Scammed (16 page)

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Authors: Ron Chudley

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Action & Adventure

BOOK: Scammed
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As the days passed and nothing happened, Greg did his best to carry on the appearance of a normal life, while feeling increasingly agitated. One thing was beyond doubt: whatever did finally happen, it was going to involve a price. But what?

When?

I'll be in touch.
Simple words, but with implications that grew ever more ominous the longer Greg waited for the other shoe to drop. Then, at last, it did. One morning, two weeks after the sale, when Greg had settled again into some semblance of calm, the telephone rang. “Mr. Lothian,” the receptionist said, “I have a gentleman on the line for you. A Mr. Molinara?”

A chill ran through Greg, followed by a hot flush. Guiltily, he glanced about at his empty office. “Mr. Lothian,” the receptionist asked, “are you there?”

“Er—yes,” Greg gulped, fighting an urge to slam the phone down and run. “Put him on.”

“Hey, Mr. Lothian. About time we got together.”

The voice was pleasant, but, as before, with a distasteful nuance of over-familiarity. Considering that only a couple of dozen words had passed between them at their first meeting, it was strange how well Greg remembered it. “Is that really your name?” he managed to say at last. “Molinara? Are you a relative of . . .”

“Our river buddy? No way. Business associate. I just wanted to catch your attention. What did you think of the photo?”

Only one thing was in Greg's mind. The words blurted out unbidden. “What do you want?”

“Straight and to the point,” the voice said. “Just like an accountant. Cool! Do you still have it, by the way?”

“The photo? It was ridiculous! I threw it away.”

The other man chuckled derisively. “Yeah, I just bet you did. Well, plenty more where that came from. Like, a whole collection, if you want to know.”

That sounded so preposterous that Greg began to think that this had to be yet another con. He asked, “Why did you wait so long?”

“To make contact? I needed to see if you were worth wasting time on. The big shot picture sale settled that one, eh? You did real good. After that—I guess I just wanted to see which way you'd jump.”

“How would you know?”

“I've been keeping an eye on you.”

“I don't believe it.”

“Have it your own way. We should get together and talk.”

“I've got nothing to talk with you about.”

This time the laugh was pained. “Mr. Lothian, we both know that's bullshit. Almost as stupid as me having to waste my pictures on the cops. Everybody loses then, wouldn't you say?”

After a long pause, Greg said heavily, “Okay, how much?”

“What? Look, we can't talk business on the phone. This call is just to make an appointment.”

Greg frowned. “You want to come in to the office?”

“No sir! The appointment is for you with me—at
my
office.”

“And where might that be?” After he was told, at some length, Greg said, “You've got to be kidding.”

“No way. It's a great place for a meeting. Very public, but people are so busy you could go bare-ass and no one would notice. See you there at 9:00
PM
tonight.”

Before Greg could get out a word of protest, the line went dead.

• • •

The season now being full summer, Greg made the trip over the Malahat Drive to Duncan in evening light. The slopes above the winding road glowed green and gold, but to the west, a massive cloudbank reared, a disturbance building in the mountains. Greg paid little attention to his surroundings, however, so engrossed in his thoughts that he hardly noticed the descent into the valley, the straight run to the village of Mill Bay, and the final fifteen kilometres to Duncan. Though he drove with his habitual care, his mind was preoccupied, replaying the grim events that had led up to this unwelcome journey. By the time of the art sale, he'd begun to think the horror was behind him. Now it was all beginning again. Where it would end he hardly dared speculate.

The Cowichan River at the south end of Duncan was the landmark for his unlikely destination. After crossing the bridge, he turned left, his eyes seized by the raw new structure on the southwest corner of the highway. It was enormous—steel, glass, sheet metal and heavy wooden beams, perched on a storey-high concrete platform that served as both parking garage and flood protection from the nearby river. A large sign on the building, its message repeated endlessly in smaller versions everywhere, read: “CHANCES—Cowichan—Fun is Good.” The “office” to which Greg had been summoned was a casino.

