Lucky Stiff (33 page)

I drive home, bummed and exhausted, and spend half the time bemoaning my stupidity, and the other half convincing myself that I simply had an off night. Lady Luck aside, simple mathematical odds say things should turn my way at some point. One good day is all I need to recoup my losses, and then some.

I drop into bed at six in the morning and fall asleep almost immediately. I dream about hitting a big jackpot the same way Jack did; and in the dream, all of my friends and family are around when it happens, cheering me on. Lights are flashing and bells are ringing, and suddenly I realize that the bell sound is actually my cell phone ringing. I ignore it and try to go back to sleep, but to no avail. I stumble out of bed, see that it’s afternoon, and put on a pot of coffee. While the coffee is brewing, I check my cell, see that it was my mother who called, and that she left me a message. I dial into my voice mail and listen as she wishes me, “Happy New Year.” I briefly consider calling her back, but then decide against it. I’m depressed enough already.

When I take Hoover outside, I half-expect to see Dom or Izzy come out, but the party must have gone on late into the night because their windows are all darkened and there’s no sign of life.

I keep flashing back on my dream, on Hurley, and my future, and on the entire day stretching out ahead of me with nothing planned. Before I know it, I’m on the road again, heading back to the casino.

After pulling another ten-grand advance with my debit card, I settle in at a big-stakes blackjack table next to a young bleached blonde who is wearing a lot of makeup and jewelry, and little else. Despite the frigid temps outside, the only clothing she has on is a skimpy tube top and a tiny, very short leather skirt. The makeup, while heavy, is skillfully done, and she has the figure for the clothes. If I was to wear that tube top, I fear the weight of my boobs would turn it into a belt. She, however, wears it very well and has just enough bosom to create some enticing cleavage. It has the male dealer at the table well distracted. I feel rather frumpy in my black jeans and heavy sweater; but when the skimpily clad woman wins several hands in a row, I figure it’s worth the humiliation if some of her luck rubs off on me.

Once again, a cocktail waitress appears out of nowhere the minute I settle in; and, still wary of the evil drink, I order a club soda. My tablemate has no such compunction and she gulps down the martini in front of her and immediately orders another.

“You should try the martinis here,” she says to me as the dealer doles out another hand. “They’re quite good.”

“I know,” I say. “They go down a little too easily for me.”

She smiles and nods. “My name is ‘Cin,’ short for ‘cinnamon,’ not a vice.” She rolls her eyes. “My mother liked the spice.” She extends a hand and I shake it, surprised at its strength.

“My name is Mattie,” I say. “It’s short for something you don’t want to know.”

We both laugh and then turn our attention back to our cards. Cin ends up with two 10’s and I get a queen and a nine. We both stay, and the dealer turns over fourteen followed by an eight. We high-five one another over the dealer’s bust; after deciding my table choice was a good one, I up my bet.

Over the next two hours, I watch as Cin cleans up with one hand after another, rarely losing. But my luck seems to have stopped with the first hand, because nearly every one after that is a loser.

I bid Cin adieu and decide to play the dollar slots for a while, betting multiple credits and multiple lines. But the cards keep calling to me; and when the slots stop paying out, I cash out and get a credit slip for eighty bucks. Then I settle in at a poker table, eager to try out some different strategies. I look for patterns in the flow of the cards, and I try to keep track of what’s been played, but the dealer’s shoe has multiple decks in it, making it impossible. I win a few nice hands, but it doesn’t take long before I’ve lost the last of my cash.

I still have the eighty-dollar chit in my purse, so I leave the table and circle the huge room, checking out all the slot machines and trying to decide which one to use. Given that none of my other strategies have worked, I finally settle on a machine that has the most colorful lights. There are black lights running up each side of it, and a rainbow of neon lights below and above. It has a buried treasure/beach theme, and I consider that a good omen, since I’m owed a beach experience.

I dig into my purse and feel around for the credit slip. Instead, I pull out a folded piece of paper. At first, I have no idea what it is. But when I unfold it, I see it’s the paper from the Strommen house that I used to write down Michael Landon’s phone number. I start to put it back in my purse, when something catches my eye. When I hold the sheet up close to one of the black lights, it reveals a page full of impressions left over from whatever was written on the sheet above it. I angle the paper this way and that, until I can make out the words.

