It was just past noon, and about two-thirds of the tables were occupied. When we walked in, a tall server swept past us carrying a tray of something that smelled wonderful. I caught a glimpse of rice and vegetables. Another Asian man, this one standing no higher than my shoulder, even shorter than Tim, approached with big red menus, smiling, and led us to a table in the back. He handed us the menus and left us alone.
“This is nice,” I said, still wondering if Hannah Karlow would leap out from under a table and shoot me.
Fredo nodded. “You absolutely have to try the egg rolls. And the pork buns! You can’t miss those.”
Timmy smiled fondly, shaking his head. “Fredo eats meat all the time. It’s so out of character for an animal-lover. He always feels bad about it.”
I studied the menu. I could understand Fredo’s problem. All my adult life I’d felt guilty for eating meat, even fish, but I couldn’t seem to do without it. I guess I just didn’t feel guilty enough. Or there was something about spending so much time running for my life that seemed to call for a carnivorous attitude.
We chose pork buns, happy family— fish and meat— vegetable egg rolls, and a tofu-vegetable dish. All of which suited me just fine.
“And a bottle of wine to celebrate Fredo’s 65th!” Timmy insisted.
“Oh, sweetie, I’ll nod off.”
“Then you’ll take a nap this afternoon. This is no time to worry about little things.”
Fredo capitulated and we settled on a Napa chardonnay. Red’s my preference, but the birthday boy had the choice. I thought I might have to take a nap myself to get through my debut in the lounge that night. I’d been up since before dawn on four hours sleep. Not to mention the stress of the eye-fight with Hannah. And now, wine. But I didn’t want to spoil the celebration by begging off.
And still no Hannah or Zack or Samm leaping out of the kitchen, lasers blazing.
The minute we laid our menus down the server dashed over to take our order. He brought the wine immediately. Fredo tasted, nodded, and we filled our glasses.
“To my darling Fredo!” Timmy was so happy.
We all took a sip. Icy cold and not at all bad for white wine. I’d have heartburn later.
“How long have you two been together?”
“Twenty-seven years this May,” Fredo said, his eyes glistening. Was I jealous? A little. Possibly.
Timmy was practically bouncing in his seat. What was going on with him? He seemed awfully excited for just a birthday lunch.
He burst out: “I just can’t hold it any longer. I have the most wonderful surprise, something Fredo has always wanted.”
Fredo’s eyes grew wide. “Really?”
“I did it, Fredo. I bought us a house. And I can’t wait to show it to you! You’re going to just love it.”
He had a right to be proud. On a server’s pay, it would have been tough to save even the small amount of money it took to buy a house. When someone had one that was even semi-livable and wanted to sell, he wanted cash, payment in full. I’d heard that people used to put up a small percentage— if they could even afford to do that— and then borrow the rest, paying a house off for years and years. I couldn’t imagine it. Houses as rare and expensive as diamonds. A crazy thought.
“Oh, Tim— we get three rooms free at Blackjack, isn’t this awfully extravagant? Shouldn’t we save the money for our retirement? It must have cost so much.” But despite his protests, he was flushed, clearly thrilled.
“Not so much. And now you can have all the pets you want and Roberta and Harvey will have a yard.”
“Roberta and Harvey?” They had children?
“Our cats,” Fredo explained. “We had a dog, too, Oscar. But he got old and died. Just last year.” Fredo’s eyes looked damp, and he sighed. I reached over and squeezed his shoulder.
It had never occurred to me that people would have pets in their rooms at the casino. But this was a good opening to get onto the subject I wanted to explore.
“The Colemans don’t mind if you have pets there?”
“Of course not,” Fredo said. “Feel free to have a furry friend. They prefer that you keep it to one, because after all most of the employees have just one or two rooms. But they wouldn’t dream of denying people the joy of pets. Judith had a dog until just a couple years ago. A litter mate of Oscar’s.”
“That’s very sweet of them.” It really was. Or smart.
Both Fredo and Timmy nodded vigorously.
“But we’ve always wanted a little cottage of our own, haven’t we, Tim?”
