Mark said, “I’m going to have you followed.”
“I’m taking Sunday off,” said Antonio. “Will I see you Monday?”
“Stop avoiding the subject.”
“Haven’t we solved enough mysteries this weekend?” Antonio smiled and opened the driver’s side door. “Have a good evening, Mark.”
“You’re just gonna leave me, after all we’ve been through?”
The town car pulled away smoothly from the curb and around the curve leading towards the casino exit route, headlights illuminating the landscaping.
Mark turned to the driver. “Do you guys have GPS tracking devices in those things?”
“We sure do,” said the driver. “But not in that one. That car’s just used for local trips.”
Mark frowned. “Did Antonio ask for that one specifically, or was it just an accident?”
The driver checked the tip he’d been given, slid it into his pocket, and said, “Does Antonio ever do anything by accident?”
“Good point.” Mark loosened up his tie. “I’m going to have a drink. Hey, did you hear about how Antonio got those fancy shoes he’s wearing?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Twenty minutes later, Antonio drove through the open gates of a complex and bore left, around a small grove of Redbud trees. He much preferred them in the spring and summer months. The grounds were well maintained and the roadways clear. Each of the condos in the exclusive complex had attached garages, all buttoned down against the chilly night air. Visitor spaces were located to the right of each stairwell that led up to private porches, all with indistinguishable paint schemes, sconce lighting, brass mailboxes and door mats. This condominium committee had strict guidelines as to external presentation.
Antonio parked the town car and used the key fob to engage the electronic locks. The night was clear and cool, and the moon was very nearly full, with just a hint of shadow from an artist’s charcoaled fingertip. Each star appeared to be its very own shade of gold. He thought that at this moment he might agree with Van Gogh, in that the night is more alive and richly colored than the day.
He did not take his lyrical musings as a good sign. He had once read that before death the rational mind turns to whimsical interludes to distract the body from the pain of the present.
Ascending the stairs, checking his watch to ensure he was neither too early nor late, he did not bother to use the doorbell or brass door knocker, as he was strictly instructed. He found the door unlocked.
The aroma in the condo was one of radiator heat, leather upholstery and alcohol. The overhead lighting was not oppressive but neither was it flattering to the color of the walls. Furniture was aligned neatly, with no decorative pillows, stray magazines or any real evidence of use. There was a screened fireplace with a painting upright on the mantel; a collage that he knew as the work of a local artist. The artwork was meant to bring color and interest to the room, and Antonio was not convinced that it had accomplished its goal.
Standing in the arched entryway to the dining room area, holding a bottle and a crystal flute, was Liz Fiore, the Executive Assistant to the President.
“Champagne?” She asked.
“Are we celebrating?”
“I will be in a moment,” she said.
Young for her position and rank in the casino, her looks deceptively attractive, her demeanor was one of a high-powered confidence that quickly veiled her physical attributes by sheer force of authority. Antonio felt that her most disquieting quality was her habit of looking nowhere but your eyes while she spoke, and when the situation required, ignoring you entirely as soon as you deemed to respond. At this moment, her eyes had not wavered.
“Come and sit at the table,” she said. “A formal business discussion always seems ridiculous in comfortable chairs.”
Antonio entered the dining room area, unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket and sat down. He withdrew a folded sheath of papers from his jacket. “Here is my statement of the events of the weekend. I’ve added my signature to the last page. Would you like me to summarize?”
She reached over and slid the paper to her side of the table. “Maybe later, when I’m bored and need a good laugh. Let’s just talk for a moment.”
“Very well. Where would you like to begin?”
“Let’s start with you trying to feed Chinese food to the fucking shark.”
“That was an unfortunate combination of assumption and accident.”
“The shark is dead,” she saluted that statement with her champagne and took a sip.
“You had it euthanized?”
“No, you killed it.”
Antonio was somewhat stunned. “The gills are a sensitive zone for sharks, which is why I chose that location to ward off the attack. But the impact of the penlight, surely, didn’t…”
“It ate your BlackBerry. Ruptured an intestine.” She poured herself another flute of champagne. “And the Kamikaze Cam, a popular if disgusting member of the press, was threatened, endangered and finally bribed by yourself and has thus disappeared to parts unknown.”
Antonio didn’t know what to say to that.
“Anything in this fictional short story,” she asked, poking the folded statement with a fingernail, “about Brandon trying to shoot you?”
“There was only a very brief moment where he may have intended to shoot me.”
“Mmm. Mind if I smoke?” She had a cigarette case on the table.
Antonio took a lighter from his pocket. He leaned over, as did Liz Fiore, and touched flame to tip. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see the cigarette smoke parting around the nearly tangible edge of her stare.
“Tonight Brandon’s show at Twilight brought in nearly a quarter of a million dollars in various revenue streams,” she exhaled a curl of smoke. “And we didn’t pay anything out to the performer.”
“That is correct. We reached a mutual understanding.”
“I’ve seen the agreements from both cases.” She crossed her legs, balancing her champagne glass on her bare knee. “I spent an hour on Skype with the President. Based on his reaction to the conclusion of these events, I’ve decided you don’t have to die.”
