The Big Gamble

by Michael McGarrity

  “I’ve just been trying to move things along.”

  “Why? So it can all come together perfectly according to some master plan? The house gets built, the pregnant wife appears, the baby gets born.”

  Stunned by the criticism, Kerney tried again to explain. “I just wanted to have everything ready for you and the baby.”

  “The place you’re renting is more than adequate for us.”

  “You’re being wrongheaded about this.”

  “Wrongheaded? If I’m so wrongheaded why do you even bother to know me?”

  Kerney heard the phone go dead. He dropped the receiver and stared at it, pulled his hand back from it. Now, he was pissed—beyond belief pissed. He was a jerk, a dummy, an unfeeling, inconsiderate SOB. A bum for wanting to make Sara happy.

  Where had all this come from? A few hours ago she was laughing on the phone, talking excitedly about the house plans, consulting the architectural drawings he’d sent her, and asking questions.

  The phone rang and Kerney picked up.

  “Do you want to talk?” Sara asked.

  He could hear her crying. “Yes, of course.” A long silence followed, punctuated by Sara’s sniffling. “Are you still angry?” he asked.

  “I’m hurt, not angry.”

  Kerney’s indignation abated. “I had no intention to hurt you.”

  “I know that. But sometimes you get so single-minded I want to give you a swift kick.”

  “I think you just have.”

  “I guess I did.”

  “Are you all right?” Kerney asked.

  “No, I’m hormonal, pregnant, lonely, exhausted, and wondering what’s in store for us.”

  “A good life together,” Kerney said, trying for something upbeat.

  “Yeah, the rare times we’re together.”

  “We still have to work that out.”

  “Yes, we do. If you want me to raise this child on my own, tell me now.”

  Her words hit Kerney like a sucker punch. “Hold on a minute.”

  “Do you?”

  “Never, dammit.” He heard her intake of breath followed by another silence.

  “Okay.”

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I’d like to reach out and touch you in my bed tonight. Oh, never mind. I have to go. Good night.”

  “Sara, don’t hang up this way.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not sure I will,” Kerney said.

  “I wouldn’t embarrass myself by crying at you over the telephone if I didn’t love you. My nose is running, my eyes are red, and I need a big hug.”

  “Do you want me to fly in this weekend?”

  “No, I won’t have a spare moment.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just say good night,” Sara said.

  “How about if I say I love you, instead?” Kerney countered.

  “That will do nicely.”

  “I love you.”

  “Me too,” Sara replied.

  He held the dead phone in his hand until a recorded message urged him to hang up. Then he poured whiskey into a glass and stood on the patio staring at the hill behind the house in the darkness. He felt angry, hurt, above all misunderstood. Suddenly, he was dissatisfied with himself, with everything.

  He sipped the whiskey. The quarter moon and the star-filled sky couldn’t hold his interest. The stiff cold breeze against his face felt insignificant even though he started to shiver. The whiskey burned his throat.

  Was he really so unfeeling? Pigheaded? Inconsiderate? How could Sara ever think that he would want her to raise their child alone? Was she sending him a message? Had she decided to keep her commission and stay on active duty after her maternity leave?

  Confused, Kerney went inside and tried to get his head straight, although he didn’t hold out much hope that it would happen easily.

  Thomas Deacon was a little high and a little horny. He sat close to Ramona on a couch in his living room, occasionally letting his leg touch her knee as she looked at the enlargements she’d asked him to make.

  His leering smile made her want to slam his face into the hardwood floor.

  The room was decorated with mismatched furniture, cheap throw rugs, and shelves made from concrete blocks and boards, which held a large number of videotapes within easy reach of a VCR and big-screen television. There wasn’t a book in sight.

  “You’ve got a good start on a portfolio,” Deacon said. “But it’s only a start. We need to get you in some evening wear, swim suits, lingerie, and do some location work.”

  “Oh, I’d love to do that,” Ramona said.

