Black Otter Bay

by Vincent Wyckoff

  She kept moving. The reason for her being here was suddenly lost in the cacophony of bells and whistles. Stopping in front of one of the video slots, as if deciding whether or not to play, she stared at it while getting her bearings and collecting her thoughts. Abby was convinced that Randall was involved in Ben’s disappearance, and many of his business associates had ties to the shadier side of the gambling community. Therefore, Marcy had volunteered to visit the casino to look for any of those connections to Randall or Ben. But what exactly was she supposed to be looking for?

  “Buy you a drink?” Marcy jumped at the voice, which was too close beside her. She turned to face a backwoods-looking character grinning at her through yellowed teeth. He held out a tall plastic cup of beer.

  “I don’t drink,” she said too quickly, obviously lying.

  The man’s grin became even larger. “That’s okay,” he said, as if accustomed to rejection. “I have two hands.” Then he held up a second glass of beer, pointed it at the machine in front of them, and asked, “Are you looking to play this thing?”

  “No. No, I’m not. Actually, I’m meeting someone here soon.” Marcy looked at the vacant spot on her wrist, as if checking the time.

  “That’s okay,” he said again, ignoring her blunder. “These machines are a waste of good money, anyway. The house stacks the odds against you. Even a big winner on a nickel slot won’t pay you much. The only real chance you have is at the card table, and then you’d better be either really good or really lucky.”

  Marcy thought of Jackie and her rumored problem with gambling on cards. She glanced around quickly, and then asked, “Where are those tables, anyway?”

  “Upstairs. I’ll show you, if you want.”

  She took a closer look at the man, at his Duluth Outfitter’s T-shirt and camouflaged cap. His thick arms were covered in tufts of hair, and the twin cups of beer were grasped firmly in wide, battered, calloused fingers. His smile was simple and friendly, not unlike most of the young men who frequented the Black Otter Bay Café, so when he stretched an arm out to point their direction down the aisle, she gave in and set out beside him. At the end of the aisle, the man turned to lead her to the stairway in the rear corner of the building. As he did so, she reached for one of the beers he carried, and with a laugh he held it out for her.

  Marcy had never been to a casino before. Her only concept of them came from stories her parents told from their winter excursions out West, or from Hollywood movies with scenes of Las Vegas. She had a notion of glamour and fun among well-dressed, wealthy patrons. What she’d found so far was just the opposite. There was a sense of desperation about the place, a clanging, flashing persistence that seemed intent on bashing its way to fulfillment and happiness. She sensed sadness in the room, as if all the bright lights and noise were no more than an empty gesture, or a cheap sleight of hand.

  Marcy’s inherent upbeat disposition had deflated considerably during the short tour of the casino. She found it impossible to think of Jackie hanging out here. Abby’s mother, who dressed with such flair and style, who carried herself with a grace Marcy had never before seen in Black Otter Bay, couldn’t possibly have fallen in with the mindless drones sitting at these machines. In the end, she decided the stories were nothing more than mean rumors. She just couldn’t picture it, but the effort to do so had distracted her from the comments of the man at her elbow. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You were saying?”

  When he introduced himself again, her fretful reticence dumped a weighty silence into the air around them. At the top of the stairs they came out on another room with a tall ceiling, filled with more clanging slot machines. Even the ones not in use were flashing and ringing, as if pleading for attention. Every outside wall around the second floor housed a bar serving drinks. Following her new friend, Marcy once again found herself passing through an aisle lined with the thumping, clanging video slot machines.

  At the end of the row they came upon a small area cordoned off for card tables. Of the half-dozen or so tables available, only one was in use. Marcy’s friend nodded at it and said, “There you go, sweetheart. Blackjack.”

