by Lamar Giles
By my directions, Davis put us on East Bonanza Road. Ahead, there was a peach stucco strip mall across from the clustered garages of a U-Store franchise. I checked the address in my phone, assumed Dan Harris’s office was in the strip mall. Though, judging by his clothes, a rent-by-the-month storage unit might be just as likely.
Davis turned into the lot and plucked the sunglasses from the bridge of his nose. “Is this the spot?”
Reading the signs above the businesses, I still wasn’t sure. There was a dentist office, a dance studio, a hair salon, and a soaped-up window with a “Coming Soon! Count of Monte Fishto’s” sign taped to the glass. Nothing indicated a law office existed within ten miles of this place.
Then, “Oh, wait.”
There was a single door with a rusty, wrought iron grate over it. No adjacent windows. It occupied a space directly between a dry cleaner and a discount electronics repair, like something from the fantasy novels I read in the summers when I was little. A portal to Narnia.
There was a small placard next to that strange door. It said: “Attorney.”
I tugged the handle, and the door swung open on oiled hinges. Davis bowed. After you.
The door opened on a corridor lit well with overhead fluorescent bars. Inside we came upon another door, frosted glass obscuring any view beyond. “Harris & Harris Law Firm” was stenciled across the pane. Beneath that, “Free Consultations.”
Inside the office, I found the man I came for. Asleep at his desk, rank take-out containers emitting noxious fumes from the wastebasket.
“Mr. Harris.” I covered my nose after saying it.
He sat up, palmed drool off his chin. With red, squinty eyes he stared as if he’d never seen me before. The bruise around his eye was almost completely gone, and his split lip looked more chapped than injured. His gaze shifted beyond me to Davis. He tensed. Looked beyond Davis as if expecting my entire class to mill in, too. “What is this?”
A roach skittered up the wall behind him and disappeared beneath his framed law degree. This is the legal genius who finally got Dad exonerated?
“It’s me, Nikki Tate.”
He pulled his gaze from Davis to me. Still looked confused.
“Nathan Tate’s daughter.”
“Stop talking to me like that. I know who you are.”
Okay. Fine. “Your sign says Harris and Harris? There’s more than one of you?”
“I work like I’m two lawyers. What do you want?”
“I’ve gotta ask you some questions about my dad.”
He yawned and finally said, “Your mother was pretty clear about me keeping away from her and hers.”
“Is she here?”
“Touché.” He shuffled the papers on his desk in a pantomime of busyness. More than a few sheets were betting slips from local sport books. I recognized the logos. Dan Harris suffered from the most popular addiction in town.
Gambling debts might explain such low-level digs. Plenty of Rock Bottom Bettors came through Andromeda’s. Their dazed, maniacal energy screaming stubborn loser. Never got that vibe from Harris, though. He’d won a big bet by getting Dad off.
This all smelled funny, and not because of the rotten garbage.
Davis spoke up. “On your door it says free consultations. She at least gets that, right?”
Harris flinched, staring Davis down for uncomfortable seconds before addressing me again. “Fine. What do you want to know? I’m an open book.”
Well, that’s a pleasant surprise. “You and Dad talked a lot, before he …”
His eyes softened, saved me from saying it. “We spent nearly three years talking. Exoneration’s a slow process. No prosecutor wants to be the one who put an innocent black man away, not these days. They fought hard to maintain that he wasn’t innocent. So they could stay right.”
Brushing crumbs off the chair across from Harris, I took a seat and dropped my bag at my feet. “I get that. So how’d you win?”
“New DNA evidence.”
That phrase was in the papers and on the news when word of a possible overturned conviction broke. Since I started poking, I found it played a factor in a lot of overturned cases. Nobody elaborated much on it, though. “New” might mean a new process, or new forensics people working the case, thus new results. I would’ve thought the same if I hadn’t rewatched Dad’s press conference again last night, anticipating today’s visit, and paying close attention to Dan Harris’s remarks.
