Torch Song: A Kickass Heroine, A Post-Apocalyptic World: Book One Of The Blackjack Trilogy

by Shelley Singer

  “Guess it’s time to get you back to the restaurant. For now.”

  Like an idiot I turned too fast, and stumbled. She touched my arm, then took her hand away.

  I don’t really remember walking back to the casino. Just inside the door, she took my hand again and squeezed it.

  “I’ll let you know how the hunt for a replacement goes.”

  “Good. Yes.”

  Our hands separated and she walked away. Too easily, I thought with a stab of hurt that I instantly hated myself for. But I couldn’t resist watching her for a moment before heading back toward the lounge, my tiny dressing room, and my restaurant clothes. I’d only gone a few steps when I noticed Drew standing at the lounge door, watching me. His face was flushed, his lips tight. He swung away and disappeared inside the restaurant.

  Unless he’d followed us, he would only have seen the two of us going out into the parking lot to talk. But when I showed up for my shift he was too polite. I suspected he’d seen more. Wonderful. Injured feelings and now guilt. I really needed to pull myself together.

  It wasn’t until Hannah entered the restaurant that I realized I’d forgotten about her. She sat at one of my tables.

  “Coffee, and a piece of the cheesecake, please, Rica.” I scribbled down the order. Before I had a chance to tell her about the assassination rumor, she said, “What’s going on between you and Jo?” Had the sexual tension been that obvious?

  “Nothing.”

  “Didn’t look like nothing.” She grinned, deepening the scar.

  No reason not to give her a partial story. “She wants to do two shows a night, cut back my hours in the restaurant.”

  Hannah squinted at me, studying my face, obviously trying to see if anything else was there. But I’m an actor, and I played the role. She shrugged. Time to change the subject and tell her what she needed to hear— before my façade and my lie slipped.

  “There’s a rumor that the Scorsis are going to kill you, Hannah.”

  She didn’t even look surprised. She shook her head. “They’re just planting stories. Gives me points with the Colemans. Trust.” Of course, that was probably it. Newt was giving his spy credibility. Probably.

  “You’re sure that’s what it’s about?”

  She shrugged again. “What else? That’s certainly my best guess. Are you worried about me?” That nasty smirk again.

  “Guess? You mean Newt is spreading rumors about killing you and he hasn’t told you what he’s doing?”

  She laughed, her face relaxing in real amusement. “Thanks for caring, Rica. Maybe I should ask him. But you know damned well Newt never tells anybody anything.”

  That was certainly true. But something didn’t smell right. First a mayor and now a mayoral candidate. Sounded like a pattern to me.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They swaggered and snorted for about a mile

  The next day, I called Newt, and I didn’t use his hear-only button.

  “What do you want, Rica?”

  “I need to meet with you.”

  “Too busy. Just do your work.”

  “It’s about your assassination plot against Hannah.”

  Silence for a moment. Then, “I’ll get back to you.” And he was gone.

  He might get back to me, he might not. I’d go right to the source: Billy, whoever he was. I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I found him, but I was always good at playing by ear.

  I didn’t feel comfortable paying a visit to Scorsi’s Luck; if someone from Blackjack saw me there they might get nervous. But I couldn’t think of any other way to find a Scorsi I didn’t know. I cornered the sleazy change guy, Bernard, behind the quarter-real slots.

  “I need to talk to Billy Scorsi, Bernard— where can I find him?”

  Bernard slid closer to the wall, his eyes shooting in all directions. “School unless he’s cutting.”

  “Where’s the school?” He gave me directions and started sidling away again. “What time does it let out?”

  “Two o’clock.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Orange hair. Big freckles.” Bernard was whispering now. I could barely hear him above the casino noise. “He’s kind of fat.”

  “Who would he be hanging out with?”

  “How would I know that?” I waited. He twitched. This man brought out the sadist in me. “Well, I’ve seen him around with his cousins a lot. Ky. Newt Junior.”

  “Describe them.”

