R Is for Ricochet Page 27

  It was close to two in the afternoon when I pulled into the one remaining space in the parking lot behind a low cinder-block building painted an unprepossessing beige. The sign in front flashed a red neon spade, a heart, a diamond, and a club in succession. The Double Down was written out in blue neon script across the face of the building. In lieu of stairs, a wheelchair ramp angled up to a windowless entrance, approximately four feet above ground. I climbed the ramp to I the heavy wooden door with its rustic wrought iron hinges. A sign indicated that the hours ran from 10:00 A.M. until 2:00 A.M. I pushed my way in.

  There were four large tables, covered in green felt, each with eight to ten poker players seated in wooden captain's chairs. Many turned and looked at me, though no one questioned my presence. Along the rear wall there was a galley-style kitchen with a menu posted above the service window. The selections were listed in removable black letters mounted in white slots: breakfast dishes, sandwiches, and a few dinner items. I was already partial to the scrambled egg and sausage breakfast burrito. I checked the receipt I'd found in Reba's jacket pocket - cheeseburger, chili fries, and Coke. The same items were listed on the board and all the prices matched.

  The walls were paneled in pine. Along the acoustical-tile ceiling, a picture rail was festooned with strands of fake ivy and hung with framed reproductions of sports art, football dominant. The lighting was flat. All the players were men except for a woman at the back who was probably in her sixties. A chalkboard mounted on the side wall bore a list of names, presumably guys waiting for an open seat. To my surprise, there was no cigarette smoke and no alcohol in sight. Two color television sets mounted in opposing corners flickered silently with two different baseball games. There was scarcely any conversation, only the sound of plastic chips clicking together softly as the dealer paid off the winners and pulled in the losing bets. As I looked on, the dealers changed tables and three guys took advantage of the break to order something to eat.

  There was a counter to my left and behind it, in a cubbyhole, a fellow was sitting on a stool. "I'm looking for the manager," I said. I was wondering, of course, if poker parlors had managers, but it seemed like a safe bet, so to speak. The guy said, "Yo," raising his hand without lifting his gaze from his book.

  "What's the book?"

  He held it up, turning the cover into view as though wondering himself. "This? Poetry. Kenneth Rexroth. You know his work?"

  "I don't."

  "The guy's awesome. I'd lend you this, but it's the only copy I have." He put his finger between the pages, marking his place. "You want chips?"

  "Sorry, but I'm not here to play." I took Reba's picture from my bag, unfolded it, and held it out to him. "Look familiar?"

  "Reba Lafferty," he said, as though the answer was self-evident.

  "You remember when you saw her last?"

  "Sure. Monday. Night before last. She sat at that table. Came in about five and stayed until we closed the place at two. Played Hold 'Em most of the night and then switched to Omaha, for which she has no feel whatever. Had a roll of bills about like this," he said, making a circle of his thumb and middle finger. "Chick's been out of prison a week, or that's the scuttlebutt. You her parole officer?"

  I shook my head. "A personal friend. I was the one who went down to Corona and drove her home."

  "Should have saved yourself the trip. Before you know it, she'll be on the sheriffs but, heading the other way. Too bad. She's cute. About the way a raccoon's cute before it bites the shit out of you.

  I said, "Yeah, well, there you have it. She took off last night and we're trying to track her down. I don't suppose you know where she went."

  "Off the top of my head? I'd say Vegas. She dropped a bundle in here, but you could tell she was on a roll. She had that look in her eye. Bad luck or good, she's the kind who keeps going till all the money's gone."

  "I don't get it."

  "You don't gamble?"

  "Not at all."

  "My theory? Chick runs on empty. She gambles for the hype, thinking she can use that to fill herself up. Ain't never gonna happen. She needs help."

  "Don't we all," I said. "By the way, why the Double Down? I thought the term was blackjack."

  "We used to have blackjack until the owner phased it out. The locals prefer poker - skill over luck, I guess."

  As soon as I reached my office, I grabbed a pencil and notepad, hauled out the phone book, and chose a travel agent at random. I dialed and when she answered, I told her I needed information about a trip to Las Vegas.

  "What day?"

  "Don't know yet. I work until five and I'm not sure what day I want to go. What flights do you show for weekdays after six P.M.?"

  "I can check," she said. I heard tappity-tap-tap in the background and after a silence, "I see two. USAir at 7:55 P.M.. by way of San Francisco, arriving Las Vegas at 11:16, or United Airlines 8:30 through Los Angeles, arriving LV at 11:17 P.M."

  "Where else would I find poker parlors?"

  "Say again?"

  "Card parlors. Poker."

  "I thought you wanted to go to Las Vegas."

  "I'm looking at all the options. Anything closer to home?"

  "Gardena or Garden Grove. You'd have to fly to LAX and find ground transport."

  "That sounds doable. What flights do you have to Los Angeles after six P.M.? I know about the United flight at 8:30. Is there anything else?"

  "I show a United at 6:57, arriving in Los Angeles at 7:45."

