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The Sixteen Burdens

Page 6

by David Khalaf


  The casino door swung open and Elsie saw the “Women’s Dressing Room” sign affixed to the front side that kept uninvited guests away. In walked a nicely dressed man who headed directly for the back. Elsie groaned internally.

  Not him.

  Charlie Chaplin was the best gambler in town. She would have to focus all of her attention on him. Actually, it wasn’t so much that he was the best gambler, but the luckiest. No matter what game he played or how little he tried, Chaplin always seemed to win. He rarely left the casino without his pockets full of cash. Elsie was convinced he cheated somehow, and she had a difficult time managing him.

  Why does the richest actor in Hollywood need to gamble, anyway?

  Few of the other patrons took notice, because Chaplin looked little like his famous on-screen persona, the Tramp. He wasn’t wearing his trademark toothbrush mustache, bowler hat, or cane. Instead, he was clean shaven in a nicely tailored suit, with his salt-and-pepper hair neatly parted on the right side. Only a wave in the front hinted at the curly mop he used to wear in the early days of his career.

  Chaplin seemed to always be in high spirits when he was out, and he had a relentless humor that would disarm even the most impassive blackjack dealer. He was, after all, Hollywood’s king of comedy. At the moment he was pantomiming some story to the folks at the craps table, and half of them were doubled over in stitches. Their laughter vibrated the entire room.

  “Not one dollar.”

  Elsie felt the hot breath of Jack Siegel on her neck. She turned and glanced sideways at the owner of the Bali Ballroom. He was shorter than Elsie and small, but he wore his expensive tuxedo as an answer to anyone who questioned his status. Siegel was staring at Chaplin, strangling him with his eyes.

  “I’ll do my best,” Elsie said.

  “Don’t do your best,” he said, his accent heavy with the streets of working class New York. “Do what I say.”

  And then he was gone. Elsie knew Siegel wanted to ban Chaplin from the casino entirely, but the actor’s cachet made that impossible.

  Chaplin eventually settled in at a high-stakes poker table right next to Elsie. It was his normal spot as of late. He seemed to notice her for the first time, a nicely dressed young woman sitting alone in a casino.

  “Abandoned by your father?” he asked, in a light English accent that reminded Elsie of home.

  She nodded politely.

  “What a coincidence. So was I.”

  “Oh, mine will be back,” Elsie said. “Once he’s done gambling and drinking.”

  “That’s what mine said too. That was forty years ago.”

  He flashed her a smile and turned to the table. Aside from Chaplin and the dealer, two other men were sitting at the poker table, one Elsie knew was a land developer and the other a man who worked in railroads. They were soon joined by one of Siegel’s men, Max, who would pretend to be a banker from New York. The minimum buy-in was a whopping one hundred dollars, and to Elsie’s amazement, Chaplin pulled out an actual hundred dollar bill.

  “Gentlemen, the game is hold ’em,” said the dealer through his walrus mustache. “No limit.”

  Cards were dealt and blind bets were placed. Chaplin, whose back was to Elsie, reclined casually with his two cards in his hand. But when the three cards at the center of the table were flipped over, he closed his free hand into a loose fist and rubbed his thumb against his nails. He raised his bet by five dollars, but Elsie was sure he was bluffing. She could feel his emotion as if it were her own, as if there were wires connecting the two of them that transmitted feelings instead of electricity.

  What Chaplin was feeling was anxiety, and while it was similar to excitement it pulsed differently. She signaled for Max to bet aggressively, and he did. The other players dropped out, but Chaplin matched his bet. When the next card in the center of the table was turned over, Max signaled to Elsie that he had two pairs. It appeared he would win. But when the last flip revealed a four of clubs, Chaplin showed two other fours in his hand. He won with three of a kind. Elsie groaned in frustration.

