Dead Anyway (12 page)

I didn’t know why I was telling this to a complete stranger, but the confession, or revelation, felt good in the oddest way. She was a delicate person, with the palest skin and dark eyes filled with cheerful intelligence. Maybe that was why.

“I shouldn’t play anymore,” I said. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“No trouble from me,” she said, still upbeat. “I don’t care what you do. Though you should move around to different tables. Too much success in one place is not so good.”

“Are they filming us?” I asked.

“Of course. It’s okay, they’ll just think I’m flirting with you,” she said, sharing a radiant smile. “You could flirt back. It would help the act.”

I experimented with a grin. It had been so long, the facial muscles wouldn’t respond.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m still recovering from a bad accident. Not all the gear is in working order.”

She cocked her head at me, then dealt two cards off her dealer’s shoe.

“We have to play or you go someplace else.”

I lost the next three hands, played at a leisurely pace.

“Did you crash your car?” she asked, as she gathered up my wasted cards.

“Somebody crashed into me. Is there an employee hangout here? An after-hours joint?”

She thought that was amusing.

“A place where customers can get to know dealers? Buy them drinks? Make friends? Security would really love that.”

I flipped over another losing hand.

“Not here. Maybe near here. In town. I worked my way through college tending bar. There’s always a joint.”

She set us up again. I had a strong feeling about the next two cards. I went with the feeling and won the hand.

“There might be a place in New London where casino people go,” said the dealer. “Not official or anything.”

I gave back about two hundred dollars’ worth of winnings and resisted the dealer’s gentle encouragement to buy a cocktail. Or two.

“Can’t,” I touched my head. “Doctor’s orders. Where would I find the name of that place?”

“You ask me. Or follow me after work, because that’s where I’m headed.”

I asked her, fearing the other approach was too logistically complicated. She gave me the name, the Sail Inn, and the address, which I wrote in a little notebook drawn from my back pocket. I thanked her.

“No problem,” she said. “Another hand?”

I won a little more, then thought it best to move on. When I stood up I reached out to shake her hand. She shook her head, and I dropped the hand.

“John,” I said, feeling oddly treacherous for not using my real name, or even the new one, Alex, noting the absurdity in that.

“Natsumi. Be careful at the Sail. You’re dealing with people who spot scams for a living.”

“What scam?” I asked.

She looked at me for a moment, considering.

“I don’t know. But something’s going on. You don’t fit.”

I found that alarming. It must have shown.

“Not in an obvious way, “she said, recovering. “I better deal another hand.” Which she did, covering the conversation. I sat back down. “I should shut up, don’t you think? What a blabbermouth I am. My mother tells me that all the time, in Japanese, which doesn’t even remotely translate, though I know what she’s getting at.”

I wanted to exude the opposite of whatever vibe she’d picked up, but had no idea how to go about it. Self-recrimination welled up within me.

“I was in a coma for a while,” I said. “When I woke up, I had trouble connecting with people as I used to. I’m sorry if I seem a little odd. I seem a little odd to myself. That’s the only thing going on.”

She kept her eyes on the cards she was sliding across the green felt.

“That’s a crummy thing,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

I thanked her again and left, overcoming a slight pull that held me to the table. At the same time, I felt as if a seam in the cloak of invisibility I’d been nurturing had slipped open. I took it as a cautionary moment, a warning to be more alert to my own manner. The feeling moved me out of the casino and back into the Outback, which I drove to New London. I found a coffee shop with broadband access to kill time before stopping by the Sail Inn.

I checked my two mailboxes, then embarked on a search for Austin Ott. There were a surprising number of them. I culled the list down to those living in and around Boston and Connecticut. I guessed at an age range between thirty and eightyfive. I found three Austin Otts self-important enough to include “the Third.” They were evenly distributed among Boston, Connecticut and Rhode Island. I wondered if they got together for gin and tonics, and croquet.

Just as I was feeling daunted by all the undifferentiated data, a simple thought came to me. My Austin Ott, the Third was none of these. Because it wasn’t his real name. This search was fruitless. I recorded all the information anyway, and moved on.