I read them, stunned by what they reveal, and suddenly everything about the Strommen case starts to make sense. Excited, I grab my coat and head for the main entrance at a fast clip. I’m startled to discover that it’s dark outside; when I glance at my watch, I realize I’ve been at the casino for nearly eight hours. I’m struggling to put on my coat as I step through the doors and into the parking lot. In my distracted state, I step on a patch of snow and ice.

My right foot slides and my ankle rolls outward, painfully. I manage to remain upright, but there are a few moments of deep-breathing, eyes-squeezed-shut pain before I am able to gimp my way to my car and head home.

I pull up in front of Hurley’s place half an hour later and limp to his front door. I knock and then ring the doorbell, but I get no answer. His car is there, so I start pounding, instead. I’m about to give up, thinking Hurley is either sleeping or at a neighbor’s place, when he opens the door. His hair is mussed, and his eyes are bloodshot. There is a day’s worth of beard on his face. His clothes are wrinkled, and I notice they are the same ones he was wearing last night.

“Happy New Year, Mattie,” he says, and the smell of alcohol on his breath nearly knocks me over.

“Oh, great,” I say. “How long have you been drinking?”

He thinks for a second; then he smiles and says, “Since last year.”

“Very funny.” I push past him into the house, gimping my way into the kitchen and dropping my purse on the table. On my way past the living room, I notice a drink glass and a nearly-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on his coffee table, along with a half-dozen empty beer bottles. There’s also a throw tossed aside; so I guess from this tableau that Hurley spent the night on the couch.

Hurley closes the front door and shuffles along behind me, dropping into a kitchen chair as I start rummaging through his cabinets, looking for coffee. I find it, and the necessary filters, and start a pot brewing. While it’s dripping, I dig out a plastic bag and fill it with ice cubes; then I take the chair across the table from him and use a third chair to prop my foot on. My ankle doesn’t look very good; it’s turning shades of blue and purple, and it’s swollen to twice its size. I drape the ice over it, wincing, and shift my attention to Hurley.

“I need you to sober up,” I say.

“Why?” he says, wearing a goofy grin. “Sober makes me think, and I don’t want to.”

His words confuse me. “You don’t want to get sober, or you don’t want to think?”

“Both.”

“But I need you to do both. I’ve cracked the Strommen case.” I reach over and take the folded piece of paper out of my purse.

He looks at me through squinted eyes for several seconds and then says, “Okay, I’ll try to think, but I’m
not
going to feel.” He punctuates the word “not” by jabbing his finger in the air at me.

“Fair enough,” I say. I unfold the paper, impatient to reveal my discovery. “You don’t have to feel.”

“But I do, damn it,” he says, looking hound dog sad. “When I’m with you, I feel, and I don’t want to.”

Great, Hurley, of all the times for you to get emotional.
“We’ll talk about us later. Right now, I need you to focus.”

He frowns and says, “Okay, I’ll be serious.” He narrows his eyes at me again and tries to look stern, but the end result is comical, and I burst out laughing.

“Maybe you should take a shower while the coffee is brewing,” I say.

He raises his right arm and sniffs his pit. “Do I stink?”

“Probably,” I say, not willing to find out. “But more important, you’re drunk.”

He smiles and drops his arm. “Yeah, I kind of am. Happy New Year!” He shouts this, making me jump. Then he takes on his ridiculous serious look again and says, “Would you take a shower with me?”

In a heartbeat.

I gesture toward my ankle. “I’m a bit handicapped at the moment. Can you make it upstairs on your own?”

He sighs heavily. “Okay, but you have to take a rain check. Or maybe it should be a shower check?” He laughs at his own joke as I roll my eyes. “Okay,” he says, once he’s done laughing. “One shower coming up.” He pushes away from the table, gets up, and shuffles his way toward the stairs. I listen as he climbs them, bracing myself for the worst, but he makes it to the top without falling. After a few minutes, I hear the water come on and the shower door close. For a moment, I imagine myself tiptoeing up the stairs behind him and sneaking a peek at him naked in the shower, but my throbbing ankle convinces me otherwise.

