Writ of Execution (3 page)

The casino officials stood next to Joya, muttering with each other and scrutinizing the numerical display. The security men in their blue uniforms were busy clearing the aisle now but didn’t bother Kenny, who worked at remaining upright on his stool.

Finally a very big man with a gray crew cut, who was wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, turned to her and smiled. His smile was notable in itself, Kenny decided, sharky, jealous, staggered. “Let me be the first to congratulate you!” he shouted.

Joya looked from one side to the other, as if searching for a pathway out. The crew cut lost it. Turning to the crowd, he shouted, “Jackpot!” The crowd screamed back.

The cocktail waitress was beaming and the other man in the suit continued to look at the machine and shake his head. He couldn’t take it in. None of them could.

They were all looking at Joya, or whatever her name was, who had in this instant transformed into an uncanny being who could strike them dumb right now with the merest twitch of her finger, that terrifying finger which had pressed the button at the inconceivably right time.

Joya, a goddess! He half expected her to unfold a set of wings and take off.

“How much?” came the mighty roar. “How much— how much—how much!”

A familiar face pushed its way through the crowd. Kenny’s ex-neighbor had returned at last.

“What the hell!” he screamed, first at Kenny, then at the girl. The gush of harsh obscenities that flew off his tongue blended into the cacophony of the crowd. No one was listening. He got to within two feet of Joya, his big fists balled, his body poised to attack, before a security guard stepped efficiently behind him, pulling his right arm into a half nelson. The guard marched the ranting man away from the girl, while another guard made a way for them through the crowd.

“You’re dead meat!” he shouted back at them. “Fucking dead!” His eyes roved between Kenny and the girl.

Then he was gone and the remaining guard, looking very determined, was standing in front of her, his hand on his belt holster.

Someone from the casino came up and started taking pictures. Joya backed away, hiding her face. Kenny reached for his beer and didn’t find it. He saw the empty glass still on the carpet.

“Aw, now,” said his waitress to Joya. “Give ’em that winner’s smile, honey. You’re a winner!” A slot mechanic pushed through and started sealing off the machine, and the security guard finished bulling the crowd out of the aisle. They could hear again.

“Leave her alone,” Kenny said as the photographer angled closer.

“Hey, this is big news,” said the excited guy with the crew cut.

Kenny blocked the photographer’s view. He shoved Kenny. Kenny shoved him back.

“Can’t you people take me out of here?” Joya said.

“Sure, in just a second we’ll go upstairs to the office,” said the big man. “We just need some photos down here. We can set up the press conference later.”

“No pictures!”

“You’re a multimillionaire, honey. It’s our casino and we’re gonna take pictures.” He draped an arm around her and smirked, saying, “Shoot,” to the photographer. “What’s your name, honey?” he said to Joya. She bent her head down until her hair hung down in her eyes. The camera flashed. The photographer danced around trying to get a better angle.

“She’s not feeling well,” Kenny said. “It’s a shock.”

“We’ll bring her anything she wants. Sit back down, honey.”

“Get me out of here.” Joya held her hand over her face. “Right now.”

Kenny heard the steely warning in her voice. Under these circumstances, he imagined many people, he included, would break down, weep, clutch at someone for support. Not Joya.

Her warning was not lost on the big man. “Okay. All right, we’ll go upstairs. Come on, Derrick, Chris, you go in front. Give the lady some room. Show’s over, folks. Read the papers tomorrow. So what’s your name, honey? What do we call you?”

Kenny couldn’t see her anymore. The suits had interposed themselves between him and her.

She was going upstairs to her future, like Vargas, the Brazilian dictator, whose suicide note read: “I leave life to enter history.”

With a jolt, he remembered that he was going upstairs too. He had a duty to shoot himself, also like Vargas, though it seemed to him in his drunken and fevered state that he was in love with Joya and had just lived through an eternity with her. Furthermore, even if—just as a hypothesis—he decided to live awhile longer, she had just been snatched forever from his penniless reach. Kenny gripped his slot machine to steady the room.

She, who had no gun in her pocket, had won, and he, as usual, had not. If he had been eighteen inches to the right in the space-time continuum, he would have won. With that money, triumphant, he could have saved his company, his honor, and his family, taken Joya out to the movies—

Not to mention saved his life. Epic irony. Pitiless fate.

Game Over. He’d leave the last of his beer money on the dresser as a sort of apology.

