Double Whammy (A Davis Way Crime Caper) (23 page)

“I walked ten miles in these concrete boots,” I said, “and then sat under florescent lights for the next twenty hours.”

“Girl, you need to toughen up.”

“Says the man who naps in a car all day.”

“I put my time in, thank you.”

“Speaking of putting in your time, George, let me ask you something.” I was talking to the floorboard, because I didn’t intend to walk another step in these leather slabs. I fought with the hooks and laces, and noticed, while tugging on the tongue, that my boots were actually Wolverine
pups
. I was wearing little boy boots. No wonder my feet hurt.

“Say what?”

I raised my head. “Assuming you’ve had some time to think about this today, what’s your theory on why they haven’t been caught?”

His mouth twisted. “Time, for one thing.”

“Time?”

“Yeah,” he said. “So much time between events.”

“Makes you wonder what they do with the rest of their time, huh?”

“Sure enough.”

“I wonder what we’re missing,” I mused. “They’re going through way more money than what these jackpots have paid out every other year, easy.”

“No doubt.”

“What else?” I asked.

“Geography,” he said.

“Geography?”

“Yeah,” George said. “It’s a popular game. You can find it in most casinos, and they have. They’ve won it in Vegas, Atlantic City, and now Biloxi. No telling where else.”

“No one’s connecting the dots,” I said.

George turned to look me in the eye. “Seems to me her husband’s got her number.”

And you, George. You have her number, too.

*    *    *

I passed out in the navy blue Dickies and sleep, glorious sleep, ruled my world for the next couple of hours. When I rolled over in Bradley’s bed and looked at the clock, it was just after seven. Perfect. I stripped down to my skivvies, grabbed the Wolverine puppies, marched out the front door, down the hall to the garbage chute, and sent the uniform flying. The boots thudded down the metal tube. I turned, in a pink push-up and navy blue thong, to find Bradley’s next-door neighbor in his open doorway holding Hefty bags in each hand. His mouth dropped so far open I could see his dental history. He began panting. Like a dog. I covered what I could, hugged the wall and scooted past him; he google-eyed me the whole way. I worked Bradley’s front door well after I realized I’d locked myself out; I heard the neighbor’s bags of garbage thud to the floor behind me.

An hour later, I removed the price tags off a platinum-colored silk top, $340, skinny white jeans, $480, and pulled Tory Burch wedges out of their raspberry and tangerine box, $570. I took a blow dryer to my $400 hair, applied about $200 of MAC makeup, armed a chocolate-brown leather Fendi hobo with a lipstick and the evening’s identification, and closed the door behind me, this time, keys in hand.

I loved this part of my job.

Fifteen minutes later, I was unlocking Bradley’s door. I’d forgotten the green contacts.

Twenty minutes after that, I walked past the waterfall, but taking a detour along the way to check in with my retired-school-teacher friends Mary and Maxine at the $1 Double Whammys. I breezed by, not stopping, just slowing, and gave them a wink. No matter how Natalie dressed me, my old friends knew me, and in a million years, I knew they wouldn’t breathe a word.

Mary elbowed Maxine, who clapped her hands at the sight of me. “Good luck, high roller!” Mary called after me.

A minute later, Hollywood, looking as delicious as the last time I’d been here, greeted me. “Welcome back, Miss Dunlow!”

I
love
this place!

*    *    *

I hate this place.

I blew through forty thousand dollars of casino credit without winning a penny in way under an hour. Almost eighty losing hands in a row at five-hundred dollars a pop. Trust me, it happens. It wasn’t even my money, but time stood still, nothing mattered, and my world was reduced to me,
three
sweet-tea martinis with a floating curl of lemon zest in each, and one stupid machine.

Double Whammy Dammit.

I was so frustrated half an hour into it that I began sass-talking the slot machine when it dealt me garbage. “Are you kidding me? You’re kidding me, right? Seriously?”

Hollywood, hovering around me in the background, looked nervous.

Note to self: Learn how to play this game.

