Shortly after lunch, she ran into Pierce, who agreed that Latham’s explanations at the meeting with Pelligrino were nothing but self-serving distortions of reality. His support lifted her spirits a little, but did nothing for her physically. When her shift ended, she made her way to the parking garage across the street with the same lethargy that had dogged her all day.
The hospital staff didn’t have assigned parking spaces, but Sarchi had found a slot on the first level, for which she was particularly grateful. Looking forward to a hot bath and hitting the sack early, she walked back to where she’d parked. When she reached the spot, she found that her car wasn’t there.
Unwilling to believe it had been stolen, she examined her memory of that morning. Had she parked somewhere else? No. She and Tim Clark, another resident, had arrived at the same time, and they’d discussed his new car, which he’d parked next to hers and which was right there beside the empty slot.
Still wanting to believe that her car hadn’t been stolen, she walked the length of the floor, looking for it.
Not there . . .
It just wasn’t there.
“What’s the matter, Sarchi?” a voice said behind her. “You look lost.”
Sarchi turned and saw Alan Pinson, the chief resident. “My car’s gone.”
“Stolen?”
“I think so.”
“Where’d you park?”
“Back here.” She led him to the spot.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m not mistaken about this.”
“Then we’d better get hold of security. There’s a call box on the lower level. Be right back.”
In addition to leading the country in sales of Elvis memorabilia, Memphis is right up there for car theft. It had happened to the Lanzas and to Kate McDaniels. Hearing the story from friends, Sarchi discovered, doesn’t prepare you for the experience.
Rachel Moore, the next chief resident, and another woman came onto the floor and walked toward her. Embarrassed and not wanting Rachel of all people to see her at such a disadvantage, she tried to look as though there was no problem.
It was too difficult.
“Anything wrong?” Rachel asked.
Reluctantly, Sarchi told them what had happened. They clucked over her specific misfortune and the problem in general, then, at Sarchi’s urging, went on to other business, probably discussing how some people just attract bad luck.
Sarchi and Pinson waited for security in his car, neither of them able to mount much in the way of conversation. When they saw a white van with the hospital logo pull into the garage, they got out and flagged it down.
Sarchi told her story, then expressed her unshakable belief that she’d not parked on another level to a sturdy black woman whose uniform looked too tight to allow any strenuous movement.
“Just to be sure, let’s take a quick tour of the garage,” the woman said when Sarchi was finished.
“It’s a waste of time. I told you I parked here.”
“Humor me, hon. It won’t take but a minute. Just climb in the van.”
“I’ll wait for you,” Pinson volunteered.
Reluctantly, Sarchi got in the van. The garage had a floor below and one above their present location. They first cruised the lower level. Sarchi’s car, of course, was not there.
They circled around to the ground floor entry and, by necessity, covered that floor again before taking the ramp to the higher level. Sarchi was deeply immersed in thoughts of insurance and rental cars when all that suddenly became gloriously unnecessary. “There it is.”
Just as quickly she was overcome with embarrassment. “I have no idea how it got up here.”
“It’s all right, hon. It happens to all of us. You probably parked next to the red one yesterday and just lost track of time.”
“I wasn’t here yesterday.”
“The day before then.”
“No. The red car is new. It couldn’t have been then.”
“Well, anyway, your problem is solved. I’ll circle back and tell your friend everything’s okay.”
Too confused to even say thanks, Sarchi got out and stared at her car as the van pulled away. She had not parked here. She was sure of it. On impulse she walked around to the hood and felt it. Though it was a cool day and the sun was not shining on the metal, the hood was warm. She went to the driver’s door, unlocked and opened it, and popped the hood release.
It wasn’t easy raising the hood with the car so close to the wall, but she managed to do it. The engine was warm, too.
16
HMO REP HARRY Bright stepped outside and wrinkled his nose at the chill in the air. The sky didn’t look so great, either.
Every day for the last month the new delivery boy had unerringly thrown his paper in the azaleas. So it was a novel experience this morning to find it sitting nicely on the walk, halfway to the house.
Somebody must have finally gotten through to the lunkhead, Harry thought, leaving the porch. Probably wouldn’t last, though. He walked to the paper and bent down to pick it up when something caught his eye.
Harry’s yard was a magnet for trash. On windy days, he couldn’t believe how much shit would end up on his property. Mostly empty potato chip bags and school papers—Christ, he’d collected more homework assignments than the teachers at the school. But today it wasn’t trash that had blown in and stuck. It was a ten-dollar bill, caught in the monkey grass in such a way that only half of it showed.
The ten seemed like a sign. He glanced at his car, focusing on the black license plate embossed with a spilled stack of poker chips under the word Gambler. A yearning for the casinos thirty miles away in Mississippi awakened in his belly.
Found money . . . ten bucks . . .
Ten pulls on a dollar slot. Two on a fiver.
Who knows what could happen? And found money was the best to bet with because it came to you through luck.
But he couldn’t. Not with all he’d lost in the last six months. Hell, he wasn’t even caught up on the house payments. And Beth . . . Jesus, was she pissed the last time. She almost moved out.
“Harry, what are you doing out there?”
