“He looks lost,” Terry said. “Came in out of the rain-wow, never saw anything like this before.”
It was a long raincoat, below his knees. He stopped at a blackjack table and watched several hands among three players before taking a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. He bought four red chips from the dealer.
Nancy watched Vincent draw a pair of aces on the deal and split them to bet two red chips on each. Then was hit with a king and queen and paid three-to-two for the naturals, sixty dollars. Roger said, “Look at the guy.”
“I’d like a picture of him,” Nancy said.
She watched Vincent bet the $60 and win when the dealer went over. She watched him bet $120 on eighteen and beat the dealer who had to stand on seventeen. She watched him bet $240 and win on nineteen when the dealer drew up to eigh-teen and stayed. She watched him bet $10 and lose, watched him gather his chips and walk away from the table.
“Let’s follow him,” Nancy said.
Vincent appeared on several screens, different angles. “He’s gonna cash in,” Frances said. After a moment she said, “Look, who’s at the window ahead of him.”
It was the player from Colombia, his back to the camera. Jackie Garbo stood next to him, in profile.
“I wouldn’t mind a picture of this,” Nancy said.
Roger said, “Guy in the raincoat? I already got him.”
“The one cashing in.”
“I got him too.”
“Maybe we can see what he won.”
“They’ll give him a nice clean check,” Frances said and looked at Nancy. “What I mentioned, you might say something to Tommy.”
“I probably will,” Nancy said, watching the monitor.
The cashier was away from the window. Jackie Garbo chatted with the man from Colombia, using his hands, smiling a lot, while the man from Colombia stood without moving.
“There was a stockholder, one of the other casinos,” Frances said, “his license came up for renewal the Control Commission turned him down. He didn’t do a thing. His daughter married some guy with a shady background.”
When the cashier returned he pushed a form through the opening in the window for the man from Colombia to sign. The cashier then separated the copies of the form, attached a check to one of the copies and presented it with a smile. The man from Colombia turned…
Roger looked up from the Polaroid, the scoop attachment covering the monitor in front of him. “The guy in the raincoat’s in the way.”
Nancy didn’t say anything. She watched Vincent, wondering, Is he?
VINCENT TOLD THE BARTENDER at the Holmhurst he’d won 470 bucks playing blackjack. Just like that, in about three minutes. The bartender told him he’d lose it before he was through. Vincent said, no, he was going to buy some warm clothes as soon as the stores opened. He felt good. It was a snug, knotty-pine bar, more like somebody’s rec room than a saloon, and it was cold and rainy outside. He ordered another scotch and told the guy who came in and sat next to him at the bar he’d won 470 bucks at Spade’s Boardwalk. Just like that, in about three minutes. The guy said, big fucking deal; you want to keep it, get out of town, fast. The guy was a blackjack dealer at Resorts International, across the street. He had been a floorman at Tropicana, but he’d tapped out a dealer for looking away from the cards and it turned out the dealer had more juice than he did, so listen to this, he got fired for doing his job. Politics, man. Who you know. You don’t party with the right people, kiss your ass good-bye. It was 12:30. Linda should be here any minute. See, you got the dealer looking at the cards and the players. You got the floorman looking at the dealer. You got the pit boss looking at the floorman. You got the shift manager looking at the pit boss. Craps, you got the boxman looking at the stickman. You got the assistant casino manager looking at the shift manager. Wait, you got the slot manager in there. No, fuck the slot manager. You got the casino manager looking at the assistant manager. You got the vice-president of casino operations looking at the casino manager-
Vincent said, “Excuse me, but I have to meet somebody,” and got out of there.
He waited in the lobby, pacing, looking at old paintings, about to give up when Linda arrived a little before one. Everytime he saw her she looked different: a little weird this evening, wearing her stage makeup with the raincoat and jeans. Seeing the look in her eyes he said, “What’d I do?” She didn’t answer. She sat down at one end of a leather couch and lighted a cigarette.
“I won four hundred seventy bucks playing blackjack. You know how long it took?”
“I got fired,” Linda said. “You know how long that took? I’m the only thing those Jamaican yahoos had going for ’em and I get canned.”
“Why? What’d you do?”
“What do you mean, what’d I do?”
“Who told you?”
The kingfish-what’s his name, Cedric, the head Tuna. Man, that burns me up. I should’ve quit, you know it? But I didn’t. Jesus, get dropped out of that outfit-it doesn’t do a lot for your pride. Cedric goes, ‘They nothing I can do, mon. It’s the monagement give me the instruction.’ “
“Donovan?”
“Probably, the son of a bitch.”
“But he’s the head guy, chairman of the board.”
Linda looked up at him. She said, “He brought Iris here, didn’t he? All the way from Puerto Rico?”
Vincent had remained standing, looking at her dark hair, at her face now, her painted eyes staring at him. He said, “What do you want to drink?”
“Scotch.”
“Don’t move.”
He got two of them, doubles over ice, and brought the drinks out of the happy, crowded little bar to the empty lobby, to the girl in her stage makeup sitting alone. He pulled a leather chair over close, wanting to watch her face.
She said, “I wasn’t that bad.” Quiet now, subdued.
“Bad? You were the show. They loved you.”
“That’s why I’m thinking there’s more to it.” She blew cigarette smoke past him and it smelled good.
“Maybe the head Tuna didn’t like you cutting in on his act.”
“No, I believe Cedric. He had nothing to do with it. He was even starting to come on to me.”
“He was?…”
“That’s why I think it’s something else.” She looked at him, silent for a moment. “It might have to do with you. The two of us.”
Vincent didn’t move, sitting forward in the deep chair. “Tell me why.”
“If we were seen together. In the lounge, or maybe even at the funeral home.”
“We were the only ones there.”
“Somebody could’ve looked in.”
“Who are we talking about, Donovan?”
She hesitated. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“And if he saw us together-what?”
“You’re Iris’s friend. You come all the way here from Puerto Rico and who’s the first person you talk to? Me.”
“And that’s why you were fired?”
“It’s possible. To get rid of me. I can’t hang around here if I’m not working.”
It was getting better. “All right, say Donovan saw us together. Why would that bother him?”
“You’re a cop, aren’t you? For all he knows I could be telling you things I shouldn’t.”
Better and better. Vincent said, “Let me have one of your cigarettes.” She handed him the pack. He lighted one, inhaled deeply-surprised at the sudden cold hit of menthol-and looked at the pack. Kools. He was smoking again, just like that. He said, “Donovan, even if he saw me, doesn’t know I’m a cop. I’ve never met the man.”
She said, “Then they’re afraid I might tell the other cops. I don’t know-I’ve got this feeling I’m being watched.”
“You talked to them, the police.”
“They talked to me.”
“Are you afraid?”
“You’re damn right I am.”
“Somebody advise you not to say anything?”
She shook her head. “I knew better. Once I found out what Iris was doing. She didn’t tell me. It was one of the guys in the band, a Puerto Rican, the only one Iris was the least bit close to.”