The Gambler

by Molly O'Keefe

  “My God—” I breathed.

  “You think I care what you do to me?” he asked, jerking away, the left side of his face immobile, his eye shut tight from the swelling. He was black and purple from his lips to his hairline, the skin along his cheek seemed to have been burned. I knew things with Miguel’s father, Ramon, were bad, but I never dreamed it was this bad. “You think you can do something worse than this?”

  “Have you been to the doctor?” I asked.

  He sneered and yanked the hood back up.

  I leaned back against the brick wall and sighed heavily. Punish him? How? How could I look at what he’d been through and put him in the system? The system would only make him harder. He’d go in there an angry victim and come out a criminal.

  It had happened with the last two teenagers I’d sent to the Department of Corrections.

  “Where’s your father?” I asked.

  “Don’t know,” he said. “Don’t care.”

  “How about you tell me what happened?”

  Miguel shook his head. “He was drinking and he went after Louisa.” He shrugged, his thin shoulders so small. So young to have to carry so much. “I said something and he picked up this frying pan off the stove.”

  I winced. That explained the bruises and burns.

  “I’ve got to call community services—”

  “I’ll tell them I fell down the stairs.” Miguel shook his head, emphatic.

  “Miguel, you can’t be serious. You want to stay with your dad?”

  “No, I just don’t want to go to no foster home. Louisa and me will get split up and I ain’t having that.”

  “You were going to leave last night, Miguel,” I reminded him. “You would have been split up anyway.”

  “I was going to take her,” he said. “I wouldn’t ever leave her behind.”

  Great. Kidnapping on top of grand theft. “I can arrest him, bring him—”

  “Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “How long this time? Overnight? A week? Last time you did that he came out more pissed off than ever, and me and Louisa had to stay with Patricia.”

  “But, Miguel, he hit you.”

  “You think this is the first time?”

  “Why haven’t your teachers reported this?” I asked.

  “I skip if it’s bad. But it’s not usually bad.”

  “It’s my job to report this, Miguel.”

  “You do what you gotta do, but no social worker is taking me nowhere.”

  Rock. Hard place. The kid didn’t trust the system and frankly, I didn’t blame him. Bonne Terre, much less the parish, had no place for a kid like Miguel. It was the streets, holding cell four, or DOC over in Calcasieu Parish. Bonne Terre didn’t have a whole lot of crime, but what we did have was largely juvenile-perpetrated and we just weren’t equipped to help.

  Punish, yes. Help, no.

  And this was one of those situations that defined the differences between me and my father. These circumstances dictated that I help this kid.

  “We need to get you to the doctor,” I said, deciding to put off the question of community services until I had a better answer.

  “Am I going to jail?” he asked, and for the first time, something scared colored his voice.

  Not if I can help it.

  “Well, it’s not up to me. It’s up to the guy whose car you tried to steal.” He sniffed, the big man, as if it didn’t matter, as if jail would be no problem. And maybe, when push came to shove, it was better than home.

  But, man, I wanted to give him another option. He was bright. Smart. Compassionate. He loved his sister, laid down his body for her.

  The boy deserved a choice. A chance.

  A safe home.

  You’re soft, my father’s voice whispered. You’re way too soft. This was how you felt about Tyler and look how that ended up.

  The door to the holding cells opened and Owens walked in, his tall frame casting a long shadow down the hallway. “Got a name on that Porsche,” he said, coming to stop in the open door of cell four.

  “Yeah?” I asked, my stomach tight. If I could just convince the owner not to press charges, to give the kid a pass, then I’d think of something. A way to give the kid a real opportunity, maybe get him out of that house.

  But it all depended on the owner of that Porsche.

  “You’re not going to believe it.”

  “Who does the Porsche belong to, Owens?”

  “Tyler O’Neill.”

  4

  I took Miguel to the clinic before heading out to Tyler’s. I bypassed urgent care altogether and headed straight to the new family doctor.

