by Lamar Giles
Tomás was with her.
“Are you in my room now?” Mom asked.
“Yeah,” I said, concealing myself behind a lobby fern.
“Go back to sleep, sweetie. There’s some Tylenol PM in my medicine cabinet if you need it.”
“Will you be working long?”
Tomás reached across the table and caressed her hand. Her lips moved slightly out of sync from the voice coming through my phone. “Probably. I need the distraction right now. Unless you’re not feeling well. I can come up if you want.”
“Or I could come to you.”
“No,” she said, her voice wavering. She pulled free of Tomás’s grasp. “I don’t want you having to come out at this hour. I’ll bring my paperwork upstairs.”
Doubtful. “Don’t bother. I’m going back to bed.”
“Yes. We’ve got a long, hard week ahead. You need your rest.”
“So do you.”
“I love you. See you in the morning.”
“Love you, too.”
We disconnected. That hard week we had coming … guess Mom found ways to ease the transition.
Was it that simple for her? Was all this a relief? No need for her to choose the right thing over her boy toy now that her husband was gone? I stared at my phone, squeezed it, tempted to toss it as far as I could.
Sparing my phone, I continued to my original destination, the business offices, unconcerned about Mom spotting me. Seeing how she was busy making goo-goo eyes at Tomás.
I stole an unopened bundle of legal pads and a box of pens, then returned to my room. There was a way to control that rage. Keep my mind occupied, at all times. Learn new things. Study one of Davis’s favorite subjects. History.
When Dad was accused of murdering John Reedy, adults never talked about it around me. It happened. It was bad. Beyond that, I was shielded from details and legal intricacies. Your father’s innocent. That’s all you need to know. It’s for your own good.
When the trial had concluded and Dad was sentenced, I grew numb. He and Mom said the police and the lawyers and the judge were wrong. None of what they said had kept my supposedly innocent dad from going to jail, from being told he’d die there. Even when Dan Harris appeared one day with talk of new evidence, and the possibility of an overturned conviction, the details were nothing I ever investigated on my own. Prepubescent detectives were the stuff of kid books, and I was no Harriet the Spy or Nancy Drew.
When actual sleep was elusive, and the possibility of that elusive sleep was scary, I used the late hours googling stuff.
Here’s what I sort of knew and confirmed in my search engine digging. John Reedy and Dad got into a fight down in Andromeda’s poker room. Dad threw Reedy out of the casino, then got drunk and left. What the fight was about, I still didn’t know. It wasn’t in any old articles, and seemed less important than the second fight.
The next morning, Reedy was found behind a liquor store on the east side of town. Killed by a blow to the back of the head. Eerily similar to the way Dad died. Some intrepid web journalist got his hands on crime scene photos of both John and my dad, and I had to take a break. Those were too hard to see.
The night Reedy died, Dad was sleeping in his car a few blocks away. The store’s cashier testified he’d seen Reedy arguing with my dad. That fight is what put the jury over the edge. Despite there being no murder weapon and no conclusive DNA evidence, the prosecutor painted my poker pro dad as clever enough and “connected” enough—whatever that meant—to cover his tracks. Essentially, their argument was, who else would’ve had reason to kill John Reedy?
As Dan Harris pointed out a few years later, plenty of people wanted John Reedy in the ground. Like the minor drug lord who’d been hanging on to the murder weapon—“a bludgeon smeared with Reedy’s blood”—for all the years since that night. Patrick Finnegan, said drug dealer, was killed in a DEA raid, but the weapon was discovered in his basement, like some trophy. He’d been small-time when Reedy died. Apparently, he’d gotten stiffed by John a couple of times too many. Dad had just been in the exact right place at the exact wrong time to get blamed for it.
There were a bunch of other things I’d found. Enough to fill a whole pad with notes, and thoughts, and suspicions. The past became clearer, but the present remained murky, and the future—at least one where justice was served—was unimaginable.
