Kenny trotted back into the Starlake Building with his gym bag and into the bathroom at the end of the hall. On the way back to Jessie, he paused in the hallway and studied the black-and-white photographs of old Tahoe lining the walls, trying to steady his ragged breathing. He wanted her; he wanted to be with her, and he would run through fire for her if that’s what it took. How would his mother advise him? “Don’t scare her,” she would say. “Go slow.”
Jessie was watching the sky from inside the car. Kenny looked all around. Nobody. Afternoon clouds gathered behind the mountains.
“Last night,” she said, “I saw Dan in my dream. I talked to him.”
“What did he say?”
“He warned me about cold winds.” She smiled. “I guess he noticed I’m not in Hawaii anymore.”
He didn’t want her thinking about Dan anymore. He wanted her absorbed with him, and he had a plan to make it happen, starting right now.
Jessie went on, “I’m satisfied. All I really cared about was showing everyone that I didn’t kill Dan. And then Gabe got sick. I thought—I thought I might lose him too. But now, I’m sorry about Mr. Potter, but I just want to move on. I don’t really care about the money. I can do the rest of what I want to do myself.”
“Gabe’s going to be big and healthy. He’ll be an athlete like you.”
“Yeah, I think he will. I said I don’t care about the money. That was selfish. I do care about the money, ’cause I’d like you to get your share.”
Kenny, staggered, thought, She cares about me. She does.
“Speaking of which, you changed your clothes. You don’t look like yourself in those shorts.”
He looked down. “My mother always says my knees are bony and my father says my legs are bowed. That’s how they show their love for me.”
“By criticizing?”
“By pointing out minor flaws. It serves two purposes.
It keeps them humble, not having a perfect child, and keeps the gods from noticing how great I am so they won’t swoop down and take me back. It’s traditional behavior. Took me a long time to figure out what was going on. I thought they really cared about my knobby knees. You’ll be amazed when you meet them. They sound like they hate me when they talk about me to other people. Actually it’s the opposite. They dote on me.”
“When I first met you, I thought—well, never mind.”
“No. Come on. What did you think?”
“Well, I thought you were a boring little nerd.” She laughed. “Sorry.”
“I’ve been called worse. Actually, I am a boring little nerd. Where I went to school, it’s practically a badge of honor. What do you think of me now?”
“I think—you have very knobby knees.”
They both laughed.
“So why are you dressed like that?” Jessie asked.
“To go running.”
“Is that why you wanted me to wait?”
“I wondered if you would come along, pace me to the lake? It’s flat here and cooler than in the desert. You have a few more minutes, don’t you?”
“When did you, master of all things mental, suddenly jump up and become a runner?” she asked.
“Because I want to be more than what I am. For you. I’ve never run before. Today’s my first day,” he admitted.
“Okay.” Opening the back door of the car, she grabbed a sweatshirt and cinched it around her waist, then slung the rifle case across her back and slid a few bullets into her pocket. “It’ll be just like being back in the Corps,” she said. “Except the weapon’s lighter. I’ll teach you a really stupid song to keep you going. We’ll be careful. Quick, before the rain comes.”
28
RED COUNTED ON the fact that Donna always took off her wedding rings when she took a shower, leaving the single-carat diamond and the gold band on the brass tray on her bureau.
He could hear her in the bathroom right now, running the shower. She thought they were going to bed. She was, but he wasn’t. He looked at the rings.
Their rings, really. He would borrow them, that’s all. She’d have them back safe and sound the next day.
He stuck the rings into his pants pocket. If he didn’t leave some kind of note, she might call the police. But what could he say?
He took a pen off the tray and found an old birthday card of Donna’s on the bureau. On the back he wrote: Had to go out. Had to borrow rings. Don’t worry.