  Dr. Greg Roberts was a good guy. He’d keep his mouth shut, unlike the nurses in the urgent care who lived for cases like this. Bonne Terre was a small town and the most exciting thing the clinic had seen in the past month was when Mrs. Paterson had gotten a little overzealous with her weed whacker and had taken a chunk out of her husband’s ankle.

  The gossips had turned it into a domestic abuse case before Mr. Paterson’s bandages were on.

  “Boy said he fell down the stairs,” Dr. Roberts said, his voice indicating he didn’t believe it for a moment.

  “That’s what he told me, too.” I looked him right in the face and lied, knowing that if I told Dr. Roberts, he’d have no choice but to call in the social workers. Hell, I was supposed to be calling them in myself.

  “Chief Tremblant,” he whispered, and I knew he was on to me. “What are you doing with this kid?”

  His brown eyes were soft and sympathetic and for a moment I was tempted to tell him the jam I was in. We were friends. Sort of. And Greg was smart. Maybe he had an idea, something. Because right now, I had zip.

  But Miguel, nearly passed out in the chair outside Greg’s office, shifted and moaned slightly in his doze and I shook my head.

  “My job,” I told Greg. “I’m doing my job.”

  “He’s what, sixteen? The boy should be in foster care.”

  “You want to call Office of Community Services? Do it.”

  “I don’t want to fight with you,” he said. He stepped closer, the warmth from his body making me slightly claustrophobic. He was a young guy, and occasionally I got the vibe that he was interested. Why I couldn’t relax and just go with it was a mystery. “If this kid needs help, I’m on your side.”

  The man was handsome, and sincere, I had to give him that. But I still wasn’t about to let him in.

  “I appreciate that, Greg. I do. But I know what I’m doing. There are…circumstances,” I whispered.

  Greg watched me for a long moment and then held up his hands, indicating he’d back off.

  He took a small handful of packaged pills out of his lab coat. “I’ve given him two. He’ll need another two in six hours.”

  He dumped the samples in my hands, his fingers brushing mine.

  Feel something, I willed my nerve endings, come on, just a little zing.

  But there was nothing.

  Of course, because I was an idiot, Tyler O’Neill and his broken-down face and heartless grin popped into my mind, and just the thought of him electrified me, put the hair on my arms on end.

  That’s what you want? I asked myself ruthlessly. The answer, of course, was no, the by-product of all that fire had been third-degree burns, a life-altering pain.

  “Come on, Miguel,” I murmured, giving the boy’s shoulder a shake. Miguel flinched, then came to, clearly disoriented and drowsy, and I helped him to his feet.

  Fifteen minutes later, I stopped in front of The Manor, stared through my window at the red door and took a few deep breaths.

  “Hey, Ty,” I whispered, practicing my cheerful approach. “You’ll never guess, it’s funny really, but your car almost got stolen last night.”

  I pressed my fist to my forehead. “Okay—” I tried straightforward “—look, Ty, we’ve got a situation. Your car is fine and I need you to work with me. I need you—”

  I need you.

  My stomach r
olled and my skull pounded. Ten years later and I needed him. Frankly, I’d rather take out my gun and blow off my left toe than face Tyler, but Miguel needed me.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror to where Miguel slept, his head pressed to the backseat window, his black hair flat against the glass.

  “Please, you son of a bitch,” I whispered, “please be reasonable.”

  TYLER

  * * *

  Fire ants were eating my brain and it was making me acutely, painfully unreasonable.

  Or maybe it was just my father.

  “I’m telling you,” Dad said, scrambling eggs without his shirt on. Sunlight coming in through the kitchen window hit his chest hair and put a halo around him.

  Ironic. So. Ironic.

  “I was staying in Malibu and I grew this beard and everyone thought I was George Clooney. I didn’t pay for a meal for three whole weeks.”

  I listened with half an ear, distracted by the fire ants.

  “You listening to me, Tyler?”