The building was almost completely surrounded by a parking lot, well lit, Greg was relieved to see. Evening was approaching, abetted by the fast-gathering storm clouds. He locked the car and, feeling like a conspirator in a cheap movie, made his way through the packed cars toward Chances. Though it was only mid-week, the place was jumping, and the broad steps up to the entrance bore a steady stream of patrons. Greg joined the throng, taking curious note of his companions. There were some natives, but they were in the minority. This was a band operation, but most of the punters—at least tonight—were older white folk, largely women.

At the top of the steps, there was a patio in front of a line of glass doors, which opened into the main building. And what a place it turned out to be. Greg, who'd never been in a casino, whose every instinct was to shun such places, was astounded. As he entered the main hall, ahead and to the right he saw banks of glittering, multicoloured slot machines, winking and flashing, each with its gaudy pictures and rows of rapidly changing numbers, letters or images, with names like
Eastern Princess
,
Wild Eyes
and
My Rich Uncle
. To the left was a row of booths for changing money or buying tickets. Two separate, glass-enclosed bingo halls, packed with intent patrons, took up the rear of the vast interior. Blinking signs, indicating two-, five- or ten-cent play areas or jackpots numbering in the thousands, hovered overhead like electronic wraiths. Lines of glowing stars defined the limits of each magical domain. Farther back, a life-size, eerily real blackjack dealer held court from a TV screen. Added to the visual stimuli was sound: a soft but insidious chorus of bells, whistles, pings and half-heard music: urgent, enticing, an auditory counterpoint to the atmosphere of glamour and promised riches.

To his astonishment, Greg found himself momentarily sucked in. The shrewdly calculated ambiance hit his senses like liquor. Excitement erupted, whispering of ancient longings, forgotten dreams, wealth beyond imagining. Then he drew a sharp breath in disgust.

“Man,” he whispered. “What a goddamn con.”

As he recovered, his attention was drawn to the behaviour of the patrons. Though tightly packed, everyone seemed in a separate world, perched like zombies over slot machines or bingo consoles, making rapid movements with buttons, levers and coins, immersed totally in the endless electronic ritual. As the man who'd called him had observed: anything could happen here and no one would notice.

To the rear, he'd been told, was a snack bar. It was there he was supposed to be having his meeting. Drifting through the throng, feeling invisible, Greg came to the place. A number of people were lined up for food, patient enough but only half there, longing to get back to the main activity. Nearby was a raised platform with a railing, chairs and half a dozen tables. Just four people were there: an elderly couple with identical hats, munching identical sandwiches, a muscular native sitting by himself in a corner—and the man he had come to meet.

As soon as their eyes locked, Greg knew he'd been watched for some time. The fellow was grinning knowingly, like an old buddy who'd planned a quaint surprise. This both annoyed Greg and made him freshly tense. He scowled as he climbed onto the platform and approached the table.

When he got there, the man didn't move. He just kept smiling, in the end favouring Greg with a satisfied nod. “Cool!” he said. “Right on time.” He didn't rise, but casually proffered his hand across the table. “Hey, Mr. Lothian. My name's Jay.”

Greg ignored the invitation, sitting heavily opposite. “Okay, cut the crap,” he said. “I didn't come to this pitiful place for a chat. You said you've got other pictures. You better show me, or I'm out of here.”

The man who'd called himself Jay stopped smiling. For a moment his eyes were very cold, then he shrugged and produced a cellphone. He flipped it open and pressed buttons, leaning over so Greg could see the screen, but keeping a firm hold on the instrument. “There you go, Mr. Lothian,” he said. “Knock yourself out.”

The screen was small but very clear. The picture showed Greg and the late Eric Molinara, standing opposite each other in the master bedroom of the house by the river. Seeing it, Greg was forced to a startling realization: from the beginning of his encounter that night, someone else had been present. That could be the only explanation. As soon as the image registered, it changed. Greg and Molinara were now leaving the bedroom. Next came a shot of the two headed outside. Then just inside the studio door. Then struggling together, the distance and angle making it impossible to tell who was the aggressor. Then Molinara splayed out dead on the floor.

“Seen enough, Mr. Lothian?” Jay asked.

Greg wrenched his eyes from the telltale phone. “How the hell did you do it?” he whispered.

