The Case of Moomah's Moolah (A Richard Sherlock Whodunit)

by Jim Stevens

  “Where are we going now, Dad?” Care asks as we get back into our car.

  “Riverboat.”

  “Are we going on a cruise?”

  “Hardly.”

  _____

  It must be well past twenty years since the State of Illinois passed laws which legalized Las Vegas style gambling. To pacify voters, who believed the sins of gambling didn’t belong in polite society, the casinos would have to be floating on a body of water, away from the nice neighborhoods where most of the gamblers lived. Thus, a new age of Mississippi Riverboat gambling was born.

  In the time it takes for an unlucky gambler to crap out, massive paddle-wheelers featuring games of chance from casino craps to Texas Hold ΄em, docked themselves at wherever a community had a deep enough river or lake. If they didn’t have a stream big enough, they dug one, paved a huge, adjacent parking lot, plopped in a riverboat, and watched the money roll in quicker than the tide.

  A couple of riverboats even had the audacity of cruising from the dock, sometimes only a mere ten feet, literally holding their gamblers captive until the three-hour excursion was over, and the players were tapped out.

  “Gee, Dad, this place is totally cool,” Kelly reacts, seeing the faux New Orleans paddle-wheeler.

  “Don’t tell your mother you were here.”

  “Are we going to go in and play some seven-card stud?” Care asks.

  “What do you know about seven-card stud?”

  “I watch it on TV.”

  “I thought you only watched Nickelodeon?”

  “She likes variety,” Kelly explains for her sister.

  As soon as we pass a long line of tour busses, I see a sign: No One under 21 Allowed.

  Problem.

  “I told you, we should’ve stopped so I could buy an outfit that made me look older,” Kelly informs me.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  “Sneak on board?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love this kind of stuff, Dad.”

  I wait for a large group of senior citizens, unloading off a bus, to reach the gangway to the boat, and pull the girls with me into the center of the throng. I grab the handles of a wheelchair to help a gambling invalid on oxygen make her way up the ramp. Care walks between me and the chair, which makes her hard to see by the greeter at the head of the dock, who is busy welcoming the guests by handing out packets of Free Play coupons. Kelly positions herself between two fat ladies, where I can barely see her.

  The ruse works and we find ourselves on the first floor of the boat in a sea of slot machines.

  I have only been to one of these floating casinos in my life. It was during a surveillance of a cheating husband whose only mistress was a poker table. I didn’t have a good time.

  I don’t like casinos. There are no windows and very few doors. No matter where you want to go you are forced to walk past umpteen slot machines. The dealers, who work the tables and games, give off an “I don’t like my job” vibe. Their bosses, the pit guys, have “Don’t even think of crossing me” permanently plastered on their faces. Most troubling of all is that no one really seems to be having a good time.

  On TV commercials you always see well-dressed, upwardly mobile, young professionals, having a riotous, swell time winning jackpot after jackpot. Well, either the commercials have taken liberties, or we’re here on a bad day. I see mostly senior citizens seated at slot machines, pushing buttons to make the tumblers spin. Each wears a lanyard around their neck with a credit card attached to it which is inserted into the slot machines’ reader. They have literally tethered themselves to the gambling monster of their choice. Is this fun or what?

  Kelly and Care are captivated by all the pings, pongs, and gongs as the machines sing their gambling songs.

  “Do me a favor?”

  “What Dad?”

  “Promise me that if I ever end up in a place like this, tied to a slot machine, sitting for hours, waiting to hit triple cherries, you’ll take a gun and put me out of my misery.”

  “No problem,” Kelly seems giddy at the chance.

  We keep to the outskirts of the floor, where hopefully the kids will avoid detection, and make our way past the slots to the gaming tables in the rear of the room.

  Elmhurst is exactly where I thought he’d be. Problem is between him and us is a row of dealers and pit bosses, any of whom will pounce on my kids as if they were counting cards at the blackjack table.