“Nothing.” Feeling guilty for even thinking about casinos, Harry snatched up the paper and walked back to the house, pocketing the ten.
An hour later, as Harry pulled up at a light on his way to work, he’d pretty much put casinos out of his mind. Better he buy lunch with the ten. But it did seem like a waste. A horn blared behind him, and Harry glanced at the light. Still red.
Looking in the mirror, he saw a guy in a white car pointing at him and then jabbing his finger toward the gas station on the right. Figuring the guy was trying to tell him he had a flat or something, Harry turned the wheel and eased off the road. The guy behind him followed.
Harry found a spot off to the side where he wouldn’t be in the way of people wanting gas and got out to check his tires. The guy who’d coaxed him into the station stopped a few feet away, and Harry could now see he was a redhead with a wind rash on both cheeks. The redhead climbed out of his car and came at Harry with a big goofy smile on his face. And he had his hand out like they were old buddies. Without enthusiasm, Harry raised his mitt for docking.
The guy grabbed Harry’s hand and pumped it. “Congratulations. I’m the River Kings Rover. I guess you’ve heard about our promotional campaign.”
The River Kings were North Mississippi’s minor-league hockey team. Harry was a fan, but he’d heard nothing about any promo. “What kind of campaign?”
“To raise interest in the team and reward our fans, we’re giving prizes to the first ten people I find with River Kings bumper stickers on their cars. And that’s you, brother.”
“Prizes?” Harry said, his enthusiasm growing. “What kind of prizes?”
The guy reached in his jacket pocket and handed Harry an envelope. “Dinner for two at Paulette’s.”
Harry grinned. “How about that?”
“I hope if you haven’t done it already, you’ll pick up some season tickets,” the guy said.
“I do every year,” Harry said happily.
“That-a-boy. Enjoy the dinner.”
Harry watched the guy get back in his car and leave. A ten-dollar bill in his front yard . . . and now this. Oh, man. Harry felt like he was emitting light. Static electricity played with his hair. All his planets must be in alignment, because this was definitely his day.
Heart thumping, he pulled over to a pump and gassed up. Then he drove to the nearest ATM.
THE CASINOS SOUTH of Memphis rise improbably from vast fields of cotton and soybeans, a towering land of Oz that appears to be solidly rooted in Delta dirt. Actually, as required by law and according to a long tradition of riverboat gaming, all the casinos float in great ponds connected to the Mississippi River.
Aware that the stretch of Highway 61 from Memphis to the casinos had become a death trap, Harry went south on I-55, then cut over to the Delta on I-69, a scenic route that wouldn’t get you killed.
For twenty-five miles, Harry managed to keep his mind off his destination, but when the road dipped sharply down to the delta, his nerves went on a stage-one casino alert. Five miles later, when the Harrah’s came into view in the distance like a great mythical palace, he went to stage two, metamorphosing into a gambling machine.
The road to Harrah’s from the highway was filled with twists and turns that taxed Harry’s patience. He’d driven the same route a hundred times but never with Lady Luck’s legs spread quite so wide.
It was still early enough that the parking lots weren’t even half full. That was good because it reduced the chances of some schmo tourist sitting at a slot Harry wanted. He caught a shuttle to the casino entrance and blended with a herd of old geezers getting off a charter bus. Watch out penny slots.
The doorman, alert for minors trying to sneak in, gave them all a benevolent look as they passed. Finally, Harry was inside.
He paused on the steps and looked at the scene: acres of slots and gaming tables lit by gaudy chandeliers, short-skirted waitresses with their boobs pushed up to their chins, the air filled with the satisfied burble of slots taking in cash. Deep to Harry’s right a slot broke into “Happy Days Are Here Again.” In the distance, he saw the beacon that signaled a hand payout. It was as though this was life, and everything else with the exception of sex and River Kings games was some kind of punishment.
Itching to get started, Harry went down the steps and headed for the five dollar slots. Knowing that the progressive slots with the million dollar jackpots didn’t pay off as frequently as the others, Harry usually avoided them. But not today. No way was he going to miss the best chance at a million he’d ever had.
He stopped at a bank of machines that only had one player, and he walked the row, touching the face of every slot. Feeling a small surge of electricity passing into his arm at the fifth machine, he took the ten he’d found that morning from the special place he’d put it in his wallet, added another ten, and slid onto the stool.
He fed the bills into the machine, uttered a small prayer, and hit the maximum bet button. Heart in his mouth, he watched the drums spin . . . around and around.
The first drum stopped—three bars. Come on, baby. Two more like that and he was home.
The second drum stopped . . . again three bars. Unable to sit still, Harry jumped up and clasped the machine between both hands. The third drum stopped . . . one bar. No win. But just above the one bar was the group of three he’d needed. So close. Luck would have her little joke.
He reached in his wallet for one of the twenties he’d gotten from the ATM.
STILL WEARING HIS River Kings Rover makeup, Jackie located Harry’s car in the casino parking lot. It hadn’t been possible to tail him; instead he’d relied on the information he’d been given about Harry—that he always went to the Harrah’s.
