Dead Anyway Page 9

  “What kind of an offer?” I asked.

  “Generous, I’m thinking. Brandt wants the place for his kid, he’s got deep pockets and they’re liking what they see. A decision could be on top of us very soon.”

  “I can’t concentrate on this right now,” I said. “I’ve got other things to deal with.”

  “That’s why you needed to know.”

  “What happens next?”

  “They finish up with due diligence. It’s a process. Bruce tried to explain it to me, but I don’t really understand. Financial stuff is seriously over my head.”

  “All you do is cut into people’s chests and perform quadruple bypass surgery. Couldn’t expect you to have the brains to balance a checkbook.”

  “Speaking of which, I think I sold the house.”

  ”Really. How’d that happen?”

  “I lowered the price to fifteen hundred bucks. The offers flooded in. I got it back up to two thousand. Just kidding. I did a little haggling, but the buyers are basic Wall Street yuppies, and seemed willing to settle on eight-fifty.”

  “That’s fine. Just keep the proceeds liquid,” I said. “Things are complicated out here.”

  “If only I knew what ‘here’ meant.”

  “No. You really don’t.”

  I EXHAUSTED the rest of the night trying to connect the name Chalupnik with anyone at Clear Waters Resort and Casino, a stunningly huge gambling and entertainment venue in the southeast corner of the state. I did capture the addresses of three Chalupniks who lived nearby, a bigger number than you’d think with such an odd name. I assumed relatives.

  It was late when I finally gave up the chase, my eyes tearing to where I could no longer read the computer screen, and the limbs on my weak side nearly frozen with cramps and numbness. I brushed my teeth and lay down on top of the bed, breathing hard and gazing bleary-eyed at the ceiling. I remembered myself as a vivacious person, driven along by a jazz combo of curiosity, natural vigor and good cheer. While I’d lost large pieces of my essential nature, a version of that energy had been reincarnated as a malignant force, taking the place of the demolished joie de vivre. It was more than life had lost its meaning. The very idea of meaning, in the affirmative sense, was a forgotten concept.

  Though still active, I was prone to moments of depletion so absolute I wondered if I could ever rise again. Even the relentless pain in my thigh seemed like such a weary thing it barely deserved notice. Amputees experience the cruelest form of torture—pain emanating from an arm or leg that isn’t even there. For me it wasn’t a phantom limb, but the destroyed elements of my self that was the greater agony. Indefinable, beyond language, yet tangible, solid enough to grasp, to clutch to my chest.

  So when sleep came it was not so much a solace as a suspension of time, a bridge from the gloom of night to the eternal darkness that enveloped my soul.

  CLEAR WATERS Casino rose out of the forest like the other-worldly phantasm it was meant to be. It was located on its owner’s Native American reservation. The isolation from urban centers only added to the imaginary feel of the place, at once startling and seductive.

  My disguise for the day was my current appearance, which looked nothing like I once did. Pale skin stretched over a shaved head, my luxurious moustache another distant memory. A pair of heavy-framed glasses. Haphazard eating and continual exertion had ground down my body, converting once fleshy folds into hard angles on which clothes looked more draped than worn. I could mostly forswear the cane, though I brought it that day, aware that the sheer scale of the casino would mean long walks often over hard surfaces.

  The purpose of the trip was pure reconnoiter. I had no plans or expectations. I didn’t even know if it was necessary, but the massive fact of the place compelled me to at least take a look. I was careful, though, to look around without appearing to look around. This was a place where nothing went unnoticed, by either living or electronic eyes. It was part of the deal, so to speak, and everyone knew it.

  So I played the slots and a few hands of blackjack, bought a baseball hat and then lunch at a piano bar, tipping the piano player despite the effrontery of a Barry Manilow medley. The bartender worked for the owners of the franchise who’d leased the space, but once had a stint as a croupier at the roulette tables.

  “Sounds romantic,” he said of his former job. “Like everybody’s in ball gowns and tuxedos speaking French. Actually, it’s people no better’n me and you get tired of watching that little goddamned ball.”

  “Good place to work, though, eh?” I asked. “I’m thinking of applying.”

  He agreed there.

  “Oh, yeah. They take good care of their people. What do you want to do?”

  “Security,” I said. “I was an MP in the Army. Computer jockey. Never left the little dark room, but somebody’s got to do it.”

  “So, what, injured?” he asked, glancing down at my legs.

  “Something like that,” I said, slightly ashamed to imply I’d been in combat. “Who should I talk to about applying? Any ideas?”

  He took a tattered book out from under the bar and leafed around until he found the right page. Then he wrote a name on a cocktail napkin: “Ron Irving, AVP, Human Resources/Security.”

  “Good guy,” said the bartender. “I’d tell you to say hello for me, but he doesn’t know me from shit. I’m not as famous as I should be.”

  “A common complaint,” I said.

  As I moved through the wide corridors and out into the open spaces filled with sparkling, cacophonous machines, I scanned the faces of every man in uniform who passed by. Since anyone could be in security, I also scanned men in cheap casual wear, like Fred Tootsie’s, men in plain suits, workout gear and polo shirts. When I realized I was studying everyone, I stopped for fear of attracting attention.

  I wandered into a big area filled with blackjack tables. I picked one run by an attractive young Asian woman. There were already two guys there, but she folded me in seamlessly.

  “How many points does a king get?” I asked. The other two guys looked at me like I’d just tracked fresh manure over to the table.

  “Ten,” said the dealer, in clear, accent-free English. “As many as a queen or a jack.”

  Then I won my first hand. My popularity among my table mates adjusted downward. Blackjack had been a good game for me growing up, since counting cards was something I did naturally, until my father pointed out that the skill could get my legs broken if practiced in the wrong venue. This should have no longer been an issue, given that I could now barely count my fingers and toes, though I still seemed to sense the flow of the cards. I followed that flow for the next hour, until I found myself up about $400.

  The other two guys drifted away without comment.

  “Beginner’s luck,” I said to the dealer.

  “When did you begin?” she asked. “As a child?”

  “I used to be good,” I admitted. “I didn’t know I still was.”

  “You want to go a few more rounds? I think the house can afford it.”

  I said sure and the two of us started to play.

  “I have a few old friends who work here,” I said, in the midst of innocuous small talk. “I was thinking of tracking them down.”

  “You know what they do?” she asked.

  “One’s in security. Don’t know about the other one. You don’t happen to have, like, an employee directory or something?”

  I lost the next five hands, then I flipped over a five of clubs and laid it on a six of hearts and ten of spades.

  “There’s nothing published,” she said, “though the guys on the help desk know everything. You should ask one of them.”

  I played well enough through the next hour to get the feeling I could play to near perfection for the rest of the night, which would have been a bad idea. So I lost a few to help curb the temptation.

  The dealer didn’t buy it.

  “You’re counting cards,” she said, in a very low voice. I also noticed she was smiling
.

  “No, I’m not,” I said back, as quietly. “Not intentionally. It’s just happening. Must be some sort of weird calculation taking place on the subconscious level. I used to have a mathematical mind, but I was injured, and I thought I’d lost it all.”

  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.