  I was taking notes as she spoke. "Oh wow, thanks. This is great." Somewhat testily, the travel agent said, "You want to book one of these or not?"

  "I'm not sure. Let's try this. Say I had a few bucks in my hot little hand. Where else could I go?"

  "After six P.M. weekdays?" she said, drily.

  "Exactly."

  "You could try Laughlin, Nevada, though there aren't any flights into Laughlin-Bullhead unless you want to fly charter."

  "Don't think so," I said.

  "There's always Reno-Lake Tahoe. The same airport services both."

  "Could you..."

  "I'm doing it," she sang, and again I could hear her tapping her computer keys. "United Airlines departing Santa Teresa at 7:55, arrives San Fran 9:07 P.M., departs 10:20, arriving in Reno at 11:16. That's all there is."

  "I'll call you back," I said, and hung up. I circled the word "Reno," thinking about Reba's former cellmate, Misty Raine, allegedly living up there. If Reba were on the run, it might make sense to try connecting with a friend. Of course, consorting with a known felon was a parole violation, but she was already racking them up, so what was one more to her?

  I dialed directory assistance in Reno, the 702 area code, and asked the operator for a listing under the last name Raine. There was one: first initial M, but with no address listed. I thanked her and hung up. I drew a second circle around the word "Raine," wondering if Reba had been in touch with Misty since her release. I picked up the phone again and dialed the number I'd been given for M. Raine. After four rings, a mechanical male voice said, "No one is home. Please leave a number." So uninformative. I really hate that guy.

  At 4:30, I drove back to the Lafferty estate. As I pulled into the parking pad, I was happy to note Lucinda's car was gone. Rags was asleep in a wicker chair, but he roused himself to greet me, sitting at my feet politely while I rang the bell. When Freddy let me in, Rags took the opportunity to slip inside. He followed as Freddy led me to the library where Nord was entrenched on the sofa, propped up against a mass of bed pillows and covered with a throw. He said, "I had Freddy bring me down. I couldn't stand another minute upstairs." Rags jumped up on the sofa, walked the length of Nord's body, and sniffed at his breath.

  I said, "You look better. You have some color in your cheeks."

  "It's temporary, but I'll take what I can get. I'm assuming you've learned something or you wouldn't be back so soon."

  I told him about the gasoline receipt and. my drive to Perdido, where I'd been directed to the card parlor.
I related the report I'd had about her poker losses Monday night. I couldn't see any point in plaguing him with the suspicion that she'd stolen twenty-five thousand dollars so I left that part out. "Reba mentioned a stripper named Misty Raine, a former cellmate of hers. Apparently, Misty moved to Reno after she got off parole. I'm thinking if Reba's caught up in gambling, it'd be smart to scout out a place where she could also lay low - "

  "In which case she might try hooking up with this friend," Nord said, idly stroking the cat.

  "Right. That way, instead of laying out money for a room, she could drop it all at the tables and hope for some return. According to directory assistance, there is an 'M. Raine' in Reno, with no published address."

  "But wouldn't traveling to Reno be a violation of her parole?"

  "So's the gambling," I said. "There's always the possibility she'll come back before she's missed, but I hate to see her take the chance. Has she been to Reno before?"

  "Often," Nord said. "But how can you be sure she's there? Her friend isn't likely to admit to it."

  "That's my thought, too. Reba didn't mention Reno?"

  "She never said a word."

  "What about the phone company? I've been wondering if you could ask about any long-distance calls in the past seven days. A match on Misty's number would at least suggest the two have been in touch."

  "I can try."

  I rounded up the phone book and dialed the number for him, taking him as far as the billing department before I handed him the phone.

  He identified himself by name and phone number and explained what he wanted. In the most glib and convincing manner imaginable, he spun a tale of an out-of-town visitor who'd made some long-distance calls but neglected to ask for time and charges. After chatting with the woman, he jotted a number in the 702 area code to which three calls had been made. He thanked her for her help, hung up, and handed me the slip. "I'm afraid this still doesn't give you an address."

  "I have a police pal and I'm hoping he can help."

  25

  By the time I left Nord's it was close to 5:00. There was no point returning to the office so I headed for home. I let myself into my place and tossed my bag on a chair. Cheney had left two cranky messages wanting to know where the hell Reba was as she'd missed her 1:00 appointment with Vince and her 4:00 meeting with the FBI. I called Cheney's pager, punched in my number, and waited for the phone to ring, which it did ten minutes later.

  "You called?"

  "I need a favor. Can you check a phone number in Reno and get me an address?"

  "Who for?"

  "A friend of a friend."

  "Is this about Reba?"

  "Who else?"

  He thought about it briefly. "She's already in more trouble than she knows. If she's up there, the best thing for all of us is to have Reno PD pick her up."

  "That's one approach," I said. "On the other hand, you still need her cooperation. I'm thinking about driving up to Reno and talking her into coming back-assuming I can find her."

  "Does Holloway know she's gone?"