  Marcy studied the small area of play. A handsome, long-haired Native American stood behind the table. As the dealer, he was well dressed in slacks and black, western-style boots. A black leather vest topped off a long-sleeved white shirt, but the item that made the biggest impression on Marcy was the bolo tie clasp at his neck. Made of pipestone and highlighted with smaller bits of turquoise, it was an amazing, eye-catching piece of jewelry. It was huge, and just flamboyant and gaudy enough to bring a grin to Marcy’s face. The dealer caught her looking at him when he glanced her way, but soon returned to the business of dealing cards. Three somber, hunched over card players sucked on cigarettes while squinting through the smoke at their cards.

  Her new friend squeezed her arm. “How about it, honey? Go ahead, take a seat.”

  “Oh, no, no,” Marcy said, stepping back. “I’ve never played before. I’d rather just watch for now.”

  The man grinned and shrugged. He tipped his cap back, and said, “Well, maybe I’ll give it a go, then. I bet you’re good luck, eh?”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” she replied, but was relieved when he stepped over to the table.

  He took a seat and motioned for her to join him. She slinked around behind him, almost picturing herself in one of those Las Vegas movies. Unfortunately, the dingy atmosphere of the place had churned a pit in her stomach. And her nerves were on edge, so that just a couple swallows of beer brought on a light-headed giddiness. She rested a free hand on the man’s shoulder, but jumped in alarm when he acknowledged it with a friendly pat of his burly fingers. Looking around, it was a relief to see that no one paid them any attention. The few slot machine players sat transfixed by their flashing lights and the idle, bored bartenders carried on conversations among themselves.

  Then, down the aisle they’d just walked, Marcy spotted a big, well-dressed man just reaching the top of the stairs. He moved like an athlete, she thought: agile and solid. He didn’t look at all like the other patrons of the place. This man fairly glowed with a smug confidence. His black sport coat looked tailored, and his collared black shirt was pressed and fresh. With his dark sunglasses, spiked flat-top haircut and black clothing, he would have been one of the bad guys in Marcy’s Las Vegas movie. He appeared to be alone. At the top of the stairs he cast his glance around, as if wary of enemies, she thought, and strode off with a purpose. Marcy followed his progress as he passed the far ends of each aisle. Then, he suddenly disappeared.

  She couldn’t have said why exactly, but Marcy abruptly leaned over her friend’s shoulder and said, “I’m going to the ladies room. Be right back—good luck.” She gave his shoulder a companionable rub, but he ignored her, already engrossed in the cards in his hand.

  She made her way down the last aisle she’d seen the man cross. On either side, slot machines called to her, the coin-fed automatons unaware of her passing. Marcy told herself she was-n’t doing anything wrong, but her heart began racing anyway, and even though a nervous sweat had erupted over her brow, her hands were ice cold, especially the one holding the beer.

  At the far end of the aisle she slowed, easing her way into the open. Glancing both ways, she found no sign of the man. It seemed he really had disappeared. Stepping across the open space at the end of the aisle, she placed her beer on the bar and looked around again, still puzzled. Then the bartender was there, a middle-aged matronly woman asking her what she needed.

  Both of them eyed Marcy’s nearly full glass of beer. “Well, nothing really,” she stuttered. She glanced behind her, and then said, “Actually, I was wondering, did you happen to see . . .” But then, thinking better of it, she paused, looked at the woman again, and asked, “I mean, could you tell me where the ladies room is?”

  Not even attempting to hide a snicker, the woman looked over Marcy’s head at a sign protruding from the wall, barely five feet away. WOMEN, it read.

>   Marcy followed the bartender’s gaze until the stupidity of her request became apparent. “Well, duh!” she mumbled, and then giggled at the straight-faced woman.

  She turned to leave when the bartender stopped her, asking, “You want that beer?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Marcy said, grabbing the cup while avoiding the woman’s snide grin. Finally walking away, she berated herself, thinking, What an idiot! I’d be the world’s worst detective.

  The entrance to the restroom was through an open vestibule. Just as she entered, Marcy noticed another door right next to the entryway. It was painted with the same geometrical designwork as the walls, effectively disguising its existence while not really hiding it. She decided that it had to be the door through which the stranger disappeared.

