"Please don't. Let the police do it first. You'll have your crack at them, I'm sure, and I can use it as a bargaining chip to get access."
"I could say the same thing."
"Doubt it," Gage said. "It's one thing to have a burned-out old detective present when they interview the parents, and another thing to have the press. But I'll make sure you get your interview, believe me."
She looked about to say something, then frowned.
"What?" he said.
"The police," she said. "In my experience, whenever they get involved in a story, they screw it up pretty good."
"Well, I'm sure you know they say the same thing about reporters."
"Oh, sure. But it's this police chief, Percy Quinn. I've dealt with him a couple of times. I'm not sure if he's dirty or not, but he's definitely hiding something."
Gage marveled at her instincts. He thought about telling her about Quinn's wife, then thought better of it. It would have been like dangling fresh meat in front of a lion. He'd already weakened his relationship with Quinn; he couldn't take a chance on severing it completely.
"Oh," Carmen said.
"What?"
She pointed. A portly man in a bright yellow suit and matching bowler hat was strolling along the sidewalk in front of the casino, making his way toward the entrance as if he wasn't particularly in a hurry. Gage couldn't make out much from across the parking lot, but he did see that the man wore an eye patch over his left eye, and that his silver hair fell below his shoulders.
"It's Jimmy Lourdenback," Carmen said.
"You've got to be joking," Gage said.
"I told you he's a character. He's got connections you wouldn't believe, though."
"It looks like he needs a connection with a good tailor."
She made a tsk-tsk sound. "Don't say that to him. One thing about Jimmy, he's got an ego the size of Montana. And he's vain as hell. So you're still going in?"
"Sure, why not? We may know her identity, but that might not tell us what happened to her."
She nodded. "Well, you've only got one chance of getting anything useful out of him—suck up to his ego big time. The few times I've managed to get something out of him—and they've been very few—that's what I did. The thing is, he doesn't see himself as a bad guy. He sees himself as a good guy who sometimes operates on the wrong side of the law out of necessity. Maybe you can use that. I don't know. I think your chances are better at the roulette wheel, personally."
* * *
Walking into the casino, Gage figured he had one thing going for him as far as Jimmy Lourdenback was concerned. Jimmy didn't know who he was. It was a card Gage could only play once, and probably only for a limited time. Gage could pretend to be anybody.
The problem with playing that card, though, was that it was risky as hell. Gage hadn't exactly been keeping it quiet as he asked around about the girl—Abby Heddle. He reminded himself that it was better to think of her as having a name, a real person, rather than just an anonymous girl.
News traveled fast in small towns. Jimmy may have already known all about Gage, and if he didn't, he would probably know soon enough. No, his best bet might be to come straight at him with the truth, but in a way that gave Gage the edge. He wasn't sure what that way would be, or whether that was the approach to take, but his instincts had always been one of his best assets.
It'd been a long time since Gage set foot in a casino, but as soon as he walked through the revolving glass doors into the echoing outer hall, the familiar sounds brought all his old memories back—beeps and whistles, rhythmic clicking of slot machine handles. The excited murmur of the crowd was behind it all, infectious in the same way laughter was. Even he felt the urge, and he'd sworn it off long ago. The smell wasn't quite the same; gone was the heavy cigarette stench, replaced by only the faint whiff of cigarettes that still clung to the walls, like the way the smell of a three-pack-a-day smoker clings to his clothes long after he's given up the habit.
Gage remembered the casinos lobbying hard against the anti-smoking ordinances when they were on the ballot, but now that they were law, the change hadn't dampened people's enthusiasm for gambling in the slightest. The place was packed. Most of the people were of the silver-haired variety, wearing fanny packs and thick glasses, the kind of people he'd expect to find behind the wheels of the behemoths in the back of the parking lot.
After leaving the lobby and its big ceramic tiles, he passed the slot machine zombies and the bingo room with its oversized checkerboard monitors, and made his way across the low nap carpet to the card tables. There weren't a lot of people at the blackjack tables, but he saw the poker room up ahead and it looked crowded. Sure enough, when he walked inside, he found ten green felt tables, each seating five or six people.