The terror came back. He wouldn’t be able to do it if he didn’t hurry. He looked for a way through the crowd at the end of the slot machine alley.

And heard his mother’s name.

Was he that drunk? He listened, and heard it again, this time distinctly.

“I said, call me Mrs. Leung.”

It was Joya. What was this outlandish mockery?

“I’m not going anywhere without him.” The broad back in front of him stepped away and they were face-to-face with each other again. “My husband, Ken. You’re coming, aren’t you?” she asked Kenny. She gave him a forceful, almost commanding look.

Kenny’s eyebrows went up, and the specs went down. The Glock pressed against his chest under the jacket. He was confused. He had a prior commitment.

“Kenny?”

“Yes?”

“You coming?”

“I’m coming, Joya,” he said.

4

THE PHONE RANG.

They both jumped. Paul stopped for a moment, then continued his minute explorations along the terrain of Nina’s skin. But the phone didn’t stop. It rang and rang. Nina thought, What if Bob has an emergency? She had left Paul’s number on the kitchen table. Bob needed to be able to reach her. He was only thirteen. Story at ten: house on fire. Kid calling in panic. Mom and lover don’t answer due to sex game in hotel room.

Mom and lover! Ugh! “Paul,” she said, starting up on her elbows. Ring . . . ring . . . ring . . .

“No.” He pushed her down.

“I have to.”

“Don’t even think about it!”

“It might be Bob.”

This potent thought dislodged him. Still, he would not allow her to answer. He reached over and grunted into the phone. Hormone-soaked silence filled the room. Nina’s senses were heightened, maybe from the blood racing around in her body, and she could swear she recognized the metallic sounds going into Paul’s ear.

It couldn’t be! She wouldn’t dare!

But it was and she had. Paul passed her the phone. “It’s Sandy.”

“I know. I know,” her secretary told her. “But it’s urgent.”

“Bob?”

“He’s fine. He was watching an old action flick when I called a minute ago. Oh, I know.
Gone in 60 Seconds
. Said his friend scored a copy on the Web. Said it’s majorly full of chase scenes and way better than the remake.”

“Sandy!”

“He gave me your number. Paul’s number.”

“It’s Sunday night!” Nina’s mind ran through her cases—the clients in jail, the clients in custody disputes, the clients who might have just been arrested. A frightening thought struck her. “My dad? Or Matt?”

“Relax. It’s a client.”

Paul went into the bathroom, walking slightly bow-legged, shaking his head. He looked like a swimmer from behind, his shoulders and back making a V, his butt white and indignant as it disappeared through the bathroom door.

“Grr,” Nina said.

“You’re gonna love this.”

“You may. I won’t.” As soon as she said it, she knew that this display of ill temper would cost her.

After a short silence which was like the silence of the sea just before the hurricane blows in, Sandy said, “Hey. We were playing checkers and eating nachos, and now Joseph has gone down to his workshop and I won’t see him again until tomorrow.”

“Well, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.”

“I am sorry.”

“Not as sorry as me.”

“Look, Sandy, I’m sorry, I really am—”

“I’m not supposed to care about being disturbed; I’m just the secretary. Socially inferior. Never should have given us the vote. Try to do the right thing, get in touch with you. I’m the sorry one.”

“Sandy, tell me right now what—”

“He’ll probably spend all night downstairs now. We were snug as a bug in a rug, but now he got away. He’s making a cupboard for the bedroom—”

“—or I’m going to hang up.” Paul came back out, buttoning a shirt. He sat down on the edge of the bed and started putting on his shoes.

Nina took a deep breath and exhaled slowly while Sandy said a few more things about the cupboard and the nachos and the checkers and the status of Native American pink-collar workers in American society. Sandy had been slightly offended by Nina’s peremptory tone, and Nina was now paying the price, and there was no way out of it.

When Sandy finally took a breather herself, Nina said in a very calm voice, “So what is it?”

“What is what?”

“You know darn well.”

“You mean the legal matter?”

Nina gave no response to this. She was becoming enraged. She thought she heard a muffled dry chuckle on the other end of the phone. She wondered why she hadn’t fired Sandy a long time ago. She opened her mouth to fire her.

Sandy said, “New client. Has to see you right now. Happened to know I was a legal secretary and called me here in Markleeville. She’s over at the office right now with some guy, waiting for you out in the parking lot.”

“She knows you?”

“I didn’t say that. Anyway, she’s got to get back to Prize’s soon. They’re waiting for her. She told them she was feeling sick and had to get some medicine from her car, then she drove down the highway to the Starlake Building.”

