Liquid Smoke (Noah Braddock)

by Jeff Shelby

  Liz’s house was perched on a nice little curve of street that fronted San Diego Bay. She was on the rooftop deck when I pulled up, and she waved me in the front door.

  She was sitting in a beach chair, facing the lit-up buildings across the water. Her long, tan legs were stretched out in front of her, and she wore an old Chargers T-shirt and blue running shorts. She motioned with her beer to the small fridge on the corner of the deck.

  “I splurged for you,” she said.

  I opened the fridge and found a bunch of Red Trolley bottles. I grabbed one and sat down in the empty chair next to her. “Thanks.”

  We sat in the dark for a while, drinking but not talking.

  When it came to our relationship, Liz being a cop had a lot of drawbacks. But one of the things I appreciated most was that she understood silence was a necessary thing. It didn’t mean anything was wrong or one of us was mad. It was just a way to decompress. Most people didn’t understand that.

  “Was it odd?” she asked as I grabbed us a couple of new beers.

  I knew she was talking about Simington.

  “Yes and no,” I said. “In a lot of ways, it was like going to see someone I didn’t know. Someone who wanted to hire me or something. Detached.”

  She nodded.

  “But it was strange that he looked so much like me,” I said, shaking my head. “Some people think Carolina and I look alike. But this was like looking down the road thirty years.”

  “Except you won’t be in jail,” she said.

  I didn’t say anything and took a drink.

  “You know that, right?” she asked, glancing over at me.

  I kept drinking.

  “Don’t confuse what he looks like with what he is, Noah. You’re not him.”

  I’d said as much to Simington through the window, but that had been more of a defense mechanism than true belief. It was hard for me to separate the two.

  “I’ve killed people,” I said.

  She pulled her legs in and sat up in the chair. “You think that makes you like him?”

  “I think it means we share some of the same … abilities.”

  “No one has ever hired you to kill anyone. And if they tried, you wouldn’t do it.”

  I shrugged, watching the lights bounce off the water.

  “You were on the right side when those things happened,” she said. “You never set out to kill them just for the sake of killing them. Or for money.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. It seemed trivial to distinguish between right and wrong when a life ended because of something I’d done. I wondered if there had been underlying reasons for the things I had participated in. Had I been more of a willing participant than I’d realized? Maybe sought out those situations to enact some sort of latent feelings I had? I’d killed when I thought my life was in danger, but now I was second guessing whether killing had really been necessary.

  “Simington killed for a paycheck,” Liz said. “I did some checking this afternoon. He was a brutally cold killer. Putting a bullet in the back of a head is a barbaric way to take a life. He’s done it. You haven’t. And he did it for no other reason than someone paid him to. He wasn’t making a moral choice. He was doing his job.”

  I appreciated her belief in me, and while it didn’t satisfy me, I didn’t want to spend the evening dissecting my screwed-up psyche.

  I reached over and held her hand. “Anything interesting in what you found on him?”

  She hesitated. “You sure you wanna hear it?” “No. But tell me anyway.”

  “What Darcy told you was basically true,” she said. “The arrest reports made him as a hired gun. He drove these two guys out in the desert and took ‘em out. The two vics had just crossed over a few days earlier.”

  “Was Simington a coyote? Bringing them over the border?”

  She nodded. “At one time, it looks like. But a lot of that was guesswork because Simington wouldn’t give up any names.”

  That didn’t surprise me. The stoicism and calm I’d seen in him at the prison weren’t fake. He seemed at ease with where he’d ended up, with no need to take anyone else with him.

  “He was also in debt,” Liz said.

  “Surprise.”

  “Huge debt, though,” she said. “Half a million.” “Wow.”

  “Appears he had a nasty gambling habit.” “Darcy mentioned he worked in some casinos.” “Yes, he did. And I did find one interesting consistency.”

  “What’s that?”

  “All three casinos that employed him are owned by a guy named Benjamin Moffitt. He owns Bareva out in Lakeside and a bunch of others.”

  “Any mention of a Landon Keene?” I asked. “Nope.”

  I felt her fingers fold into mine, and we lapsed into silence again. The black water rippled in the distance, warped images of the skyline floating on top of the bay.

  I didn’t know what Liz was thinking about. But I knew where my thoughts were.

  Benjamin Moffitt would be my starting point.

  NINETEEN

  I slept restlessly, images of Darcy Gill and Russell Simington clogging my mind for the better part of the night. I was out of bed early and did four hard miles next to the water, trying to clear my head and develop a plan. I knew I had to make one phone call to get the ball rolling, and it was the thing I was least looking forward to doing.

  I was back at Liz’s, sweating and tired, when I sat down on the front steps and dialed Carter on my cell. He answered with a grunt. “It’s early, I know,” I said.

  “Then why the fuck are you making my phone ring?” “Because we’ve got things to do.”

  “We?”

  I was hoping he still thought of us as a we after the previous day’s conversation. I knew I needed to explain to him a little more about why I’d kept him out of the loop, but I wasn’t going to do it over the phone.

  “Yeah. You interested?”

  The line hummed for a moment. Then he said, “What are we doing?”

  “Feel like gambling?”

