Murdermobile (Portland Bookmobile Mysteries) (12 page)

As she parked herself on a high
stool next to the roulette table, the stocky croupier – dressed like an 1840s
trapper, complete with coonskin cap – called, “Place yerrr bets, ladies and
gentlemen.”

Hester, giving up on Susan B.
Anthony, suddenly remembered her “emergency” $5 bill tucked behind her driver’s
license in her wallet. She pulled it out, bought one $5 chip and plunked it
down on the black square with the number “8.” (Likewise, whenever she bought
Lotto tickets at Fred Meyer up on Burnside, Hester always bet on some
combination with the numeral 8, based on Bingle T.’s birthday: Aug. 8.)

As the wheel spun, Hester kept
her eyes on the door. Eventually, the wheel wound to a stop and she heard the
trapper shout, “Black 8! Congratulations to the lady with the lucky chip!”

Hester smiled and nodded. The
croupier took that as assent to let the bet ride. Hester saw shadows beneath
the mahogany door, as if someone were about to exit. The wheel spun. Hester
craned her neck and watched the door.

Vaguely, she was conscious of
another cry of “Black 8!” Someone pointed at the square and she vacantly smiled
and nodded, but kept her eyes on the door. The wheel spun again.

After 15 minutes, Hester’s eyes
were glazing over. She’d done her best to keep sight of the door, but she’d had
to keep bobbing her head and twisting on her stool to see through the crowd,
especially considering the high quotient of cowboy hats (since when had
Oregonians started wearing cowboy hats?). Around her, people now occasionally
applauded. She presumed it was for the banjo player who’d wandered over and was
picking out the tune from “Deliverance.”

The roulette wheel continued to
spin, but its soft clicking merely niggled at her consciousness. Hester’s mind
reeled with speculation about Paul Kenyon’s association with men who looked for
all the world like Las Vegas hoodlums.

She yawned wide and glanced at
her wristwatch. 11:30. Late for a librarian.

Hester was about to give up when
without warning the door swung wide. At the same moment, the crowd cleared, as
if on cue from a Hollywood director.

Hester had a clear view of a
green felt-topped playing table. A conical green-glass hanging lamp threw down
a pool of bright light on high stacks of chips. Around the table sat four men –
as far as she could tell, they were all men – each holding a fan of cards.

But what drew her eye as
headlights draw a deer were the strange head gear that concealed each player’s
upper face. With wires and knobs, the headsets made the players appear like
some weird robotic beings.

The headsets were enough to
conceal a wearer’s identity. But the player directly in Hester’s line of sight
wore a bolo tie with a buffalo-head clasp. She had a clear glimpse before the
door closed again.

So he’s not just the technoid,
he’s gambling with those characters, thought a stunned Hester. It sank in for a
moment. “That twerpy hypocrite!” she seethed under her breath.

Suddenly conscious that Karen
would be sending search parties after her at any moment, Hester slipped off the
stool and began to pick her way through the throngs.

She got only three steps before a
cry of “Whoa! Hold on!” stopped her. A coonskin cap bobbed in her face as she
turned.

“Hold on, little lady! Aren’t you
forgetting something? It was a pretty lucky night for Black 8!”

Hester gasped as the croupier
handed her two beaded buckskin pouches crammed with chips. “More than $2,300
you were about to walk away from, ma’am,” he said so only Hester could hear. He
grinned and gave her a nod before turning back to his wheel.

Twenty-three hundred dollars! She
couldn’t believe it. Yahoo for Black 8!

“From now on, Bingle T. gets
real
tuna,” Hester resolved, striding off in search of Karen.

Wild Bill Hickok’s back was to
the door, a seat he usually avoided like snakebite. He was fuming.

He glared over the top of his poker
hand. His pupils were smoldering coals, burning into the frightened eyes of the
feckless greenhorn who had taken the chair in the corner where Hickok usually
sat.

“I said I’ll see yer 20 bucks and
raise ya’ a hundert, boy!” Hickok snarled, acrid smoke billowing from an 8-inch
cigar clenched cockily at one corner of his handlebar mustache. “Whatsa matter,
catamount got yer tongue?”