Ten minutes, or I should say another ten thousand dollars later, I promise you, had I known how to trigger the win, I’d have done it then and there. On at least twenty hands, being dealt two face cards of the same suit, I went for the royal flush, holding the king and ace or the queen and jack, and when the machine dealt me the other three cards, I wasn’t within a million miles of a royal, or even a pair. Not that I’d have known what to do if I hit it; the jackpot was up to $1,292,560 and some change. I could hear Natalie now: “You weren’t supposed to
win
it.”

The best hand I had was trip cowboys (three kings), but trying to get a few pennies back in the coffer, I accepted the machine’s challenge to whammy, turning over yet another damn king on the whammy screen. (Where had he been thirty seconds ago when I could have really used him?) And that meant for me to win, the hidden card had to be an ace. Of course, I lost, turning over a worthless five of diamonds. I whammied, all right, the wrong way.

One thing’s for sure: it’s not nearly as much fun when you’re not winning and it’s miserable when you can’t do
anything
but lose. I can only imagine how players who are stuffing their own hundred-dollar bills into the machines feel. If I’d truly lost this much money in this short a period of time, I’d fall in the floor, curl up in a ball, and cry. And maybe then, I’d be able to see the stupid switch I was looking for. If I didn’t find the switch soon, I’d be forced to watch the video of my sorry ex-ex winning at this bank of machines. Way before my time at the Bellissimo, Teeth and No Hair had gone through the film repeatedly, frame by frame, and hadn’t been able to pick out anything unusual, and that report had been good enough for me. But now that I halfway knew what to look for, where they hadn’t had that advantage, I’d be forced to watch it myself if that asinine switch didn’t show up soon.

In the end, I sat there in a daze, staring at the machine that had so thoroughly betrayed me.

“Would you like me to extend your marker, Miss Dunlow?” Hollywood kept his distance when he whispered the suggestion.

I turned to him. “Honestly, I don’t know what to do.” I surrendered with both hands. “I don’t understand how I can play this hard and not win a damn thing.”

He looked sympathetic, but he didn’t say anything.

“What do people do when they lose everything?” I asked.

“They go home.”

Right. Win or go home.

“Maybe you should play a different machine,” he suggested.

“With what?”

“Casino Credit will up your marker by ten percent with just a phone call.”

That would be another four thousand dollars. Eight hands. Natalie might have something to say about it, but, I could deal with her later. “Okay,” I said. “Do it.”

Hollywood took a step backwards. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Why don’t you pick out another machine?”

He was my best friend, my confidant, my advisor. We were in this together. “Should I? I mean, I have so much money in this one, don’t you think it’s about ready to give me a little of my money back?”

He gave me a gratuitous smile. “That’s up to you, Miss Dunlow.”

No, I was on my own. A place I knew well.

It took longer to get the four thousand than it did to lose it: ten minutes for Hollywood to return with a slip of paper for me to sign, five to give it back.

I went back to Bradley’s place and slept for ten dreamless hours.

EIGHTEEN

It was Sunday, and I woke up with a gambling hangover, which isn’t anything like waking up after losing a triple-elimination Jagermeister pong tournament, because that feels so much better than this. A gambling hangover is when you wake up with a lonely quarter in your purse, if that, wondering what in the world went wrong with your game. I snarled at the video poker machines on my way to the kitchen.

It was a glorious late-February morning. Signs of spring were everywhere this far south, and by my third cup of coffee, I’d convinced myself that
I
hadn’t lost more than forty thousand dollars, Marci Dunlow had.
I
didn’t have to figure out how to pay it back,
she
did.
I
didn’t have the worst luck of anyone ever, that was her. As the gambling ire cleared, a sharp stab of loneliness took its place, a sentiment I don’t entertain often, and I decided I’d better get to work on something before I wallowed so deep in self-pity that I did something stupid, like drive home.

Sunday was the one day when things were generally quiet within Corporate Bellissimo, which made it the best day of the week to snoop around and learn a little more about my coworkers. (The Internet would only give me so much. Natalie was making some
buck
. I thought they were paying me until I saw what they were paying her. What I wouldn’t give to snoop around
her
office, but she’d hand me my head on a platter if I did. She’d know, too, because somehow she knew everything, and because there were ninety-seven security cameras in her office. Seriously. Every two inches.)