  Inside the vestibule, Marcy stopped to look back. No one could see her here, as the one visible aisle of video slots was vacant. At the far end, the card players were too involved in their blackjack game to notice. Marcy leaned against the wall, working to calm her breathing and slow her heart rate. She took several moments to get herself together, then took a deep breath and eased back to the entrance to look at the bar around the corner. The bartender was gathering a tray of drinks for a customer. Screwing up her courage, Marcy stepped out of the vestibule and grabbed the handle of the painted door. If it opened, and she got caught, she could always claim the overhead restroom sign had confused her. Besides, she was just a dumb country hick, right? And she wasn’t actually doing anything wrong, was she?

  The door was locked. She stepped back, looked at the solid steel door and metal handle, then reached out and vigorously yanked on it again. This time it opened, but from the inside, and as Marcy jumped back she glimpsed a luxurious corner office with soft lighting, flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the street. She jumped back as the tall man in sunglasses came through the door.

  “Excuse me,” he said, in a tone of voice closer to meaning, “Get out of my way.” He lowered his glasses to peer over them at her, and the cold contempt in his stare froze the breath in Marcy’s lungs. His expression of utter disregard reminded her of black ice on a lake in late spring: it may be interesting to look at, but take a few steps out there and it will kill you.

  “No, excuse me,” she stammered in a shaky voice. “My mistake.”

  The stranger reached back for the door handle, pushing it shut. Marcy stumbled backwards out of his way but he bumped against her anyway, knocking the plastic cup of beer from her fingers. It splashed across the floor, sloshing up on the man’s trousers and shoes.

  “Oh, my God!” Marcy cried. “I’m so sorry.”

  The stranger’s stare turned dark and menacing. Marcy’s heart pounded with such a fury she thought it might explode. Her breath fluttered erratically, making her feel powerless and weak. “I’m really, really sorry,” she said. She couldn’t look the man in the eye for fear of fainting dead away under his threatening glower.

  “Do you think perhaps you’ve had too much to drink?”

  “What, me—to drink? Oh, no. I was just, I mean, you know, the ladies room . . .”

  “This isn’t the ladies room,” he said with a scornful tone of superiority.

  “Of course. I’m just so sorry.” Before she could make a move to get out of his way, the man signaled to a security guard at the far end of the bar near the top of the stairs. Marcy couldn’t think. She stood helpless in front of him, her mouth hanging open, unable even to swallow.

  Then, another voice behind her. “Is there a problem here?” A hairy arm draped itself around her shoulders, and she turned to see the camouflaged cap beside her.

  The man in the sunglasses asked, “Who the hell are you?”

  Marcy saw the security guard talking on his radio as he approached. Another uniformed guard bounded up the steps. As they drew near, the man beside her tensed up and said, “I asked you, mister. You got a problem?” Then he noticed the spilled beer, stained trousers, and wet shoes. He laughed. “You should learn to control yourself.”

  The two security guards were there then, with more of them flowing up the staircase. The man in the sunglasses looked at the guards, then nodded toward Marcy and her friend.

  Her companion turned, his arm around her shoulders, pulling Marcy with him. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s play some cards.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” one of the guards said.

  The heavy arm slid off Marcy’s shoulder as her friend looked at the guard. Then he abruptly turned to face the man in the sunglasses. “What’s your problem, man?” He took a step toward him but was instantly set upon by security. They grabbed his arms and twisted them behind him, at the same time wrestling him around to face in the direction of the stairs.

  Marcy cried, “Stop it! We haven’t done anything wrong!”

  Her friend kicked out at the man in the sunglasses, but missed, and soon there were half a dozen guards restraining him in their powerful arms. He yelled and cursed, his cap went flying, and Marcy watched as a sinister grin appeared on her tormentor’s face. “You can’t do this,” she yelled. “We haven’t done anything wrong!”

  The man calmly replied, “We have you on video tape. Don’t ever come back.” And then he left, leading the way down the stairs.