Across the table, Calamity Jane
bit off a chaw of tobacco from a plug she kept in her buckskins, then smirked.
She showed crooked, stained teeth to the fancy-pants dude in the buffalo bolo.

“You tell him, Bill!” she croaked
with a voice as gravelly as a Deadwood miner’s sluice.

Paul Kenyon smiled weakly as he
looked down at his hand of cards. Aces and eights! The dead man’s hand – the
hand Wild Bill Hickok held when he was shot by Jack McCall! How did
he
get this hand?

Kenyon’s mind raced. Damn! It
must be another glitch in the program. And here he was supposed to be
demonstrating how everything was fixed! He felt his face flush behind the
headset. A trickle of sweat ran into his right eye. He couldn’t reach up to
wipe it away.

Across the table, seated between
the holographic images of the denizens of Deadwood, the backers from Nevada
watched stonily. Next to them, Tony Madras and his uncle, Lester Birdsong,
exchanged glances. In the computer-generated vision dancing before his eyes,
Paul could see their expressions, even though all wore the headsets.

Paul didn’t know what to do. He’d
been sure that tonight he’d be able to win back some of his losses. He thought
he’d made sure of that!

Squirming under the gaze of the
casino backers, Kenyon stammered, “Umm, yes, sir, Mr. Hickok, just a moment – I
got something in my eye!”

In confusion, he pried with his
free hand and inched the headset away from his forehead so he could peer down
and get an unobstructed view of his cards. A pair of sevens and three queens!
What the –? What was going on?

Dropping the headset back into
place, Paul looked at the image of his cards in the screen. Aces and eights!

“Hmmmmm, well!” he said, too
loudly. “Now that’s – uh – very interesting!”

Hickok’s eyes narrowed like a
cougar about to pounce. The tribal leaders shifted in their chairs. Through
their headsets, Kenyon knew, they could see him sweating. He would just fold,
that was the answer –

Suddenly, the door of the saloon
swung open and a deep voice called out, “Has anybody seen Festus? I’ve been
lookin’ all over Dodge!”

It was Matt Dillon. He strode in,
a giant of a man, his boots clumping across the floor. He leaned against the
bar and called out to the barmaid, “Howdy, Miz Kitty!”

Kenyon sat stunned. This was a
monumental foulup. The laser must be skipping between programs on the CD!

The contract had clearly called
for authenticity in the historical game scenarios. The backers had pounded the
table on that point – they were learning that lesson in their Vegas
re-creations of New York City and ancient Egypt. The gaming public was getting
more sophisticated. In focus groups, retired school teachers gave a lot of guff
if you mixed Greek gods in with the pyramids or put a replica of Chicago’s
Wrigley Building in Times Square.

Momentarily speechless, Kenyon’s
voice came back as he tried to explain.

“You know, that’s probably just a
problem with the CD player not warming up enough,” he said to Madras, who
looked irate. “If we could stop the program for a second – ”

The men all started to reach up
to their headsets, but just then the holographic saloon door burst open with a
bang.

The bounty hunter from “Star Wars”
leapt into the room with his blaster waving. A red bullet of energy zinged past
Lester Birdsong’s left ear.

“OK, Han Solo, I know you’re in
here!” the alien whined, his cockroach-like face screwed up in a sneer.

Paul Kenyon ripped off his
headset and threw his palms across his face.

Tony Madras quickly picked up a
remote-controller from the table, pointed it to a small window in the wall
behind Kenyon and hit “STOP.” Then he slowly peeled the electronic gear from
his head, pulled a Marlboro from a shirt pocket and lit it with a gold lighter.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke with
an audible breath, then looked over at the young man with his head cradled in
his hands.

“Time to get it right, Paul,”
Madras said, a carbon-steel edge in his voice.

Just after 7 Saturday morning,
Hester knocked excitedly on Nate Darrow’s apartment door. After a moment, she
knocked harder and longer. Peering down the hall to see if any curious
neighbors were roused, she finally turned and banged with both fists, so intently
that she stumbled into the entry when the door suddenly swung wide to Darrow’s
shout of “WHAT?”