Jackie parked a safe distance from Harry’s car. Aware that he needed to work fast, Jackie then set about changing his face. Ten minutes later, assessing his work in the mirror he’d propped on the dash, he felt a surge of pride at what he’d accomplished on the fly. Now to find Bright.
Inside, it took Jackie only a few minutes to locate Bright at the five dollar slots. Not wanting him to remember later that this new face had been at the casino, he took up a position where he would be screened by a group at the roulette table. Actually, from the way Bright was concentrating on the slot in front of him, he wouldn’t have noticed a jackass if it was standing beside him. Jackie had sunk two fair-sized hooks into Bright’s hide but felt he should snag him one more time.
At the slots, Harry’s confidence was beginning to slip. He’d withdrawn two hundred and fifty from his checking at the ATM in Memphis and had used his MasterCard to get another three hundred from the casino ATM. And all he had left of that was fifty bucks. Hands sweating, he put another twenty in the machine and bet the max.
Zip . . . nada.
This was getting serious.
Across the casino by the roulette table, Jackie handed a cocktail waitress a twenty and pointed at Bright.
Harry helplessly watched his last double sawbuck head south. He looked dubiously at his remaining ten spot. The only way to win the million was to bet the max. Hit the jackpot with any less in the machine, and all you get is a consolation prize. Maybe he should drop back to the non-progressive dollar slots, build a stake, and come back.
“Can I get you a drink?” a voice said by Harry’s side.
He looked in that direction and saw a cocktail waitress so skinny that without her Wonder Bra she’d be as flat as his wallet. “Yeah, thanks. A zazarac’d be nice.”
“I’m not supposed to do this,” the girl said, looking around to see who was listening, “but you kind of look like my brother. This morning I overheard the manager and the guy who programs the slots say this one would hit the big payout sometime today. And so far, it hasn’t.”
Harry’s heart began to slam in his ears. He needed more money. “Honey, here’s a ten. Would you watch my seat for a minute?”
She nodded and took the money.
OVER AT THE roulette table, Jackie turned and watched the little ball bounce on the spinning wheel. Where will Bright stop? Jackie knows.
HOW DID THIS happen? Harry wondered, staring into the muddy water below the casino’s entry ramp, where a school of carp waited motionlessly near the surface for the answer.
It wasn’t a new story, not even a new wrinkle. He’d stayed too long, slipped past the hope of a big score into a hole where he didn’t dare leave without recouping his losses—a sucker’s mistake. And losses had led to more losses. He’d dropped back to the dollar slots, and still the money had run through his hands like blood, a wound whose flow couldn’t be stanched.
Three thousand dollars, as much as his MasterCard would permit. There was no way to keep this from Beth. The first five hundred was for the house payment. Now, he couldn’t even borrow on his card to pay that. Where had his luck gone? He considered driving back to Memphis and jumping off the bridge into the river, but the way his luck had turned, he’d probably hit a barge, survive, and be sued for damages.
FROM THE OTHER entrance ramp thirty yards behind Harry, Jackie saw him give the casino the finger then turn and begin the long walk to his car.
GOING TO THE HMO office after screwing up so badly at the casino was out of the question. Instead, when Harry got back to Memphis, he drove to the bluff and plopped onto a bench overlooking the Mississippi to think.
He’d been there only a few minutes when a bearded guy dressed like a college professor came down the path along the bluff. He stopped a few feet from Har
ry’s bench and gazed out at the river.
Harry hoped the guy would have his look and move on.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” the guy said.
Harry made a noncommittal gesture that should have let the guy know he didn’t want to talk. But the guy didn’t take the hint.
“A few years ago I stood at the origin of this river in Minnesota,” the professor said. “Would you believe it’s so small there you can jump across it?” He walked in front of Harry and sat down beside him.
Harry started to get up, but the guy put his hand on Harry’s arm. “Give me just a moment of your time, friend. I have a proposition that might interest you.”
Harry was puzzled at the familiarity implicit in what the guy had said. “Do I know you?” Harry said, looking hard at him.
This was the real test, Jackie thought. Not standing on a stage ten yards from the nearest member of the audience, but making it work close up, passing the kind of scrutiny the mark was now giving him. “No, friend, we’ve never met.”
Suddenly, struck by a thought, Harry jumped up. “Look, I’m not gay.”
“Neither am I,” Jackie said. “Now if you’d like to hear how you can make ten thousand dollars for a few minutes’ work, sit down.”
Helpless to resist, Harry returned to the bench. “What would I have to do?”
Jackie presented his proposal in a hushed voice.
“I could lose my job for that,” Harry whispered back.
“If there was no downside, it wouldn’t be worth ten Gs,” Jackie pointed out. “Actually, if you’re careful, I’d think the risk is very minimal.”
“What’s the point?”
“All you come away with is the money. You don’t get any explanations.”
“I need to think about this.”
“Sorry, the offer expires when I walk away.” This was, of course, a bluff as big as the one on which the two men were standing. If he didn’t come along, Jackie would be jammed up. “Make your decision. I’ve got other business today.”
Harry took a deep breath and looked out at the brown water roiling by on its way to the gulf. “Well . . . hell. Okay, it’s a deal.”
The Killing Harvest Page 13