I started a notebook apart from my look into John Reedy. In this one I’d logged details from the horrible news reports about what happened. I watched cold, detached talking heads tell me my dad was beaten to death. That his body may have been moved. How he’d had a supposedly rough transition upon leaving jail, and that crap about it possibly being drug related, even though Mom insisted on an autopsy, which proved the strongest thing in Dad’s system was aspirin.
Every vague unhelpful detail became my frustration log. It’s what I was scribbling in, pressing the pen hard enough to tear paper in places when Mom knocked on our adjoining door, startling me, letting me know it was time to get ready.
It was Friday then, and we needed to bury Dad.
Mom met me in the hall, inspecting my outfit as I emerged. Black dress—new this time, purchased by her sometime while I was scribbling down murder notes like a crazy person—with bell sleeves and a pair of oversized shades to finish the look.
Downstairs in the Loop a black limo idled with a discreet silver emblem for Charo & Sons Mortuary Services stenciled on the bumper and nowhere else. Behind the car sat Molly and Gavin in Molly’s SUV, Gavin tugging at his starched collar and necktie with a hooked finger. They’d gotten special permission to miss school today. My friends, god, my friends.
Mr. Héctor was parked behind Molly in his old LeSabre. I scanned the area, wondering if Tomás was nearby and praying he didn’t have the bad taste to show up today. He was nowhere to be seen, though I spotted a familiar face.
Across the street, at the curb bordering the Main Street public parking lot, Dan Harris sat in his car apparently waiting for our caravan to get underway. His windows were up, both hands gripping the wheel. He looked like a creeper.
Mom’s shades angled toward him, and she sucked her teeth. “Get in the car, Nikki.”
What was up with that?
Our black-suited driver held the door open and helped Mom and me inside. Once he was back behind the wheel, our short, three-car funeral procession was on its way, leaving the Loop, with Harris falling in behind once we were on the road.
Four cars. That’s all. Not that I expected much; most of Dad’s friends probably received the news in their cells at Ely State.
That’s okay. Dad never cared for crowds that much anyway. No more than he could fit around a card table.
Holding that thought, I steeled myself as we went to visit him one last time.
Charo & Sons wasn’t a church, and the officiant overseeing Dad’s service was not a preacher. Mr. Charo looked more like a somber accountant. It was okay. We’d never been very religious.
Moving through the room felt like floating. I couldn’t feel my feet touch the ground, though I’d clearly taken steps. Somehow I got from the back of the room, within arm’s length of the coffin, then to my front-row seat with Mom next to me, squeezing my hand as if she needed to ensure I wasn’t going anywhere. The rest of our little group settled in. Dan Harris, Mr. Héctor, Gavin and Molly, plus a few other employees from Andromeda’s.
Other people I didn’t recognize occupied random seats in otherwise empty rows. One man looked like he might be homeless, his funeral companion being a trash bag of tin cans balanced on the neighboring seat.
Mom cried softly into a handkerchief, and I felt a flash of embarrassment because I wasn’t crying.
Mr. Charo stood, approached a podium next to the casket, clearing his throat as he walked. I braced for the beginning and end of this final good-bye, waiting. And waiting.
But Mr. Charo didn’t start the ceremony. His eyes traced a line to the back of the room, where some disturbance b
rewed.
We all twisted in our seats, expectant.
A scrawny, familiar man stood in the doorway, a bouquet of sunflowers in his fist. Mahoney?
It felt like years since I last saw the shifty cardplayer in my basement on the night Dad came home.
She’s a legacy. Nathan Tate’s.
Of course he’d known Dad.
With all eyes on him, Mahoney said, “Am I late?”
“No,” Mr. Charo said, his voice a deep baritone befitting the Grim Reaper. “Please come in.”
Mahoney, loud and tactless, yelled into the hall behind him, “It ain’t started yet.”
He entered fully, leading a caravan. Along with him, Goose and several members of the Pack in their biker cuts, Luciano from the Apocalyptic Poker Game, and others. The procession continued, becoming increasingly bizarre. More cardplayers came, the celebrities of the poker world, instantly recognizable from all the articles and books I’d read. I’d seen several of them take home fortunes in the World Series of Poker. All of them here honoring one of their own.
