Torch Song: A Kickass Heroine, A Post-Apocalyptic World: Book One Of The Blackjack Trilogy

by Shelley Singer

  Chapter Twelve

  You’re a fixer? I’m impressed

  No question about it, I didn’t like Newt Scorsi. But I’d certainly worked for people I didn’t like before. Chiefs were often corrupt or stupid. Private citizens who hired mercenaries or instigated the hiring were not always the most upstanding. But then, neither was I.

  There were his decidedly unattractive personal qualities— I hoped I’d never have to watch him eat again— but my skin-scratchy dislike went beyond that. The more I thought about it the more sure I was that he was so devious as to be dangerous.

  Although only the change guy Bernard had exposed himself to me as a Scorsi spy, or at least someone who did odd jobs for Scorsi, Newt had said that he had “people” in the Coleman camp. Either he was bragging and turning one man into many, or he was hiding people from me. I doubted it was, as he’d said, to protect them. Just as likely it was so that someone I didn’t suspect could kill me if he decided I had to go. In any case I had this ugly picture of a dozen amateur mercenaries floating around Blackjack crashing into each other, none of them knowing the other was a spy, none of them trusted or trusting, making my job tougher than it should have been.

  Even if Scorsi was not a fool, he was the type who sometimes thought “smart” involved elaborate, unnecessary, and convoluted schemes and secrets.

  I wondered if I shouldn’t spend some time shadowing Newt and finding out what he was really up to, but the prospect was not nearly as appealing as getting to know Samm better and I would certainly have to do that to get some idea of what this supposed army was all about. If it even existed.

  A couple of hours before my shift was due to start I headed for the casino. Sure enough, Samm was working the center table, second of three. I stationed myself behind the railing, not playing, just watching, pretending I was getting some pointers on the great game of poker. Not that I couldn’t use pointers. I lean more toward the slots than the tables. I get enough conflict in my work. Enough bluffing, too.

  I’d first noticed Samm’s height and physical power during the merc raid. Watching him now, I could see that even his dealing had a casual strength about it. Nothing sloppy or indecisive in his movements. The man in charge of the military. The General. That was what Newt Scorsi had called him. A pretentious title, considering the probable size of the well-hidden and possibly mythical army. Then again, for all I knew, half the people in Tahoe were secret Coleman foot soldiers. And the other half? What were they? Neutral? Scorsi fans? Unaware of any rivalry at all?

  Samm smiled and nodded to me. “Sit down, Rica. Plenty of room tonight.”

  “I don’t want to play, just watch.”

  “Sit down anyway.” He patted the empty chair beside him. His smile was sweet, his dark eyes warm. If I hadn’t seen him fighting off mercs I’d have wondered if he was a soldier at all.

  A scrawny black-haired man with a day’s growth of dirty-looking beard that didn’t hide the smallpox pits, wearing a too-big rusty black jacket, watched me take the seat between him and Samm.

  He grinned. Dirty teeth. “Yeah. Sit down and be my luck.”

  The slightly less used-up greasy blond specimen sitting next to him on the other side laughed. “Forget it, Willy. She’s house luck. She works here.” He leered at me. “Noticed you in the restaurant the other night, Miss. And now I see your picture’s up outside the lounge. Pretty. Word is you sing real good. Is that true?”

  I hadn’t realized the poster was up. I’d have to take a look. And word? Already? Jo wasn’t wasting any time in pumping up business.

  “Thanks. I guess it’s true. But I’ll leave that up to the audience to decide, once I actually give a performance.”

  Samm was dealing seven stud. An orange-haired woman of about 35 was showing a pair of aces, the potbellied man next to her three on a straight. He raised her bet by $20. Willy and his friend folded.

  “Wonder if I could learn to do that,” I said, watching Samm’s strong, graceful brown hands dole out the last up cards. I wasn’t really interested in being a dealer, but I was looking to spend time with the General, and I also wanted to get a feel for when he was around and when he might be out doing things I needed to track. From what I’d been able to observe, Samm worked the tables between five and midnight, same as my hours, which gave him a lot of free daylight to do other things. And if Newt wasn’t entirely full of shit, what he had to be doing some of the time was meeting with his troops, training and recruiting, or supervising the training and recruiting.

