Scorched Eggs (17 page)

T
ONI
aimed her car toward the curb and slid behind an enormous acacia bush that sprouted on the boulevard. She'd insisted on driving and Suzanne was terrified. Every time she heard a rattle, bing, or boing, she figured Toni's car was about to give up the ghost. Engineered by Junior, of course, the car was a complete rattletrap. Or was it more of a death trap?

“Now that we're here,” said Toni, “how are you going to get Venable's picture? I mean, you can't just run up to the front door, yell ‘Trick or treat,' and snap his photo.”

“We've got to lure him outside somehow.”

“How we gonna do that?” said Toni. Then her face took on a snarky look and she said, “I've got an idea.”

“Ring the doorbell?” said Suzanne.

“Rock,” said Toni.

“You're gonna smack him with a rock? That really will ring his bell. And, besides, won't that count as a felony assault?”

“No, silly, I'm gonna toss a rock at his
window
and when Venable comes paddling out to see what the heck's going on, you're going to snap his photo. Easy peasy.”

“That sounds crazy,” said Suzanne. “Even to me.”

Toni nodded sagely. “Which is why it'll probably work like a charm.”

Jack Venable lived in a white clapboard house that looked sturdy and sedate, and had probably been built in the '30s. Lights blazed in the downstairs windows, there was a large front porch with a railing around it, and a doorbell with a little blue light, so they figured their whacked-out plan just might work.

“See,” said Toni, whispering now. “You hide off to the side of his porch and I'll aim my rock at that big front window. All you have to worry about is taking his picture.”

“Okay,” Suzanne whispered back. “But where will you be when he comes rushing out?”

“Not here,” said Toni. “I'm gonna make like an egg and beat it.”

Together they crept toward the house. Halfway there, Toni detoured into a small garden that was built around a blue plastic birdbath, and picked up a small rock. She hefted it in her hand, nodded at Suzanne, and the two of them got into position.

“Here goes,” said Toni. She slung the rock toward the window, where it hit with a loud smack followed by a crash of glass!

“Oops,” said Toni as she dashed off into the darkness.

Suzanne crouched next to the porch, feeling terrified. The rock had hit way too hard, Venable was going to be angry, and . . .

Jack Venable came flying out the front door in his stocking feet, cracked his knee against a giant ceramic pot, and howled loudly. “Who did that!” he screamed as he hopped up and down. “I see you kids! Don't think I don't see you!” If he'd been a cartoon character, hot steam would have poured out of his ears.

Suzanne chose that moment to poke her head up, aim the camera, and hope for the best. And so, that's how she got him. Venable in a fit of rage, shaking his fist, his mouth gaping wide open.

As far as Suzanne was concerned . . . mission accomplished.

*   *   *

“
T
HAT
'
S
some arm you have,” said Suzanne as they drove through the night toward Cornucopia, where the casino was located.

“I guess I put a little too much elbow grease on it,” Toni admitted.

“You're stronger than you look.”

“Aw,” said Toni, “it's 'cause of that slow-pitch softball team I played on for a while. It whittled my waist but built up the muscles in my arms.”

“You must have been their star player,” said Suzanne.

When they pulled up in front of Prairie Star Casino and shuddered to a halt, the valet was reluctant to park their car.

“What kind of car is that?” he asked Toni warily. He was a young kid—maybe sixteen, in a red jacket and baggy black slacks—working for tips.

“It's your basic Frankencar,” Toni told him. “Some Chevy parts and the front end of a Buick. A Chevuick.” They got out, prepared to let the car just sit there, a giant metallic heap, blocking the valet parking lane in front of the casino.

“Never heard of that model before,” the kid said, ducking his head and climbing into the driver's seat.

“It's crafted by hand,” Toni shot back. “Like those fancy British cars.”

Then they were sailing through the front doors of the Prairie Star Casino, swallowed up in a whirling, swirling haze of flashing lights, tinkling slot machines, loud rock music, and raucous, frustrated gamblers.

“This is awful,” said Suzanne as she looked around. The casino seemed to be arranged in concentric rings. Slot machines on the outer ring, electronic blackjack machines a few steps down in another ring, and then down another ring to the table games. It was, she decided, architecturally similar to Dante's rings of Hell.