Each carried elaborate bouquets, many arrangements made to look like cards, aces and kings. They dropped their offerings before the coffin while Mom squeezed my hand in pulses. Luciano, in jeans, his signature tank top beneath a gray suit coat for a quasi-formal look, dropped off his bouquet, then took a knee right in front of my seat. “My condolences, hermana.”
“Gracias,” I said, a leftover from my nearly forgotten freshman Spanish class.
“And you are?” Mom asked.
“The guy who watched me make the dumbest move in poker history,” I said with absolutely no bitterness. Don’t hate the player …
“She’s tough, though,” Luciano said. “It’s definitely in her blood.”
He spoke with pride, pride he mistakenly thought Mom would share. Talk about misreading the opposition.
When Mom simply stared, and the long line of grievers undulated behind him like a centipede, Luciano said, “Uh, right. Well, we’re all late because we had a couple of games going on in your old man’s honor. We’ve been playing all night.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a tight roll of bills held by a rubber band. He offered it to Mom. “We all chipped in. This should help in the coming weeks.”
If all the bills were the same denomination, or higher, as the top bill, it was a few hundred at least. Maybe as much as a thousand.
Mom hesitated but conceded eventually. Neither pride nor grief led her to foolishly deny the gift. If nothing else, saying no was kind of an insult. Cardplayers don’t give away cash easily.
His mission complete, Luciano departed for a seat among the rapidly filling rows.
Once the procession subsided, Mr. Charo began the ceremony, reciting words from memory, phrases that might come from the Bible or the inspirational kitten posters teachers hang in classrooms—I had no clue. Nothing he said about Dad was really personal, though. How could it be? The man probably didn’t know my dad’s name seven days ago.
But still, the tears came in a gush, sloshing against the rims of my shades. If Dad’s eulogy were left to me, could I have done a better job than this stranger? Really?
I sobbed, and Mom patted my back in a rhythm I only recognized as comforting once she stopped. Mom wasn’t the only one. Mr. Charo stopped, too, leaving the parlor in spooky silence.
I sat up and removed my glasses, mopping my eyes with the back of my wrist.
A new guest made his way down the aisle, a latecomer who had everyone’s attention. For good reason.
He was Las Vegas royalty, likely worth more than everyone in the room. A rumored gangster, whispered about like some evil spirit who might come if his name was spoken too loudly. My last good memories guest-starred his son.
Big Bert Carlino approached Dad’s coffin with a single white rose in hand. When he laid it on the casket, I swear the only sound in the room was the thorns scraping the wood.
Big Bert hovered at Dad’s coffin. He was the bloated, time-lapsed version of his sons. Cedric more so than Davis, but seen one, seen them all.
If Bertram Carlino has a problem with it, tell him to come see me himself.
The last thing Dad said to Davis and Cedric came to mind, along with a sensation of icy fingers playing piano on my spine.
Big Bert turned his gaze from the coffin and settled on Mom and me. Don’t flinch, don’t show fear. It was advice for facing down a vicious dog and felt wholly appropriate here.
Mom’s gentle hand squeezes weren’t so gentle anymore. If Big Bert stepped closer, the bones in my hand might break.
He stood his ground, dipped his chin in a nod that was—what? Respectful? Sorrowful? Threatening? My mind spun at the unknown history between my parents and the Carlinos.
Big Bert returned down the aisle and took a seat in the back row where an intimidating, Terminator-like companion waited.
Mr. Charo cleared his throat. “Well, then … Let’s continue.”
He did. And it was so, so hard.
All things end, though. Even good-byes.
“We will move to the interment site behind the building,” said Mr. Charo. “My assistants will guide you. Look for the gentlemen with the green armbands if you need directions. Now please stand and allow the family to exit first.”
The room rose as if in salutation for Mom and me. We walked the aisle together, passing all those who’d come to pay their respects. Except Big Bert and his bodyguard.
They were already gone.