What the fuck else was there to say? They would be back in her drawer by the end of the night, or they wouldn’t and she’d pack up and—he’d win, that was all there was to it. He changed into his outfit in the garage so that he wouldn’t disturb Donna, picking a spot near the back door where the floor remained relatively sanitary. Then he pushed the Harley outside and down the driveway until it was far enough away to start up. Nice house, only two years old, cathedral ceilings, grassy yard from Donna watering it all day. Three payments behind, just like the car.
He did the math as he got onto the Reno freeway. Ten thousand just to hang on. He had to hold out until the case went somewhere. A few days, max. The woman lawyer would figure out something, kick Riesner in the teeth.
He just couldn’t believe how that smirking fool had stepped up in court to hold up the money the minute Potter went down. A shooting gallery! But he had dropped the gun in Potter’s car, and, looking back, he was starting to realize that he had blown away three people.
This couldn’t go on forever.
He had really thought whacking Potter would finally free up the money for Jessie. She was his horse, and he was helping her come in first. He sometimes imagined himself telling her everything he had done to help her win the case. But he could tell she was like all the rest— conventional, forehead-deep in the usual sanctimonious shit. She was just his horse, she didn’t have to like it.
Now that the bourgeoisie were all safely tucked away in their subdivisions, eating healthy and watching TV, traffic was light on South Virginia. He pulled in on the outskirts of the gambling district to a place that stayed open until midnight. He pawned the wedding set.
Three hundred dollars! It was a pathetic stake, he knew that. But he was gripped by an overwhelming feeling that tonight was the night when it would all come together for him. He had done everything he could do to align the stars properly, that was for sure.
On the anonymous floor at the Reno Hilton, lots of kiddies who had stayed up late were hanging around the video arcade as he came in adjusting the goatee. The tables were hopping. For a few minutes he sauntered around, his excitement gearing up to racing speed, while he located the five-dollar minimum tables and previewed the dealers. He always went for the women because they were slower and just dealt the cards. Male dealers were full of themselves and possessive about the tables. Their egos spread out all over and made it hard for Red to catch the evanescent feeling that told him when to take a chance and bet big.
Tonight would be big. He felt luck sparking around him like electricity.
He sat down at third base at one of the tables and played a few hands, taking it easy, watching the girl shuffle her two decks, watching the old lady at his right cut the cards very deftly. She was at least seventy and by the looks of her had spent most of those years with a deck in hand. A young couple sat next to her, the boy making sure the girl didn’t make any mistakes. Not a bad group.
Filled with pleasurable anticipation, heart thudding, he started slow with a five-dollar chip. The dealer handed him a ten and an eight and he stayed. Not a great hand, but that wasn’t the question. The question was, how hot was she?
She pulled a hard seventeen and that was that. He stacked up the two chips and waited. Two jacks. Would she make twenty-one?
She busted. The golden feeling gathered around Red, pulsing. The whole table won. This was the night! But he stayed cool. Back to a single chip, still testing the cosmic flow.
She busted again to the sixteen he had decided not to draw to. That was it. He stacked up five chips, and she busted a
gain. She was so stone cold she could keep ice cubes in her mouth. And she didn’t seem to mind, she looked happy that the customers were winning. He liked that. He hoped she still had plenty of time on her shift.
Playing like that for half an hour, he won more often than not, and he stayed cool. When she clapped her hands and spread them so the cameras above could see they were empty and said good luck, Red took a break and counted up. He was up five hundred fifty and still hot. Feeling expansive, he passed her ten bucks before she left, basking in her smile and the “Thank you, sir” she gave him in return.
Roulette time. He had told Potter the truth. He loved roulette the best, though the wheel could be cruel and he knew the odds were bad. But it was so alluring, the silver ball spinning its way counter to the wheel, the people leaning forward to stack their chips, the croupier saying the phrases that had been said just that way for hundreds of years—he felt like James Bond, and the thought came into his head to bet it all on Three.
No!
A thrill burned through him like flames and his heart thumped but his fingers on the chips felt cool. He laid down his routine first bet, one five-dollar chip each on Red and Three and Odd. He forced himself to sit quietly, like he didn’t care, like it was all for fun. The ball jumped in and out of the number notches . . . settled. Three!