He was in luck: the card room boss, a weasely fellow in a black suit, was explaining how the night's Texas Hold 'Em tournament would go. It was winner-take-all, ten rounds, the blinds doubling every other round. There were still spots, so Gage paid the fifty dollar entry fee to the young lady in the casino uniform by the marker board and took a seat. Jimmy Lourdenback was seated a few tables away, his one good eye hidden behind mirrored sunglasses with only one lens, the other side revealing his eye patch, looking for all the world like a pirate in the witness protection program. He didn't even glance at Gage, which was probably a good sign.
As his dealer—a dark-skinned kid who definitely had Native American blood in him—dealt out the cards, Gage felt a flood of memories come rushing back. How many nights had he spent in rooms like this one? Too many to count. His playing days had spanned less than three years, while he was in college and realized that poker could help him to pay his way. But in those three years, he'd played almost every night, both casinos and private games. Why had he given it up? He couldn't quite remember. It coincided with his leaving for the Academy, but he didn't think that had anything to do with it. One day he had just woken up and didn't want to do it anymore.
He was rusty at first, nearly bombing out in the third hand when he went all in against the tattooed kid across from him, a heavy better Gage figured for a bluffer and was right—just at the wrong time. That was the thing about Texas Hold 'Em. Winning required two things: patience and timing. You had to be willing to fold a lot of hands, your chips slowly dwindling as you played the blinds, watching the cards, calculating the odds, reading the players, and then choosing the best moments to strike. You would still lose a bunch, but if you didn't get impatient and go on tilt, and if you had some skill, you would end up on top a good portion of the time.
Fortunately, it was one of those nights, and after a couple hours he was sitting at the final table with Jimmy Lourdenback. Jimmy had no obvious tells; his expression never changed whether he was up or down, bluffing or betting with real cards. Then the other players were out and it was just he and Jimmy, Gage with a slightly larger stack. It was a good thing, too, because if they had been even, Jimmy most likely would have beaten him. As it was, Gage bluffed him twice with junk, then baited him into going all in when Gage had a king-high flush and Jimmy had an ace-high straight.
When Gage raked in his chips, the card room boss announced to the few remaining people that they had a winner. Light applause followed. Jimmy sighed and rubbed under his eye patch, briefly giving Gage a glimpse of the scarred flesh. Jimmy took his time shuffling out of the room, waddling like an old walrus. Gage hurried, claiming his winnings—the princely sum of three hundred and twenty-five dollars—and hustled after Jimmy.
Turned out he didn't have to hurry. Jimmy was waiting for him outside the door, leaning against the wall next to the restroom. He no longer wore the mirrored sunglasses. In his bright yellow suit and bowler hat, he looked like a road sign. Stopping next to him, Gage caught a whiff of Jimmy's aftershave, a pungent, lime-tinged smell that reminded Gage of the hair tonic his childhood barber used.
"Hey," he said, "good job in there. You nearly took me out."
"Nearly," Jimmy said, curling a
long strand of gray hair behind his ear. "But you, you're a hell of a player."
"I was a little rusty, but I did all right."
"Rusty? Shit, I'd hate to see you when you're not rusty. I've got a hell of a headache today, otherwise I would have probably done better. Where'd you learn to play like that, anyway?"
Gage realized this was Jimmy's vain side rearing its ugly head. He knew he had a decision to make. He was either going to have to bluff Jimmy—in other words, come up with a lie that would give him the best chance to find out what he needed—or come at him with the truth.
The lie would have given him more options, but it was one of those moments, just like in the poker game, when Gage sensed something in his opponent that suggested a lie wasn't the best way forward. Maybe it was the fact that Jimmy was waiting for him, or maybe it was the look Jimmy was giving him with his one good eye, a wary apprehension that seemed to be more than just one card player sizing up another, but Gage's intuition told him to go all in.