A young woman in a T-shirt and shorts, feebly contained within a loose apron, asked me if I wanted another plain black coffee with nothing in it. I said yes, even though I really didn’t. Her bright response made it worth it.

I spent the remaining minutes forcing down the second cup of coffee and locating the Sail Inn via Google search and Yahoo maps. It was around the corner, within easy hobbling distance.

I was never much of a drinker. I’d tried, but usually fell asleep before I had a chance to get drunk. Florencia said I was the only person she knew who got more boring with every drink. Nonetheless, I’d cultivated a fine regard for the dynamics of bar life, discovering early on in my missing persons trade how useful it can be for gathering information.

The first rule when entering a new venue was to head directly to the bar and look eager for service. This established you as a common lush, and thus unworthy of extra scrutiny. I ordered a beer, which defined the limit of my capacity.

My alcoholic act broke down a little as I nursed the beer, though no one seemed to notice. I continued to look invisible—successfully, I think. Until I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Well, hello there,” said Natsumi.

“Hello back,” I said. “I just got here. My friends aren’t here, much to my relief. They aren’t close friends.“

That made her unhappy.

“So what’s the worst that can happen?” she asked.

“I’d feel dopey. I have no social skills. Can I buy you a drink?”

She put her hand back on my shoulder.

“You just proved you have the first and most essential social skill. I’ll have a shot of Jim Beam. Neat.” I must have looked surprised and impressed. “Picked it up from my mother. Who picked it up from the sailor who brought us to America.”

She climbed on the barstool. I waved to the bartender and completed the transaction. He looked at my nearly consumed beer, but I just said, “In a minute.”

He left a wake of complete indifference.

“So,” I said to Natsumi, “do you see many of your cohort in here?”

She looked around.

“A few. No one I know personally. There’re thousands of people working at Clear Waters. It’s one of the biggest casinos in the world, believe it or not.”

“So you couldn’t know anyone named Chalupnik. He’s the one who works in security.”

She shook her head.

“I only know one guy in security. They’re mostly scary people, which is okay with me. You want them scary when they’re on your side. I can ask a girlfriend on the help desk, if you want.”

I didn’t have to fake my appreciation.

“Boy, that’d be great. Truth is, my goal is to get a job here in the surveillance department. That’s what I did back in the day, before the accident.”

She seemed to be studying me.

“I thought you couldn’t drink,” she said.

“I’m nursing a single beer. Don’t tell my neurologist. Or the bartender.”

“You can buy me another Beam. That’ll satisfy him.”

“I’ve been to Japan,” I said, for no good reason. “Kyoto. Spent two weeks and decided I could live there for the rest of my life. Have you been back?”

She looked at me again with that same scrutinizing look.

“No, but I have been to Philadelphia. I could live there, too. Why do I believe everything and nothing you say?”

I had another gush of nerves, fearing I was losing control of my behavior. All I could do was smile, apologetically.

“I feel the same way about myself,” I said. “Head injuries will do that to you. Though I think you can be reasonably sure that most of what I’ve said is substantially what I believe to be true. Except when I’m lying outright.”

Her face actually lit up at that.

“If you be a bullshitter, you’re the best there ever was,” she said.

In the monologue within my mind, I felt no reason to disagree with her.

“You, on the other hand, display an alarming penchant for psychological analysis, however misguided,” I said, handing it back to her. “Is this a job requirement for blackjack dealers?”

“No. Though it is for psychology majors, of which I am one. At Connecticut College. During the day. Up the road across from the Coast Guard Academy, which produces an alarming number of horny, patriotic cadets.”

At this point, I felt secure scanning the room, covered by my proximity to Natsumi, with whom I was clearly engaged. There was nothing remarkable to be observed. No recognizable trench coat-fancying killers.

“You don’t seem quite college age,” I said to her.

“Ah, that social skills thing you mentioned. No, I’m thirtyeight years old. You think that’s too old to get a degree?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I’m merely making an observation. Learning at any age is the best thing you can do. I believe that more deeply than I believe any other thing in the world. I feel a perceptive woman like you would agree.”

