Casino was one of the smaller, newer resorts along Casino Drive. It didn’t look like much in proximity to the Colorado Belle, one of the gaudier gambling palaces built to resemble an old Colorado River steamboat that bulked up next door. The covered-wagon design was spoiled by modern architectural modifications and too much splashy neon. The front entrance simulated a huge revolving wagon wheel, and you entered by following one stationary lighted spoke into the hub.
Fallon went in alone here, too, Casey waiting in the Jeep in a public parking lot nearby. There wasn’t much chance Spicer would be at the Wag-onwheel this early, but why run the risk?
The casino was moderately crowded, the banks of electronic slots getting most of the play, and the usual pulsing clamor made Fallon clench his teeth. The Sunset Lounge was on the second floor. A pair of marquee posters behind glass framed the entrance; he stopped to look at one of them. Medium-distance photo of a half-smiling man seated at a piano. Light-brown hair in a brush cut, light-brown goatee and mustache—not a match of Casey’s description of Court Spicer. But the facial and body types were right, and it didn’t take much imagination to picture him clean-shaven, with dark hair in a ponytail. The clincher, just discernible in the photo, was the mole on his left cheek near his mouth. Spicer, no mistake.
The lettering on the poster was all in black. Downcurving above the photo: STEVEN COURTNEY. Upcurving below it: KING OF THE IVORIES. Across the bottom: MOOD MUSIC FOR YOUR LISTENING AND DANCING PLEASURE. Trite and old-fashioned, aimed at the Baby Boomer generation. Fallon wondered if the poster was Spicer’s doing, or a product of the Wagonwheel’s PR staff.
The Sunset was the kind of lounge intended as an oasis for those who preferred quieter, more traditional surroundings. Stitched-leather booths, tables with leather chairs, a long neon-lit bar, a piano on a raised dais—seat empty, keyboard covered—and a small dance floor. Three big flashy keno boards served as reminders that this was first and foremost a casino lounge, with gambling the primary lure. Tinted glass composed the entire back wall so that you had sweeping views of the river, parts of Bullhead City and the Arizona desert stretching beyond.
There were only a handful of patrons at this hour, most of those grouped in one of the booths drinking Bloody Marys and marking keno tickets. The bartender, gray-haired, sixtyish, wearing a Western-style shirt and a string tie, stood slicing lemon and lime wedges with bored attention. Fallon sat down in front of him, ordered a glass of club soda with lime.
While the bartender poured it, Fallon said casually, “I noticed the posters on the way in. Steven Courtney, King of the Ivories.”
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“I hear he’s pretty good.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that. I work days.”
“What time does he come on?”
“Six o’clock.”
“Tonight—Monday?”
“Every night except Sunday, six till midnight.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find him now, would you? Where he lives?”
The bartender looked straight at Fallon for the first time. “No, I wouldn’t,” he said as he set the drink down. “Why?”
“He’s an old friend. Happens I have some business with him.”
“I couldn’t tell you where the man lives even if I knew.”
“Who could?”
Shrug. “Day shift manager, maybe, but he’s not here. Why not just come back tonight?”
“I need to talk to Courtney as soon as possible.”
“Well, you could check with the business office downstairs.”
“Thanks,” Fallon said. “I’ll do that.”
He did, and it was what he fig
ured it would be, a waste of time. They wouldn’t give out any personal information about their employees.
Casey said, “It’s not even noon yet. What’re we going to do for six hours?”
“The wait’ll be longer than that. Fourteen or fifteen hours, at least.”
“Why? Why so long?”
“I can’t just walk in and brace Spicer at six o’clock, in front of a crowd of people. I’ll have to wait until he’s done playing for the night and follow him to where he’s living. Just the two of us then. And, with luck, the boy.”
“Oh, God. Isn’t there any way to do it sooner?”
“I suppose I could talk to employees at the Wagonwheel and the other casinos, try to find somebody who knows him and is willing to give out his address. But the chances are slim, and there’s the risk of word getting back to him.”
“Yes, you’re right. It’s just that I can’t stand waiting when we’re this close to finding Kevin.”
“You’ll get through it.”
“How? What are we going to do all day?”
“The first thing is find a place to have lunch—”
“I’m not hungry. I couldn’t eat.”
“—and then I’ll get us a couple of motel rooms. After that, a long drive in the desert. Time passes more quickly when you’re on the move.”
“Another motel room? Why?”
“Place for you to be while I’m at the Sunset Lounge,” Fallon said. “Place for you to spend the night—with Kevin, if I can make it happen.”
“You will. You have to.”
“We’ll see. One step at a time.”
* * *
They ate in a coffee shop on a side street off Casino Drive. Casey picked at her food. Fallon ate most of his, slowly, not because he was hungry but to kill an extra few minutes. Afterward, he found an inexpensive motel near the Laughlin/Bullhead International Airport on the Nevada side of the river. Separate rooms again, adjacent. He used up another half hour showering, shaving, changing into a clean shirt. Casey hadn’t bothered; she still wore the same skirt and blouse, and her hair and face were still sweat-damp when he knocked on her door.
The Other Side of Silence Page 11