James Burke - Pegasus Descending

“What’d I say?” he asked.

“Nothing. You’re just a sweet guy.” She touched his shoulder with her fingertips. Clete forgot about the man in the Explorer and wondered if he wasn’t being played.

They drove down I-10 to New Orleans and parked in a multilevel garage in the French Quarter. A storm was blowing off Lake Pontchartrain and the air smelled like salt and warm concrete when the first drops of rain hit it. They walked to the casino, at the bottom of Canal, and Clete could hear the horn blowing on the paddle-wheel excursion boat out on the river. He paused at the steps leading into the casino, under a row of transplanted palms that lifted and straightened in the breeze.

“Sure you want to go in here? Wouldn’t you like to take a boat ride instead?” he said.

“Come on, I’m just going to play a couple of slots. Then I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“What kind of surprise?”

“You’ll see.” She winked at him.

He told himself he was pulling the rip cord if she went near the craps table or if she started playing blackjack and a member of her crew was in place at the table or watching the game from the crowd. Clete had never been a gambler, but he had learned most of the casino hustles when he had run security for Sally Dio in Vegas and Reno. One of the best scams going involved card counting. Actually, it wasn’t even a scam. It was a matter of having more brains than the house. A good card counter could determine at which point a blackjack deck contained a preponderance of cards in the high numbers, usually 10 through king. The high numbers in the shoe raised the odds that the dealer, who was required to take a hit on 16 or less, would go bust. The player just had to stand pat and let the dealer beat himself.

There was a hitch, however. The casino cameras and pit managers could tell when a card counter’s betting pattern had changed. So a crew made use of a player who always bet the same high amount of money but did not take a seat at the table and commence betting until he received a signal from a colleague in the crowd. The player would stay at the table as long as the odds remained in his favor, then linger briefly after the shuffle, losing a few bets if necessary. Finally he would glance at his watch, pick up his winnings, and stroll over to a craps or roulette table, where he would be absorbed into the crowd.

Clete ordered a vodka collins at the bar and watched while Trish wandered between the rows of slot machines. Was she casing the joint? Did she and her crew plan to take it down? He couldn’t tell. But she was no garden-variety grifter. Nor was she a degenerate gambler. So what were they doing here.

The recycled air was like cigarette smoke that had been trapped for days in a refrigerator full of spoiled cheese. Half the people on the floor had B.O. and reminded Clete of outpatients at the methadone clinic. The rest were peckerwoods in shiny suits and vinyl shoes, with haircuts that resembled plastic wigs that didn’t fit their heads. What a dump, he thought. The people who ran it would probably comp Hermann Göring.

Then he saw the blond driver of the Explorer watching him from behind a column by the entrance. The blond man wore a silk neckerchief and a magenta-colored silk shirt that was molded against his lats and shoulders and tapered waist. His facial skin was bright and hard-looking, like polished ceramic, his eyes a mystery behind his shades. He pulled a cigarette out of his pack with his mouth and cupped the flame from a gold lighter to it.

Clete thought about bracing him, then decided to let the hired help handle it. He introduced himself to a security man by the craps table, out of sight of the blond man, opening his P.I. badge holder in his palm. “I have an office on St. Ann in the Quarter and one in New Iberia,” he said. “I think a dude hanging by the entrance is bird-dogging me and my lady friend. Blond hair, shades, reddish-purple shirt, kerchief around the neck. He’s been following me since Morgan City. But I’ve got no idea who he is.”

The security man listened attentively. He was trim and well dressed, his whitewalled hair freshly barbered. “You said your name was Purcel?”

“Right.”

“You used to be with NOPD?”

“What about it?”

“I heard your name mentioned at Second District headquarters, that’s all.”

Clete waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. The security man stepped away from the craps table and glanced casually toward the front of the casino. “Wait here.”

“Maybe the guy doesn’t know I made him. I’d appreciate being left out of it.”

But the security man walked off without acknowledging Clete’s last statement, and Clete concluded the reference to his past history at the Second District wasn’t a positive indicator of his situation. The security man began talking to the blond man, the silhouette of a potted palm between them and Clete. But he quickly became a listener rather than a talker. He listened and then he listened some more. The blond man slipped what looked like a photo from his pocket and the two men examined it together, the blond man tapping on it for emphasis. Then the blond man gave the photo to the security man, obviously to keep.

When the security man returned to the craps area, he had the photo cupped in his palm. It showed Trish Klein at a blackjack table, laughing, a drink in her hand, one of her crew on the stool next to her. She had five cards turned up on the green felt in front of her, the total sum of which was under 21.

“Is this your girlfriend?” the security man asked.

“That’s the lady I’m with.”

“She’s in the Griffin Book.”

“That looks like a photo of somebody who just hit a five-card Johnny. That gets you blackballed here?”

“You and your friend are welcome to play the slots, Mr. Purcel. Just stay away from the tables. If you get near them, you’ll be escorted from the building.”

“Really?” Clete said, stepping closer to him. “How about my initial question? Who’s this geek with the shades following me around?”

“He does the same kind of work I do, at least in my off-duty capacity. You and Miss Klein enjoy yourselves. At the slot machines.”

Clete’s face was burning. “We need to get something straight here.”

“No, we don’t. Thank you for visiting the casino,” the security man said, and walked off.

Suddenly Clete’s shirt felt too tight for his chest. Inside the steady din of coins rattling into metal trays and the excited yelling around the craps table, he could hear the hoarseness of his own breathing and a sound like wind roaring in his ears. It took him five minutes to find Trish, who was watching a blackjack game, one knuckle poised on her chin, a thoughtful expression on her face. Thirty feet away, two security men were talking to each other, glancing in her direction.

“Time to boogie,” Clete said.

“What for?”

“I want to show you the battleground at Chalmette.”

She seemed to consider the idea.

Please, God, Clete thought.

“All right,” she said. “But don’t forget I have a surprise.”

He put one arm over her shoulders, and the two of them began walking toward the entrance. Through the glass doors he could see the dark green of the palm fronds in the rain and the lighted store-fronts along Canal. We’re almost there, he thought.

“I have to stop by the restroom,” she said.

“Now?” he said.

“Yes,” she said, giving him a look. “I might be a minute or two.”

“Sure,” he said, his eyes sweeping the casino. “I’ll wait at the bar. Take your time.”

Just cool it, he told himself. You can’t always dee-dee out of Indian country when you want. Sometimes you just have to brass it out.