“Every so often. Why?”
“Haven’t you noticed they always do reports about women? I mean, you were there. You saw it all.”
“I’ve noticed they like to sensationalize stories about housewives gambling. But when I was out with Stella, there were just as many men as women. Just as many baseball-capped, cigar-smoking men high-fiving one another every time the dealer laid down an ace in front of them,” she said, irritated.
“Well, see there?” Gil said. “I didn’t know any of that. You’re the only one who can talk about the boats with any intelligence so that we can win these people over.”
“All right,” she finally agreed, “I’ll be the gambler.”
Now they got out of Gil’s car and walked toward the church. “It can’t be in the church,” he commented.
“Maybe there’s a parish hall, or a room downstairs?”
“A basement sounds right,” Gil said, looking for windows. “That’s where they usually hold bingo and stuff, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you’re supposed to know,” he scolded her. “You’re the gambler, remember?”
“Bingo?”
“When people go to AA, it’s because they drink everything and anything. I imagine it’s the same with GA.”
“I guess.”
“There, that looks like a stairway leading down.” He pointed.
They walked toward it and Claire suddenly stopped. “Gil, what if someone recognizes me?”
Gil stopped next to his wife. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
It had happened to them enough times that it was a factor he should have considered.
“All right,” he said, “looks like I’m the gambler.”
She took his arm. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll support you every step of the way while you fight this terrible addiction.”
He stared at her and said, “You’re good.”
“I know.”
They went down the steps.
Judy Belmont couldn’t believe her eyes. There, across the room, was Claire Hunt. Obviously, the man she was with must have a problem, not Claire. For one tiny second, Judy thought of approaching Claire, but that thought was overwhelmed by her shyness. After all, the woman was a . . . a real celebrity. There was no way she could actually talk to her. She had even hung up the phone abruptly, several times, when the operators asked if she wanted to talk to the host. Judy just couldn’t do it then, and she certainly couldn’t do it now.
Suddenly, all she could think about was getting home and telling Whitey that she’d seen Claire Hunt in person.
“Now what do we do?” Claire asked.
“I don’t know,” Gil replied. “We’re the newcomers. Maybe we’re just supposed to stand here and wait for someone to approach us.”
As he said that, a pleasant-looking man in his early thirties, with black hair combed forward to cover a thinning crown, came up to them.
“Hello. You’re new, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Gil said, “this is my first meeting.”
The man smiled broadly—beamed, in fact. “I’m Carlos Delgado; I’m in charge of things.”
“Gil Hunt.” It never occurred to him to use a phony name. They shook hands and talked for a few moments. Gil was unable to detect any accent indicating whether the man was of Puerto Rican or Mexican descent; he obviously had spent many years in this county, if, in fact, he hadn’t been born in the United States.
“Is this your wife?”
“Yes, Claire Hunt.”
Delgado shook her hand, too.
“It’s so nice to see you come with your husband, Mrs. Hunt. We don’t get too much of that.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“I think it’s because by the time we’re ready to come here—and I include myself—our spouses, or significant others, have just about had it with us.”
“Oh,” Claire said, taking Gil’s arm possessively, “I would never turn my back on my man.” She smiled then and kissed Gil softly on the cheek.
Delgado beamed again.
“With this kind of support, Gil, I don’t think you’ll have any problems kicking your addiction. What is your preference anyway? Cards? Horses?”
“Slot machines,” Gil said. “Can’t get enough of those . . . ol’ one-armed bandits.”
“Well, they’re certainly easy to get to, aren’t they? With all the boats around here now? Although, I don’t know why they call them boats.”
“Carlos?”
Delgado stopped and turned to look at the man next to him. He was slender, in his early to mid-twenties.
“Yes, Henry?”
“We’re ready to start.”
“Ah, good,” Delgado said. “Henry Wentworth, this is Mr. and Mrs. Hunt. Get them some coffee, please, and make them welcome. It’s Mr. Hunt’s first meeting.”
“Sure thing, Carlos.”
“I have to say a few words,” Delgado said to them, “just to get things rolling. Since this is your first time, Gil, you can just sit, relax, and listen.”
“That’s good.”
“Unless you have something you want to say, that is.”
“No,” Gil said. “No, I think I’ll wait.”
“That’s fine. Henry will see to you.”
Delgado walked away and Claire turned to Henry.
“What happens now?”
“Carlos will speak to everyone, and then there will be some testimonials.”
“And after?”
“People will have coffee and cookies, or cake, and talk among themselves—ourselves.”
“Are you a . . . a member of GA, too?”
“Oh, yes,” Henry said, “we all are—um, except you, I guess, Mrs. Hunt? Carlos did say it was Mr. Hunt’s first meeting. Unless, of course, you’ve been to a meeting before?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m just here for moral support.”
