Trapped (30 page)

for a payoff. Either that or dealing directly with some casino

employee or associate implicated in his son’s disappear-

ance.

“The guy is a billionaire,” I say, grabbing hold of the

wheelchair. “Why would he need cash from the casino?”

“He’s a fund investor. He doesn’t deal in cash, and crimi-

nals prefer folding money. It’s just a theory. Roll me up to

the next casino entrance, we’ll work our way back.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m pushing but you’re not moving.”

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry.”

With him pushing the wheels, all I have to do is steer, or

pretend to steer, and we’re moving along, keeping pace with

the shuffling gamblers. What I find amazing is that no one is

making or seeking eye contact. Even in the most crowded mall

people tend to check each other out, maybe smile if the impulse

strikes. Not here. The vibe is that everyone has his or her own

bubble and none of the other bubbles really exist, they’re just

background, like the continuous chiming of the slots, the

whisper of the air-conditioning, the dreamy lighting that makes

the blinking machines look more alive than most of the players.

We’re up to the entrance of Sachem’s Cave—more slot

machines but bigger payoffs—and have made the turn,

sneaking up on the egg man, when Shane urgently an-

nounces, “Look at Popkin. Something is going down.”

The egg man, Mr. Popkin, is apparently reacting to some-

thing he’s heard in his earpiece. Shaking his head and looking

furtively around as he talks, as if he’s not sure what to expect.

All nervous and jumpy.

228

Chris Jordan

Does he know about us? Have we been spotted, and the

message relayed?

The weird thing is, the egg man looks scared.

“I’ll be damned,” says Shane, rising from the wheelchair.

Coming through the entrance, moving quickly with almost

military precision, is a band of black-haired men, unmistakably

Native American, and from the similarly dark, high-cheek-

boned look of them, all sharing the same blood. Brothers and

cousins, uncles and nephews, moving as one. They carry M4

carbines slung over lithe shoulders, not bows and arrows, and

their uniform blouses are matching white guayaberra shirts

with tribal police emblems, but there is no doubt about who they

are.

A war party, ready for battle.

16. The Absolute Zero Of No

It’s an amazing sight, really, totally out of sync with the

sedate atmosphere at the casino. The tribal security squad

marches in, shoves aside the egg man—no resistance there—

enters through the smoked-glass door, and emerges less than

a minute later carrying Edwin Manning in an office chair.

A chair to which he is obviously clinging, having refused

to move. Looking like a deposed king being borne away on

his throne, he appears to be both livid with anger and fright-

ened out of his mind.

“This all goes away!” he shouts, making a gesture that

takes in the whole casino complex. “Think about it! Money,

success, all gone! Just talk to the man, that’s all I’m asking!

I’m begging you, please talk to him! Make him give me back

my son!”

Trapped

229

The men carrying him have eyes like chips of black ice.

They betray no expression, pay no heed to their lively burden,

hustling him out the casino as he clings awkwardly to the

prison of his chair.

What really gets me, what puts the cold fear in my guts,

is what happens next. Up in the chair, carried by those he

cannot buy or influence, Manning seems to surrender himself

to madness, a lunatic in suit and tie. He begins to scream

wordlessly, saliva spraying from his mouth, tears leaking

from his eyes. As if anguish and fear and frustration have

made it impossible to communicate in words, and from now

on only screams will do.

I find myself clinging to Randall Shane like Mr. Manning

clings to the chair, because it’s either hold on or fall down.

The big guy senses my distress, squeezes my hand.

“Kind of like watching a patient undergo surgery without

anesthesia,” he says softly.

“He’s falling apart. Something terrible has happened since

we saw him. Something truly awful.”

“We don’t know that,” says Shane consolingly.

“I do.”

Bless the man, he does not argue, but instead decides to

take action.

“Be right back,” he assures me, and then strides into the

crowd on his long legs.

Be right back? No way am I missing this. So I’m right

behind the big guy when he corners the goggle-eyed egg man

and goes, “Sal—do they call you Sal?—we have to talk.”

To give him credit, the egg man looks more lost than

frightened, although he does catch his breath and shrink back

as Shane approaches.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, protuberant eyes

230

Chris Jordan

rolling around like big white marbles in a jar of oil. “Are you

nuts? You want to wreck everything, is that it?”

Shane raises his open hands to show he means no harm.

“Furthest thing from my mind. All I want is talk. Your boss

is in trouble, maybe you can help.”

Egg man closes his eyes and curses, uttering a few sug-

gestions I’ve never before heard applied to human beings.

Then he opens the eyes—amazingly puffy eyelids, blinking

must be like lifting weights—and goes, pleading to heaven,

“How do I get into this shit?”

“Look,” says Shane, sounding conciliatory. “It’s obvious

that your boss has lost control of the situation. He’s afraid to

call in the cops, make it official? Fine. I’m not the cops. I’m

private. And we have exactly the same goal, the safe return

of Seth and Kelly. We can cooperate, help each other out.”

“I dunno,” says the egg man, not looking at either one of us.

“These people are just plain nuts. You see what they just did to

Mr. Manning? He owns the joint and they treat him like shit.”

The guy rubs his shaved, chunk-o’-cheese head and

squints, as if looking for a way to escape the range of Shane’s

long arms. But Shane mirrors his moves and keeps him

cornered without ever having to actually touch him.

“Who did this?” Shane asks, persisting. “Who took Seth

and Kelly?”

The egg man sighs, giving the impression that not only does

he want to avoid any sort of physical confrontation, he also

knows he’s way out of his depth and really could use some help.