“And Fredo has always wanted a houseful of strays. He’s one of those people they just seem to find.” He smiled affectionately at his partner. They were so cute, so sweet, I couldn’t help but wonder again if this was some kind of trap. But I knew it wasn’t. They were real. It was my life that wasn’t real.
My sys vibrated and I excused myself to go to the toilet. They must have thought I had a very weak bladder.
The toilet was a one-seater, and empty. The call was from Newt.
“That location you gave me. I can’t figure out where it is.”
My gut was still urging me to play it close. “Sorry, I’ll try to get a better fix on it. For now though, I got the impression they move the war games around, keep the location changing.”
“Yeah? How’d you get that impression?” This wasn’t making him trust me any more than he already did.
“Samm said something about letting them know where it would be next time.” The lie sounded pretty good, even to me. For all I knew they did move it around and Samm had said exactly that, after I left.
He grunted. “About 50 soldiers, you say?” He sounded unhappy about it, which probably meant he hadn’t thought there were so many.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Keep me informed.”
I flushed the toilet and went back to the table.
Our food had arrived. I picked up an egg roll and dipped it into the hot mustard. Thoughtfully, I said, “It constantly amazes me, how well the Colemans take care of their people. I know Waldo’s related to them, but he’s so… different.”
Timmy snorted. “Different is a nice word for that bastard.”
“And he seems so useless. Why do you think they keep him on?”
Timmy looked uncomfortable. “My guess is he knows things.”
“Things?” Was my innocence overdone? I wasn’t enjoying playing games with him.
“The Colemans are very powerful people.” He’d lowered his voice. I could barely hear him. He leaned in closer. “And they could do a lot of good for Sierra. But you know, sometimes doing good means doing things that some people might not think are, well, good.”
“Like what?”
He exhaled, loudly. “I don’t really know. I’m just guessing that maybe sometimes… well I just don’t know. You know what I mean. Politics.” He nodded, definitively, conclusively, grabbing the spoon that rested in the tofu dish and helping himself to some. Fredo took a big bite out of a fragrant pork bun, rolling his eyes in ecstasy.
I pressed a little deeper. “But why would they trust him to keep secrets?” Did any of those secrets have to do with the mayor’s murder? Could “doing good” include killing someone who the Colemans thought was bad for the town? “Sometimes secrets can be sold.”
Tim studied me over a chopstick-load of tofu. “And he’d be the first one they’d suspect. Smarter for him to take what he gets from his family.” That made some sense, and with Timmy looking at me harder than I wanted him to, it didn’t seem like the right moment to push. But I might not get a better one; I had to ask.
“I know the mayor was murdered. Was he bad for the town, do you think?”
Tim looked at me, surprised. “He was okay. Didn’t do much. What are you asking me, Rica?”
I took a deep breath. “I heard someone saying that he thought the Colemans killed the mayor.”
Tim giggled. He was more comfortable with the topic of murder than he was with the
topic of politics. He poked at a piece of broccoli stem with his chopsticks. “Can’t imagine why they’d do that. Far as I could tell, he never did anything without checking with them first.”
I dropped my voice to a whisper. “What if he did something the Colemans didn’t like?” I was frosting my naiveté with awe.
“I don’t think so,” Tim said, “At least not that I know. I thought he was pretty tight with Judith.” He shrugged. “Seemed that way anyhow.” He stuffed half a red-sauce-dipped egg roll into his mouth. “I remember she was the one who talked him into running.”
“And unless I’m mistaken,” Fredo said, “he was one of the casino’s best customers. I don’t actually know that he owed them anything, but I do know he ran a tab.”
So he was either in debt to the Colemans or they were in debt to him.
I’d find no easy solution to the mayor’s demise today. It was still possible the Colemans had done the man in, or, for all I knew, Scorsi himself did it. But the way things were in the world, his death might have been completely random. Almost anyone could have killed him for any reason. Some crazy hugger might have seen him trimming a hedge and decided he was a toxie. Some paranoid godder could have decided he was the devil. A fever-spot plaguey might have wandered out of the woods and hallucinated that the man was carrying vax.