  “You gotta learn to play to the camera,” Deacon said as he leaned closer, sounding every bit like a Dutch uncle offering friendly advice. “How to use your face and your body.” He ran his finger across Ramona’s cheek. “You’ve got the right bone structure for the camera, and Hispanic women are a hot commodity right now.”

  “Can I see some of your location work?” Ramona asked, maintaining her eager smile.

  “Sure, why not,” Deacon said, getting to his feet. “But don’t get ahead of yourself. That’s not gonna be happening until you’re about to graduate from the program.”

  Deacon swaggered his way into the studio and came back with some photo files. Ramona fed his ego with compliments as she looked at the pictures. She paused at the photograph of Sally Greer posing on the patio of the Santa Fe-style house. The one Deacon said he’d shot at the Indian resort and casino outside Ruidoso. Ramona knew better: she’d been to the casino and it didn’t look anything like an adobe hacienda.

  “Do you always go to the same places with Cassie’s students?” she asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  She tapped Sally’s photo. “I have this really sexy little black cocktail dress. Maybe we could do something high-class at a place like this. You said I needed to get more comfortable in front of the camera.”

  “I thought you were short on money,” Deacon said.

  “I’m starting a new job in a week at The Players Club.”

  Deacon licked his lips. He’d figured all along that Bedlow had an agenda for the bitch, but hooking her up with a job at The Players Club sealed it. Bedlow and Tully were gonna turn this sweet thing into a whore, just like they did with Sally Greer and some other prime tail.

  He put his hand on her thigh. “Yeah, you could use the practice.”

  Ramona ignored Deacon’s hand and held up Sally’s picture. “Is this place nearby? It looks like it was taken in Santa Fe.”

  “No, that was shot at a ranch owned by Cassie’s brother.”

  “I couldn’t afford to pay for your time to go there. But it’s beautiful. Where is it?”

  “Down in Lincoln County,” Deacon said.

  “I’d love to see that part of the state,” Ramona said. “I’ve never been there.”

  “Maybe I could free up some time and drive you there for a shoot,” Deacon said, slipping his hand further up her thigh. He wondered how long it would take to get the bitch high and naked with him in front of a video camera.

  Ramona almost shuddered at Deacon’s touch. Instead, she removed his hand and stood up. “Now, behave yourself, Mr. Deacon,” she said primly, teasingly. “I have to go.”

  Deacon smiled. “Don’t you want to stay and play with me?”

  “I’m not that easy. How much do I owe you for the enlargements?”

  “Forget about it. It’s on the house.”

  After she walked out twitching her tight little ass, Deacon rolled a joint, took a hit, and shrugged off the bitch’s rejection. The day would come when she would be easy.

  Three blocks away from Deacon’s house, Jeff Vialpando flashed his lights, and Ramona pulled to the curb. He got in her unit and Ramona handed him the wire she’d been wearing.

  “That sucked,” she said.

  “I think it went well,” Vialpando said.

  “I’m talking about how I feel. He had his hand halfway up my cro
tch. I need a shower.”

  Jeff stayed silent. He’d learned from hard experience working with the female vice cops in his department that nothing he could say would wash Ramona’s feeling of disgust away.

  “I wish the bastard had incriminated himself,” Ramona said.

  “You did good,” Jeff replied.

  “Big deal. He shoots Bedlow’s students on location at Norvell’s ranch.”

  “It’s another link in the chain,” Jeff said.

  “I would have liked to get a hell of a lot more.”

  “Are these your pictures?” Vialpando asked, reaching for the envelope on the dashboard.

  “Don’t touch.”

  He pulled his hand away. “I’d like to have one to show the guys who I’m dating.”

  Ramona’s fierceness softened. “Oh, are we dating?”

  “We will be, if you let me take you to dinner.”

  “Don’t you have a date with Sally Greer?”

  “Yeah, in three hours. Until then, I’m all yours.”

  “Dinner, huh?”

  “Yep,” Jeff said, pulling at the lapel of his best suit. “At a fancy restaurant. I already made the reservation.”

  “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Ramona said, breaking into a smile.

  “Hopeful, optimistic.”