“That’s good,” he said. “That’s very good. Come.” He pointed to a nearby table where refreshments had been set up. “We’ll get you some coffee and then you can listen to Carlos. He’s a very inspirational speaker.”
Chapter 28
Gil and Claire waited for Carlos Delgado’s inspirational speech while sipping too strong black coffee from Styrofoam cups. But it never materialized. Gil found the man to be a most uninspiring speaker—although sincere enough—and yet when he was done, everyone applauded enthusiastically. Gil thought the man depended too much on his ultrawatt smile.
When he looked at Claire sitting next to him, he saw she wasn’t listening. He could fill her in later, he thought, and turned his attention back to the microphone.
It was Claire who looked around and took in the different types of people in attendance. If women were doing most of the gambling in St. Louis, they apparently weren’t coming here in droves. There seemed to be only twenty or so people to begin with and the mix seemed to be fifty-fifty. The group appeared to range in age from twenty-five to forty, and she wondered if that was because older people found having an addition too embarrassing; maybe they tried working it out by themselves. She herself had never had an addictive personality—well, to anything but her husband, Gil.
She also noticed—and felt slightly guilty for thinking so— that most of these people were not attractive. Once again trying to understand the addiction, she wondered if somehow gambling took the place of socializing in bars and clubs for them. Did it compensate for what was lacking in other parts of their lives?
There were some testimonials going on, but she wasn’t listening to them. She knew Gil was, so she continued to study the group.
Several women appeared to be in the same age group as the dead women. Mary Dunn was forty-five, and she’d been the oldest. Claire decided that, when the testimonials were over and everyone came to the table for their coffee, she’d engage these women in conversation and see what she could find out.
Gil watched several people stand up to the microphone and listened while they st
ammered on about their particular addition. One woman talked about sitting at Keno machines for hours on end, pouring in her week’s salary. Another man talked about the allure of live poker parlors on the boats. Still another spoke about his love affair with horse racing, which had gotten so out of control that he’d lost his job, house, and family.
If Gil had an addictive personality about anything—other than Claire—it was books. He’d once had a huge collection— just another bone of contention with his ex-wife—but since opening the bookstore, he’d been able to satisfy himself with his stock, and he kept fewer and fewer books at home.
Nowadays, however, he actually preferred not to get involved in anything requiring him to be without Claire. Of course there were working hours, forcing them to be in separate locations. And when they were at home, they gave each other a few hours of solitude—an agreement they had made after the first six months of living together. But other than that, everything they enjoyed doing, they did together. Years ago, when he was in his twenties, even his early thirties, he might have thought such an arrangement stifling, but disappointments and regrets left behind from past relationships only made him more aware of what a wonderful thing he had found with his wife, and he was going to enjoy every second of it.
“Does anyone else want to speak?” Carlos Delgado called out. He looked directly at Gil, who did not react, for fear he’d actually be called upon. “Well then, help yourselves to refreshments. And mingle! Thanks for coming.”
Gil was startled by Henry’s voice, because the man seemed to have materialized suddenly and be speaking right into Gil’s ear. “What did you think?”
“It was . . . interesting.”
“This is where we visit with one another, find out who shares the same problems,” Henry said. “Excuse me.”
“What did you think?” Claire asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” Gil said, realizing that twenty or so people were headed for the table he and Claire now stood in front of. “Mingle.”
“Right.”
People practically ran toward the refreshments, attacking the food like locusts. Gil wondered how many of them were really there for help and how many had come for the brownies and carrot cake.
Claire meant to talk to the women but soon found herself surrounded by men. She quickly realized they were looking at her as the new available female, so she politely pointed out her husband, confiding that he was the one with the gambling problem. This dissuaded all the men except one.
His name was Brad Trager, and he was tall, dark-haired, probably muscular most of his life, but getting a little potbelly now that he was in his early fifties. He still dressed like it was the sixties, with a floral shirt, the top three buttons open, revealing gray chest hair. He was so totally out of step with the times that he wore a white belt and matching white shoes. He was unmarried—or simply didn’t wear a ring—and perpetually on the make. He made it very clear that her being married didn’t matter to him.
“It matters to me,” Claire said, staring at his neck, sure she would find a gold chain hanging there. Gil stood on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by women, his view of her blocked. Claire realized she was going to have to handle this situation herself.
“Look, Brad, there are a lot of women here.”
“None of them are in our league.”
“Well, I’m just not interested.”
“C’mon, gimme a chance. To know me is to love me.” He did something with his mouth she supposed was meant to be cute. To her, it looked as if he had false teeth and they were slipping.
“Besides,” he said, “I’ve had them already.”
“What?” She didn’t know whether to laugh or be insulted on behalf of her entire sex.
“They all come here hungry for it,” he said, “so I give it to them.”
“It?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“So you don’t have a gambling problem?”
“Oh, sure,” he said, “I gamble a little, but I don’t get carried away.”
