Murder in the Air (18 page)

“Hey, don't I recognize the voice?” Her hands rose to her hips. “Say something else.”

“Something else.”

“No, I mean talk for a minute.”

“Look, I'm kind of tired.” When she kept staring at him, he added, “I'm all talked out for the evening.”

“You're that radio guy, right? Bram Baldric?”

“That's me.” His tone was something less than friendly.

“I listen to your show all the time.”

“Really. That's… nice to hear.”

“Caught your show today. Kind of depressing. Assisted suicide isn't my bag.”

“That's probably fortuitous, madam, since you work in a hospital.”

Sophie watched the woman empty the wastebasket next to the bed. She was middle-aged and a good fifty pounds overweight. Her curly red hair, tinged with gray, had been pulled back into a tight bun, revealing a broad forehead and intelligent blue eyes. Watching her replace a box of Kleenex, Sophie decided she must have once been pretty, though now her face was coarsened by age and, if the high color in her cheeks was any indicator, too much alcohol.

The woman kept stealing peeks at Bram as she bustled around the room, never quite making it into the bathroom. Sophie knew that women often found her husband attractive. She couldn't blame them. She shared the same opinion.

“Hey, Molly.” A man pushed his head into the room. Seeing Sophie and Bram, he said, “Oh, sorry. Say, Molly, you're not on this floor tonight. Didn't you read the schedule on the bulletin board?”

“I'm not?” she said, giving him a disgusted look.

“You better get down to sixth pronto.”

“Oh … hell.” She pulled the cart toward the door. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Baldric.” She gave him a flirtatious smile.

“Likewise,” said Bram.

“We'll meet again.”

Sophie found the entire interaction thoroughly obnoxious.

After the woman had banged her way out the door, Bram shot Sophie a pained look. “It's hard being the object of so much adoration.”

“It's your cross, dear.”

“It doesn't get on your nerves that women find me utterly irresistible?”

“Should it?”

He took her hand and drew it to his lips. “No.”

They both looked up as John entered the room carrying three cups of coffee.

“I had to go all the way down to the basement,” he said, handing, the cups around. “There's supposed to be a coffee machine on this floor, but it's out of order.” Sitting down, he looked at the empty bed and said, “I don't suppose you heard anything while I was gone.”

Bram shook his head. “I think we better prepare ourselves for a long night.”

Sophie's eyes rose to the ten
P.M
. report. She wished she were home in bed and this was all a dream. Just yesterday she'd put the finishing touches on her plans for Rudy and John's commitment party. Everything was all set. The menu. The flowers. The champagne had been ordered. The room had been reserved. She was so happy for them she could have burst. Now Rudy was fighting for his life. She felt tears well up in her eyes as she realized how desperately she wanted yesterday back.

16

The mechanical whir of slot machines droned heavily inside Valentine's alcohol-soaked consciousness. It was Monday evening. Since he never wore a watch, and there wasn't a window or a clock in sight, he wasn't sure of the time. The cab had dropped him off at the casino around four, the frigid Minnesota winds dissolving into luxurious warmth as he pushed through the front entrance. It was like walking through an air lock into instant sensory overload. On the ride down from St. Paul, he'd been lulled by the calm of the winter-white landscape, yet once inside the casino, a brilliant mixture of light and sound assaulted his senses. The contrast staggered him. For almost a full minute all he could do was stand and blink his incomprehension at the crowds milling around the slot machines.

In Minnesota, as his cabdriver had pointed out, the best gambling establishments were owned by Native Americans. The River Bend Casino was set smack in the midst of a frozen tundra. From many miles away, the casino and the twelve-story hotel that sat directly next to it loomed large and luminous in the growing dusk.

As Valentine was counting out the cash to pay for the cab ride, the driver asked him where he was from. “Southern California,” he responded.

“Well then”—the cabby grinned—”welcome to Siberia.”

“That about covers it.”

“Good luck in there.” The cabby nodded to the casino doors. “The wife made me promise to swear off slot machines, otherwise I'd join you.”

“Maybe you should swear off the wife.”

They both had a good laugh as Valentine disappeared inside.

For the next several hours alcohol and adrenaline kept him warm as he sat perched on a stool in front of a blackjack table. Whatever he did, his moves were golden. The chips piled up in front of him so relentlessly that the stacks looked like mini-skyscrapers, the makings of a small metropolis.

This, of course, was all part of his master plan. The thirty thousand he'd received was going to be his seed money. He would parlay it into a small fortune—or at least a hefty retirement income. Once he was all set up in a nice little condo in the Hollywood Hills, he might start playing the stock market. Or maybe he'd take a Caribbean cruise. He'd always wanted to do that.

Valentine knew his jobs had never been the kind that would provide him with a comfortable old age. People in the arts were often paid shit all their lives, and then, when they got old, were dumped into the ranks of the poor by a society that only valued the assholes who managed—deservedly or undeservedly—to become stars. That was exactly what Valentine had to look forward to until he'd stumbled over a goddamned gold mine.

“It's up to you, sir,” said the dealer, his hand poised next to the deck.

Raising a cigarette to his lips, Valentine lifted the bottom card and stared at it. He knew the card hadn't changed since the last time he'd looked at it, but he was uncertain. He was struggling to maintain an air of confidence, but it was becoming more and more difficult. In the past half hour his luck had begun to change. In response, his frustration was making him reckless. Tapping the green felt, he said, “Hit me.”

As soon as he saw the card, he let out an audible groan. “Shit.” It was a ten of spades. He'd lost again.

The next few hours proved even more disastrous. He'd always known that his worst failing as a gambler was that he didn't know when to quit. Maybe that was a problem in life, too, but this was no time to get philosophical, not when the
stakes were this high. He had only four thousand dollars left. If he lost much more, he'd never make it back.