Antonio nodded. He pulled out a second piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket. “This is my typed resignation. Also signed.”
She didn’t bother to look at the paper on the table. “Did I say I was firing you?”
“No.”
“Did I say that you were in any kind of trouble, whatsoever?”
“Not recently.”
“Pick that shit up and put it back in your jacket.”
Antonio did so. “I have a request.”
She coughed into her champagne flute. Wiped her lips with a finger tip. “The size of your balls never ceases to amaze me. Maybe I should’ve gotten them delivered to me after all. What, pray tell, is your request?”
“I would like Damien Valentine reprimanded. If not for his involvement, much of this may not have taken place.”
“Is the information in your little fable here?”
“All is outlined in my statement.”
“I’ll figure out something.” Liz Fiore stood up. “That concludes our business.”
Antonio stood as well. He was always intrigued by Liz’s confidence, not only in business, but in personal matters. She stood before him as she had been since his arrival at the condo, completely at ease and utterly naked. The tones and curves of her body did more for the ambience of the room than the collage he’d purchased for her a month ago.
Her only change, more of a nuance, was an upward curve to each side of her lips.
Antonio arched an eyebrow. “Do you require anything else?”
“Yes.” She drained the last of her champagne. “Take off that fucking tuxedo.”
Note From J.Fields,Jr.
Hello! Thank you very much for reading Casino Shuffle. I hope you liked spending the weekend with Antonio Cruz and Mark Ford. If so, please let me know on Twitter @jfieldsjr.
For those inter
ested, the cover was done on Corel Painter X by yours truly. The original painting that I did is included here after you’re done reading my rambling.
Next up are some excerpts from author friends of mine that I highly recommend. After that is a list of books I would suggest checking out. I’ve read them all, and enjoyed them all. I read a lot of different genres, and also have written two other short stories on Amazon that I think you’ll like if you’re open to horror and adventure. Check them out and let me know what you think!
The sequel to Casino Shuffle is in the works. I’ve ran it past a couple Antonio fans and they give it their stamp of approval so far. He seems to have a little group of admirers that are less crazy than Bran Fans but just as loyal. Look for Bad Beat to come out in 2012.
Until our next weekend at the Native Sun Casino, take care and best of luck.
www.jfieldsjr.com
BONNER’S ROAD WESTA SAMPLE INTRODUCTION
(CHAPTER ONE)
Copyright 2006, all rights reserved
This sample is used with the permission of the author
May 30, l848
Dear Uncle Virgil and Aunt Martha,
I write to you from four days trek west of FortKearney. I am in the IndianTerritories now, near the PlatteRiver. It is better this sad news come from me than by a traveler from these parts. I have to tell you of the death of Mother and Father. It was from the cholera which was present In St. Jo when we left and has been with many emigrant parties on the trail. Father showed first signs about the time we made afternoon camp on Saturday the twenty fifth and was quickly consumed by fever and the purging of the sickness. He was gone before the sun arose on the Sabbath. Mother tended to him well during the night and was with him at the end. On Sunday afternoon Mother became ill and I feared the worst. Mrs. Gresham, who you may know, tended her along with a Dr. Bingham from a Missouri train encamped nearby with sick people of their own. He gave her barberry and an opium pill and it seemed she rested comfortable and that the malady would spare her. Our party remained at camp as two other wagons also took sick with the cholera. Mother stayed quiet till Monday afternoon when she awoke in a delirium for about a hour and then quickly slipped back and soon died. I was with them the whole time but thankfully am not sick. Mr. and Mrs. Hampton along with their boy James died from the disease, too. I didn’t know this until they were gone. I was with my own kin as would be fitting.
They was buried near a cold water spring next to the river along with the Hamptons. All except the father from a family of the Missouri party, name of Cooper, perished. There was a mother, a daughter, and a baby boy. All were given Christian rites by a Missouri Methodist preacher name of Clark. It was as pretty a resting place as any at home. There were some willow trees within a glade where we laid them down and green grass all around.
Elizabeth Hampton survived without affliction. She will travel on with the Clark preacher and his wife at least as far as FortLaramie cause there is no one on the trail going east who she could safely travel with.
The Hamptons were from south of town near you and you may know their people and can tell them of their loved ones' passing. Please let the Greshams of Cairo know that theirs are all right and how Mrs. Gresham was an angel to all the stricken. Mr. Gresham was not so Christian as he feared for the cholera coming to him and his. Their people maybe shouldn't know this as he was always liked about town but is much changed after only a month on the trail to Oregon.
I am left now with our hand Jubal and our stock and wagon. I have thought this well and have chosen to stay on the path to Oregon. I do not want to return to Cairo and be the orphan Bonner boy. My Father said this trip will make a man of me and that is a part of my reason for going on. I want to make my fortune like my brother Ned. Perhaps I will meet him in Oregon as he has shipped on a steam packet out of New Orleans and is destined to stop for trade in California and Oregon.
I send this back with a family who has also suffered and has given up. I hope this letter reaches you and I will try to write again from FortLaramie.