  She had been able to do this as long as she could remember. As a little girl she thought everyone was the same, able to feel others’ emotions as easily as their own. Her mother had called her hyperemotional, but that wasn’t true; by herself, she could be quite cool and collected. When she heard her mother was dying of tuberculosis, Elsie was handling it quite well until they told her younger sister Lulu, and then they became a blubbering mess together. There was no one as attuned to others’ emotions as Elsie. She had to fight to keep them out, and her best tactic was to think about herself.

  Maybe next time I’ll paint my nails lavender.

  In the next six hands, Elsie helped Max win three of them. Chaplin won two, and the land developer won one. Chaplin furrowed his brow; he suspected something was suspicious, and he even glanced back once at Elsie, but he would never be able to put together what she was doing.

  As the bets got larger in the next round, the railroad tycoon dropped out and moved on to a low-stakes blackjack table.

  Smart man.

  Elsie could sense Max itching for a big payout, and there was nothing she could do after the next deal when he pushed fifty dollars worth of chips into the pot before the flop was even turned over. Although Max kept his cool, Elsie could sense the anxiety of a bluff.

  A commotion erupted from the front of the casino.

  “Never mind me, I’ll find my way!”

  Elsie turned to see a woman step dismissively past the doorman. She was dressed all in black, and she wore a veil that completely covered her face.

  Siegel himself stepped in her path to see what she wanted. She grabbed his elbow.

  “A Manhattan, please,” she said to him. “Glenmore if you have it. Old Overholt if you don’t. Two cherries, extra vermouth. You’re a dear.” She then patted his arm and moved on. Siegel was so stunned he just stood there. Elsie watched her walk directly toward the high-stakes table.

  “There you are, Charlie! I’ve scoured half the nightclubs in Hollywood looking for you. Then I remembered to go where there was gambling. Are you going to finish that?”

  She pointed to an untouched whiskey and water sitting in front of Chaplin. He always ordered but he never drank.

  “No, of course you’re not.”

  The woman took the drink and raised it under her veil. She acted casual, even flippant, but Elsie could sense fear rolling off her in waves. Who was she?

  She sat down next to Chaplin, closer than he seemed comfortable with. He flashed a big smile.

  “Good evening, Mary,” he said. “Have you been drinking or is your new fragrance by Seagram’s 7?”

  Suddenly it clicked in Elsie’s mind: Mary Pickford.

  Chaplin matched Max’s bet and the land developer followed; the three cards comprising the flop were then turned over.

  “He’s coming for me tonight,” Pickford said in a low voice. Elsie leaned toward them.

  “How do you know?” Chaplin said, staring at the pile of chips in the center of the table. “You’re not exactly his type anymore.”

  “I got a tip,” she said. “From Gray of all people.”

  “What? You spoke to him?”

  “It’s a long story,” Pickford said. “He’s a sharp young man, but more than a little rough around the edges. His grammar is atrocious.”

  Chaplin lowered his voice.

  “Did you tell him…things?”

  Pickford nodded.

  “More or less. But it doesn’t matter now. He’s safe and we’re short on time. We have to act now.”

  “And ruin my winning streak? I have half a mind to let him kidnap you too.”

  Elsie wondered if they were talking about the abducted women. It was all the taxi dancers had been talking about the past two weeks. Even Mrs. McGiverney, the dormitory matron, who rarely had a kind word for Elsie, had warned her not to go out alone at night.

  “I know where he is,” Pickford said. “I saw him.”
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  Elsie’s ears perked up. There was a $10,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the Star Stalker. If she could get the man’s name and location, she could go to the police. The reward money would pay off her father’s debts to Jack Siegel many times over.

  Max raised the bet another fifty dollars.

  “You in or out?” Max said to Chaplin. “I ain’t got all night.”

  “I can stop him,” Pickford said. “If I have luck on my side.”

  Chaplin grabbed his chips and threw them in, meeting Max’s latest bet.

  “The world’s strongest man?” Chaplin said, then lowering his voice. “You have no idea what he is capable of doing.”