  “You want to learn to deal?” I nodded. He smiled at me again. “I don’t see why not. Doesn’t take a genius.” He laughed. “Not that I don’t think you’re a genius. You know the game?”

  “I’ve played a few times.”

  “Win?” He grinned. He had the most beautiful cheekbones. And his eyes weren’t really all that dark. Hazel. Deep hazel.

  “Mostly Lost. And the times I’ve watched the tables here I’ve noticed some pretty sharp players.” Dirty-face and Blondie preened. The potbellied man looked alarmed. The woman just looked bored. “I guess you’ve been doing this a long time, Samm?”

  “A few years.”

  “Always for the Colemans?”

  “Yep. Always.” Dirty-face had bet too much for potbelly. He folded.

  “They’re good people to work for,” I said.

  That earned me a smile and a nod. Dirty-face picked up a nice pot.

  “Sure are. Glad you like it here.” He was dealing again. “You know, I’d like to hear you sing. I’ll bet I could get someone to take over for me a while one evening.”

  I said it would be lovely if he came to the opening the next night.

  He nodded. “Maybe a glass of something together afterward?” Potbelly snorted.

  “Good idea.”

  But it was still his days I wanted to know about. I stood up, as if I were leaving, then pretended to have a second thought. “Maybe you could give me some lessons in dealing sometime soon. What day would work for you?”

  “Not tomorrow. I won’t be here. How about I let you know?”

  Perfect. Now all I had to do was find out what would be keeping him so busy. Only one way to do that: follow him.

  I’d heard the Colemans had apartments on the second floor. I hadn’t seen anyone but other employees and hotel guests on the third floor and Samm was more like family, so I was guessing his place was on the second floor, where I really had no business being. But I could station myself down in the casino, in a spot where I could watch the doors, early enough in the morning to catch him leaving.

  When I’d climbed the stairs to the third floor and pushed open the door into the hallway, I noticed that the elevator doors were open and someone was fiddling with the wiring. A tall skinny woman. The scar-faced woman I’d seen playing poker the day before.

  She looked over at me and smiled. The smile deepened the long mark on her left cheek, a white gash that ran from sharp cheekbone to craggy jaw. She wore her hair chin-length and unstriped; it hung lank around her starved face. Her eyes were sharp and dark and radiated ambivalence. Friendly. Angry. Warm. Cold.

  “Are they fixing the elevator?” I asked, rather stupidly.

  “I am.”

  “Oh, sorry— you’re a fixer? I’m impressed.”

  She shrugged, but she looked pleased. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Rica.”

  “Hello, Rica. I’m Hannah. There’s a sign outside the lounge that says Rica Marin will be singing there tomorrow night. There’s a photo, too. Looks like you. I guess it must be?”

  “Yep. That’s me.”

  She flashed an even bigger smile. “Now I’m impressed.”

  Injuries like the one that had left the scar on Hannah’s face were common. There were a lot of scarred people around. The borders could get nasty from time to time. Some bandits were meaner than others, ordinary people were driven past the edge of violence when vax or food was involved. But Hannah’s scar was not a disfig
urement, somehow. She wore it well. Like a pirate or one of those 20th Century Nazis with their saber scars. It added mystery and interest to a face that was stark and worn-looking, eroded like sandstone.

  “Should I come and hear you sing, Rica?” She said it as if she wanted me to invite her, so I did. I didn’t know why I should get to know this woman but she seemed to want to get to know me. Maybe she was more than a fixer. It occurred to me for a second that she might be a spy for Scorsi, making a connection. But I thought she looked too much like a spy to actually be one.

  When I got to the restaurant, Timmy told me that Drew was going to work as a server for a couple of hours each evening while I performed and Lizzie was taking over some of the bussing, part-time. Lizzie was already there, cleaning off Table Two.

  “What about days off?” I asked. We all seemed to be working seven days a week. Even Drew, with his wounded arm, was already putting in time again.

  I’d prodded Waldo about the schedule the day before. I hadn’t gotten an answer. He’d muttered, “Days off…” Then he mumbled something about figuring that out.