  “Can’t you put on a shirt?” I asked, concerned about those eggs and my father’s copious chest hair.

  Richard dropped the spatula. “What is with you? Ty? You didn’t say two words to me last night.”

  “I let you in, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, and then you slammed the door to your room like a teenager. What happened to your face?”

  “It got punched.”

  “Don’t be cute.”

  “Fine, then you don’t pretend that arriving here, of all places, is just business as usual.”

  Richard crossed his arms over his big chest. Pushing sixty and he still looked good. He could pass for Clooney.

  One more scam to add to his repertoire.

  “That’s what’s bothering you?”

  “I haven’t seen you in eight months! One minute you’re living on my couch the next you’re gone without a word. I didn’t know if you were alive or dead, Dad.”

  “I told you I was going to L.A.—”

  “No, you didn’t. You said, ‘I miss the ocean.’” I held out my arms in exasperation. “What the hell does that even mean?”

  “Okay.” Richard nodded, like some kind of grief counselor or something. “I get that you are upset.”

  Oh, it was hard not to laugh. Dad got that I was upset. Hilarious.

  “But,” Richard continued, “we have things to talk about, son. Things—”

  “Gems?” I asked, cutting through the half hour of bullshit my father was ready to shovel out before getting to the point.

  Richard gaped, for just a moment, which was akin to anyone else in the world falling down in a dead faint.

  “You know about them?” Richard asked, slowly turning the flame off under the eggs.

  “I had a little conversation with local law enforcement last night. Apparently, Mom was snooping around here last month looking for some stolen gems. The cop said there’d been some suspicious activity around the house lately. Windowsills damaged, bushes trampled.”

  Richard pursed his lips. “I’ve lost my touch.”

  “Apparently. Why don’t you tell me what you know about these gems?” I asked.

  “Seven years ago I was hired to steal the Pacific Diamond, Ruby and Emerald from the Ancient Treasures collection at the Bellagio.”

  I whistled through my teeth and Dad smiled, cock of the walk.

  “Right, not easy. Luckily, I had a friend who knew the Bellagio like the back of his hand. He’d been sleeping with one of the pit bosses. Joel Woods—”

  “Woods? Why do I know that name?”

  “Your sister is traveling the world with Joel’s son, Matthew.”

  Christ. I put my head in my hands and the fire ants went berserk. Could this get any more complicated?

  “Where was I during all of this?” I asked. It seemed hard to believe Dad would have been planning a crime of this magnitude while we’d been living together.

  “You were shacked up with that dancer,” Dad said. “With the legs—”

  “Jill. Right.” Those had been some heady days. Dad could have joined the monastery and I probably wouldn’t have noticed.

  “Who hired you?”

  “No idea who the big guy was. I did all my business with a woman who delivered Chinese takeout. They gave me a 60–40 split and bankrolled the supplies.”

  “How did Mom get involved?”

  “That’s the thing.” Dad spun one of the kitchen chairs around and sat, looking like a wild-eyed sea captain about to tell some tales and I felt that familiar tug-of-war between love and hate.

  There was still a part of me that wanted to sit here, listen to every word, applaud every caper and con.

  The other part of me was so damn tired of it all.

  Ten years ago, I had left Bonne Terre to go find Richard and despite having lived with him off and on for the last ten years, I felt as though I’d never really found him.

  Richard Bonavie, nomad, thief, con man extraordinaire, sure. Anybody could follow that guy’s trail of broken hearts and cons gone bad across the country.

  But my father? Still missing.

  “Seven years ago,” Richard said, “when Joel and I got to the drop-off, your mother was there.” He shook his head. “I hadn’t seen the woman in something like fifteen years and she’s sitting in that ratty Henderson bar like she owns the place.”

  “That must have been a surprise.”

  “You can imagine. Anyway, I left. If Vanessa was there, I figured the whole thing was sour in a big way.”

  “What happened to the gems? To Joel?”