I’d been wondering how to shift the topic to my worry of the moment, Hannah Karlow. Now Fredo had given me a strong segue.
“Speaking of good customers,” I began, “I’ve noticed a number of interesting looking regulars hanging around.”
Timmy rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes, indeed.”
I lowered my voice again. “One in particular. Says she’s going to come and see my show. Her name’s Hannah.” Fredo scrunched up his eyes, trying to place her and failing. Timmy was chasing a hunk of carrot around his plate. “She’s got a long scar on her cheek. Thin woman—
"
“Oh, her!” Timmy cried, glancing archly at Fredo and back again at me. “So she’s a fan of yours?”
I laughed, trying to sound modest. “Possibly.”
“You’re not… interested in her, are you?”
Not the way he meant. “Not really. But is there some reason I shouldn’t be?”
“Well, I don’t know her well enough to give you that kind of advice, Sweetie, but she gives me the creepy-crawls. Something sly about that one.”
Timmy was a wise man. But they barely knew her. No information to be had there. I ate some Happy Family and shifted to the medicine show, something that might also involve the Colemans, at least according to Newt Scorsi’s accusations.
“I saw some flyers for a medicine show this afternoon. What’s that about?”
Fredo was chewing. Tim was sipping delicately at the somewhat sour wine. He scowled, swallowed and answered. “It’s a scam. They’re crooks selling useless trash to scared people.”
“Won’t the sheriff chase them away, then? And why does the casino let them put flyers up on the fence?”
Timmy smiled grimly. “I think our friend the sheriff can barely remember that he should be finding out who killed the mayor— as if he’s capable of doing that. As for the fence…” He shrugged.
“What about the fence?”
“Maybe Waldo put them up. The Colemans might not approve of what Waldo does, but they always seem to let him do it. And Judith, well, she’s just glad the medicine shows don’t pretend they’re selling vax.” Fredo nodded, looking grim. Timmy sighed. “That’s how Judith’s husband died. His original vax was phony garbage. Didn’t matter how many boosters he got after that. The kids were little at the time. Terrible.”
We sat there silent for a moment. For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to me the Colemans might have seen hard times. Then Fredo broke in. “Anyway, I doubt Waldo put up the flyers himself. He’s too lazy.”
Timmy laughed. “You’re right. Let’s not talk about Waldo any more. It’s curdling my tofu.”
Okay, no more Waldo. The chief had told me she thought the sheriff belonged to the Colemans. I could check that out. I ate a prawn, sipped some wine.
“You said ‘our friend the sheriff’— is he a friend of the Colemans, too? Like the mayor was?”
Tim shot me a curious squint. Fredo spoke up. “The sheriff doesn’t do anything that would hurt the Colemans.” Tim was still giving me that squint. Time to back off.
“Well, Tahoe is a fascinating place, with lots to gossip about.” I held up my glass. “But I’m more interested in Fredo’s birthday. Here’s to you, Fredo, Tim’s love, my friend. And many happy returns!”
Chapter Fifteen
A juggler, an acrobat, a man with a fiddle
I parted with Tim and Fredo after lunch, hugs all around, telling them I’d see them at work later. Meanwhile, my adrenaline was still pumping and the food had given me a boost. Despite the lack of sleep, I wasn’t ready for a nap and most of all, I was not at all eager to go back to the casino. So I followed the flyers toward the Blue Chip diner and the corner where the medicine show was being held. I’d be right on time.
I’d been to a few of these extravaganzas in my life. Once, when I was a child in Redwood, up on top of Mount Tamalpais in the old stone amphitheater. They’d had a juggler, an acrobat, a man with a fiddle and another man who talked fast and sold a lot of bottles of something, I couldn’t remember the name, before the sheriff showed up and hauled the lot of them away. Once in Ontario, near the Toronto ruins. Another time, in Middle, in the Ozarks. In California, down near Los Angeles. In Rocky, on the smelly shore of the Salt Lake amid the ruins of a salt-processing plant. In Desert, right in the center of the inhabited cluster of Tucson.