  “One question,” Ramona said. “Are there any current girlfriends I need to know about?”

  “I’m between relationships,” Jeff replied.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I haven’t been on a date in six months.”

  “That’s worse than not having a girlfriend.”

  Vialpando laughed. “You’re right. May I buy you dinner, Detective?”

  “As long as you don’t put your hand on my thigh.”

  “Agreed,” Jeff said. “Now, about those pictures.”

  Ramona snatched the envelope off the dashboard. “In your dreams. You’ve got a long way to go before you’ll get to see them, if ever.”

  “But there’s a chance?”

  “Maybe,” Ramona replied.

  Vialpando put his hand on the door latch. “Follow me. After dinner you can hang out and eavesdrop on my date with Greer, if you want to.”

  “I’d like that. Besides, somebody needs to keep an eye on you.”

  Vialpando laughed and went back to his car. Ramona dialed Chief Kerney’s home number. He answered in a gruff voice, and she filled him in as Jeff swung ahead of the unit.

  “I don’t know if it means anything substantial,” Ramona said.

  “It’s helpful,” Kerney said tersely. “Thanks for the call, Detective.”

  Feeling a bit deflated by Kerney’s tone, Ramona disconnected and closed the distance to Jeff’s car, wondering what was eating at the chief.

  Luis Rojas talked to the El Paso vice cop on the phone and watched Tyler Norvell drum his fingers on the black marble top of the kitchen island.

  He disconnected and swung his bar stool to face Norvell straight on. “That Indian cop is still nosing around, but he won’t get anywhere.” He gave Norvell the scoop on Detective Brewer’s phone call.

  “And you were just telling me everything is going to be all right,” Norvell said. “This doesn’t cut it, Luis.”

  “What’s the problem?” Rojas responded. “A cop asks Cassie a couple of questions about Anna Marie and goes away. An Indian cop comes around nosing into my whereabouts the night of the murder in Ruidoso, gets his answers, and goes away.”

  “But this Indian cop hasn’t gone away,” Norvell said. “He’s still investigating. He’s got the names of two of our girls.”

  “He was told nothing that can come back at us. I’ll have Shea take the girls to Juárez tonight. They can work there until things quiet down.”

  “And that solves everything?” Norvell snapped.

  “If I asked the cop pretty please to stop, would that make you feel better?” Rojas moved off the stool, poured two mugs of freshly ground coffee, and brought them to the kitchen island.

  “Cut the sarcasm,” Norvell said, spooning sugar into his mug.

  “In time, this will become just another unsolved cold case that’s forgotten.”

  “Anna Marie’s death hasn’t been forgotten,” Norvell said.

  “Because they found her remains,” Rojas said, settling back on his stool. “They had to reopen the case.”

  “Was it necessary to have Ulibarri killed?” Norvell asked.

  “Of course it was, and Fidel did a good job of it. For five years, we used Harry Staggs’s place to break in some of our new girls and never had a problem,” Rojas said. “Ulibarri beat Greer up bad, for chrissake.”

  Rojas drank some coffee before continuing. “You know the rules: hurt our girls and you pay, threaten the partnership and you pay. Above all, we protect our investments. It’s worked for over twenty years. Ulibarri wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last. Remember Belinda Nieto?”

  Norvell looked skeptical. “This is all happening too close to home.”

  “I told you to let me handle Montoya.”

  “There wasn’t time for that,” Norvell said. “She was going to bring everything down.”

  “Burying her body in a fruit stand in Lincoln County wasn’t very smart,” Rojas said. “I never should have listened to you when you said it was taken care of.”

  “She was fine just where she was, until a drunk got killed and the place was torched. I don’t want to argue with you, Luis.”

  “So, stop. Do we have problems anywhere else in the organization? No. Everything is cool at Cassie’s, at Tully’s, and at your place. Things are running fine in Denver, Houston, San Antonio, Phoenix, and here. Nobody’s questioning Silva or Barrett, Staggs is taken care of, Sally Greer is playing ball, and the Indian cop has nothing but the names of two whores who will be across the border as soon as I talk to Deborah.”