  “Ky’s taller. Darker hair. Older. Newt junior looks like his dad. I’ve got work to do. Let me go.” His voice rose on the last word.

  I had enough to move ahead with. It was one-thirty. I headed for the school. From what I’d heard there were only a dozen or so kids roughly Lizzie’s age. An orange-haired, freckle-covered Scorsi shouldn’t be that hard to pick out.

  I felt like a pervert, skulking around and waiting for children to come out the doors. I was hoping no responsible adult would notice me, trying to stay out of sight around the corner of the building, leaning against the chipped, tan-painted siding.

  Ten seconds after the bell finally rang; the noisy kids erupted in clumps through the doors like bad milk. Or tapioca, depending on your perspective, I supposed. The school was kindergarten through twelfth grade, so there were a good four-five dozen kids all together. I saw an ugly little Newt Clone dash out the door in a rush of hyper alertness. Big head. Bug eyes. Skinny little legs. Brown hair. He hung around, tossing a soccer ball against the side of the building, tapping his foot. Pacing. If he’d had a potbelly and a sandwich in his hand the picture would have been complete.

  Was the clone waiting for someone? And where was Billy Scorsi? Detention? I wouldn’t be surprised.

  A little while later, an older boy, dark hair, not bad looking but sullen, strolled up from a side street carrying a pack and grabbed the ball, tossing it back at Junior, who grunted when it hit him in the gut and tossed it back. They went on that way for a time, using the ball as a weapon against each other, until a chubby kid with flaming hair and big blobby freckles clomped out the door. Billy. Bernard was pretty good at describing people.

  I’d had a vague thought about striking up a conversation with him, but it looked like now was not the time. He was too well insulated by relatives.

  The big kid tossed the ball at Billy’s head; he ducked and it shot past his ear. Little Newt— what a disgusting thought that was— guffawed and grabbed the ball and they all began to walk away from the school.

  I waited until they’d gone a block and started following them. If I couldn’t talk to Billy I could at least see where he was going, get some idea of what he was like. They were doing a lot of laughing, a lot of loud swearing; nothing other boys at that wretched stage of development didn’t do. Where did they get these odd ideas of manhood? Their fathers? Their mothers? Each other, passed from child to child like a bad cold?

  I thought they might go to their home casino; maybe they worked there. After all, the Coleman kids worked.

  Instead, they walked past it. I was trying to be unobtrusive, but like most teenagers, they were aware of very little outside themselves, so I really didn’t need to worry.

  Then I realized that someone else was following them. He’d slipped in between me and the boys from a side street. He, too, was trying to be unobtrusive, ducking in and out of doorways like a villain in a bad play. He was an older man, small, with gray hair. Someone else was keeping an eye on the Scorsi boys. Had to be Jo. Thinking about her brought a twinge that I decided not to name or even examine.

  They swaggered and snorted for about a mile until they came to a park with a stand of pines, a line of firs along the back, and a few oaks.

  The big kid— he must have been Ky— opened his pack and pulled out a coil of heavy rope. They all snorted and swaggered some more. Junior blew his nose on the ground. Ky pointed to a brushy area near the oak and Junior crawled into it, clawing at the dirt for a while. I was some distance away so it was hard to see wha
t he was doing, but after Junior had finished scrabbling around in there, Ky handed him the coil of rope. He stashed it in the brush.

  As I watched from nearly a block way, I was recalling a photo from the local newspaper that had showed the oak tree Madera had been strung up in. Now, California live oaks of a certain size and age all pretty much look the same, but this one was the right size and seemed to have similar branches at the same height from the ground.

  The boys began walking back toward me, toward their casino. I turned and tucked myself into a food store entry and watched them as they went by, the elderly spy right behind them. The boys looked pleased with themselves. So did the spy.

  It looked to me like the Scorsi spawn were arranging the setting for a murder.

  I had to talk to Hannah again. Even if she seemed to trust Newt for some reason, the scene I’d just witnessed might poke a small hole in her arrogance.