Generally the locals shut them down pretty fast— the one in California was stopped in the middle of a knife-throwing act— but those last two times the show people had gotten away ahead of the law.
These con artists could be found pretty much everywhere on the continent, traveling by bus, truck, car caravan— the one in Middle was set up around a horse-drawn wagon. For all I knew, since I’d never been off North America, they were stealing money from suckers all over the world. I’d heard it was so. They all sold the cure for whatever ailed you, and they sold it cheap.
Usually, the base was feel-good alcohol, sugar, and flavoring. Sometimes they added herbs if they could scrounge some. Despite the low prices, there was lots of money to be made if you mixed up enough of the stuff and kept your costs low. People who couldn’t buy vax and never saw a doctor would try anything. Even though there didn’t seem to be as many dying these days, and even though I knew the hostels were fewer and emptier, the memories were long.
Running medicine shows was one of the crimes Chief Graybel had said the Colemans were accused of. But I just couldn’t see them being involved in a cheap scam. Judith Coleman was tough and smart, but a heartless con-woman? I didn’t think so. And she probably had some very bad feelings about fake medicine. Jo? Well, she seemed driven and sharply focused. Possibly ruthless. But the shows were trashy, and she was anything but that. Samm? He was pretty much an unknown at this point. It just didn’t feel right. Again, it seemed tacky. He had a big ego and I suspected he would think this kind of thing was unworthy of The General.
Skimming. Now that made sense. Not hard to do. Big money. And if they were taking a cut off the top before taxes, they didn’t need to sell homemade liqueur for five reals a bottle.
It was possible that if I wormed my way into a dealing job, I could catch a glimpse of how they were doing it. It was also possible that the money was being misappropriated so skillfully I’d have to work as a cashier and a bookkeeper too, to prove anything at all. Why not? Tail generals, catch the mayor’s murderer, deal with Newt, sing in the lounge and handle four full-time shifts. All in a day’s work.
I’d already caught them training an army, but the chief hadn’t seemed interested in hearing the details of what I’d seen. Maybe they needed to march down Stateline shooting people before she could
do anything. Maybe she wanted me to catch Jo drawing up a master plan to take over the world.
I was a few minutes early, but a scattering of people were already standing around, some of them excited, loud and happy, others with a “show me” smirk. Some of them were probably wondering if the sheriff would show up before they got a chance to buy or even worse, before they got to see the show, but from what Timmy had said about the sheriff, I didn’t think that was likely.
When the Omnicillin bus pulled up in front of the Blue Chip, it skidded in the gutter dust, stirring a cloud that made everyone cough. Maybe the medicine would help that. Clear the throat and soothe the nerves, if nothing else.
I glanced in the diner’s window. Xavier was wiping down the counter, ignoring the fuss outside. He probably got a cut for not calling the cops.
The bus, including the windows, was painted in bright blue and yellow stripes— stripes for Tahoe? What would they use in Nebraska, funnel cloud shapes? Snowflakes for Northland? Icicles for Ontario? Jugs of moonshine for Middle?
The driver, a baggy-eyed dissipated-looking man who could have been 45 or 65, was crowned with a smudgy black top hat. A real antique. And when he trotted down the stairs carrying a folding table, I could see he was also wearing a seedy, faded black tuxedo that must have been older than he was. One assistant, a large fortyish woman wearing a long flowered cotton dress, helped him set up the table. Another, a young man of about thirty, almost clown-like with bright yellow hair and baggy pants that dragged on the ground— big floppy shoes and face paint would have finished the job— began bringing out signs and boxes of bottles. By now the crowd had grown. There must have been twenty people standing there, and more were coming.
When the younger man had finished setting up his displays, he went back into the bus and emerged carrying an ancient, stained accordion.
They seemed to be getting all their possessions from some Twentieth Century landfill. In Los Angeles.
Torch Song: A Kickass Heroine, A Post-Apocalyptic World: Book One Of The Blackjack Trilogy Page 13