She caught herself, one palm
landing flat on his bare chest. Her red-painted nails contrasted with his dark,
curly chest hairs still damp from the shower.

Flustered, Hester leapt back into
the hall as she saw that Darrow wore only a bath towel, circling his waist and
tucked tightly into itself just where a line of dark hairs led downward from
his dime-sized navel. His wet hair was combed back in a sort of Al Pacino
style. Shaving foam covered half his face.

“I hope the building’s on fire,
because if I’d been sleeping in you would NOT want to break down my door at
this hour without a real good reason,” Darrow said huskily.

Hester stammered an apology.
Darrow’s glower softened. “On the other hand, if this is some kind of primitive
hormonal thing where you somehow sensed I was half naked and came to pillage, I
don’t really think we know each other that well yet.”

Hester’s embarrassment turned to
pique.

“I
beg
your pardon,
Detective Darrow. First, don’t flatter yourself. And second, I’m here on
important business that I didn’t think should wait.”

Her eyes flashed back at him,
defiantly taking in a head-to-toe glance – where’d he get that tan? Certainly
not in Oregon in February – as she stuck her chin in the air. “When you’re
decent – and I’m not making any bets in the Mr. Adonis pageant – why don’t you
come down for a cappuccino and I’ll fill you in.”

Thoughtful for a second, Darrow
then smirked as he quite obviously rubbed his chest where Hester’s hand had
been. “OK, Ms. McGarrigle, I’ll be down.”

Hester suppressed an indignant
snort as she turned down the hall. “Good morning, Mr. Darrow!”

A half-hour later, Darrow munched
a hot cornmeal muffin, slurped the foam from the bottom of his coffee cup and
stared out the window as he considered what Hester had just told him. Across
the street, in the morning’s weak sunlight, a forsythia bush was experimenting
with its first brave blooms of the season.

“So did your friend have any idea
who Duffy might have left with?” he asked Hester. Reaching to the windowsill
next to her kitchen table, he scratched behind the ears of the big Maine Coon
perched there. He heard a throaty rattle as the cat started to purr, never
turning away from the window or shifting its eyes from a sparrow hopping from
branch to branch in the forsythia.

She’d dreaded bringing Karen into
the fray, but there was no way Hester couldn’t tell Nate how she’d learned of
Duffy’s whereabouts that night. And if Darrow’s inevitable questioning of Karen
brought forth any clues as to her involvement, that might be better than if it
came to light through a friend’s snooping, Hester had decided.

Not that she’d accepted by any
means that Karen was really involved in Duffy’s death, Hester reflected. She
watched Bingle T. shamelessly soak up all the caressing he could get from this
new friend. Absently gazing at Darrow’s hands: long, slender fingers, sprinkled
with light brown hair across the knuckles – Hester quickly rose and turned to
the dark green coffee carafe on the counter, trying to make sense of her
thoughts. Just how much of a friend was Nate Darrow going to be? Or was he just
a cop doing his job?

Karen had been a friend almost
all of her life, Hester reminded herself. Best not to rush any conclusions.

“I’ve got some plain coffee if
you want another cup?” she asked as she turned back to Darrow and held up the
green carafe.

“Please,” he nodded, sliding his
cup across the table. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, um, no, I don’t think she
really saw anyone else go.” Hester poured herself another cup. “I guess you’ll
have to ask Karen.”

“Yes, I think I’m going to have a
busy day,” Darrow replied.

When he’d come to her door
earlier in faded Levis, a baggy ivory-colored fisherman’s sweater and scuffed
Reeboks with no socks, Hester had immediately shared her news of the previous
night, not only regarding Miss Duffy, but also the amazing secret she’d learned
about the book-banning wunderkind, Paul Kenyon.

Nate’s reaction to the latter
news, instead of mirth, was more of alarm. He cautioned Hester against teasing
Kenyon, or even letting on that she’d seen him at the casino.