  It didn’t matter whether Newt was involved or not, although I thought he must be. It was just as possible these young gangsters had no idea Hannah worked for Newt. That they thought she really was the Colemans’ candidate, and were planning to kill her to win status. And they were either copying someone else’s killing style or repeating their own.

  I found Hannah in the storage room working on a slot machine. Its innards were all over the work table.

  She gave me an up and down look. I was beginning to think she flirted to be annoying. “What a nice surprise. Looking for me?”

  I shoved some slot parts to the side and hoisted myself up. “We need to talk.” There was that smirk again. “About the fact that your life is in danger.”

  She shook her head. “I thought you already told me that.”

  “But you didn’t believe me.”

  “Kid bullshit. Billy Scorsi is a moron.”

  “He may be a moron but I just saw him with two of his cousins messing around an oak tree that looked a lot like the one Madera was found hanging from. And they were stashing a rope in the bushes.”

  Her raggedy brown eyebrows lifted. She went to the door and looked out. Reassured that no one was lurking, she came back to the table. “Three of them, huh? Guess I better talk to Newt, after all.”

  Good. Then I wouldn’t have to. She actually looked worried for the first time, dropping the cad-with-the-ladies act. I disliked her a little less.

  “How did you manage to see the boys doing those things?”

  “Accident.” I hopped down from the table.

  She laughed. The cad was back. “Are you watching my back, Rica?”

  I turned and gave her the nastiest sneer I could come up with. “Not a chance.”

  I slept late the next morning. Neither Jo nor Samm had showed up at the lounge the night before. Neither did Hannah. She must have been busy straightening things out with Newt and the boys. Drew slipped in briefly once. Maybe I was losing my charm. The only one I truly regretted was Jo. I wanted another encounter with her, and I wanted this one to end less abruptly.

  The house sys showed no messages from Jo saying they’d hired a replacement to work under Waldo. Maybe Timmy had some news. Patience might be a virtue but I’m convinced it’s an unhealthy one, like chastity.

  The sys in my back pocket buzzed. Newt.

  “Stop everything. Meet at noon.”

  Everything?

  After a quick breakfast at the casino I headed out to our little trysting spot. No more than ten minutes late.

  This time we met near our cars; I never had a chance to get all the way to the clearing before he stopped me.

  “You’re late.”

  “Just got the message.”

  “This won’t take long.” His eyes shifted away. “I want you to stop looking into the mayor’s murder.”

  Aha. “Why is that?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  “So it wasn’t the Colemans who did it?”

  He took a deep breath. “Just stay away from it. Concentrate on their army and their skimming. And any inside information from the family. I hear you’ve gotten close to Jo.” Hannah must have told him that.

  “I wouldn’t say ‘close’, but I’m watching her.” I sure was. “About the army, hardly seems like you need me there, since you’ve got Hannah on the inside.”

  “I know that!” he snapped.

  “Unless you don’t trust her?”

  “I do. Much as I trust anyone. Always good to have two pairs of eyes.” He got into his floater. “Just stay away from the mayor thing.”

  “Happy to.”

  It seemed pretty obvious what was going on. Hannah had talked to him, told him what the boys were doing at the oak tree. I doubted she gave me the credit: She probably said she saw them there. Newt went to them. Told them Hannah was a Scorsi loyal, leave her alone. And found out or at least now suspected that his little gang of hereditary felons had killed the mayor. I hated giving up on the idea that Newt was behind both plots, but there it was.

  So Hannah was safe, which meant that I still needed to deal with her. Oh well. One more act to this side show. I had to send a message to the chief and pass on the names of the mayor’s killers. Whether she did anything with it or not was up to her. Jailing juvenile Scorsis was not in my contract.

  * * *

  Drew was sitting with Lizzie on a bench back of the parking lot. She’d asked him to help with her history assignment. The topic was the Industrial Revolution.

  “It’s so irrelevant to the way things are now!” she complained.