Men buried Dad while cameras from all the news stations shot footage from just beyond the cemetery line. The same stations and reporters juicing my family’s pain for ratings. The tragic story of Nathan Tate continues, details at six.
Those punch-kick-break-something feelings bubbled inside me. Straps hooked to a hydraulic winch slowly lowered Dad into his grave, and I pressed down the anger, replacing it with a fantasy about the casket being closed because Dad wasn’t in it. He was off, somewhere, doing something fantastic that required him to fake his own death for my safety, and Mom’s. Recruited to an elite team of card-playing spies. Kidnapped by aliens who need an Earthling for their intergalactic gambling zoo. Kids’ stuff.
“Can we go home now?” I said.
“Yes,” Mom said.
We moved toward our limo, arms linked, saying cordial good-byes to all we encountered. Suddenly, Dan Harris was pacing us, uncomfortably close to my shoulder. “Meet you two back at the casino?”
“For what?” Mom said.
He fell behind, then shuffled to catch up. “It’s just—I thought we might discuss next steps. Since so many things were in motion before … the tragic events that have led us here.”
At first I’d only noted him from the corner of my eye, feeling like a buffer between him and Mom. His voice was whiny, desperate. More than usual, I mean. When I gave him a closer look, I noticed something I’d missed before. The side of his face was yellowish, the fading remnants of a bruise. A pink crease along his bottom lip indicated a healing gash.
“What happened to you?” I said.
Instead of answering, he crossed behind me so that he was closer to my mom and I couldn’t see his busted face.
“Gwen, there’s still a lot we can do for … yours and Nikki’s security. The city’s no less liable for Nathan’s wrongful conviction now that he’s, uh—”
“Buried over there?” Mom said, loud, pointing at the open grave and drawing stares from others.
We were rooted in place, as still as the tombstones surrounding us. I knew Mom’s rage well. It bubbled, near boiling over. So was mine. Harris wanted to talk business—lawsuits—here? This conversation was the creepiest thing today, which was saying something, considering we were in a graveyard.
“I’m sorry, Gwen. You should have some time. I’ll come by in a couple of days.”
Mom shook her head, disgusted, and dragged me to the limo. The driver waited by the open door, a hand extended to assist us. Mom nudged me ahead
, positioning herself between Harris and me, like Gavin protecting Vista’s quarterback on the football field.
Inside the car, I leaned closer to the open door, straining to hear Mom’s hushed response to Harris’s request.
“He fired you, Dan. Get it through your head. If we owe you some money, call, and we’ll settle it. Not today, and not in my home. You’re no longer welcome there.”
Dad fired him?
“Gwen, it doesn’t work like that,” he said, more forceful than I’d ever heard. “You don’t get rid of me that easy.”
Harris kept talking as Mom climbed into the car. The slamming door cut him off.
“Mom, what—”
Holding up a halting hand, she shook her head, tugged off her sunglasses, and rubbed her tired eyes. We sat across from each other on supple leather benches and didn’t speak. I switched seats, wrapped my arms around my mom. She returned the embrace. It was enough.
But not for long.
“I think I’m going to get it,” Gavin said, rubbing his right shoulder. His shirt was untucked, and the skinny end of his necktie dangled from his back pocket between slats in the smokers’ bench, like a tail.
Molly, barefoot, her itchy stockings discarded, never took her eyes off her phone as she thumbed out new texts. “You already look like him. You don’t need it.”
“I’m not trying to look like him. I want a tattoo on my shoulder to tell my life story. Because I’m awesome. Plus, mine’s going on my right shoulder. His is on the left.”
With the limo gone, and the grieving masses reduced to near nil, Mom retreated upstairs an hour ago, leaving me wedged between them in Andromeda’s Loop. It was late afternoon, warm, and my best friends did everything in their power to keep my mind off my dad’s funeral. Their topic of choice, Gavin’s desire to get a tattoo that wasn’t like The Rock’s while being exactly like The Rock’s.
“Don’t mean to crush your dream,” I said, “but a tattoo like his will cost thousands.”
“It’s not like his! Price won’t matter when I make the league, anyway.”