  “Vegas?”

  “No. Lakeside.”

  “Blue hairs and penny slots?”

  “You in or not?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Want me to pick you up?” He hesitated. “No. Where should I meet you?” That stung me a bit. It was probably his way of staying pissed at me, and I couldn’t blame him.

  “Bareva Casino,” I said. “Noon alright?” “Noon’s fine.” “See you then.”

  I hung up and went inside to shower.

  I checked on Liz after getting dressed. She was wrapped in the sheets like a mummy. I had a hard time sleeping in even when I did sleep well. She had a hard time getting up if she didn’t have a reason. She had the day off, and there was no reason to disturb her. Plus, I knew she might try to dissuade me from going to the casino, and I didn’t feel like being dissuaded. I left her a note telling her I’d call her later and headed out.

  I stopped at a café on Orange to grab some breakfast. I got down an omelet and some juice before I realized I needed to make another phone call. I paid for my meal, walked outside, and dialed the Law Offices of Gill and Gill.

  Miranda answered on the first ring, sounding more annoyed than she had yesterday.

  “Miranda, it’s Noah Braddock.”

  “Hold on. Let me get excited,” she said.

  I guessed from her tone that the police hadn’t spoken to her yet. “I need to tell you something.”

  “Did you hear from Darcy?” she asked. “Because I haven’t, and I’m starting to get pissed off about it. I’ve got people calling here looking for her, and I have no idea what to tell them. And I can’t believe you just waltzed out of town without—”

  “Miranda,” I said. “Shut up and listen to me.”

  I could feel her making a face at the phone. “Fine. I’m listening.”

  I took a deep breath. “Darcy is dead.”

  “Funny, asshole. Shitty sense of humor.”

  “I’m not kidd
ing, Miranda.”

  I watched several cars go by as I waited for her to say something. “You’re not kidding, are you?” she asked, her voice smaller, weaker.

  “No. I wish I was. I found her body. She was in my house when I got back.”

  She cleared her throat. “Okay. I’m coming to San Diego.” “Well, you might want to wait until the police get in touch with you,” I said. “They’ll probably—”

  “I’m coming,” she said, and hung up.

  TWENTY

  Lakeside was a small community on the eastern outskirts of San Diego County. When I was growing up, it was one of those places that people made fun of as if it were three states away. But as the region grew, more and more folks moved out that way seeking affordable housing, and it was no longer a forgotten outpost. The Bareva Casino had only heightened the city’s profile.

  Reservation casinos were all the rage in southern California. The legality of gambling seemed grayer with the construction of each new cash cow in the nether regions of the county, and no one seemed to care. Throw up a huge monstrosity of a building with some neon lights and the chance to win money and people would come.

  Bareva was no different. The casino was a castle-like structure lit up even in the afternoon. The massive parking lot was jammed with tour buses, motor coaches, and cars that had come from all over. It took me ten minutes to reach the entrance from where I left the Jeep.

  Carter was waiting out front. He wore extra baggy cargo shorts, a neon-green Quiksilver T-shirt, and sandals. He was holding a Slurpee the size of a small trash can.

  I motioned at the Slurpee. “Get me one?”

  “Nope.”

  “Thanks.”

  He shrugged. “Figured we wouldn’t look that tough if both of us had one.”

  “Oh.”

  “But if we don’t have to look tough for whatever the fuck we are doing here, then I apologize.” He stuck his tongue out and took a long lick on the straw. “And you can have mine.” He held it out.

  “I guess we’ll have to look tough.”

  “Vindication.” He nodded at the casino. “Are we here to try our luck?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  We walked inside. It might as well have been Las Vegas, with coins hitting trays, the relentless ringing of slot machines, bright lights, no clocks, and a noise level that made it hard to think. An occasional joyful scream as someone hit what they considered a jackpot. Old couples huddled at machines, slowly extracting quarters from a plastic bucket.

  “Oh, I love the Wheel of Fortune one,” Carter said, pointing at a giant machine with his Slurpee. “I wonder if they have The Price is Right one.”

  “I’ll see if we can get you a roll of quarters.”

  We moved through the casino to a cage in the center that had an information sign. I asked where the administrative offices were, and we were pointed to a bank of elevators.

  Riding up, Carter asked, “We applying for jobs?”

  “Yeah, I thought you’d look great in one of those cocktail waitress outfits.”

  The elevator stopped, and the doors opened.

  “Thank you for noticing,” Carter said.

  The admin floor felt like being miles away from the casino. Plush carpeting. Tasteful artwork on the walls. No incessant bell ringing. The elevator had transported us to another world.

  An attractive woman with a bun of blond hair greeted us from behind an oak reception desk. “Gentlemen, how can I help you?”

  Carter whispered, “Gentlemen?” and chuckled before he went back to sucking on his straw.

  “We’re looking for Ben Moffitt,” I said.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Do we need one?”

  She smiled patiently. “Of course. Mr. Moffitt is a very busy man.” She seemed to finally notice that we were dressed in shorts and T-shirts and one of us was enjoying a Slurpee. “Has there been a problem in the casino?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “We were just hoping to speak with Mr. Moffitt.”