“I work the casinos, you know? Like a bouncer, only I get

paid better. My so-called career in the ring, all it ever gave

me was a face that scares some people. Not you obviously,

and not so much you, either, Miss Whoever-you-are.”

Trapped

231

“Jane Garner,” I remind him. “What happened to Seth

Manning? Is he still alive? Is my daughter still alive?”

He shrugs, the kind of whole-body shrug that can only be

deployed by those born and raised in the part of New Jersey

that lies a bridge or tunnel away from New York City. “If I

knew I’d tell you, honest. Come on, think I’d hold out on a

worried mom? I ain’t that kind of guy.”

“What
do
you know, Mr. Popkin?”

“Call me Sally, please,” the man says. He seems relieved

that I’m asking the questions at the moment, rather than

Shane, who looms over both of us, exuding energetic

patience. “I been Sally Pop all my life, that’s what I’m used

to. What do I know? Less every day. But I do know Mr.

Manning is in trouble, big trouble, and he don’t know what

to do. All his money, that don’t seem to be helping.”

“Who did it, Sally? Who took Seth?”

Sally the egg man studies me, makes up his mind.

“What I heard between the lines, it’s some crazy big-shot

Indian everybody’s scared of. But I’m guessing, you

know? ’Cause Mr. Manning, he don’t share with me. Not

specific to names he don’t.”

“You sure about that?” Shane interjects. “No name?”

“I told you, he don’t share,” the egg man says indignantly.

He’s tottering heel-to-toe on his Nike running shoes, gather-

ing himself for a move or maybe looking for a way to regain

his dignity. “I told you something,” he says to Shane. “Now

you tell me something, awright? How the hell did you know

we’d be here? You’re a New York guy.”

Shane chuckles. “I’m an everywhere guy, Sally. Seriously,

you’re not that hard to find. I followed the money and here we

are.You’re in charge of Mr. Manning’s security, is that correct?”

232

Chris Jordan

“Yeah, for the moment,” he says, jutting out his chin with

pride and defiance. “So what?”

“So you better get out there and help calm him down

before he gets arrested,” Shane says, indicating the commo-

tion that has continued out into the parking lot. “And if you

want to do your boss a big favor, have him call me. I can help.

No cops, no FBI, and no charge. Just someone very discreet

who has done this before.”

“You, huh?”

Shane tucks a business card into Sally the egg man’s

pocket.

“Me,” he says. “Go on, get out there and help the poor man.”

Under the brutal, incandescent sun, Edwin Manning

seems to have recovered the gift of language. Dumped from

the chair to his own two feet, he stands his ground like a bel-

ligerent little general, reading the riot act to the squad of

Nakosha security goons who ejected him from the casino

complex.

“Are you people completely stupid?” he demands, strut-

ting the hot pavement. He adjusts his striped club tie, squares

his shoulders. “What happens when the money dries up?

What happens when the casino closes? What happens when

the federal government revisits your tribal status? You really

think you can get away with protecting a monster? You think

you’re above all laws? You think you can walk away from

this? No, no, the world doesn’t work that way. You made this

man, this beast, you can’t deny your responsibility. You can’t

pretend he’s no longer yours.”

But they do walk away, without acknowledging his pleas

and threats. To them Manning is simply white noise in a

tailored suit.

Trapped

233

Having been abandoned by the Nakosha goon squad, he’s

left with his own. Sally Pop approaches the boss like he’s a

live grenade, imparts some comment to which Manning reacts

with cold fury, shouting, “No! I told you, no! Absolutely not!”

Shane and I have been taking all this in from a distance,

but at the moment Sally retreats, Manning looks up, search-

ing the parking lot. He’s drawn quite an audience, entertain-

ment for the curious, the bored and the broke, but he spots

us immediately. More likely he spots Shane rising above the

herd and I’m just part of the package.

He stares at us with eyes that have the charm and welcome

of black holes sucking all light from the universe, and shakes

his head firmly.

No, no, a zillion times no. The absolute zero of no.

17. Quantum Physics

When the show is over and the burnt-orange Hummer has

exited the parking lot, Randall Shane decides the time has

come for straight talk.

“Coffee?” he asks. “Can we sit down, take a load off?”

His client remains agitated, wanting to do something, any-

thing. As if perpetual motion means not having to think about

the possibility of it all ending badly. “Aren’t we going to

follow them?” she asks plaintively.

“No point,” Shane tells her gently. “I’ll buy you a coffee

and tell you why.”

“I don’t need a coffee,” she says, still eyeing the exit road

where the Hummer vanished.

“We need to sit,” he insists.

Together they reenter the casino complex, where bus-

iness has resumed, pretty much as if nothing had happened.

234

Chris Jordan

Which Shane thinks may be close to the truth. Just beyond

the giant phony tiki hut he finds a pseudo-Starbucks,

scores a tall, no sugar, for himself and a bottled water for

Mrs. Garner. Want it or not, she needs to hydrate, if only

to replenish the tears. Not that she’s blubbering or com-

plaining or throwing herself on his willing shoulder. Just

weeping silent rivers that drip from the cute little cleft in

her chin.

“This is so messed up,” she says, accepting the bottle of

water.

“Agreed.”

“A man like that flips out, it must be really bad.”

“It’s not good,” he concedes.

“Kelly’s already dead,” she says miserably. “That’s what

kidnappers do. I knew that, I just didn’t want to think about

it, you know?”

He clears his throat and says, “Look at me, Jane.”

Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, she studies

him with glistening eyes.

“When there’s no hope, I’ll let you know,” he promises.

“Good, bad or tragic, I’ll tell you the truth. We’re not there yet.”

“But you gave up,” she reminds him. “You didn’t follow