Amazing!
He raked it in, thinking thirty-five to one made a hundred seventy-five for one five-dollar bet plus a few bucks extra for Red and Odd, licking his lower lip, wishing he had bet more, thinking, I am so hot right now, what now? How far could he go?
Then, in a kind of terror, he thought, How long? How long would it last? He needed ten thousand, then he definitely would walk out . . . he saw himself getting back onto his motorcycle with his wallet stuffed with hundreds, back to the pawnshop and stop at the Safeway on South Virginia, open all night. They would carry roses. . . .
He thought, I’m coming to the end of the line. But what line? What end? How far could he push all this?
He made a side bet with himself. Hit ten thousand tonight, and he wouldn’t kill Riesner. He would forget about his jackpot, pay some bills, and cool it. Hear that, Lady Luck?
Let the silver ball decide.
With the wheel already spinning, he set down five chips on the Three, five chips on Red, five on Odd. The threesome next to him spread their dollars all over the board, diffusing the luck all over. He felt that terror-thrill, the sense of someone watching over him, deciding if he was worthy.
The ball dropped into the slot at Twenty. Black. Even.
Okay, let that be a lesson.
His hands trembling slightly, he set another five on Three and Red and Odd. You had to be consistent and go with the hunch and go big.
Twenty-four! All his chips were raked in.
He looked at his stash. He still had money. He was being tested, but he would show them what real gambling was.
He put ten on each. Three. Red. Odd.
“Two,” the croupier called out. Reeling, Red saw all his chips on the board raked away again. It couldn’t be! He couldn’t turn cold that fast! He would force it. That was the only way. Bring it back, dare it to dissipate. He looked around him, suspicious, wondering if somebody was draining off his luck.
No, they were all losing. Ten dollars on Three, Red, Odd. He fucking lost again.
Three, Red, Odd. The wheel spun. He couldn’t breathe. Terror gripped him.
He lost.
Furious, he threw chips out onto the board. Three, Red, Odd!
The ball dropped into Double Zero. Double Zero! The ball never dropped into that! Every chip on the board was raked away.
Sweat broke out all over him and he ripped off the jacket. “Get out of my way,” he hissed to the woman standing next to him, her fat arm pressing against his shoulder. She jumped back at the sound of his voice, because he had become terrible. He was more angry than he had ever been in his life. Fate was going to take him to the ultimate place, where he had to risk it all.
“Take a break, buddy,” said the red-faced man on his right. “The wheel’s not going your way.”
“Shut up or I’ll shut you up,” Red said. He could hardly remember the great mood he had just been in. He was in a battle with Fate now, and he had to stay on her, had to ride her all the way.
Looking at his chips, he expelled a sharp breath. The croupier set the silver ball in motion, saying, “Place your bets.”
All the rest of it on Three, Red, Odd! All or nothing! Red would come through! It always had!
It was a courageous, magnificent gesture, bound to bring Fate back so he could mount her again, and his eyes focused with painful intensity on the ball whirling around like the thoughts in his brain. Around and around it goes, and where it stops . . .
The ball circled, spiraled downward.
But what if—he could lose everything! Red suddenly reached out and grabbed his chips, hasty fingers in his kid gloves making piles on Two, Black, Even.
“No more bets.”
He was half fainting, holding the table to stay upright. It bounced into the Two.
And bounced out.
“No!” Red yelled at it. But it bounced on, into the Fifteen, into the Thirty-two, and back around, like Hell was on its silver heels.
Past the Two. Into the Three.
And stuck there.
Red froze, stopped breathing.
“Three,” the croupier said. “Red, Odd.”
“It can’t be! It’s fixed!” Red said. The croupier looked at his assistant and they both looked at Red. Red saw that he was attracting attention. He couldn’t attract attention. In a low voice he said, “Somebody nudged the table.”