  “Are you selling something?” she asked, squinting at us like that might help her figure us out.

  “If you could tell him it’s in regard to San Quentin, that would be great,” I said, smiling.

  She looked back and forth between us for a moment, then picked up the phone. She turned away from us as if she was looking at her computer, but I thought the move was more to keep us from hearing.

  “Carolyn, I’ve got two young men out here asking to see Mr. Moffitt,” she said, apology apparent in her voice. “Regarding San Quentin?”

  She looked at me, smiled, and held up a finger to indicate it would be a second. I gave her a thumbs up. Carter moved the straw up and down in the lid so that it made a horrible groaning noise. She frowned in his direction. He gave her a thumbs up, too.

  Her eyes moved away again. “Alright. Certainly. Thank you, Carolyn.”

  She hung up and swiveled back to us. “Gentlemen, I’m sorry. Mr. Moffitt’s schedule is full today. If you’d like to leave a card, I can have his assistant get back with you to schedule a better time.”

  I pulled a card out of my pocket. “May I borrow a pen?”

  She smiled, grateful that I wasn’t going to fight her on it. She passed a pen to me.

  I flipped the card over and wrote “Russell Simington” on the back. I slid the card and pen to her.

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d take that to him right away,” I said. “Tell him we’ll be in the casino for a while. He can find us there.”

  She picked up the card. “I’d be happy to take this back, but I doubt he’ll be able to see you today. But if he should ask, where in the casino might you be?”

  I turned and headed for the elevator, Carter on my heels.

  “We’ll be the ones making a commotion,” I said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Commotion?” Carter asked when the elevator let us out in the casino.

  “Commotion,” I said.

  “You’re not just teasing me, are you?”

  “Nope. I needed something you were good at.”

  I thought he was going to start skipping, he looked so happy.

  We went to the change cage, and I bought a hundred bucks in chips. I handed Carter half. Then we found a roulette table.

  As we slid into the seats, I whispered to Carter, “Go crazy, dude.”

  He gave a tiny nod and set his Slurpee on the edge of the table.

  A guy with dark hair and circles under his eyes greeted us. “Hello, gentlemen. Thank you for choosing Bareva. Place your bets, please.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” I said. Then I looked at Carter and said louder than necessary, “I bet I’m gonna kick your ass here, bro.”

  “You and what person twice your size, bozo?” he said, matching my volume. He dropped a couple of chips on black. He glanced at the worker’s nametag. “Fire her up, Bill, and make sure that fuckin’ little pearl lands on black.”

  Bill laughed and turned to me. “Sir? Do you wish to bet?”

  “I wanna be black,” I said.

  “So did Vanilla Ice,” Carter said. “Let’s go. Drop your money.” “You may also bet on black, sir,” Bill said.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I want to be the only one on black.”

  A perplexed expression settled on Bill’s face. I looked at Carter. “Next round, I’m black.” “Whatever, Vanilla.” He pounded the edge of the table. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  I dropped a couple of chips on red.

  Bill spun the wheel. The tiny ball jumped like it was electrified. “Come on, you little fucker!” Carter yelled, pounding the table again.

  The ball bounced into the black slot and settled as the wheel came to a halt.

  Carter stood and jumped up and down like a two-year-old in a crib. “Oh yeah, baby! Pay the big man!”

  Bill laughed and slid some chips toward Carter. Carter reached for them, but I grabbed his wrist before he got there.

 
; “That’s my money,” I said.

  “The fuck it is, Vanilla,” he said, appropriately appalled. “And you better let go of me before I make you eat this wheel.” “I called black.”

  “Too slow, bozo.” He glanced at Bill, like can-you-believe-my-buddy. “Bill, that’s my money, dude.”

  Bill now appeared as if he wished he’d called in sick. “Fellas, let’s calm down.”

  People were creeping closer, unable to ignore our voices.

  “My money,” I said.

  “My ass,” Carter said.

  I tackled him, and we fell to the floor.

  “This is fun,” Carter whispered as he rolled me over.

  I wrapped my arms around his head. “Just you wait.”

  A flurry of people surrounded us and began pulling us apart. We both ended up in the arms of security guards. Lots of yelling and people telling us to calm down. For a moment, I wondered if our show was all for naught.

  Finally, though, from the area near the elevators, three men in dark suits came toward us. Large, severe men.

  I looked at Carter. “Here comes the real fun.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  One of the suits took me by the arm. Not roughly, but more like he was escorting me around an art gallery.

  He smiled politely. “Sir, if you’d like to come with us.” It wasn’t a question, but it lacked the threat I was expecting.

  The two other suits gestured at Carter but didn’t take his arm. A wise move.

  We moved away from the scene of our lunacy and toward the elevators. My escort let go of my arm but was still smiling. “You succeeded in getting Mr. Moffitt’s attention.”

  “Imagine,” I said.

  The elevator opened, and we all stepped in. I marveled that somewhere in the action Carter had managed to retain his Slurpee. He was sucking on the straw as if nothing had happened.

  My escort stuck a key in a lock above the floor numbers and turned it. The doors closed, and we rose much higher than the fourth floor where we’d originally started. I guessed we went up about ten floors.