“Good answer. Buy me another drink.”

I did just that. When the bartender came over and she placed her order, I had another chance to look around at the bar’s clientele. Natsumi noticed, and tapped me on the arm.

“That guy over there with the sideburns,” she said, giving her head a little jerk toward a booth against the wall. “He’s security. The woman with him works in one of the dress shops. I like to go there and pretend I can afford to buy something. It annoys her.”

“So I guess you wouldn’t mind annoying her again.”

She smiled.

“’I’ll gladly introduce you to the security guy. You just have to tell me your last name.”

“Oswald,” I said. “Like the assassin. No relation.”

Her smile widened.

“Natsumi Fitzgerald. Fits me about as well as yours fits you.”

“The sailor?”

“My adopted father. He’s dead. Liked the Jim Beam a little too much.”

“Sorry.”

“Come on,” she said, pulling at my shirtsleeve, “let’s go annoy some people.”

Natsumi lead us over to the booth. I tried to shrink myself into the remotest possible threat. Natsumi ignored the woman and stuck her hand out to the guy.

“Hi, I’m Natsumi. I deal blackjack at Clear Waters. I’ve seen you on the floor.” The guy took her hand cautiously. “My friend John Oswald is looking to get into security, so I thought you might tell him how to go about it. Come over here, John,” she said to me, regaining her grip on my shirt. I offered my hand to the guy and he took it.

“I’ve had some experience in video surveillance,” I told him. “I thought maybe you could use me at the casino.”

The guy nodded. His features, too small for his head, merged seamlessly with his neck. A sparse moustache did little to improve the situation.

“They might. Not my part of the deal, but it wouldn’t hurt to apply.”

“So just go to HR?” Natsumi asked.

I dug the crumpled napkin out of my back pocket.

“Ron Irving?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said the guy, in the clipped way you often hear out on Long Island, not so much in Connecticut. “That’s the guy. Retired state bull. You don’t got any kinda record, do you? Anything more’n a parking ticket is an automatic disqualification.”

“I’m good there,” I said. “Drive like a senior citizen.”

The guy and his companion, who wore a wedding ring that didn’t match his, looked ready for us to retreat back to the bar. I thanked him, and he looked satisfied with himself for helping a fellow human being.

“Your friend?” Natsumi prompted me.

“Oh, yeah, I think I got a friend who works with you guys. Lost track of him years ago. Last name’s Chalupnik.”

The guy’s eyes narrowed.

“We got three of them. Don’t know ’em personally,” he said. “What’s the first name?”

“We just called him Munk, like in chipmunk,” I said, stalling for time as I searched my battered brain for the names I’d found on the web. “It was a funny name I think, like Bela?”

One in three chance.

“We got a Bela,” he said. “And a Radek and a Dano, like
Hawaii Five-O
. Bela’s the old man. Got the kids into the family business.”

I ached to pull out the police sketch of the man in the trench coat, but discipline won out.

“That’s great,” I said. “Thanks. I’ll ask Mr. Irving about him.”

With that, I withdrew, Natsumi following. We reclaimed our stools, reserved by the half-consumed drinks on the bar.

“See, that was easy,” I said, “and only vaguely disruptive.”

“Chipmunk? You made that up.”

“You don’t have nicknames in Japan?”

“I don’t know. We left when I was three years old. The kids here called me slope-head. But that’s probably not what you mean.”

“Do you think your friend in IT could get me a picture of Bela?” I asked. “That would nail it.”

She narrowed her eyes in the same way as the security guy. Probably for the same reason.

“You really want to find this friend of yours,” she said.

I tried to look nonchalant.

“Not really. It’s just the way I am. Get on a mission and can’t stop. And there’s this social anxiety thing. Worse since the bang on the head. It was very generous of you to help me. A good deed.”

“I try to do one a day. I’ll get you his picture. Then how do I get it to you?”

I took a cocktail napkin out of a stack on the bar and wrote down an email address.

“You send it here. Which will give me your email address, and then we can communicate. Unless you don’t want to.”