“Do you wish to make a complaint, sir?”
The bastard must have knocked against it somehow, seeing all of Red’s heart and soul laid out on the table on Two. He would know how to do it. He had cheated Red out of his money and the bastard knew it. The croupier stood there, hand in the air, his eyebrow tipped into an inquiring look, the picture of polite courtesy, just waiting to see if Red would have the balls to call him on it.
Red got up. Pushing his way through the people watching, he ran down the red-carpeted aisles, outside into the night.
Rain splattered his clothes. He had lost it all. Every nickel. All!
He had to get some more money. He couldn’t go home now. He hadn’t been able to hold on, to ride her, because he hadn’t had enough of a stake. It wasn’t his fault. The ball was landing on Three right now, while he stood in the rain, impotent, drops streaming down his face which was screwed up like a boy who has just been told he can’t have something that he wants very, very much.
Lost and lonely. Lost and lonely. Lost and lonely.
He sat down on the bike. Set the helmet on his head, fastened the strap. His hands gripped the handlebars. Where to?
He started the Harley up and soon realized he was heading out of town toward Tahoe. He didn’t want to think anymore. He just let himself ride. Up he went into the dark Sierra, screeching around the curves, rain shooting around him and nobody on the road.
Something has to give! he thought. My money! He saw it, his millions, his intelligence behind that jackpot, and now another duck popping up with a long smirking face. Jeffrey Riesner. Red didn’t know where he lived, but they had talked a few times at court and there was one thing he did know.
Riesner played poker at Prize’s.
He had to go looking for him. He could get lucky again. Then Jessie, his long lean beautiful horse, would nose past all the others and he would ride Jessie to the finish, he would ride her hard and let her feel the whip and take his winnings and he would be the winner. The winner, never the loser—
Never the loser and never lonely. Never!
29
NINA MADE THE call as they negotiated clots of traffic on the last block before Prize’s. Cars in the opposite lane beamed headlights in their eyes as they passed, primed for the night’s slick roads. For her second, len
gthier call, she checked on Bob, who had already eaten and was playing African drum songs but had a lot to tell her about nevertheless. Most of what he said buried itself in the musical din.
She punched End. “Steve Rossmoor says that he’ll have things ready when we arrive. He didn’t want to do it, but we got lucky. Michelle was there. She insisted he help.” She felt the twinge of a smile pulling her lips.
“Lucky us, with friends in such high places.”
“One day I’ll know everybody in this town,” she said, taking a curve with one hand. Paul took the phone out of her other hand so that she could put both hands on the wheel. Traffic moved with funereal slowness through the dampening winds. She felt time pressing on her. A black knight was out there in the rain, a murderer.
“Everybody, including Jeff Riesner, unhappy ex-clients and assorted foes,” Paul said. “And you’ll have to have a book to keep the favors you owe even with the favors owed you. All part of living in a small town.”
“I don’t see things that way. Tahoe isn’t a small town, anyway. Not with millions of tourists coming through every year.”
She parked in the lot behind Prize’s and zipped past the clanging bells and smoky metal smells of the casino, taking the elevator up to the penthouse, where Rossmoor had his offices.
Steve Rossmoor opened the door himself. Tanned, as always, slimmer than Nina remembered, he wore a spiffy gray suit only a shade darker than the texturally complicated, single-hued decor. She remembered Paul saying he came from East Coast money. He sure looked it. Dressy California style at this hour for businessmen would be tie-less, a business shirt over clean jeans. “Sorry to bother you so late. Is Michelle still here?”
“She apologized for missing you. Said she’d give you a call soon.”
“I’d like that.”
“It’s good to see you both again,” he said. “Although, as I told Paul on the last occasion, it seems like bad news for me and my business every time I hear from either one of you. Maybe we can play tennis next time. Innocent fun for a change, eh?”
They walked into the suite and got the polite pleasantries out of the way quickly, admiring the drizzling view out of floor-to-ceiling windows.
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