  “No, it’s not. Nothing is. You need to understand how it happened the first time. So you can understand why things happened the way they did and how they’re going to happen next time.”

  She sighed. Drew read through her sketchy notes and skimmed the chapter she was working on. Lizzie sighed even louder, and spoke suddenly:

  “Something funny is going on with Billy.”

  He didn’t raise his eyes from the book. “Like what?”

  “Well, you know how he was saying he was going to off Hannah?”

  Drew nodded.

  “Well, he isn’t saying that any more. Not only is he not bragging about doing it, he’s denying he ever said it and going around looking all secretive and wise. What an asshole!”

  “What do you think it’s about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Neither did Drew. If the Scorsis had been planning to kill Hannah, it made a certain amount of sense, since she was the Colemans’ candidate. If they’d changed their minds, what did that mean?

  “I think I want to find out,” Lizzie said.

  Drew studied his sister’s face. She was getting that flushed, excited look again. “How you going to do that?”

  “I’ll beat it out of him. He’s made of dog shit.”

  He knew he’d never talk her out of going after Billy. She’d been muttering about those Scorsi boys since their fight over the treaty. And she wasn’t wrong. There might be something they needed to know hidden under Billy’s craziness. But she was looking for trouble and he didn’t want her finding it alone.

  “I’ll go with you. Is there some way you can isolate him? Lure him off where I could meet you. A couple of threats… he’s not real brave. Probably won’t even have to hit him.” He hoped they wouldn’t. He didn’t want violence if a peaceful way could be found.

  “Lure him?” Lizzie laughed. “That sounds slimy. But probably easy enough. I’ll catch him outside of school tomorrow and snare him in my evil web. Heh heh heh.” She wiggled her eyebrows evilly.

  He scowled at her. “We’ll make a plan. I’ll be there to cover you.”

  “Okay, Drew. Just don’t tell Mom— or anyone else, okay?”

  He didn’t think he would.

  * * *

  Driving back from the meeting with Newt, I noticed an unusual sight at Stateline and Highway 50: right there at the corner, four new-looking floaters, including an open truck, had pulled up in a line at the curb. A dozen people, six men, six women, all young and al
l dressed in khaki, were milling around the cars. A party of rich tourists from California? Unlikely. People from Los Angeles didn’t tend to wear khaki, and were even less likely to all wear the same color. The outfits looked almost, but not quite, like uniforms: neatly creased pants and soft-looking shirts, open at the neck. Shiny black shoes.

  I pulled over, on the other side of the street, to watch.

  Three of the men were hauling lengths of something out of the back of the truck. Lumber. Pieces of a framework. They laid them down on the sidewalk and began fitting them together. Two women and another man unloaded plyboard of some sort and brought it to the men snapping the framework together. A few bangs with a hammer and the platform, a small stage, one step up, was finished. They stuck a folding table in one corner of it. Like a medicine show, but the outfits were all wrong.

  They didn’t keep me waiting long for an answer. Next to the table, they added a large sandwich board sign that read:

  “Money! Land! Homes! We’ll pay you! Come to Rocky and raise a family! Sign Up now!”

  Rocky had sent this strange little army to Tahoe to buy Sierrans. I’d never seen anything like this before and it scared me to see it now.

  Two men and one woman jumped up on the platform. They had bundles of papers under their arms, which they set on the table. By now, a few curious people were crowding around. One of the men began to shout at the spectators.

  “Tired of never having enough money? Tired of having to earn your way with hard work in a country where there’s never enough work to find?

  “Have you heard of the richer place on the other side of these mountains, ladies and gentlemen?”

  By now the little soldiers from Rocky had put up more sandwich boards with the word “Money!” printed on them. The crowd was growing. A dozen. Two dozen.

  “Rockymountain is a rich country, but it’s more than rich, it’s a true land of opportunity. Rockymountain wants you. It wants you badly enough to pay you to come, to pay your way, to give you land and homes and nest eggs. Security! Financial stability! Plenty of work, plenty of money to go around. Why waste your lives here?