I placed Dad’s phone on the desk, next to a potato chip, and played the cued-up video.
Dan Harris frowned at the sound of his own voice, tinny through the iPhone speakers. “—it’s always an uphill battle to reverse legal decisions of this magnitude. However, when my office was tipped about new DNA evidence, triggering the raid on the real killer’s drug compound, we had undeniable proof of Nathan Tate’s innocence. That the Clark County DA’s Office still fought for eighteen months—”
I paused the clip. “You said the new DNA evidence triggered the raid.”
“Correct. I got the tip and was able to point the authorities in the right direction.”
“Why you, though?”
“Who else would get the tip?” He laughed. “I was Nathan’s lawyer.”
“Except you weren’t.” I leaned over, unzipped my bag. Inside were the folded, yellowing sheets of cheap loose-leaf paper I’d pulled from a box in Mom’s closet, the box where she kept all of Dad’s jail letters.
“When you contacted my dad because you were willing to take on his case, he wrote us about it.” I read the obsessively neat cursive: “This guy says he can help. Says he can do it pro bono with an understanding that any future lawsuits or residuals that come from him getting me off, we’ll share. It sounds almost too good to be true, but what else do we have now? His name’s Dan Harris. I’m going to meet him later today.”
“Okay?” Harris said.
“The letter’s dated the same day that drug raid happened. I checked against all the news articles referencing it. If Dad wrote this letter that day, that means you got the tip and pointed the authorities in the right direction before he’d accepted you as his lawyer.”
Harris pushed back into his chair, pressed his fingers into a steeple beneath his chin. A shadow drifted across the letter, Davis leaning in for a better look.
“That’s got to be a mistake,” Harris said.
“No, the prison reviews all incoming and outgoing mail, makes sure it’s not like an escape plan. They time-stamped it.” I turned the page so he could see the red ink verifying what I’d already explained. “How did you get a tip that helped a client you didn’t have yet?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Wow. What happened to being an open book?”
“You know, Nikki, when you have as much knowledge as me, it’s hard to remember every little detail quickly. You’ll see one day when you’re older.”
“Fine.” I’d hoped this would go a little smoother. “Why did my dad beat you up?”
He lunged forward. “He didn’t beat me up. I chose not to harm my client when he was clearly unhinged.”
“Unhinged about what? Why was he mad at you?”
“As I said, everything I know doesn’t always rise to the surface of my mind quickly. Time and a little extra assistance can help.”
“What the heck are you talking about, Dan?”
“Money,” said Davis. “That’s what you want, right?”
“Your words, young man. Not mine. All I’m saying is there’s no telling what’ll help dredge up those details I may or may not have.”
“I only want to know what happened to my father. I can’t pay you,” I said.
“I know, Nikki. Unfortunately, pro bono only goes so far. Consultation’s over.” Harris stood, motioned to the door. “Now get out of this office.”
“That didn’t seem helpful,” Davis said. We were back in the car, en route to nowhere. I punched the dashboard.
Dan Harris was hiding something. A lo
t of somethings. In times like this I longed for the Vegas I’d heard about in old-timer stories and in the movies. The town where mob enforcers motivated anyone to talk, given enough time. That’s where I was. Considering torture as an option.
“I’m not crazy,” I reminded myself.
“No one said you were.”
“The stuff with Freddy Spliff, Dan Harris lying. It’s all connected. You get that, right?”
Davis answered slowly, “I get we met with a guy who probably needs to hit a Gamblers Anonymous meeting. He basically told you to come back with cash. Who does that?”
My stomach dragged on the asphalt behind us. “I saw the betting slips on his desk, but—”
“What about those pink Past Due letters in his trash under that nasty food? Or that eviction notice?”
I didn’t see those things, too busy reading Harris instead of reading the room. Davis had been free to roam.
“Your mom doesn’t want that guy around,” Davis said. “Probably for good reason.”
“Stop sounding so sensible!”
“Look, all of this is horrible, and strange. I think—”
“What? What do you think?”
