Trapped (29 page)

cigars, from hole-in-the-wall con leche stands to bright new

Starbucks. Old men play dominoes at social clubs while their

children congregate in Wi-Fi cafés. Past, present and future,

all sharing the same space, feeding off the same energy.

In other circumstances it might be fun to explore the

neighborhood. Grab a stool somewhere and watch the world

go by. But given the circumstances, the doomsday clock

counting down on the missing girl, all he wants is Mrs.

Garner back in the vehicle where he can keep her safe.

“Espresso,
señor?
”

Smiling mischievously as she hands him a little paper cup

through the open window. And then, her timing immaculate,

slipping into the passenger side just as the traffic starts

moving. Knocking back her own shot of black, heavily

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sugared Cuban coffee, she holds up the empty cup and says,

“These are like those hospital cups, where they put your

medication. Or those shots of vodka Jell-O at the bars? Do

they still do that at the bars, serve shots of vodka Jell-O from

trays? I haven’t been for ages. And by the way, confirmation

on Manning being in the Hummer. He’s on the phone, very

intent. Maybe he’s talking to the kidnapper? Is that possible?”

Words coming out of her in a rush, all the pent-up anxiety

and excitement. Her green eyes gleaming with hope. Shane

can’t bring himself to rain on her parade, forces himself to

say that yes, there’s every possibility Edwin Manning is

about to make a payoff.

Jane Garner listens politely and then sighs. “You’re just

being nice,” she decides. “You don’t really believe this will

work out.”

“Short-term, we’ll see. Maybe this is something, maybe

it isn’t. But long-term, I’m a believer. Keep working the

angles, we’ll find a way in. We’ll get your daughter back.”

“Coffee okay?”

“Coffee is great. Amazing how much caffeine they pack

into that little cup.”

Staring straight ahead as they pick up speed, she asks, very

carefully, “Ever had one of these go bad?”

Shane doesn’t know what to say, but the lady obviously

expects a truthful answer. “It happens,” he admits. “Depends

on the circumstances.”

“Like what sort of circumstances?” she wants to know.

“Worst-case scenario is a psychotic pedophile who preys

on young children.”

“A monster.”

“Yes.”

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“Use the kid and throw it away.”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Garner, Jane, keeps her silence for the length of a city

block. “So what’s the best-case scenario? Is there one?”

Shane touches the brakes. Both hands on the wheel, ten

and two, as cautious at twenty miles per hour as he is at one

hundred. “Best case is the kid ran away and I find him or her.

Which has happened. Next best case is what we’ve got—an

apparent abduction for extortion, payoff, or some other

business purpose. Which is actually quite rare in this country,

thank God. The money scenario has a rational component,

rather than a psychosexual component.”

“So in a way this is good?”

“In a way. Better if it never happened at all.”

“Turn signal,” she announces.

Shane sees it, too. The blinkers indicate the target vehicle

is changing lanes, headed for an exit.

“Expressway,” he says, following, eyes picking up the

signs. “Wherever they’re headed, it’s not the International

House of Pancakes.”

15. Scream Like A Girl

Forty-five minutes later we’re circling the enormous

parking lot at Nakosha Nation Casinos & Resort. Or rather

the access road that feeds all four satellite parking lots. Acres

of blacktop under the brutal sun, more or less surrounding

the new casino complex, which includes a shimmering, palm-

green hotel tower that would not be out of place in Las Vegas.

Situated not far from the Everglades, on tribal land. I know

this because the last three miles has been punctuated by

various signs reminding us that we’ve entered a sovereign

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nation, and therefore must abide by the laws and regulations

of the Nakosha Tribal Council.

What those laws are, and how they might be different

from the laws of the United States, is not spelled out. Not

enough room on the signs, apparently.

“I think mostly it means gambling is legal here,” Shane

opines when prompted. “Plus no tax on tobacco products.”

We’re circling the parking lots—hiding, really—

because we don’t want Edwin Manning and his goons to

spot us as they slot the Hummer and saunter into the

casino, and because, frankly, Randall Shane isn’t sure what

to do next.

“If they’re making a payoff, I don’t want to spook the

deal,” he says, sounding sick with worry. “Manning knows

what I look like. So does his chief of security.”

“You think? Six-foot-five white dude made them pee their

pants with fear, you think they’d remember?”

“Sometimes being tall has disadvantages,” he admits.

“Get me near the entrance.”

“They know what you look like, too,” he protests.

“Not with your hat and my dark glasses. I already proved

that, okay?”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“I very much doubt they’d be able to pick me out of a

crowd. Not to be a noodge, but their attention was focused

on you. I can blend, you can’t.”

“It could be dangerous,” he reminds me.

“Dangerous is whatever happened to Kelly. They get

scary, I’ll scream like a girl.”

The first thing I notice, aside from the way brash daylight

transitions into soft, lingering twilight inside the casino

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complex, is the gentle ringing of bells. A kind of musical

background noise that reminds me of money. Not cash reg-

isters ringing, but the silvery chime of heavy coins colliding.

A peaceful, hopeful, never-ending song that says you’re a

winner, be happy.

It is, of course, the gaming machines. They all chime.

Hundreds of one-armed bandits with lights flashing like

diamonds, and soft leather seats for your tired tush.
Sit

down, my friend,
the whole look and feel of the place says.

Take a load off and fill your pockets with gold.
Very few

coins are actually falling, mostly it’s plastic cards you put

in the slot, with your loses deducted by magnetic strip, like

a debit card. All of which has been described and ex-

plained to me by Fern, who claims never to have lost at a

casino, but seeing it with my own eyes is something of a

revelation.