“I think this place is a hoot,” said Toni. She was already digging in her purse, looking for loose change to feed the hungry slot machines. “Let's see if I can win myself that cute little Mercedes-Benz.”

Suzanne glanced up. Sure enough, positioned on a podium directly above a row of 25¢ slot machines was a copper-colored Mercedes. Its lights were on, there was a film of dust on the hood, and a sign on the grill proclaimed, Progressive Slots—Win Big!

“Shoot,” said Toni. She pulled the handle on a one-armed bandit again. “Doggone it.”

“Not having your usual run of luck?” asked Suzanne.

“Not having any luck at all,” said Toni. “Ah well. The gambler's lament.”

“So what do you think we should do? Maybe find the casino security office?”

But Toni had another idea.

“You see that girl over there?” she said. “The cocktail waitress with the tray of drinks?”

“You mean the girl in the absurdly minuscule gold hot pants and white leather halter top?”

Toni nodded. “Yeah. I know her. She used to work at Hoobly's.”

“The poor dear,” said Suzanne, and she wasn't kidding.

But Toni was already waving her arms like mad. “Hey, Candy, hey, over here. It's me! Toni!”

“Hey,” said Candy, strolling over. “Toni. How you doin'?”

“Good,” said Toni. “This is my friend Suzanne.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Candy. “Would you guys like a drink?” She tipped her tray toward them. “I've got rum and Cokes here, compliments of the house.”

“Thanks,” said Toni, taking two and handing one to Suzanne. “That's quite an outfit you're wearing.”

Candy made a face. “Kind of skimpy. But the customers seem to like it.”

Toni gave her a wink. “Not as skimpy as the lingerie you wore at Hoobly's.”

“Tell me about it,” said Candy. “Compared to Hoobly's this is like . . . I don't know . . . working at a swanky nightclub.”

“So you work here full-time?” asked Suzanne.

Candy nodded. “Five, sometimes six nights a week. The tip situation is real good.”

Toni sipped on her drink, and then said, “Listen, my friend Suzanne and I are looking for a couple of guys.”

“Bernie usually takes care of that,” said Candy. “But you're gonna have to slip him a couple of . . .”

“No, no, no,” protested Suzanne. “We're not looking for a
hookup
.
We just want to know if a couple of fellows we know have been hanging out here.”

“Oh, okay,” said Candy, looking relieved.

“Show her the photos,” said Toni.

Suzanne dug out her phone and scrolled to the photo of Marty Wolfson.

“Recognize him?” asked Toni.

Candy studied the photo. “No, I can't say that I do.”

“Okay, how about this guy?” said Toni as Suzanne scrolled to the shot of Jack Venable.

“Whoa,” said Candy. “What happened to him? He looks kind of surprised, like he just swallowed a bug.”

“Yeah,” said Toni. “It was kind of an impromptu shot.
Candid Camera
and all that. Anyway, you recognize him? He might be a regular customer here, at blackjack or one of the other table games.”

“I don't think I've seen him here,” said Candy. “Or if I have, I don't remember.”

“We're striking out,” said Suzanne.

“Maybe you could try the casino security office,” Candy suggested.

“You think they'd talk to us?” asked Suzanne.

“Ask for a guy named Rufus,” said Candy. She smiled sweetly. “He owes me.”

“Will do,” said Toni. “And thanks.”

Suzanne and Toni pushed their way through a crowd, past the buffet line, and into a red-carpeted corridor that was lined with posters of comedy and musical acts.

“Look at that,” said Toni. “Bogus Bob and the Ridge Riders are coming here next month. We should get tickets.”

“Absolutely,” said Suzanne, who was focused only on locating the security office.

*   *   *

R
UFUS
Boeckman turned out to be one of those big, teddy bear–type guys. Broad shoulders, baby face, and friendly smile. He was wearing khakis and a burgundy golf shirt that said Security, and probably tipped the scales at two-eighty.

“Rufus,” said Toni. “Candy said you'd be a sweetie pie and help us.” They'd squeezed into a small office that smelled of burned coffee and was packed floor to ceiling with closed-circuit monitors. Three other security guards were smooshed in there, too, studying the screens, looking professionally bored.