"Just practiced," Gage said. "Lots and lots of games. Of course, that was back in college. When I decided I wanted to get into the FBI, I thought it wouldn't look too good if somebody spotted me at a casino." He laughed. "Of course, I decided the FBI wasn't for me either, but that's another story."
Jimmy looked at him for a long time. His eye did dilate, the hazel vanishing into black, but otherwise he showed no reaction. The other thing that made reading him tough was his doughy face; the slight shifts in facial muscles that would be obvious on most other people were invisible on Jimmy.
"I heard about you," he said.
"Oh yeah? What have you heard?"
Jimmy dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in a little closer, his long gray hair draping over his shoulders. His breath smelled of garlic and onions. "I heard you was a private dick."
"You heard correctly."
"I knew who you was the moment you walked in the door."
"I'm not surprised," Gage said. "That's why I didn't figure there was a point in trying to hide anything from you. You'd see right through me."
The direct appeal to Jimmy's vanity worked like a charm. As cool and as unreadable as he'd been before, he became as obvious as a puffed-up peacock now—straightening his back, smiling like a kid who'd just been patted on the head by the teacher. One of the casino workers carrying a tray full of Cokes and 7-Ups asked if they wanted a drink and Jimmy waved her off.
"You got that right," Jimmy said. "I don't miss much."
"Well, that's why I've come to talk to you," Gage said. "I'm hoping you might be able to help me."
"About that dead girl on the beach?"
Gage smiled. "You really are on the ball."
"Got to be," Jimmy said. "I don't stay on top of things, I'm out of the loop, quick. And once you're out of the loop, you're out. You know I can't help you none, don't you?"
"I was afraid you'd say that," Gage said. "Carmen told me you probably wouldn't."
Jimmy's thin eyebrows arched, the creases in his brow disappearing under his bowler hat. "Carmen? You mean that cute little blonde runs the newspaper?"
"That's the one."
"She's a looker. You two an item?"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Just friends."
Jimmy blew air through puckered lips. "Ain't no man alive that would be just friends with that one unless he couldn't get more. So she's either putting you off or you're lying to me."
"Or I don't know myself," Gage said.
"Ah. Right. On account of your wife and all. I bet that messed you up pretty good."
The conversation was veering in a direction that made Gage uncomfortable. He didn't want to talk about Janet with anyone, and he especially didn't want to talk about her with someone like Jimmy Lourdenback.
"You could say that," he replied. "Hey, you want to get a drink?"
Jimmy scratched his chubby chin. "Man, I'd like to, but my sponsor would kill me."
"You're in AA?"
He grinned. "Surprised? Almost two years sober. Nearly ruined my liver, but finally realized I had to do something about it."
"Impressive."
Jimmy shrugged. "I just want to live, that's all. But I'll have a piece of pie with you. Come on, they got a banana cream in the deli that you won't believe."
The deli was a cozy place in the back corner of the casino, with a black-and-white tiled floor and an Elvis clock on the wall. Somebody had burnt some grease; the smell still hung in the air. They got their banana cream pies from a glass case and sat in the corner next to the neon jukebox. Nothing was playing. Nobody else was in there except the clerk, a gray-haired woman who was busy sweeping. Next door was the bingo hall, and now and then Gage heard the muffled sounds of the announcer calling out the latest numbers.
Jimmy took a bite, then closed his eyes and savored it. "Like a little piece of heaven."
Gage tried it, too. It was a little sugary, but it wasn't bad. "That's a decent piece of pie."
"You kidding? You can't find pie like this anywhere. That's the thing about pies. You never know who's going to have the good stuff. The fanciest restaurant could have crap. Some little hole in the wall that burns their food and insults their customers might have the best pies in the world. You just never know."
"You sound like a man who knows his pies."
"Yeah, well, it's my last guilty pleasure. I may have given up smoking and drinking, but I ain't ever giving up pies. My dietician tells me I'm a high risk for diabetes, but I don't care. A man's got to have something to live for you, you know?"