  The fourth card was flipped over and everyone but Chaplin and Pickford looked at it.

  “The physical talents are overvalued,” she said. “Together, you and I can take him.”

  Max looked to Elsie for guidance. Should he stay? Raise his bet? But Elsie couldn’t get a read on Chaplin. His emotions were all mixed up, and Elsie couldn’t pick out which ones were related to his conversation with Pickford and which ones to the game.

  She took a chance and signaled to Max to go all in. Max pushed all of his chips in the center of the pot. By now Siegel had turned his attention to the game. Without so much as a blink, Chaplin pushed the rest of his chips in as well. He then removed his wallet and pulled out two more hundred-dollar bills. Elsie had never seen so much money all at once.

  “If you’re so sure of yourself,” Chaplin said to Max, “why don’t you take these off my hands as well?”

  “Mr. Chaplin raises,” the dealer said. “Do you call?”

  Max glanced at Elsie, but this was beyond her authority. He shot a quick glance at Siegel, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod. Max removed a billfold and counted out two hundred more dollars in tens and twenties.

  “That’s a pot worth more than twelve hundred dollars,” the dealer said.

  Twelve hundred dollars!

  With just that much money Elsie could grab Lulu, run out of there and never come back.

  Chaplin flipped over his two cards—he had a six of clubs and a nine of spades. Combined with the cards on the table, he had nothing. Smiling now, Max flipped over his cards, which made two pair combined with the cards on the table. The dealer scrutinized both hands.

  “Your only chance of winning is a seven to give you a straight, Mr. Chaplin,” the dealer said. “That makes your odds—”

  “About one in thirteen,” Chaplin said. “Believe me, I’ve had much worse.”

  The dealer flipped over the last card. Everyone but Chaplin and Pickford seemed surprised to see a seven of diamonds. The sides of Max’s grin melted.

  “That’s a lucky break,” Max said, his eyes narrowing.

  “Luck,” Chaplin said, “is a funny thing.”

  Pickford stood impatiently.

  “Let’s go.”

  She then walked out without another word.

  “Gentlemen,” Chaplin said, nodding to the men at the table.

  He collected his winnings and followed Pickford, but not before turning to Elsie to give her a wink. She watched him go.

  I’ve got to see where they’re going.

  Elsie leapt off her stool to follow Chaplin and ran smack into Siegel. His face was roughly the color of a pickled beet. She didn’t need her ability to see the rage emanating from his face.

  “I said not one dollar.”

  She looked over to Max, who was equally to blame; he had conveniently ducked out of the room. Siegel removed the rings on his right hand and then cracked his knuckles.

  I’ll pay for this.

  CHAPTER

  N INE

  USING THE FIVE spot Pickford had given him earlier, Gray caught a cab at the train station and followed Pickford on a wild ride through Los Angeles. After dropping her driver off at the county hospital, she drove with a housefly’s instincts, making sudden turns every which way until she found her way to the Sunset Strip.

  Pickford had stopped at three or four bars in Hollywood, each time popping in and coming out so quickly Gray was still getting out of his taxi. Finally she drove to the Bali Ballroom in West Hollywood. It was a gaudy turquoise dance hall that stuck out like a flamenco dancer at a funeral. The entrance was a giant arch made by two neon palm trees that bent and crossed each other at the top.

  Pickford was inside for more than five minutes when Gray decided to get out. He paid the taxi driver and told him to wait, then walked up to the blue velvet rope blocking the entrance. Apparently Frankenstein and the Wolf Man had a love child, and he was working as a doorman at the Bali Ballroom. The hairy goon took one look at Gray and cracked his knuckles in greeting.

  “We’re full,” he growled, even as he let a couple behind Gray walk in.

  Gray pulled out the last dollar he had from the Lincoln that Pickford had given him earlier. He gave it to the doorman, who pocketed it.

  “Is it any emptier now?” Gray asked.

  “No, but your wallet is. Scram.”