Say I’m being desperate. Say this is the grief. Say it so I can get out and Uber … wherever. Say all of it. I dare you.
“I think we need to look more closely at what happened to Freddy yesterday. Or that dude that’s crushing on your mom. That lawyer feels like a dead end.”
“Oh.” His extremely helpful offer calmed me down. “That is pretty sensible.”
Unsheathing Dad’s phone, intending to revisit the photo evidence I’d been working off for the last few days, I had several missed calls and a single text.
Mom: You’ve had your dad’s phone this whole time? And you’re not in school? Get your butt home now, Nikalosa!
Crap. I face-palmed.
“What’s up?” Davis asked.
The end of life as I know it. “Nothing at all,” I said, with a headshake.
There was also a voice mail, but not from Mom’s number. I pressed PLAY, bringing the phone to my ear.
“This is Goose. Got one for you. Whenever you’re free, we’re here all day. You interested? If not, I can take a hint.”
The call was forwarded from my confiscated phone. Another offer to be a biker’s pet cardplayer. That’s where I was. My options: Convince Davis to drive us aimlessly, go home and let Mom drop the hammer on me, or …
I called Goose back. He picked up on the first ring. I said, “I’m in.”
Goose provided the address. Beyond the borders of Las Vegas, into neighboring Henderson. The whole ride over, what I’d hastily assessed as my only good option eroded, melted into a lead ball that sat heavy in my gut. Playing for Goose hadn’t seemed like a great idea when my world wasn’t upside down. Except, I hadn’t played since the night I lost all my money. With Dad. I’d been avoiding it.
The thing I excelled at more than any other, the last great gift my father gave me. I was afraid in a place where I was once fearless.
You interested? If not, I can take a hint.
I’d passed on the kiddie game at Brady’s party. The closer we got to the rendezvous, the more I felt like ordering Davis to reverse course. I could back out. Easiest thing in the world. It would only get easier to refuse on the next game, and the next. Heck, if Mom buried me in a hole beneath the hotel, I wouldn’t have a next game to worry about.
Everything around me was so wrong these days. I needed to know if I could still do this right.
We arrived. Not a casino, a bar. Four muscular chrome Harleys canted side by side next to a few random vehicles, and one not so random.
“Unbelievable,” I said.
A blue Lexus with a broken headlight and a cardboard pane duct-taped over the broken window sat in the otherwise deserted lot. A certain cheater was in the house.
“Is that … ?” Davis said, recognizing Chuck Pearl’s car, too.
“It is.”
He swung a wide arc in the lot, parked with the McLaren’s nose pointed at the street. Like a getaway driver.
“This is a biker bar,” he said.
I didn’t answer, my mind on the Lexus. If Chuck was here doing what he does, a broken window might be the least of his worries. I shouldn’t care, but that piece of cardboard wasn’t just patching shattered glass. It was an ugly reminder of when I’d lost control. I regretted people seeing me like that, regretted being that.
“Nikki, what are we doing here?” Davis finally asked.
Chuck, Chuck, Chuck. “First, I’m going to save a fool’s life. After that, we’ll see.”
Inside, laughs and groans. We passed from bright midday glare into dim yeasty surroundings. Old cigarette smoke flavored the air, and partially filled liquor bottles four shelves high obscured the mirror behind the varnished bar. The place was empty except for a woman, who might be a rough twenty-five or a great fifty, keeping the bar and a couple of construction workers sipping brew and clacking balls at the billiards table. We were five steps in before a lax doorman hopped off his stool.
“Think y’all got the wrong establishment.” Shorter and slimmer than the patron saint who invited me, he was also a Pack member, adorned in their trademark leather vest and wielding a ball-peen hammer with a stained head I didn’t want to think too hard about.
“Goose here?” I asked.
“Who’s asking?”
“A potential business partner.”
He seemed skeptical but didn’t waste time puzzling it out on his own. He drifted to a hallway next to the bar, were the raucous noise emanated. “Goose! You got people.”