“So you only come here to . . . meet people?”
He winked. “You got it, babe.”
“I had a couple of friends who used to attend meetings,” Claire said.
“What were their names? Maybe I did . . . ah . . . knew them.” Claire was going to have to watch this guy carefully. If he recognized the names she gave him as two dead women, he might not talk to her.
“One was Susie Kennedy,” Claire said slowly. “She had blond hair—almost white, full-figured, maybe even a little plump, in her early forties.”
“Don’t know her,” Brad said. “I would have noticed her, because she sounds like my type. Who was the other one?”
“Oh, her name was Kathleen Sands.”
He frowned. “Hmm, Kathleen Sands. What did she look like?”
“Kind of pretty, dark hair, in her late thirties.”
“You know,” Brad said, “I think I did see her here—well, not here, but at one of the other locations.”
“And did she succumb to your charms?” Claire hoped her sarcasm didn’t chase the man away. But he never even noticed.
“That one?” He shook his head. “She was like you, resisting the irresistible. She was more interested in gambling.”
“But I thought she came here to break the habit.”
“I don’t know why she came here, but it sure didn’t stop her from doing what she pleased.”
“I see.”
“But enough about other people,” Brad Trager said, “let’s talk about us.”
She stared at him, exasperated.
Chapter 29
Gil was surrounded by four women, all frantically bombarding him with questions and offers of help.
“You can’t do this sort of thing alone, you know,” one woman said. “You need a sponsor, someone you could call when the urge strikes.”
“Yes,” another woman agreed, “when that urge strikes, you need to do something to . . . distract yourself.”
Gil thought about telling them he was married and that Claire was there, but maybe he might get more out of them this way.
“I heard about that,” he said, “sponsorship, I mean. I had a friend who used to come here, a woman who really needed help.”
“What was her name?” a third woman asked. “We’re a close-knit group. I probably know her.”
“Yes,” the second woman said with a smirk, “we know all about one another.”
“Is that meant for me, Rita dear?” the third woman asked. “Because if it is—”
“Her name was Kathleen Sands,” Gil said. He decided to concentrate on that particular victim because she was the one they knew the least about.
“That bitch!” Rita said.
Gil looked at Rita. She appeared to be the youngest of the four, clearly the most vivacious. She was a tall woman and well proportioned for her height. Her ruffled blouse revealed pale cleavage, and bracelets adorning both arms clanked when she drank her coffee. Her dark hair was teased up too high; she wore a lot of makeup. In fact, he could see the line just below her chin where the makeup ended and her own flesh tone picked up.
The other three women could have been librarians or teachers, the way they dressed, but Rita looked like she could be a cocktail waitress and attract a lot of male attention—in a dark bar, during happy hour.
“You knew her?” Gil asked, trying not to seem too anxious.
“Sure,” Rita said, “she came to the meetings acting like she was Miss Diva. You girls remember her. Dark hair, overweight, looked down her nose at the rest of us?”
“That sounds like someone else we know,” the third woman muttered. Gil didn’t think Rita heard the remark.
“I remember her,” the first woman said. “I thought she was nice, but I don’t know why she bothered coming here.”
“Why do you say that?” Gil asked.
“She was still gambling.”
“Right,” Rita said over the
clank of her bracelets, “not like the rest of us.”
The first woman looked hurt. “I haven’t been near a Keno machine in months.”
“I know you haven’t, Francine,” the fourth woman said, trying to comfort her.
“Francine,” Gil said, “when was the last time you saw Kathleen? I’ve lost track of her.” He got the feeling she had known Kathleen better than the rest.
“You poor man,” Francine said.
“What do you mean?”
“She means you ain’t gonna see your friend no more,” Rita said, slurring her words a bit. Gil wondered if she was adding a little something extra to her coffee. “She went and got herself killed.”
“What?”
“Don’t you read the papers?”
He opened his brown eyes a bit wider. Whenever Claire accused him of intentionally using that puppy-dog look to get his way, he always denied that he even knew what she was talking about. But he had lied. “Not really.”
The women were only too glad to fill Gil in on the gossip, and he listened patiently, as if hearing it all for the first time.
“Three women?” he asked when they were done.
“That’s right.”
“Did either of the other two women ever come here?”
“Why would you ask that?” Rita wanted to know.
“Just curious.”
“I didn’t notice them,” Francine said, “and I’ve been to every meeting the past few months, at every location.”
“I see.”
“Hey, handsome,” Rita said, putting her index finger on his chest, “weren’t we talking about you needing a sponsor?”
“Well,” Gil said, “to tell the truth, I already have one.”
“Oh? Who?”
Gil pointed to Claire. “That lady over there, with the Disco King. That’s my wife.”
“Your wife?” Rita snapped. “You’re married?”
He held up his hand so they could see his ring and wiggled his finger.
Murder Is the Deal of the Day Page 11