After twenty minutes, I start to worry. I haven’t heard any loud thumps, so I don’t think Hurley has fallen in the shower, but I wonder if he might have passed out or gone to sleep. Just as I’ve resigned myself to having to climb the stairs to find out, the water shuts off.

Ten minutes later, Hurley reappears. His eyes are still bloodshot, but he’s dressed in clean clothes and his damp hair smells fresh and wonderful. I get up and limp over to the counter to pour us each a cup of coffee.

“Do you want something to eat?” I ask him.

He eyes me skeptically and swallows hard. “Not if you’re going to cook,” he says.

Well, at least we’re back to reality.

We sip our respective cups of coffee in silence for a few minutes. When he seems a bit more recovered, I slide the sheet of paper over to him.

“What’s this?” he asks, staring at the page. “Why are you giving me the phone number of some guy named Mike?” Before I can answer, he narrows his eyes suspiciously and adds, “Wait a minute, is this the number for your date from last night?”

“It is, but—”

“You’re not going to suggest some kinky three- or four-way thing, are you?”

“Ignore the phone number.”

“Then why did you give this to me? Do you want me to write ‘I won’t drink anymore’ one hundred times?”

“No, though that’s not a bad idea,” I say, smiling. “I gave it to you because it’s the top sheet from a pad I found in the Strommen house. There’s a note on it.”

He stares at the paper for a while, blinking several times and squinting.

“You can’t see it now, but you will,” I tell him. “First we need to go to Nowhere.”

He looks up at me with a confused expression. “And you think I’m the one who’s drunk?”

“The bar,” I explain. “We have to go to the Nowhere bar.”

Three of the bar owners in town got together years ago and decided to name their bars the Nowhere, the Somewhere, and the Anywhere. It’s easy to end up in the middle of a “Who’s on first?” scenario when talking about them. Given that Hurley’s already in a flummoxed state of mind, I’m determined to avoid that.

Hurley’s expression turns even more confused. “You want to go drinking? I thought you were trying to sober me up.”

“I am. I don’t want to go there to drink. I want to go there for the ambience—in particular, the lighting.”

I watch as Hurley tries to puzzle this out, but he can’t. Finally he shrugs and says, “Okay, Winston. I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, but I’m yours.”

Maybe soon,
I think.
Maybe soon.

Chapter 31

I load Hurley into my hearse and drive us to the Nowhere bar. It’s pretty packed inside and it takes a few minutes to work our way over to the bar. There are no empty seats, but that’s okay. What I want doesn’t require one. The bartender on duty is a guy named Richie. When he sees us, he heads our way and asks what he can get for us.

“We’re not here to drink,” I say quickly, lest Hurley be tempted. “I need to borrow something for a few minutes. Do you have that black light you use to scan hand stamps when you have live music with a cover charge?”

Richie eyes us like we’re crazy, but he’s too busy to worry long about it. “Just a sec,” he says. He disappears into the back and returns a minute later with a small lamp. I take it and lead Hurley back over to the door, where I know there’s an electrical outlet. As soon as I plug it in and turn it on, I take the paper out of my purse, open it up, and shine the light on it.

“Here, look at the paper now,” I say, handing it to Hurley and shining the light just so. He scans the empty page for a second and suddenly his eyebrows arch. I wait impatiently as he reads it all.

When he finally looks up at me, he says, “You found this at the Strommen house?”

“I did. It was in a drawer in the credenza in the dining room. My friend Syph called me when I was looking through the drawer to give me Mike’s number, so I used the pad to write it down. I had no idea what was on it until I saw it under the black light at . . .” I hesitate, not wanting to admit I was back at the casino. “Anyway, it explains everything, Hurley—the worm we found, the lack of diatoms in his bone marrow, and Hannah’s strange behavior, because I’m sure she had to help her mother move the body. That had to have been traumatic for her.”

“Where has this paper been all this time?”

“In my purse.”

Hurley sighs and rolls his eyes. “Great,” he says with heavy sarcasm. “So much for a chain of evidence.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But I had no idea what it was until now.”

“We’ll never be able to use it.”

“Maybe not as evidence, but we can use the knowledge, can’t we? We can confront Charlotte with what we know, and maybe she’ll admit to everything.”