“What’d she do? Get caught cheating? Assault somebody?”

“No. She just won a slot machine jackpot. A whole lot of money. Something like seven million bucks. You still there?”

“Wow!” Nina said slowly.

“Uh huh.”

“Does she have a cell phone? Good. Sandy, call her back and tell her to go back and smile and sign the forms and collect the check and come by in the morning. About ten.”

“That’s the thing. She says she can’t sign the forms. But she does want the check.”

“I don’t blame her for being nervous but I’m busy!” This came out sounding somewhat plaintive. Paul was sliding his wallet into his hip pocket. He was fully dressed and there was no longer even a whiff of sex in the air. The party was ruined.

Sandy went on, “But, see, she says she can’t tell them her name. And she’s got this guy with her and she says she can use his name, only she doesn’t even know him, so she wants a lawyer to make an agreement between them before she goes in and does that—”

“What? The IRS won’t let her get away with that. How much did you say she won?”

“Over seven million dollars, like I said. Except she says she’s going to leave town without the check if she has to use her name.”

As the hormonal tide subsided, Nina’s brain began clicking again. “Maybe there’s a warrant out on her. This is interesting.”

“I told you you’d love it.”

“Maybe.” Nina had the phone crooked between chin and neck, and she was finally pulling on her coat, which Paul had just handed her, looking away.

“So what should I tell her?”

“Tell her fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll come,” Sandy said. Now Nina recollected one reason why she didn’t fire Sandy, in spite of her obstreperousness. Sandy was devoted in her way.

“Thanks, but don’t worry about it. It’s a long drive for you, and it’s late. I’ll bring Paul. If there’s paperwork, I’ll rev up the computer myself.”

“You sure? If you want I’ll call Bob and tell him where to call in the next hour.”

“Do that. I’ll be all right. Bye.” Nina hung up. “I’d really like another shot of whiskey,” she said. “And I really would like a shot of you. But I have to go.”

Paul stuck his keys in his pocket. “Not without me. Let’s get it over with, then,” he said. “Just remember not to take off the coat.”

Nina laughed. “I brought clothes. They’re out in the car. I took them off before I came in. Because—you know—I couldn’t leave home like that. What if I had an accident on the way?”

“Very sensible.” He took her in his arms. “Very sensual.”

“I’ll have to go home afterwards. I guess I should take the Bronco, since the office is on the way.”

“You’re not coming back?” He let go of her.

“I only gave myself until one A.M. Bob’s home. It’s the first time I’ve left him so late. I’m really sorry, Paul.” She lowered her eyes. She felt ridiculous.

Paul had the grace to crack a smile. “It was a great performance. I had no idea you’d show up. I thought—never mind what I thought. And then, the coat. I’m gonna have a coat fetish after this.”

“Something always goes wrong,” Nina said.

“The lawyer’s creed.”

She grabbed her purse and Paul followed her out, pulling the door shut with an energy that reminded her of just what she was missing.

She bumped out of the big parking lot onto the highway. The valets at Caesars were keeping busy in the height of a midsummer rush. As she passed Bill’s, which along with the Lakeside Inn was the locals’ club of choice, she saw two men reel out toward the street from the open entryway, but the Tahoe police had erected a fence so they couldn’t teeter into the traffic.

As she crossed back over the state line into California, the casinos blinked out and the motels began. The night had cooled. Cold clouds rushed across a windy sky. In the driver’s mirror she saw Paul following in his new shiny red Mustang. She passed the Embassy Suites at Ski Run Boulevard and took the curve where the lake can finally be seen from the road and the forest comes up on the other side and the businesses regress to frankly funky.

She looked for it. She always looked for it. But Lake Tahoe was just an enormous lightless pull of gravity on her right, lacking enough moon to dent the water with its reflection.

A couple of miles farther she pulled into her own parking lot next to the Starlake Building, Paul right on her rear . . . if only . . . and only one car sitting right in the middle of the lot, an old Honda Civic with the salt rust along its flanks that made it a local car. As she swung down from the Bronco, wishing for the thousandth time that she was taller, the Civic disgorged a man and a woman. Paul came up, and they all shook hands.

“The witching hour,” the girl said, not smiling. “Thank you so much for doing this.”