  “Well, Sweetie, Waldo has promised to write out a schedule. Everyone, days, nights, whatever, doing no more than six shifts a week. God knows when he’ll actually do it. Of course if he were more willing to work, we’d have enough people to cover the serving and bussing twenty-four hours and get days off too.”

  I was wondering why the Colemans were leaving so much management up to Waldo. They seemed to be thoughtful and generous employers. Waldo was a toxbag. It didn’t match. Now that there were two young Colemans working there, and presumably talking about their jobs to the higher-ups in the family, would things change?

  The night before I’d noticed the whole herd of Colemans and Coleman adjuncts— Jo, Samm, Drew and Lizzie— walking past the door of the restaurant. I faked a trip to the restroom to see where they were going. They all went up to Judith’s office and closed the door. And I’d also noticed that Waldo had watched them and hadn’t looked happy about it. Whatever they were talking about, he wasn’t in on it. So even if he was untouchable he wasn’t part of the inner circle.

  Why was this man no one liked running the restaurant in the first place? Maybe Waldo had something on Judith or some other Coleman.

  So. He was pissed off and jealous, nasty and lazy. An outsider who had something on the Colemans. Sounded to me like someone who could be bought. If I got desperate enough, I could always give that a try. I’d have to be end-of-the-road desperate, though. Traitors who can be bought tend to sell their wares to everyone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rag-tag bunch of shit-heads

  Five o’clock Saturday morning, dressed in drab and gnawing on a stale hard roll I’d saved from the restaurant the night before, I peered out my open door, scanning the hallway. No one was there. I quick-stepped to the stairs.

  I knew it was going to be hard to be invisible down in the casino. I couldn’t fade into a crowd if there was no crowd. Some employees would be wandering around but at this hour even the most obsessive gamblers were more likely to be eating breakfast or sleeping than hitting the slots. It couldn’t be helped. I had no idea when Samm would be leaving.

  How early did Samm’s army rise? Didn’t all armies crawl out of bed before dawn? Was I going to be early enough?

  Sure enough, the casino was nearly empty. I didn’t know if anyone was noticing me, because I was very busy avoiding the eye contact that would make me memorable. With any luck, the few customers and early-shift workers would either not notice, not care enough to remember, or assume that insomnia had driven me downstairs. I’d thought to get a roll of nickels after my restaurant shift the night before, so not even the change people would be forced to notice my presence at this weird hour.

  I stationed myself as unobtrusively as I could, at the last of a line of nickel poker slots, a vantage point from where I could see both the front and back doors, and waited to see what happened.

  At least there was no sign of Jo or Drew or Lizzie or Judith anywhere around, although I hadn’t seriously expected Judith to be up and moving.

  Huddled at my machine, pretending to be invisible, hoping I wouldn’t win a noisy jackpot, I began to play, slowly, trying to lose. Jacks or better, draw. This was all going to be a terrible waste of energy if Samm had an all-day date with a nubile shopkeeper.

  A pair of tens. I dumped one and got a pair of queens. Wonderful. I didn’t want to win, so I was sure to get great hands.

  I drew to an inside straight and lost a nickel to the house.

  Whoa! Three kings. I dumped all three of them and got a handful of garbage. That was more like it.

  A pair of twos, a king, a jack, and a four. What should I do? Keep the king and jack or keep the twos? I kept one of the twos and the four, and drew a three and a five— and an eight.

  Four hearts. Tossed them all.

  I went on this way for nearly an hour before, finally, Samm came striding through the casino. I slid around the side of my slot, putting the row between him and me. He didn’t even look around, just aimed for the back door.

  This part wasn’t going to be easy, either. Insomnia was one thing, following him was something else. I’d have to be slick and casual. The second he was outside, I sidled to a bank of slots next to the door and scanned the parking lot. The angle wasn’t good; I didn’t see him. I walked aimlessly, idly, yawning, past the doorway, and spotted him, over on the right, unlocking a yellow floater. Pretty. But my dark green Electra was better: less noticeable.

  I was parked in the next row over; I’d either have to walk past him to get to my car or wait until he was on his way out of the lot. I was afraid of losing him but waiting was the only way. I couldn’t risk his seeing me. Some scenario that would be: Oh, look, there’s Rica, at dawn, getting into her car. And damned if she isn’t following me. He’d be catching me in his rearview all the way to the meeting or whatever it was. And maybe using me for target practice once we got there.