The mammoth biker emerged and waved us over, a big grin splitting his scraggly beard. “She’s with me.” He led us to the back room. Looking past Goose, I spotted Chuck, whose face paled at the sight of me.
Other players at the table included a variety of types. All adults. All in good spirits. I only knew one thing about them, true of all cardplayers. Those good spirits got dark if they discovered a cheater.
Goose embraced me like his long-lost niece, nearly smothering me in his girth, bike leather, and cologne. In the hug, he spoke low. “I’m staking you a thousand. Can you work with that?”
He let me go, his blue eyes like spotlights. I nodded. A thousand dollars to start? No problem.
Goose noticed Davis, and I prepared to soothe any frazzled nerves my wealthy friend might be exhibiting. But Davis was not frazzled. His hand darted forward, comfortable and assertive.
“Davis.”
The biker shook the extended hand. “Goose, kid. You play?”
“Nah. Never learned.”
Goose shrugged and walked us to the table. Introductions were made, Goose taking me around the table, no deception. I was Nikki Tate, daughter of the late great Nathan, and Goose’s potential protégé.
It wasn’t cheating, not a hustle. Whatever I won with Goose’s money, I got a (hopefully) fair cut. What I lost, I wasn’t responsible for paying back. It’s how I thought I was playing that night I lost my own bankroll.
I needed the game today. More than the money, I needed reassurance that I was still me.
Goose made the last introduction. “This here is Perry Sapphire.”
“Have we met before?” I said to Chuck—Perry, whatever.
“I don’t believe so.”
Chuck’s pile of chips was a bit healthier than everyone else’s, though not by much. Perhaps he hadn’t done too much damage yet.
“Is that your Lexus outside?”
“Yeah, that’s mine.” He folded, pushed away from the game. “I actually lost track of time and need to get going. Early day tomorrow.”
Chuck raked his chips off the table with his forearm, and they clink-clink-clinked into a knapsack that he walked over to the banker.
“Come on,” a cigar chomper in shades and a sports coat over a Def Leppard T-shirt yelled after him. “You’re not going to give me a chance to win my money back?”
<
br /> Chuck spoke over his shoulder. “Another time.”
“Perry,” I said, forcing Chuck to face me. Fresh sweat dotted his forehead. “Would you mind me taking a look at your Lexus before you leave? I’ve always wanted one.”
“Sh-sure.”
To Goose, I asked, “You all have been going a while, right?”
“About time for a smoke break.”
“Good. Be right back.”
I followed Chuck and his cash to the exit. Davis tailed, but gave me space.
Outside, at the Lexus, with no one in earshot, Chuck said, “Look, you crazy—”
A flash of party anger welled in me. I held up a single finger. “Uh-uh. All I gotta do is yell to my biker buddies in there, and maybe your kneecaps get a new range of motion. If you’re lucky.”
“It’s not your money on that table.”
“Not yours, either, not if you got it by cheating. Are you insane?”
“I should’ve stayed in Atlantic City.”
“Maybe. In any case, I’m not going to rat you out.”
“Gee, thanks for small favors. You only cost me a grand in car damage.”
“Is your life worth a grand? That’s what I just saved. Those aren’t rich kids in the Ridges.”
He sighed, backed off. “Tell me about it. An old buddy got me into that game, told me they were lightweights. It didn’t take me long to figure they weren’t that light, or that me and my buddy ain’t as friendly as I thought. Not if he put me in a pool with sharks instead of whales.”
“They’re probably okay if you play them fair.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Chuck said bitterly. “It was cool of you to let me just go. I halfway want to thank you. But I won’t.”
He attempted to climb into his car, but I grabbed him by the arm. He flinched.
“You don’t have to thank me. Just give me your number.”
“What?”
“Phone. Number. Someday, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do me a service in return.” I handed over Dad’s phone.
Sneering, he punched in a number. “Didn’t know chicks liked The Godfather.”
“I love The Godfather.” I snatched back Dad’s phone. “Answer if I call.”