  "I doubt it, but Reba doesn't see her until Monday, which means we have five days before she'll be missed. I'd hate to do anything behind Priscilla's back so you can tell her if you like. Or..."

  "Or what?"

  "You can run it by your IRS buddies and see what they have to say. Maybe her value to them takes precedence and they can square it with her PO. There's plenty of time to tell Priscilla once Reba's been debriefed."

  "Give me the number in Reno and I'll get back to you."

  "Why don't you talk to Vince first and then I'll give you the number. We can work it out from there."

  "You don't trust me?"

  "Of course I trust you. He's the one I'm worried about."

  "What about tonight? You want to meet me at Rosie's? I've got a couple of reports to write, but it shouldn't take me long."

  "Sounds good."

  "I'll be there in a bit."

  I left my front door ajar and crossed the patio to Henry's. His kitchen. door was open and I knocked on the frame. "Henry? It's me."

  "Come on in. I'll be right there," he said.

  He had a pot of homemade soup simmering on a back burner and I took that as a good sign. Henry seldom cooks or bakes when he's feeling down. His glass of Black Jack over ice was sitting on the kitchen table, the newspaper neatly folded and waiting in his rocking chair. A newly opened bottle of Chardonnay was sitting in a cooler on the counter. He appeared from the hallway with a stack of clean towels. "You should have poured yourself some wine. I opened that for you. Something I want to talk to you about. You have a few minutes?" He put the towels in a kitchen drawer and took a wineglass out of the kitchen cabinet and filled it halfway.

  "Thanks. I have all the time you need. I've been feeling out of touch. How are you?"

  "I'm fine, thanks. What about you?" He resumed his seat in the rocking chair and took a sip of his drink.

  "I'm good," I said. "Now that we've cleared that pithy matter, you want to tell me what's on your mind?"

  He smiled. "Here's what I've been considering. I don't think there's any remedy for my relationship with Mattie. At the moment, she's calling the shots and I don't feel I can impose if she's not interested.

  That's the way of the world. We didn't know each other long and there are all kinds of reasons it couldn't work - age, geography - the particulars aren't relevant. What I realize is I enjoyed having someone in my life. It put a spring in my step, even at the age of eighty-seven. So I've been thinking it wouldn't be such a terrible idea to make a phone call or two. There were several women on the cruise who seemed lively and nice. Mattie may be one of a kind, but that's beside the point." He paused. "That's as far as I got, but I'd be interested in your thoughts on the matter."

  "I think it sounds great. I remember after you got home, you had all kinds of women leaving messages on your machine."

  "Embarrassed me."

  "Why?"

  "I'm old-fashioned. I was taught men should be the pursuers, not the other way around."

  "Times have changed."

  "For the better?"

  "Perhaps. You meet someone you like, why not make an effort? There's nothing wrong with that. If it works, it works, and if it doesn't, oh well."

  "That's what I've been thinking. There's a woman named Isabelle, who lives here in town. She's eighty, which is a little closer to my age. She loves to dance, which I haven't done for ages. And another woman, Charlotte. She's seventy-eight and still active in real estate. She lives in Olvidado, close enough," he said. "You think one at a time might be good?"

  "Nothing wrong with both. Get your feet wet. The more the merrier."

  "Good. Then that's what I'll do." He clicked his glass against mine.

  "Wish me luck."

  "All the luck in the world." I leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  I sat in my favorite booth in Rosie's, the one in the rear where I can sip a glass of wine while I keep a close eye on the place. I've been a regular at the tavern for seven years and I still can't tell you the names of the day-drinkers or the other steady customers like me. Rosie's the only common thread, and I suspect if the other patrons and I compared notes, we all have the same complaint. We'd grouse at how she bullies us, but we'd all feel smug, seeing her mistreatment as a sign of just how special we are to her. William was working behind the bar. I'd stopped off on the way in and picked up the wine he poured when he saw me enter. He was busy, otherwise, I was certain, he'd have given me the latest in his medical reports.

  Once settled, I took a sip of white wine so close to vinegar it was almost enough to make me swear off the stuff. Cheney had called back within minutes to tell me Vince was favoring the personal approach. He offered his blessings as long as he was given the contact number as well. I gave Cheney the number I'd picked up from Nord's telephone bill. I assumed Vince Turner would keep the information to himself, but I worried the FBI would get wind of what was going o
n and make trouble.

  I put in another call to Nord to tell him I'd be taking off in the morning. He'd offered to underwrite the trip and I'd accepted, any charitable impulse quickly overridden by the need to pay my bills. I'd brought along a pocket atlas and I was flipping back and forth between Southern California and the western border of Nevada, considering my route. The obvious choice was to take Highway 101 to the 126, travel east as far as Highway 5, and then north to Sacramento, where I'd connect to the 80 on a north-to-east trajectory that would take me straight into Reno. If Cheney couldn't manage to get me Misty's address, I'd revert to the old-fashioned method-check the public library for the criss-cross directory where phone numbers are listed in numerical order and matched with the corresponding address.