“Let’s go in.” Nina unlocked the main door and they traipsed down the darkened hall to her office by the stairs. She opened up and turned on the lights. Paul pulled in an extra chair from the reception area as they passed through, and they all sat down in Nina’s office, Nina behind her desk. She switched on her desk lamp but it didn’t do much to dispel the third-degree atmosphere of bright overhead fluorescents in dark night.

“Make yourselves at home,” she said. “I’ll get some coffee.” She went into the law library, which was also the conference room, pulled the French roast out of the bar refrigerator she kept in there, and got the espresso maker going. She could hear Paul making small talk in her office as she pulled out the mugs and poured the milk into the foamer. She pumped up a lot of aerated milk, poured it into the thick brown liquid in the cups, and went into her office with the tray.

She would classify this wiry girl as Native American. In her early twenties, she had short black hair cut with long straight bangs and a sculpted face with exceptionally big, long-lashed, watchful eyes. She sat up straight and still, hands on her knees, cowboy boots firmly planted on the floor.

Her companion, lagging behind, even sitting slightly behind her as if wondering what he was doing there, didn’t fit with her. He was shorter, a rather round young man with gold-rimmed glasses and pointed tufted eyebrows. A mop of coarse black hair spiked to one side, like hair blown by severe wind and frozen in place. He wore a disheveled but expensive silk sport coat, his tie pulled loose. An office worker, Nina decided, his glossy eyes showing that he’d had a few too many.

The next thing Nina noticed was how close to the edge the girl was. She appeared to be hyperventilating. Her face, which should have been a soft brown, had faded to putty. Her eyes had a stricken look.

Neither of the two visitors paid any attention to the surroundings, which was a shame, because the office was finally starting to look good. The healthy fiddle-leaf fig in the corner scraped the ceiling, the certificates sported new matching frames, and a Francis Picabia print hung on the wall. Modest, orderly, upstanding, reflecting, Nina hoped, that a respectable lawyer practiced therein.

Maybe a room at the Mustang Ranch would have caught their attention. This room didn’t.

Paul sat near the window with its white blinds, surveying the scene through heavy-lidded eyes. He had forgotten to comb his hair. Nina suddenly wondered if she’d gotten her clothes on right side out in the dark, and looked down. The buttons on her red cardigan were duly buttoned.

“They’re waiting for me,” the girl said in a rush. “At Prize’s. I won, and then it got really insane. They took us into an office and a man, he said he was the vice president for operations, said we would wait for the—the—I can’t remember—”

“The Global Gaming representative and the IRS officer in charge of gaming taxation in this region,” said the young man.

“And you are?” Nina said.

“Ken Leung. You can call me Kenny.” His voice was soft.

Paul interrupted, “I note that you’re carrying a concealed weapon. Are you licensed?” All eyes turned to Kenny Leung’s right hand, which had jumped to an area of his jacket near the left armpit.

“Oh, that,” Leung said. “It’s not loaded.”

“That’s good. But we do have a policy—no guns in the law office. Okay? You can set it outside on the secretary’s desk.” The young man got up without a word and went out the door, leaving Paul sitting up, vigilant. A second later he reappeared, opening his coat so they all could see the gun was gone.

“It’s not anything bad,” Leung said. Paul went back into his slouch but his eyes remained on patrol. The girl’s mouth had firmed while she watched Leung take his seat. She rubbed her forehead.

“Just my luck,” she muttered.

“You’re all getting the wrong idea,” Leung said. “I’m a businessman. Look. I have business cards. Embossed and everything.” He opened a soft leather wallet and pulled out several. Paul examined each one carefully.

“So let’s get back to the situation which has us sitting here at midnight,” Nina said to the girl. “I understand that you won a jackpot.”

“On the Greed Machine. A progressive slot machine. I never heard of it before. I just played some dollars. I had been there less than five minutes.”

“More like three,” Leung said.

“With him yakking nonstop the whole time,” the girl said. “I had about twenty dollars left when the banks lined up. I was just about to leave. I was actually getting off the stool when I saw them stop—kachung kachung kachung—in a perfect row. I didn’t know what it meant. But then the bell went nuts. Everything went nuts.”

“Seven million, seven hundred sixty-seven thousand, three hundred thirty-nine dollars and sixty-four cents,” Leung said, and he wasn’t consulting any notes.

Silence rang like bells in the small room. What a stunning amount of money. Nina thought, This can’t be true. People actually won that kind of money on slots? The girl, hand pressed to her jaw, appeared thunderstruck, but Leung recited the amount calmly.