Thinking that it was perhaps time to take a short break, Valentine pocketed his remaining chips and went to the men's room, where he splashed water on his face. He stood for a few minutes, hands on the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. What sort of character flaw made a man a loser—in blackjack or in life? He had as much natural talent as the next guy. Maybe he wasn't great-looking, but then at sixty-nine, who was?

Entering the bar a few minutes later, he made himself comfortable on a red leather stool and ordered a vodka martini. He had to figure out his next move. He'd always loved to think his problems through in bars, especially in the quiet of the early evening, before the crowd arrived. There was something about the emptiness that appealed to him. This joint was a little too busy for his tastes, but it would dp.

After he'd been served his drink and had taken a couple of sips, he grabbed the pretzel bowl, but found that it was empty. He couldn't be expected to enjoy his drink without something salty to go with it, so he waved at the bartender. That's when he noticed a woman across the room making eyes at him. She wasn't young, but she wasn't old either. Platinum-blonde hair. Heavy makeup. Tight red dress. Probably a hooker, not that he had any particular problem with prostitutes. He gave her a seductive wink, motioning her over. He might as well see what she wanted.

“Hi,” she said, easing onto the stool next to him.

Seeing her up close, Valentine decided she wasn't a hooker—probably just a lonely woman looking for a little adventure. In his experience, even with his limited looks, American women couldn't resist a foreigner. “Good evening, my dear,” he said, using his best British accent. It rarely fooled a genuine Brit, but American women were easy. “May I offer you a drink?”

She gazed up into his eyes. “Are you English?”

“I'm afraid you've found me out.”

She smiled. “I was in London once. Where's your hometown?”

Since he'd never been to England, he gave his standard lie. “Bricketwood. You've probably never heard of it.”

“Actually, no. I haven't.”

His smile broadened.

“Are you in town on business?” she asked.

“Yes, I'm staying at the Maxfield Plaza in St. Paul. I just came down to the casino tonight because I had a few free hours on my hands.”

“The Maxfield,” she said, almost reverently. “That's an expensive place.”

“It's quite lovely, my dear. Perhaps we could share a glass of wine … some evening soon?”

“Well… sure. I'd love that.”

“What's your name?”

“Mandy. Like the song.” She giggled, then put her hand over her mouth.

They talked amiably for the next few minutes while Mandy downed a double Scotch and soda, on top of the several she'd already had. If Valentine couldn't get lucky at the tables, he might as well get lucky somewhere else. There was a hotel right next door. Judging by the weather and the relatively thin crowd, it probably wasn't full.

“You know what?” he said, slipping his arm around the back of her chair. He finished his vodka martini in one gulp. “I feel lucky.”

“You do?”

“Yes, my dear, I do. And do you want to know why?”

“Well… sure. I suppose.”

“Because of you.”

“Me?”

“Indeed. I want to try my luck one last time at the blackjack tables. If you would accompany me, be my good-luck charm, I'm certain I'll win.” The fact was, he
was
feeling better. His confidence had returned.

She looked at him uncertainly. “Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

Her face brightened into a smile. “You're on.”

Valentine selected the highest-stakes table in the casino. In very short order, his instincts proved correct. He quickly doubled his money. “We're on a roll now,” he said, squeezing the woman's waist and giving her a kiss. He didn't know how she would react to the intimacy, but when she moved closer and rested her hand on his thigh, he knew the night was his.

After a few more rounds he whispered in her ear. “I need to ring a friend.”

“Oh. Ah, sure.”

“I'll cash in my chips first. When I'm done with my conversation, I'll meet you back at the bar.”

She looked crestfallen. “No, you won't, Val. You're going to take off. I'll never see you again.”

He took her hands in his and looked deep into her eyes. “Why, my dear, you're my good luck tonight. I need you. Perhaps I'll always need you, who can say? You make me feel as if I can walk on water. Reach for the stars. But, you see, now that my luck has changed, I need more money. We're going to make a fortune tonight, my darling.” He was getting a little too Ronald Colman for his tastes, but what the hell. She was mesmerized. “But first, I'm going to ring up that friend. Believe me when I tell you, it won't take long. As soon as I'm done, I'll rejoin you in the bar.”

“You mean this … friend is going to bring you some more money? All the way out here?”

“Oh, it won't be a problem. My friend is very old, and very dear.”

“Well—” She rolled her eyes as she thought it over. “Why can't I come with you while you make the call?”

Good question. She was beginning to annoy him. Still, she was bringing him luck, he could feel it. “All right, Mandy my dear. Come with me, then.” He pocketed his chips, took her by the hand, and dragged her through the crowd over to a bank of phones near the men's room. “Remain here on this bench,” he commanded, waiting as she sat down.

He found the number in his wallet, approached the phone,
and quickly punched it in. “Please God, be home,” he said, praying silently.

After the fourth ring, a groggy voice answered, “Hello?”

“I'll make it quick. It's Zolotow.”

“Who? Christ, do you know what time it is?”

“No, I don't. Now listen. I need more money—twenty thousand will do.”

“Are you nuts? Have you been drinking?”

“I need it now.” Valentine could hear rustling on the other end.

“Go to bed. And don't call again.”

“Maybe you didn't hear me. I need it
now”
His tone carried a distinct threat.

“Look, even if I had twenty thousand just lying around, I wouldn't give it to you. We have a deal.”

“All bets are off.”

“Wait a minute—”

“You might be interested to know that I've got a letter in my pocket, unsigned, of course. It details your involvement in the Kay Collins murder.” It was a lie, of course, but it was all he could think of on such short notice. “If you don't bring me the money now, it goes in the mail—tonight. Straight to the police.”