  “Go to the bathroom,” I order.

  “I don’t have to go,” Kelly says.

  “I could,” Care admits.

  “Kelly, take your sister.”

  “Why, Dad? I want to be out here in the action.”

  “Go.” I give them a slight push to the door labeled Women. “And don’t come out until you see me give you a signal.”

  “What signal?”

  “Just go.”

  Once they’re safely inside, I make my way to the roulette table where Elmhurst sits alone, watching the ball go round and round the spinning wheel.

  “Double zeros,” the croupier announces in a monotone voice.

  “Damn,” Elmhurst says.

  “How’s the system working today?” I ask.

  His face turns a whiter shade of pale. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see if all those statistics, odds and algorithms work in simple games of chance.” I point to his small pile of chips, “Did I pick a bad day?”

  “The day is not over.”

  “Spoken like a true gambler, Elmhurst.”

  He places four chips on number eighteen. “So, now you know I gamble,” he says. “I’m not doing anything illegal.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “You going to try and prove I steal from my Mother to support my hobby?”

  “Should I?”

  “Be my guest.”

  The wheel spins. The ball is tossed in the opposite direction in the upper ring. We wait until it bounces down into the numbers and comes to rest.

  “Double zeros,” the croupier says again, with even less emotion than before, which is difficult to do.

  “Damn, that never happens.”

  “You might want to rework your system, Elmhurst.”

  “The game is not over.”

  “It’s a casino, Elmhurst. The game is never over.”

  Kelly and Cares’ heads pop out of the ladies room door. I wave for them to come out.

  “That wasn’t much of a signal, Dad.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  I take them by the hand and we head for the exit, only to be stopped by two security men.

  “Can we see some ID?” the bigger of the two big men ask.

  “I didn’t bring my purse,” Kelly says.

  “We came in because I had to use the bathroom,” Care says.

  “No one under twenty-one is allowed in the casino,” the second man tells us.

  “We were just leaving,” I say.

  “We’ll make sure you do.”

  The two men escort us off the boat, past the gangway, and back onto terra firma.

  “There’s only one thing I always want you to remember about casinos, girls.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They didn’t get built by people winning.”

  On our way to the car, I check my phone. I forgot to turn it back on after I recharged it. I do that a lot. It rings out: Tonight’s the night, let’s live it up. I got my money, let’s spend it up. “Kelly would you quit playing around with my phone.”

  “I’m only trying to make you cool, Dad.”

  “Give it up. I’m hopeless.”

  “I know.”

  The tiny screen tells me I have a message. I punch an icon on the screen, listen, punch another icon, listen, and punch another one. Ten seconds later I punch again and hang up. Using cell phones is exhausting.

  “What?” Both girls say in unison.

  “Oland found the car.”

  CHAP
TER 26

  The car is at an impound yard, located adjacent to a city housing project. Nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live here. The chain link fence surrounding the lot is at least fifteen feet high with enough razor wire on the top to repel a horde of drunk, angry, car-less yuppies. This is where your car goes after you give up trying to find a spot and decide to park in a red zone.

  The guy working the front gate weighs more than a loaded, mid-size Buick. Any owner thinking they can argue their car free, without paying the hefty fine, is as dumb as someone who parks in a tow-away zone. The gate clunks open and we drive onto the lot.

  The giant scowls at my dilapidated Toyota. “You can’t leave that here,” he informs me. “This ain’t no junk yard.”

  Due to his size and demeanor, I decide to ignore his review of my wheels. “Police here?”

  The man tries to point, but can’t bend his arm; too many muscles. “That-a-way.”

  I turn left, drive a couple hundred yards, and find Oland standing in front of a late-model, four-door, black Chrysler sedan. “Find something you like?” I ask. “We have financing terms to fit any budget.”

  “Sherlock, your sense of humor is like fart in crowded elevator, always unwanted.”