Jay grinned and snapped shut the phone. “Want a coffee?” he asked. “You look like you could use some booze, but they don't sell it here.”

• • •

“Rick Molinara was an asshole,” Jay said a few minutes later, as Greg stared at him over untouched coffee. “But I guess I don't have to tell you that, eh, Mr. Lothian?”

Greg nodded vaguely. He wasn't sure what disturbed him most, the existence of the pictures, the mystery of how they'd been taken, or the demeanour of the man sitting opposite in the surreal setting of the casino. To his nervousness and discomfort, it was becoming evident that Jay was more than a little strange: what Greg's father, in the lingo of another era, would have called a “weird cat.” The over-friendly exterior was an ill-fitting cloak for something darker, an under-stratum of cruelty and spite that peeked around the corners of his smooth façade. Molinara, the villain Greg had foolishly lured into his life, had been frightening in his naked power and aggression, but Jay, more subtly, gave off an even stronger feeling of menace. Having been spooked into this meeting, all Greg wanted was to be gone. But since he didn't dare leave yet, it seemed he might as well succumb to curiosity.

“That night,” Greg asked. “How come I never saw you?”

Jay giggled, in childlike glee. “Because I didn't want you to, of course. You don't have to be embarrassed. Ol' Rick didn't see me either.”

“He didn't know you were nearby?”

“Nah! I came with him, and I was supposed to be keeping watch outside. But I didn't trust the mother. He said he was just checking the place out, but I knew he was going after cash. And when he found it, he was going to cut me out. So I kept an eye on him. Hey, Mr. Lothian, you were real smart. I didn't even know you were in the house until he caught you.”

“Why didn't you show yourself then?”

“You kidding? With Rick's temper? I've seen him off guys just 'cause they looked at him funny. No offence, Mr. Lothian, but if he was gonna shoot anyone, I wanted to make sure it was you.” He smiled. “Who knew you'd waste him instead?”

“But I didn't . . .” Greg began, but Jay carried on as if he hadn't heard.

“What you did after that was cool, buddy. You may be a wimp accountant, but you acted like a pro. All the time I'd been keeping in the shadows and hiding, taking pictures with my cell. At first I thought, hell, if I got some shots of Rick sticking it to you, I could maybe use them to keep the guy in line. And after you told the mother you'd tricked him and there wasn't any money, I really thought that was it. You were going to buy it. But boy, you turned the tables on that stupid guy.”

The truth, Greg painfully recalled, was that in a suicidal rage, he'd rushed Molinara, somehow miraculously causing him to shoot himself. Had Jay, watching from concealment, missed this detail? More likely he was ignoring it, though why was another matter.

For the first time since he'd sat down, Greg became fleetingly aware of his surroundings. The ancient couple had departed, replaced by a woman who was wolfing a hot dog while gazing at the video blackjack dealer. The big native man was still sitting in his corner, seemingly in another world. Jay had been correct in one respect, anyway: as a public venue for privacy, the gaming house was perfect. Greg refocused on his companion and said, “Look, never mind who killed who. With Molinara dead, and knowing there was no money in the house—if you weren't going to show yourself, why didn't you just leave?”

Jay chuckled. “Are you serious? And miss the best part of the show? I was gonna have to walk back to Duncan, anyway, since ol' Rick had the car keys. But I wanted to see what you'd do. If you'd called the cops I'd have faded fast, you bet. But you didn't. And the way you got rid of the body—dude, it was brilliant.” Impulsively, he produced his cell again. “Hey, would you like to see the rest of the pictures? The light's not great where you're rolling Rick into the drink, and I had to keep back because of that stupid dog, but you can still get the idea.”

Greg shook his head, feeling sick. Since it was obvious where this conversation was going, all he wanted now was for the talkative Jay to get to the point.

“Okay,” Jay said philosophically, pocketing the phone. “Anyway, like I said, the truly awesome part was the tarp. 'Course you didn't clean it off afterwards. There's probably DNA on it—I guess you figured who would ever think to look. But to be on the safe side, I hid it away.”

The last sentence was slipped in so casually that it was a moment before the shock registered. “Hid it? When?”

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