  Another security man, dressed as a regular casino employee, took a firm grip on Marcy’s arm. Her friend thrashed against the guards, yelling like a fiend in a nightmare. They carried him spread-eagle between them, feet first, his flailing body and the determined captors an undulating mound of violence. A few paces behind, Marcy’s escort led her down the stairs. Like an animal caught in a trap, she warily looked around, and spotted the man in the spiked hair and sunglasses striding quickly across the foyer toward the front entrance.

  Near the bottom of the stairs, a security guard holding one of her friend’s legs suddenly stumbled. The whole pile of bodies crashed forward. For an instant, she saw a fist the size of a paver stone at the end of a thick hairy arm lash out. The guard at her side jumped into the melee, and soon order was restored as the tussling mass of arms and legs once again headed toward the door.

  Marcy followed, this time alone, until she stopped among a group of onlookers watching the excitement. She slipped into an aisle of video slot machines, peeking back around the corner to watch as her friend was forcefully ejected from the building. She felt weak in the knees, sick to her stomach. She knew that if she were thrown out now, she’d feel obligated to help the man who’d stood up for her. A shudder bounced up her spine. How had all this happened?

  Her hands were shaking when she looked around the corner again. Most of the security men were returning now, laughing and high-fiving each other. Flashing lights through the lobby suggested a squad car out front. Were they really arresting him? For what? Would they come looking for her, too?

  She ran down the aisle, passing an older Native American woman sitting at a slot machine three or four seats in from the end. Marcy passed her and climbed atop the next stool, using the woman to help block her from view. Once again she found herself staring at a flashing, ringing machine. It was useless trying to focus on the instructions. Trying to control her racing heartbeat, she looked at the woman next to her and was surprised to find her staring back, as if she hadn’t seen this much excitement in years. Embarrassed, Marcy averted her eyes and fished her coin purse out of her pocket. Fumbling it open, she hunched over on the stool like all the other mindless gamblers, keeping her back twisted toward the far end of the aisle, as if by not looking at the security men she could somehow hide in plain sight.

  Besides her driver’s license and a credit card, there was a small wad of cash in her coin purse. Grabbing the money, she thumbed through it, at the same time locating the flashing slot in the machine to feed paper money. She snuck another quick peek behind her, past the old woman, just in time to see a couple more security men walk past the end of the aisle.

  Marcy fed a five-dollar bill into the machine. Bells rang and lights flashed i
n thanks as it swallowed her money. She tried to calm herself with several deep breaths, and then climbed off the stool and crept back to the end of the aisle. Looking toward the entrance, she saw a crowd of people standing around talking about the incident. Past them, through the lobby, she noticed the lights of the squad car intermittently glowing through the descending darkness. Her eyes were trained now to spot security, even those in plain clothes, and she saw a guard at the front door, like a doorman, and another one standing out on the sidewalk. When she looked back down the aisle, she spotted the woman still watching her, apparently finding Marcy’s dilemma more interesting than the machine in front of her.

  Back in the lobby, she saw the outside door open and a woman enter. Marcy couldn’t believe her eyes. Jackie strode through the door and into the lobby, smiling graciously in greeting to the doorman. Marcy ducked back into her aisle as the fears and queasiness came rushing back. “You stupid idiot,” she hissed at herself. “Why didn’t you leave when you were supposed to?”

  She chanced another peek around the corner. Jackie stood in the lobby, her hands in the pockets of a dark woolen coat, reading flyers on the bulletin board. Marcy shook her head. If she comes this way, I’m toast. She hustled back to the slot machine, noting the old woman still watching her with a placid, expressionless stare. It was the same vacant look she’d seen on so many of the customers, like addicts awaiting their next fix. Marcy hunched over in her “hiding” position atop the stool. Her mind reeling, she attempted to read the instructions before her. Then, bewildered, she reached around the side of the machine, slapping at it with the palm of her hand. Turning to the woman beside her, she asked, “Don’t you even pull a handle on these things?”