  “He got pinched, but he only had one gem on him. The emerald. The diamond and ruby are still loose.”

  “And you think they’re here?”

  “There was a rumor that the diamond had surfaced in Beijing, but nothing came of it. I think Vanessa picked them off Joel and hid them here. It’s why she came back after all these years.”

  Twenty, to be exact, and Dad was probably right—she sure as hell didn’t come back for her kids. Just like Dad, it would take something shiny and very, very valuable to get her coming around.

  “So,” I said, “you’re here for the gems?”

  “Of course!” Richard cried, spreading his arms. “There’s a fortune hidden in this house, Ty. A fortune that could be ours.”

  A fortune.

  Of course.

  “I would think a fortune in gems might warrant some enthusiasm,” Richard said, arching an eyebrow.

  Luckily, a pounding at the door saved me from having to answer and I stood.

  “I’m not here,” Dad said.

  “You never are,” I muttered and headed to the front door, ready to take off the head of whatever salesperson or Jehovah’s Witness might be unfortunate enough to be standing there.

  Not bothering with a shirt I swung open the bright red door only to find Juliette Tremblant standing there, straight and tall, her hazel eyes set into that perfect face.

  My stomach dipped, my skin tightened at just the sight of her. Her perfume, something clean and minty, hit me on a breeze and my poor, battered body responded with a growl.

  “Chief Tremblant,” I said, propping my arm up on the door frame.

  Oh, the fire ants sat up and cheered when she watched my chest, her eyes practically sticking to my arms. My hands.

  Well, looky, looky, I thought, glad I hadn’t bothered with a shirt.

  “Something I can do for you?” I asked, hooking a thumb in the low waist of my jeans.

  Juliette sighed, looking up at the sky as if praying for strength.

  “Someone tried to steal your car last night.”

  Fire. Ants.

  “Suzy?”

  “Who?”

  “My car. Where is it?”

  “You named your car?”

  “Where is my car?”

  “It’s fine.” She put out her hands, and even though she was inches from contact I could feel the heat of her fingers against the bare skin of my chest
. Like ghosts. Like memories.

  For a second my head spun.

  “Your car is fine,” she repeated, and I snapped back into clarity. “It’s in impound down at the station.”

  “And who tried to steal it?” I asked, ready, seriously ready to take out every ounce of anger I had about my father and Juliette and being back in this backwater town on the car thief.

  Juliette turned and pointed to the sedan in front of the house. A person’s head was pressed against the glass of the backseat window, where he’d clearly passed out.

  “He did,” she said.

  “A drunk?” I asked. Just the thought of what could have happened to Suzy at the hands of a drunk made me nauseous.

  “A kid,” she said. “He’s just a kid.”

  “A drunk kid?”

  My stomach was never going to be the same.

  “No,” she said. “You’ve got it wrong. Come on, Tyler, get dressed and I’ll explain it on the way to the station.”

  I watched her, sensing something else at work. Her aggression was banked, and she wasn’t just being civil. No, she was apprehensive. And mad about it. And the longer I stared at her, the worse it got, until finally her hazel eyes were shooting out sparks.

  “Please,” she said through clenched teeth and I smiled.

  A supplicant Juliette. The fire ants went home and my day just got a whole lot better.

  “Well.” I grinned and I could hear her grinding her teeth. “Since you asked so nice, Chief Tremblant, I would be delighted to head on down to the station to get my car and press charges against the juvenile delinquent who had the balls to try and steal Suzy.”

  “Fine,” she snapped. “Get dressed.”

  I ducked back inside to grab a shirt.

  “Who’s the girl?” Dad asked, standing at the living room window, lifting the curtains an inch so he could stare at the porch.

  “No one,” I said, grabbing my shirt from the counter where I’d thrown it last night. It stank of blood and dirt and smoke and there was no way I was putting it back on and getting in a car with Juliette Tremblant. Bad enough my face looked like hamburger.

  But all of my clothes were in Suzy.