Your nephew in sorrow,
Josh Bonner
Josh Bonner wasn't tired of walking. He was just tired of looking. For over an hour he had been staring only at his feet as they trudged through the new grass of the plain beneath him.
For the last ten minutes or so he had been concentrating on a white pebble picked up between the sole and toe of his boot. It wasn't that his boots fascinated him; it was just that he dreaded looking up again at the endless vista of shifting green buffalo grass against the constant horizon and eye-stunning blue sky. Nothing ever seemed to get any closer.
It had been seven days since he had buried his parents near the spring on the Platte. He was glad for the copse of trees near the gravesite. It was a peaceful place and made a landmark in this changeless sea of waving green and the occasional stunted tree. It was almost time for the afternoon camp and he would be grateful for the respite despite how despondent his evenings had become.
The dreg ends of the days were the worst. With them he had the dragging hours of the evenings to think about his parents and to entertain doubts of his decision to push on. Sometimes, it seemed every step was a chance to turn about.
The mornings, strangely, made everything seem right. Each day he was thrilled by the bustle of having breakfast in the open and by the breaking of the night's camp. Packing, getting the mules from the picket line, and helping Jubal hitch the team to the wagon renewed him. Best of all the affairs of the new day took him away from off his misery and his doubts.
Jubal watched Josh from his perch on the wagon. He held the reins loosely and let the mule team plod along. The river was just out of earshot to the right and Josh walked aimlessly abreast the wagon about five rods distant. There wasn't much for Jubal to do in driving the wagon. The mules had steadied to their task in the past few days. Still, at night he picketed all the animals lest they get a notion to return to their old homes along the Missouri River. Other than an occasional flick of the reins he had little to do but watch the miles roll under the wheels and wonder about the young man pacing alongside.
Josh Bonner had changed more in the past month than in the seven years since Jubal had fled slavery and become a part of the Bonner household. When they first set out for Oregon from their home in Cairo, Illinois, Josh had been just a boy, all full of himself and brimming with jump for the venture ahead. Since the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Bonner he had seemed still a boy but one changed beyond the pain he must feel. Jubal was surprised that Josh decided to continue on.
After burying his folks Josh sat for near a whole day by the bank of the river and wouldn't brook any company. Everyone knew he was crying but striving to behave as what he thought a man should. He wouldn't let anyone see his grief and turned away if any of the party tried to approach.
At that day's end he returned to the wagon camp to eat a sparing meal in silence. After an hour or so of poking the fire with a stick he quietly announced they would go on. Surprisingly neither the captain nor any of the other emigrants questioned Josh nor tried to dissuade him. They just passed glances around, shuffled about, and that was it. Nobody looked to Jubal as they wouldn't pay any attention to a black man anyway. Even if any one had bothered to ask for his opinion he probably wouldn't have been able to tell them how he felt about the casual way the whites allowed even a boy to decide what to do with his own life. Perhaps it was the offhanded way Josh spoke up or the determined set of his features that discouraged comment. As for Jubal turning back on his own, that wasn’t even a consideration. Jubal had nothing to return for or go back to. Worse, some of the emigrants were from slave states and might not take well to him walking away like a free nigger.
A flicker of movement ahead brought Jubal back to the moment. Shading out the sun with his hat, he saw amidst the glare the shimmering form of a rider approaching at a fast trot. As the dust rose around the rider it was a few moments before he could pick out the scout returning on his roan gelding. He sure w
as coming back at a faster gait than he left that morning. Something had happened on the trail ahead.
"Mr. Bonner!"
No response.
"Mr. Bonner! Lookit! It's Monsoor Delcroy a comin' back!"
Josh had heard Jubal the first time but didn't register it was him he meant and not his father. At the second hail he realized he was the only 'Mr. Bonner' here. The thought crossed his mind that, besides Ned, he was the only ‘Mr. Bonner’ that ever was going to be. He looked over to where Jubal was standing up and pointing, then stared off in the direction he was gesturing. He could only see a wispy cloud of dust he guessed to be about two miles distant. He ran to the wagon and vaulted up for a better vantage.
Jubal halted the team and moved over as Josh stepped onto the wheel and into the bench box so he could see.
Closer than he'd thought but still some distance away, Josh saw the rider and could tell by the horse and outfit it was the scout, Delacroix, returning with some bit of news. He was moving at a fast but comfortable gait. Evidently, he had seen something worth tiring his horse for but not riding so fast as to alarm the train.
Josh's wagon was in the fore this day and he decided to halt and let the others draw up. He raised his hand in a signal and stopped.
Their original party of three wagons from Illinois, the Bonners, the Greshams, and the Hamptons, had joined up with the Missouri party led by a Captain Metzger. In this party were Dr. Lemeul Bingham and his wife Hattie, the Parson Clark and his wife, and six other wagons of people he hadn't met yet. It seemed to Josh that one of the names was Oroville.
Altogether there were about fifty people including the Missourians’ half dozen or so slaves and about eighty head of mules, horses, cattle, and oxen. Elizabeth Hampton's wagon was being drive by one of the parson’s slaves, Ely. Another of their slaves, a woman named Dinah, helped with the camp chores.
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