I’m on a mission here, looking for Edwin Manning and his

cronies, and yet the whole machinery of the place calls to me.

Demonstrating how powerful the urge to play, to take a chance,

to be one of the lucky ones who shriek and point, leaping

around like the blissfully demented contestants on
Deal or No

Deal.

Part of my disguise, in addition to the oversize hat and the

big wraparound sunglasses, is my cell phone. Clamp that to

the side of your face and you become a slightly different

person, more inward, less engaged, and at this point in our

cellular society, less noticeable.

“I’m in,” I say into the phone, keeping my voice low, not

that anyone is likely to overhear me in the cacophony of

machines. “No sign of Manning yet. But this place is huge,

they could be anywhere. You enter through what looks like

a giant tiki hut. Very dramatic lighting. There are three

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separate casinos and a bingo hall, all with cute names like

Wampum and Sachem’s Cave and Wonderluck.”

“I doubt he’s there to gamble.”

Shane, stuck out in the parking lot, sounds frustrated.

“Wampum is about a million slot machines, rows and

rows of them. Lots of older folks, some of them in wheel-

chairs. They must bring them in by the busload. Can’t see

Manning anywhere. Okay, wait, I’m headed toward Wonder-

luck. Slot machines here, too, but mostly it looks like table

games. The one they have on TV, Texas Hold Up.”

“Hold ’Em,” says Shane, sounding exasperated. “Keep

moving.”

“Texas whatever, I am moving. You should see this place.

There’s a whole section for some sort of Chinese table game

they play with green tiles, like mahjong, but it isn’t mahjong.

The dealers are Asian, too. I thought this was a Native

American thing?”

“Asians love to gamble. Every casino has a room like that.

Keep looking, what do you see?”

I have trouble tearing my eyes away from the enthralled,

tile-smacking Asians, who look as crazed as traders on the

floor of the New York Stock Exchange, shouting and gestur-

ing and slamming tiles on the blue felt, eyes gleaming like,

well, the madly blinking lights of the slot machines.

This corner of the casino feels more like Hong Kong or

Macau—not that I’ve ever been further west than Pittsburgh.

Looking around, I see antlike trails of feeble old folks trudg-

ing eagerly into the vast bingo hall, some of them tottering

on walkers.

Old folks you might just as easily find in Long Island as

in an Indian casino on the edge of the Everglades. Asians,

blacks, whites, Latinos, most ethnic groups seem well rep-

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225

resented, some gaming in groups, others traveling solo to

their favorite machines. Everybody but the folks who own the

place—I’ve yet to see anyone recognizably Native American,

either among the uniformed staff, who wear cute little

money-green vests, or among the players.

Pretty smart, I’m thinking. Take the money and keep it.

“Oh!” I exclaim, struggling to keep my voice low. “The

bald guy with the eyes like eggs!”

“Salvatore Popkin. You see him?”

“In the area between gaming rooms there’s like a high-

priced food court, except with sit-down restaurants? Oh look,

they’ve got a Wolfgang Puck pizza joint! What am I saying,

they have those in airports,” I add, rambling on, just an ex-

citable girl and her cell.

“Popkin’s in a restaurant? Where are the others?”

“No, no. Sorry. He seems to be guarding an unmarked door

in a hall between the restaurants. Or maybe it is marked, I can’t

tell from here. Looks like the whole wall area behind him is

smoked plate glass. Lots of dark, smoky accents in here.”

“Has he spotted you?”

“There are hundreds of people wandering around.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No, he hasn’t spotted me. Relax, I’m fine.”

“Don’t get any closer,” Shane warns, husky in the receiver.

“Just keep an eye on him. Just a glance, don’t look directly

at him. Even from across a crowded room, a direct look will

get your attention.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Exasperated, the voice in my ear goes, “Don’t move, damn

it!”

I have absolutely no intention of obeying—where the egg

man goes, I’ll follow—but for now Mr. Salvatore Popkin is

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glued to the door. Dressed in the same sort of shapeless

nylon, soft-shell sports gear he was wearing when we con-

fronted him at the airport. Sport stripes running down the

baggy legs. The Nike version of Tony Soprano. What I hadn’t

mentioned to Shane, the egg man is actively eyeballing the

crowd, giving off a Jersey bouncer vibe, like better steer

clear, little people, the VIPs are doing important VIP things.

Like bullets would bounce off his cast-iron skull. Didn’t look

quite so imposing when Shane bounced him off the concrete.

No obvious sign of the injury to his collarbone, but he does

appear a bit stiff on one side. Trendy little headset and

earpiece may explain why he appears to be talking to himself.

I’m thinking about sidling closer, determining if the

smoked-glass doorway he’s guarding is in fact unmarked,

when something tugs at the hem of my blouse. Whirling

around with hand raised, ready to take a slap at whatever

lowlife is trying to cop a feel, I find Shane sitting in a casino

wheelchair, wearing a floppy sunhat.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask, trying to shield him from

view, not any easy task, considering the difference in size.

“Best I could think of on short notice,” he says, leaning

to get a line of sight on the egg man. “You said it yourself,

they remember my height.”

“At least let me tear the price tag off the hat. You look like

that old lady on
The Grand Old Opera.
”

He chuckles. “
Grand Ole Opry,
and she was before your

time.”

“Whatever. You know who I mean.”

“You’re right about this place being crowded,” he ob-

serves. “That helps.”

Shane’s scheme is, my opinion, totally whacked. I’m

supposed to push the wheelchair, keeping the crowd between

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us and the egg man, and we’ll get a closer look. Shane has

a theory that Manning is in the business office getting cash