“Oh yeah?” said Rufus. He had kind of a high, squeaky voice.

“We're looking for a couple of guys,” said Suzanne. She scrolled quickly through her phone to the picture of Wolfson. “Do you recognize him? Is he a regular here?”

“Why are you asking about him?” said Rufus.

“Because he could be in trouble,” said Suzanne.

“And you're trying to help him in some way?” said Rufus.

“Uh . . . something like that,” said Suzanne.

“Candy said you owed her one,” said Toni.

Rufus bent his head and studied the photo. “No.”

“No, you won't help us or no, you don't know him?” said Suzanne.

“Don't know him,” said Rufus.

“How about this guy?” said Suzanne, offering up the photo of Venable.

Rufus shook his head. “I don't think so. Weird-lookin' guy, though. So I'd probably remember him.”

“Well, shoot,” said Toni.

“It seemed like a good plan,” said Suzanne.

“It sure did,” Toni agreed.

“You'll have to leave now,” said Rufus, attempting to close the door.

“Thanks anyway,” said Suzanne.

“Do you think that rules them out?” Toni asked as they headed back through the casino.

“Maybe,” said Suzanne. “I don't know.”

“Look at this place,” said Toni. She seemed jacked up by the bright lights, free flow of money, and crush of anxious gamblers.

“It's awful. Why do I see people losing their hard-earned money and then not being able to pay their mortgage?”

“There have to be
some
winners,” said Toni. She plucked at Suzanne's sleeve. “Come on, let's walk by the table games, see what's shakin'.”

“Do we have to?”

“Yeah, it'll be fun.”

It wasn't fun, not for Suzanne anyway. But it was eye-opening.

“Holy shih tzu!” said Toni. “Look over there, just past that pai gow poker table. Do you see . . . ?”

“Ohmigosh,” said Suzanne. “It's Darrel Fuhrman!” She could hardly believe her eyes.

Darrel Fuhrman, the ex-firefighter, was sitting at a blackjack table, staring intently at his hand of cards, sipping away at a drink.

“I think he's winning,” said Toni. “Look, he's got a decent-sized stack of chips in front of him.”

“Chips,” said Suzanne. Suddenly, all she could think of was the dirty red chip she'd picked out of the ruins of the fire. Had that chip come from this casino? Had it been in Darrel Fuhrman's pocket when he snuck down the alley and started the fire at the County Services Bureau? Or was this just a huge, crazy coincidence?

Suzanne knew one thing for sure—she needed to find out a lot more about Darrel Fuhrman.

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
and Toni were both quiet on the ride home. Both wondering if there was a connection between Fuhrman and the fire that had killed Hannah.

“See you tomorrow,” Toni said when she let Suzanne out on Main Street.

“Okay, take care.” Suzanne's car was still parked a few doors down from Schmitt's Bar. The lights were on in the bar, she could hear Hootie and the Blowfish blasting from the jukebox, and the Blatz Beer sign in the window was blinking blue and white.

Suzanne drove home, still pondering their discovery, wondering what kind of person Fuhrman was, and why he'd been fired.

I have to talk to Doogie about him. Or Chief Finley. Because maybe Fuhrman is the missing piece in the puzzle.

Suzanne waited while the dogs went out, and then turned off all the lights downstairs. She trudged upstairs, remembering that Hannah's funeral was tomorrow morning.

Ugh. I have to pick out a funeral-appropriate suit. Or dress.

Suzanne pulled a black dress off the rack, held it up to herself, and stared in the mirror. She knew it was silly, but she still had a few residual issues about her body. Was she thin enough? Pretty enough? Was she young enough to keep up with a guy like Sam?

Narrowing her eyes, Suzanne scrutinized herself in the mirror. She'd always thought that maybe, just maybe, her shoulders were a little too wide. Then, a couple of months ago, she'd read an article that said hers was the exact body type George Balanchine, the ballet impresario, had looked for in his premier dancers. Wide shoulders, slightly shorter torso, somewhat longer legs. She'd actually felt heartened after reading that. Vindicated in some way for the DNA that had been responsible for her growth.