  We park, get out, and join Oland. A CSI tech dusts the inside of the car for prints. Kelly stares at the license plate, “Yep, that’s the one,” she says proudly.

  “Wiped clean?” I ask.

  “More prints than a pole in subway car,” Oland says. “I’m going to need a set from Kennard and his girlfriend.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I walk slowly around the car. “Where’d you find it?”

  “In a DePaul lot off Fullerton, the campus cops had it towed.”

  “It was there more than a week?”

  “Campus cops are not real good with record keeping.”

  “Call the owner?”

  “Not a happy man. He was leaving for Lake Geneva that night as soon as he finished dinner and the traffic died down. His suitcases are in the trunk.”

  “Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men.”

  Kelly and Care wander through the aisles of cars, checking out the ones they believe are hot.

  “Are you sick of this case yet, Oland?” I ask.

  “Nauseous, moment you called me.”

  “All the apples are ripe, but stuck in tree.” I tell him. “Time to shake branches.” All said in my best Charlie Chan impression.

  Oland gives me a dirty look. “He who stands under shaking tree, gets hit by falling apple.”

  “Yes. But look what it did for Isaac Newton,” I answer.

  I find Kelly behind the wheel of a Porsche, pretending that she’s speeding down the Autobahn. Care is behind the wheel of a Toyota; like father, like daughter.

  “Come on, we have to go.”

  “Dad, why don’t we have a better car?” Kelly asks as we return to where Oland is standing. “I’m going to be driving in less than three years, nine months, and two weeks, and I don’t want to be tooling around in some disgusting clunker like yours.”

  “Why? Same reason I don’t have a better apartment, nicer clothes, and a savings account.”

  “Those can wait, Dad. If I’m driving, I want to look good.”

  I tell Oland I’m going to be putting a rush order on getting him Kennard’s and Schnook’s prints.

  “Only rush I want, is rush to get out of town.”

  We wave goodbye to the behemoth at the front gate. He merely nods. It must take too much effort to raise his massive arm.

  “Somebody get Tiffany on the phone.”

  The sisters race to speed dial their idol.

  Care wins. “Hi, Tiffany.”

  I speak as I drive; setting a good example of hands-free driving while using a cell phone. “Tell her to call Kennard, have Schnooks come over to his condo, and then meet us at our apartment in an hour.”

  Care repeats the message. “Tiffany wants to know why?”

  “Hers is not to reason why, hers is but to do and die.”

  Care tells Tiffany, “Dad says something about eating raisins before you die.”

  “Tiffany doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “What else is new?”

  Kelly interrupts, “Ask Tiffany what’s better, a Mercedes or a Lexus?”

  “Just tell her to be at our place in an hour.”

  Somehow the girls figure out how to conference call with Tiffany, and the rest of the way home they chatter about cars, boys, shoes, and what to wear if you haven’t gotten all your equipment yet.

  _____

  At home while waiting for Tiffany, gives me time to study the cards, now completely covering the Original Carlo. Kelly and Care change clothes for no good reason except to change clothes. I remind the girls not to say anything to Tiffany about Moomah’s tennis bracelet being delivered to our door. They ask if they can take their new clothes with them, when they return to their mother’s house on Friday. “Please?”

  What am I going to say, “No”?

  It’ll be the last time I ever see those clothes again.

  My old detective bag of tricks is just where I left it, right next to my fingerprint kit on the top shelf in the front room. I blow off the dust and put it next to my keys, my wallet, and two plastic Ziploc bags, which I’m also going to need.

  Tiffany arrives a half-hour late. She first reviews the girl’s new outfits, “You’re both so hot, you’re smokin’.”

  “Tiffany, call Kennard and make sure Schnooks is at his condo.”

  “Mr. Sherlock, could you assign me to some other part of the case besides the Schnooks’ detail?”

  “Why?”

  “Schnooks might be giving me a rash.”

  “One more time, Tiffany. You can do it one more time.”

  “I’m telling you it’s a mighty big cross you’re asking me to bear.”