“I mean it, Hester. I’ve
encountered a lot of people with gambling problems, and people with that
particular illness usually don’t like it to be public. I had a friend, a cop
down in Eugene – a good cop, as squeaky clean as they come on everything else.
Casey would have thrown the book at the chief justice of the Supreme Court if
he’d asked him to fix a parking ticket. But he had that one weakness.”

Darrow shook his head at the
memory.

“Started with card games with
buddies. I played with him a few times. Then he started flying down to Reno
every holiday. Stopped taking his wife to Hawaii, said he liked that Nevada
mountain air better. But after they opened that Indian casino down there south
of Eugene, he’d be down there three, four, five nights a week. Tell you what
was really sick. Before it got so bad, Casey used to go running with me. Every
lunch hour, we’d do five miles along the riverfront trail on the Willamette. He
was a real health nut. But you know what he did? After that casino came, he
took up smoking. He hated it. It went against everything he’d once stood for.
But it was the only way he could keep sneaking off to that smoky casino and
still lie to his wife about it, saying he was working late when he came home
smelling like a dirty ashtray.”

Hester had listened with a
mixture of sympathy and disgust. “So did he get away with it for long?”

Nate shook his head. “No, they
always think they will but they rarely do. Let’s just say that none of his
friends went out of our way to cover for him after that. She found out and left
with the kids. He eventually got booted out of the department, lost everything
he had and basically ended up drinking himself to death at the ripe old age of
35.”

Nate drummed his fingers on the
table, took a breath and looked up at Hester. “Just be careful of this Kenyon
character, OK? He might be a couple fries short of a Happy Meal.”

 Hester had groaned and thrown a
sugar cube at him.

Now, as Nate pushed away his
coffee cup and started to scoot back his chair, Hester spoke on an impulse.

“Say, you know all that money I
won last night? I was thinking of celebrating with a kind of special dinner
tomorrow evening. I was wondering, if you don’t have plans, could you make it?”

Nate stopped, mild surprise on
his face. He looked at her for a moment, then suggestively rubbed his hand
against his chest and arched one eyebrow.

 “Why Ms. McGarrigle, I didn’t
know you really cared.”

Hester blushed again. “I don’t
know why I keep talking to you, I end up turning red as a beet no matter what
the conversation!”

“But it is such a becoming match
to your hair, madame,” Darrow said mischievously. As he stepped toward the
front door, he turned and asked, “Um, what restaurant, and am I to squire you
or shall I meet you and your friends there?”

It was Hester’s turn to be coy.

“Restaurant? Um, you’re looking
at it!” She spread her hands and did a little pirouette in the middle of her
hallway. “The cat is the only other friend I’m inviting, and all you need to
squire is maybe a nice bottle of wine?”

“Ah.” Did Hester detect a slight
blush on his part? Darrow puffed out his cheeks for a moment before he spoke
again.

“Uh, Hester, I think I need to
remind you that you’re a witness in an ongoing murder investigation in which I
am the lead detective, and most of the possible suspects all seem to be your
friends. And, honestly, we’re already on thin ice even just drinking coffee
together.”

At Hester’s crestfallen look,
Nate pursed his lips, crossed his arms and stared at the floor for a moment.

Hester spluttered, “Well,
certainly, I didn’t mean anything
improper –
”

“No, of course, I know you
didn’t...” Darrow looked up at her, then balled his fist and punched his own
thigh. “Oh, hell. Just dinner, you know? Just a nice, civilized visit with a
new neighbor, that’s all we’re talking, right? No shop talk, you don’t ask me
anything about the case? We’re all grown-ups here, right?”

“Well, of course, I – ”

“Then madame, I’d be delighted to
join you Sunday.” He bit his lip and looked past her eyes, down at her gently
curving neck. A few light freckles showed just above the neckline of her cotton
pullover. “And it happens I’ve been saving a special bottle of chardonnay from
my brother’s winery out near McMinnville. He claims it tastes more like pears
and oak than if you grew pears on an oak tree.”

“Mmm, I can taste it already,”
Hester smiled. “Six work for you?”

“I shall be here with my hair in
a braid and a song in my heart,” he quipped, shaking her hand, winking, then
turning and shutting the door behind him.

Hester just stood there,
wondering where she was going with this.