  “We should move Sally Greer,” Norvell said.

  “Fine. Have Cassie send her to Houston. The oil men will love her, especially the Arabs.”

  Norvell nodded agreement. “And neutralize the cop.”

  “I’ll send Fidel up there tomorrow to kill him,” Rojas said. “He’d like that.”

  Norvell’s eyes widened. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Yes, I’m joking.” Rojas stood, patted Norvell on the shoulder, and put his half-empty mug in the sink. “Killing cops isn’t smart. Let’s say we make him look dirty. Plant some money in his house that he can’t explain away and make an anonymous tip to the state police.”

  “That would just make him more suspicious,” Norvell said, sliding his empty mug across the kitchen island.

  Rojas refilled it and pushed the mug back to Norvell. “Or get him fired. We don’t do it right away. Give it a month, maybe two.”

  “Meanwhile, what?” Norvell asked as he reached for the sugar.

  “We stay alert.”

  “That isn’t good enough. We need to be proactive.”

  “Save the speech making for your constituents, Tyler,” Rojas said. “If you’re that worried, cancel the bookings at the ranch.”

  “I’ve already done it, and the clients aren’t happy. Some of them made reservations up to a year ago.”

  “They’ll come back,” Rojas said. “We offer the best damn sex venue in the Southwest. We’ve got judges, lawyers, politicians, doctors, corporate executives, and celebrities from all over the country who come back year after year to be with their mistresses or favorite whores.”

  With a worried look still firmly in place, Norvell sipped his coffee and said nothing.

  “What else do you want to do, Ty?” Rojas asked.

  “Keep tabs on the Indian cop,” Norvell said. “That way we stay on top of the situation.”

  “That’s not a half-bad idea.”

  “It has to be low-key, below the radar.”

  “I’ll have Fidel do it,” Rojas said. “But just for a couple of days. I’ll send him up there toni
ght.”

  “I have to go,” Norvell said.

  “Stay in touch,” Rojas said as he walked with Norvell to the front door.

  Norvell drove away and Rojas went to find Deborah Shea. He found her in Fidel’s bed, riding him hard with obvious pleasure. She was a true nympho, who took her fill of Fidel every chance she got.

  Rojas watched for a moment before interrupting. “When you two are finished,” he said, “come to the kitchen.”

  Deborah nodded her head up and down vigorously without losing her rhythm.

  By sunset Clayton had settled into a shallow gully that gave him adequate concealment and a clear line of sight into Rojas’s driveway. The house sat at the boundary of the Franklin Mountains State Park, the largest range in Texas, all of it contained within the city limits.

  The highest peak, pale pink in the last flicker of light, rose three thousand feet above the city. Rocky and treeless, from a distance the desert mountains looked barren, but through his binoculars Clayton had seen hawks circling in the sky and a wide range of different types of cactus plants on the hillsides.

  Landscaping pretty much blocked Clayton’s view of the house, although he could see a light from a room above the garage and another in the main residence.

  The clear sky darkened, sapping away the heat of the day. Clayton pulled on his gloves and his ski mask, zipped up his sleeping bag, and adjusted his night-vision scope to draw in the maximum ambient light from the rising quarter moon. Above, he heard the distinctive sound of a bat winging by.

  A car exited the driveway. Clayton locked in on the plate as it turned onto the road, and he almost let out a whistle. The vehicle carried the distinctive New Mexico license plate of the state senator from Lincoln County.

  Clayton checked the make of the vehicle as it sped away. It was Senator Norvell’s vehicle, for sure. Clayton had seen it often on the highways traveling in and out of Ruidoso. What was Norvell doing with Rojas? Could it possibly have anything to do with the investigation? Maybe yes, maybe no, but certainly worth looking into.

  He broke out a canteen and some trail mix from the backpack and waited to see what happened next. Within an hour two cars drove away from the house. He got license plate numbers, makes, and models, but couldn’t see inside to spot the drivers.