  I get no argument requesting that we take Tiffany’s Lexus, instead of my Toyota.

  On the way downtown, I call Oland who is finishing up at the impound yard with the evidence tech. “Why don’t you buy the guys dinner, and I’ll meet you back at the yard in an hour?” I suggest.

  “Why?” he questions.

  “You said you wanted Schnooks’ prints, didn’t you?”

  Oland agrees. I tell him of a great Chinese place on Western which has the best egg rolls in Chicago. He tells me, he’s the one who supplied the recipe.

  Tiffany exits The Drive at North Avenue. We are less than a mile from Kennard’s condo building.

  “Okay team, here’s what I want you to do.” I utter the comment with as much clandestine suspense as I can muster. For once, they’re all ears.

  “Tiffany, as soon as you drop me off, I want you to go upstairs to Kennard’s, ask them what they want to eat, and order dinner to be delivered. That will buy you some time. During that time, I want you to collect a set of fingerprints from Kennard.”

  “You’re asking me to put the sting on my Half-Uncle?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “We’re related. It would be like stabbing my brother in the back,” Tiffany explains.

  “You don’t have a brother.”

  “But if I did, I couldn’t stab him in the back,”

  “Could you stab him in the front?”

  Tiffany offers a solution for once. “Why don’t you have Kelly or Care do it?”

  “You want us to stab someone, Dad?”

  “No, I need a set of prints.”

  “Ten-four,” Care says.

  I hand over a Ziploc bag. “Get a glass he used. That shouldn’t be too hard to find. Don’t touch it. Just put it in this bag.”

  “And while everyone is eating, I want one of you to sneak off, go into Kennard’s closet, and search his jewelry drawer.”

  “What are we looking for?” Kelly asks.

  “Stuff on Moomah’s missing list.”

 
; “I’ll do that,” Tiffany volunteers.

  “I thought you just said you didn’t want to be the one to implicate your Uncle in a sting?”

  “When it comes to missing jewelry, there’s no line in the sand I won’t cross.”

  We reach Kennard’s building. Tiffany enters the building’s underground parking lot and heads straight for its one handicapped spot.

  “Don’t park yet,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “Drive through the aisles, I’m looking for a car.”

  “Why?”

  “You people keep telling me I need a new car. Maybe I’m finally taking your advice?”

  Tiffany turns to the right and drives down the aisle slowly. “This isn’t like you.”

  “Keep driving. I want to find a car that would make all of you proud.”

  “Mr. Sherlock, you’re not going to steal a car, are you?” she asks.

  “More like borrow one.”

  “There’s a real nice new Mercedes over there,” Kelly points out.

  “No, that’s not what I want.”

  “This is hard to believe. First you want me to finger my Uncle, and now I’m an accomplice to a car snatching.”

  “Tell your Dad to pay me more and I wouldn’t have to stoop so low.”

  “There’s a Jaguar, Dad.”

  “Keep driving.”

  We reach the bottom level of the garage. “That’s it over there,” I point.

  “That Cadillac?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Ugly. Absolutely, positively ugly. It’s redder than a diseased zit.”

  “Dad, how about an SUV?”

  “I like Jeeps,” Care adds.

  “Pull up behind it.”

  “I really think you’re making a mistake,” Tiffany says. “I can’t let you steal a car with a totally gross paint job.”

  I retrieve my detective bag from the floor. “Now, you people know what to do upstairs?”

  “Dad, how are you going to start the car if you don’t have the keys?” Care asks.

  “They used to call it ‘boosting.’ They probably have another name for it now.”

  “You know how to do that?”

  “I was a cop for almost twenty years, I learned from the best.”

  “Mr. Sherlock, you never cease to amaze me.”

  I get out of the car, wait for Tiffany to drive back up the ramp, and make sure no one else is on the parking floor. My Slim Jim gets me in the door and I have the car purring like a kitten in minutes.