Mr. Sanders was in New Hampshire, returning on Monday, not that I wanted to snoop through his stuff. I had a good handle on him, and I already knew what was in his office. Cinnamon candy.

No Hair and/or Teeth’s secrets would yield answers to a few of my questions, but I didn’t have access. No Hair, I assumed, was enjoying the day being happily married. Teeth was on property, but I fully intended to avoid him.

I pulled the belt of Bradley Cole’s robe tighter, and stepped onto the lanai with my Bat phone. I speed dialed No Hair.

“This had better be good.”

“Hey. It’s me, Davis.”

“I know who it is.”

“I need a little something-something,” I said.

“It’s my day off.”

“What?”

“It’s my day off. I’ve already had to go in once. Call Paul.”

No Hair hung up on me, so I called him right back.

“
What
?” he demanded.

“Why’d you have to go in?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Me.”

“None of your business. Call Paul.”

“I did. I tried to call him.” Which wasn’t exactly true.

“I talked to him fifteen minutes ago,” No Hair said. “You probably can’t get him because he’s on the thirtieth floor right now.”

The thirtieth floor? My mind jumped back to my housekeeping days, and I located the thirtieth floor. “That’s the Elvis floor,” I said. “What’s he doing there?”

I heard No Hair suck in a big breath and let it out slowly. “That’s not the Elvis floor, Davis. That’s the Sanders’ residence. She’s due in tonight, so he’s sweeping the computer lines today. If you hurry, you can catch him.”

“He’s
sweeping
?” I laughed.

“He’s
scanning
, Davis. Scanning, sweeping, debugging, call it what you like.”

“Aren’t you off on Sunday?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. We covered that ten seconds ago. And I’d like to get back to it.”

“So he has to sweep by himself?”

He didn’t answer my question. Instead, he said, “Cell phones are blocked on thirty, Davis. If you need him, you’ll have to go up there.”

“What if she’s there?”

“If I thought she might be anywhere near, I wouldn’t suggest you go.”

“Exactly when will she be back?”

“Can we talk about this later?”

He told me how to get into his and Teeth’s office (the very thing I wanted to do), and where, once in, to locate an elevator key that would allow me access to the thirtieth-floor elevator. “Don’t touch a thing. Get the card and get out of my office. Stay out of my desk. Open that one drawer, get the passkey, then get out as fast as you can, and don’t go into Paul’s office at all.”

Whatever.

“The elevator on thirty opens into a reception area,” No Hair said, “where there’ll be a security guard. Don’t mess with him.” He went on to tell me he’d call the guy and tell them I was headed his way. “You’ll be a house-decorator person. Look like one.”

“A what?”

“A curtain person. A sofa person. A knick-knack person,” he said. “Take a tape measure with you.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Measure a wall. Talk about countertops or something. You only need to get past that one desk. You can do it.”

“You don’t think Paul will want me to help him sweep, do you?”

“No, Davis,” No Hair said. “I’m assuming you’re not trained on the equipment.”

“Who isn’t trained on a
broom
?”

“We all know
you
are, but we’re not talking about
flying
.”

No Hair, after calling me a witch, hung up on me again. I opened the refrigerator door, and put the phone where there should have been eggs. I’d be dammed if I’d call him back and ask for
anything
.

*    *    *

At this juncture, I had a healthy collection of options to hide the blonde, all on hooks in the bathroom. I fingered through and chose the one that had come home with me from the hospital stuffed in a bag with the waitressing uniform. It was closest to my natural hair color, so at least when I caught my reflection in closing elevator doors, I wouldn’t wonder who it was only to realize it was me. I had no intention of running into anyone, so I dressed in Lucky straight-leg jeans, a mint-green cashmere pullover, and short, caramel Ugg boots. Looking a little too much like myself, I went ahead and put contacts in, aiming for blue, but grabbing Bianca green.

Before I left, I jotted Bradley Cole a note: “B—had to run to work for a bit. Back soon. XXXOOO, Davis.”