  I edged up to the side of the door and watched as he started his floater and eased it out of the row, heading toward the north exit. When he turned right onto the street, I shoved the casino door open and dashed to my car, hit the lock and the starter and careened to the street.

  He was already two blocks down, three cars ahead, but in the sparse early morning traffic the bright yellow floater wasn’t hard to follow even at that distance.

  At the end of the old strip, traffic thinned even more. Only one vehicle between us now. And half a mile into the outskirts, I lost the cover of that last car, dropped back, feinted a turn, and circled around to follow again. If he turned off while I was doing that, I’d lose him entirely.

  That almost happened. I barely caught sight of him turning left onto a northbound road.

  The low sun was burning off the morning mist. His floater practically glowed in the light. Once again, with no other cars for cover, I had to take a chance on losing him. I stopped at the corner, counted to ten, and went looking for him again.

  There he was. Dead ahead. Another straight two miles on rutted and pockmarked asphalt and then right onto a curving dirt road. This was both good and bad. Even though the floater never touched the surface its blowers raised dust, which was good. I could follow the dust. But the bad part: my tires raised dust, too. I had to stay even farther back, hiding behind the curves. And he had the advantage of a smooth ride on a rough road while I navigated a long, slow, dusty, bumpy three miles into deep woods wilderness. I consoled myself that at least it wasn’t winter. I probably would have run nose-first into a ten-foot drift by now.

  I coasted around a curve and saw him much too close ahead, pulling off into a tall stand of pines at the edge of deeper woods. He stopped. I jammed into reverse, backed up a few dozen yards, and found cover beneath an enormous fir nesting in a snarl of ripe blackberry. I reached into the dashbox for face-camo, smearing green and brown all over my forehead, cheeks and chin. Stepping out of the car, I got myself c
aught up in the thorns. Nothing nastier than blackberry. I swear the stuff has a hostile mind. Dressed for the morning chill, I managed to mostly avoid getting punctured, but one thorn caught me on the back of my hand and another barely missed my left eye, ripping a hot scratch along my cheekbone. I choked back a curse. Berries spotted my dust-brown jacket. Squinting, ducking my head to protect my face, trying to work fast despite all the precautions, I covered the car with vines and branches and a dirty camo tarp I kept stowed in the back.

  Hopscotching along, tree to tree, I got within a dozen yards of his parking spot and shot a quick look through the brush toward his car. He, too, had pulled out a tarp, tossing it over the top of his floater. He finished tying it down securely and marched off into the woods. Just like in the casino, he didn’t look around, he just aimed where he was going. He must have felt safer than he was. I admired his confidence and enjoyed my superiority all at once.

  I sneaked closer. It wasn’t until I was right up on his car that I could see that others were also parked there, hidden under the trees, some draped with tarps, some buried in branches and vines. Several cars, mostly not floaters— the general had more money than his troops— a truck or maybe two. The woods were thick and I couldn’t tell how far in on either side cars might be hidden. There was even an eight-seater bus, covered with tarps and branches, but still pretty hard to miss once you were under the trees.

  I’d never have known this spot existed at all if I hadn’t been following someone who was going there on purpose. There were no houses anywhere near, not for miles. Barely a road. A few old ruts with summer-brown weeds stretched across them like rags. I was betting these were the only cars that had come down this way for years.

  Reminding myself that Samm might not be the last to arrive, that others might come behind me, I surveyed the path ahead, tension knotting my shoulders and stiffening my neck. I forced my shoulders down, rolled my head from side to side, and crept after him. Staying under cover, stepping quiet on the needles and trying to avoid the crackling dead branches, watching my back, my sides, and the brambles and brush ahead, I followed a rough trail that was no more than a line of dirt where the needles had been kicked away. Again, good and bad. If I followed the trail, I risked coming up on someone or having someone come up behind me. On the other hand, the trail was quieter and faster than stumbling through the underbrush. So I stuck with it until, a hundred or so paces in, I heard voices dead ahead, maybe 20 yards. Too close. The stale roll refluxed into my throat. I veered to the right, off into the brush, and began picking my way carefully and slowly toward them.