Gage tried to visualize Jimmy Lourdenback talking to a dietician. He was finding this strange little man who had one eye, who was in Alcoholics Anonymous, and who was a pie fanatic to be defying all of his initial assumptions. "So you're probably wondering why I've come to you," he said.
Jimmy forked up another bite. "I got a pretty good idea," he said, before shoveling it in.
"I know you said you can't help me, Jimmy. I respect that. But this girl, her death's been gnawing at me. One thing about me is I'm stubborn. Once I'm on a case, I never let it go. I'm going to keep digging until I found out who killed her. It may take me a week or a year, but I'll never stop. If you read up on me, you know that."
Jimmy didn't say anything, eating his pie, fork clinking against his plate.
"So here's the deal," Gage said. "I already know her name. I know—"
"What's her name?" Jimmy said, looking up.
"It'll be in the papers soon enough," Gage said. "I know her name. I know where she came from. Pretty soon I'm going to know a lot about why she came to our little village by the sea. I know she worked briefly as a stripper at The Gold Cabaret, and I know somebody came in there that scared her so bad that she never came back. What I don't know is what she did for the year before she worked as a stripper. I have my guesses, of course. I have my suspicion that maybe she worked for you."
Jimmy finished up his pie, scraping up the last bit of cream and savoring it. Gage had been hoping for some kind of reaction and he wasn't getting one.
"The thing is," Gage said, "I'm going to find out. You can be sure about that. And when I do find out, it would be unfortunate if your name got dragged into all of this."
Jimmy wiped his mouth. "Huh. Didn't figure you for trying to strong-arm me."
"I'm just stating a fact."
"Right. Let me tell you something, Gage. You think I survived this long being an idiot? There ain't nothing out there you'll ever find that will be solid enough that any respectable paper would print it with my name attached—and that even includes your girlfriend's little rag. I'd sue her ass so fast she wouldn't know what hit her. I run a cleaning service that just so happens to employ a lot of attractive women. They get paid to clean houses. What they do outside of that is their personal business."
"I imagine your rates are a little on the high side."
Jimmy shrugged. "When you want the best cleaning service, you gotta be willing to pay for it."
"I bet."
"So quit trying to pressure me. It won't work."
"Then you won't help me?"
"Even if I could, I don't know why I'd want to now that you're being an asshole about it."
"I'm just determined, Jimmy. Maybe that makes me get a little carried away. You already said you wouldn't help me, so I was just trying to find an angle."
Jimmy was quiet a moment, staring at Gage with the same intensity he'd looked at him with back at the poker table. "Why the hell you care so much about this kid anyway?"
"I found her on the beach."
"That all?"
"It's enough."
"Huh. You been out of this kind of thing so long, it seems strange that just finding a dead girl would want to make you rush back in. What, you want to get your other leg busted up, too?"
"Are you saying that's what'll happen to me if I keep digging into this?"
"I'm not saying nothing," Jimmy said.
He finished his pie, Gage watching him, neither of them saying a word until Jimmy pushed his plate away.
"Good stuff," he said.
"I guess my appetite is gone," Gage said.
"You should never let anything get in the way of a healthy appetite, friend. No matter what you do, a man's gotta eat."
"Did you get that from Ann Landers?"
"Hey, now, no need to get surly." He studied Gage, pursed his lips, then got to his feet. He tipped his bowler hat back on his head, revealing the gray bangs sweat-plastered to his forehead, and smiled down at Gage. "You're a pretty good poker player. It's not a bad skill to have, you know?"
"Gee thanks."
Gage drummed his fingers on the table, looking at his half-eaten pie and waiting for Jimmy to go away. But he didn't. Then he bent over and dropped his voice to a whisper—not that it mattered, because there was no one else in the diner.
"Tell you what I'm going to do," he said. "I got a game I play Wednesday nights down at Sapphire Head. A lot of fat wallets. They know me pretty well, know all my moves, so I never score much. But you? You could come in there and clean house. I'll help you, and we'll split the take fifty-fifty."
The Gray and Guilty Sea Page 13