  Furious, Gray walked around back and began pulling on any doors he saw, but all of them were locked. As he walked back around to the front of the building, he saw Pickford hurrying to her car with a man. Gray ran toward his taxi only to discover it had left. There was another taxi, however, idling by the main entrance. He darted toward it, only to nearly collide with a young woman running from the other direction. She grabbed the back handle.

  “This is my taxi, sorry.”

  She yanked on the door but it only opened two inches before Gray slammed it shut.

  “Beat it, kitten. This is my cab. The only reason you got to it first is ’cause I stopped short so we wouldn’t smash into each other.”

  “That’s the price of being a gentleman,” she said. “Or whatever you are. Excuse me.”

  She pulled on the door again but Gray had his hand firmly set against it. He turned around and looked for Pickford, who was unlocking her passenger door for the man with her.

  “We’ll flip for it,” Gray said.

  “I don’t gamble,” the girl said. “I never gamble.”

  She had a stiff dress and white gloves, her hair kept back by a headband. Although it suited her nicely, the dress looked far too conservative for the day’s fashion, as if it had been purchased for a young woman thirty years ago.

  Gray let go of the door and the girl slipped in. She reached over to shut the door but Gray slid in beside her, jostling her with his jacket elbow.

  “We’ll share,” he said. “You can have it when I’m done.”

  “I’m in a rush. You can have it when I’m done!”

  They turned their heads and looked out the back window. Pickford was pulling away.

  “Driver, follow that car!” they both said.

  They looked at each other.

  “I guess we can share after all,” Gray said. “You paying, muffin?”

  Ten minutes later, the taxi was cruising west down Wilshire Boulevard. The young woman was looking out the window, and her shadowy face illuminated with an orange glow every time they passed a street lamp.

  “Mary Pickford,” Gray said. “Who’s she with? You overhear any of her conversation?”

  “Tell me first why you’re following her.”

  Gray adjusted the fedora on his head.

  “I’m a private eye on a case.”

  She looked at him for the first time since they had gotten in the taxi. A laugh escaped from her mouth that she didn’t bother to stifle.

  “You’re a private detective? Who’s your client, Rin Tin Tin?”

  “Sure, cookie. The case of the missing dog bone.”

  She didn’t respond, but continued to stare out at the oncoming traffic. He noticed a large red hand mark across the side of her face. Someone had slapped her, hard.

  “What happened to you?” he said.

  She gingerly touched her cheek.

  “I made a madman madder.”

  She looked at him.
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  “There’s no use getting angry on my behalf.”

  “Who said I was angry?”

  Gray looked at her. For the briefest moment he saw red energy swirl around her, with a thin ribbon of blue deep inside. It was like a smoke bomb, but translucent and glowing. Just as quickly it was gone. It must have been the reflection from a passing neon sign.

  “You have a lot of anger,” she said. “Other things too.”

  She twirled her hair for a while, staring out the window, then seemed to make a decision.

  “There’s a reward for information leading to the capture of the man who’s abducting all of those actresses,” she said. “I intend to claim it.”

  “Do you have information about that?”

  “I overheard Mrs. Pickford say she knew who the man was, and she said she was on her way to stop him,” Elsie said.

  “Did she say anything about him?”

  She tugged on one of her curls as she thought about it.

  “They called him the world’s strongest man.”

  The world’s strongest man.

  Why did that sound familiar? He thought a moment, then removed the newspaper from his jacket pocket. He flipped through the pages to find what he was looking for; it didn’t take long. There, on the same inside page of the story about Nina Beauregard was a quarter-page ad for the circus. Spanning the top of the ad was a drawing of a giant man lifting a massive barbell above his head. He had a handlebar mustache and an intense gaze. Above him, a headline: “Darko Atlas, the strongest man on Earth!”

  Below the strongman was a collage of other circus performers—acrobats, an animal tamer, a knife thrower—but Gray zeroed in on a cluster of performers: three half-sized clowns who were juggling batons.

 

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