The Big Dirt Nap

reached out with my right arm and stretched to turn off the shower. Of course the towel fell. My reflection in the cloudy mirror showed a woman practicing yoga for spastics—sun salutation meets pratfall.

With the water turned off I definitely heard someone outside. There was nothing in the bathroom I could use to protect myself but I remembered that the lamp I'd knocked over the night before was just a few feet from the bathroom door. If necessary, it was thin enough and light enough for me to yank out of the wall and use as a club. As long as the intruder didn't have a gun. If he had a gun the lamp probably wouldn't work, but I had to think positive. I picked up the towel, unlocked the door, and cracked it open an inch. I heard something snapping. I opened the door another inch.

Twenty-four

With her iPod on, the housekeeper hadn't heard a thing. She'd been shaking out the bedspread I'd yanked off the bed and when she let out her scream, it flew back over her head, temporarily blinding her. I stood there naked, dripping wet, with a lamp in my right hand, ready to bludgeon a short Guatemalan woman struggling to remove a coverlet from her head. It was absurd. She was more frightened than I was.

I covered myself with a towel and we both apologized profusely. At least I think she was apologizing; half of it was in Spanish and, as noted, my Spanish still sucks. She was happy to be shuttled out of the room and promised to come back later, although I wouldn't have blamed her it she didn't. I scooped a handful of chocolates from her cart and put the privacy sign on the door handle. Then I threw the long bolt just to make sure I didn't have another Janet Leigh/Psycho moment in the shower.

Replaying the last sixteen hours, it seemed insane that I would tear ass back to the hotel to save Lucy from . . . what? Worse than death? She hadn't texted or e-mailed Help, thank god, so what was I worried about? Maybe the break-in at my home had shaken me up more than I realized.

I dressed and went downstairs to the lobby, starting to feel like I lived there—a pretty depressing thought.

Hector was cruising the bar, keeping a watchful eye on three seniors in pastel track suits; it was a toss-up who would win if they had to go mano a mano. Amanda was hauling her gear into the corpse flower's enclosure. When she saw me she gave me a thumbs-up and sprinted over to tell me she was ninety percent sure tomorrow was the big day. I was hoping she'd be right. I cared less about the flower appearing than I did about Lucy appearing but with any luck, both would happen.

Hector joined us by the corpse flower.

'I thought you left,' he said, folding his chubby hands in front of himself, eyeing Amanda and rocking back and forth.

'I came back. Is that unprecedented at Titans?'

He shook his head and wagged his finger at me. 'I told you, this place is going to be happening.' Amanda went back to her work and Hector stuck around to watch her climb the ladder in her snug Juicy sweatpants. He tilted his head to the right to get a better view.

'I didn't know you were such a plant lover,' I said.

'Pretty little flower like that, you bet your ass. Oh, excuse me, mami.' I wondered if Hector had ever heard the term jailbait.

'Why are you so sure that Titans is going to be such a happening place this time? Bernie's had investors before, right?'

'Not like this.' As he said it, he raised his chin slightly and motioned to a woman pushing through the revolving doors. She and I briefly made eye contact; I thought I recognized her.

'Who's that?'

'That's the Queen Mother,' he said. I didn't get the reference.

'Shows what you know. That's Jackie Connelly, she's the grandmother of Sean Crawford.'

'Very nice, is there more to it than she gets to go cootchy-coo and babysit? Wait a minute, Crawford?'

Sean Crawford was the only child of Jackie's daughter, Chantel, and the late Bobby Crawford, one of the three brothers. At the time of his death Bobby was tribal chief of the Quepochas. And his son and his widow were the only two people still officially living on the reservation.

'How can that be? Aren't there a lot of them? I mean, if they're lobbying for recognition?'

Once again, Hector was astounded by my ignorance. Amanda was gone and without her tiny butt on display alongside the corpse flower it no longer held any interest for him, so we walked to the raised lounge area near the bar. According to Hector the Quepochas had split into two factions—those supporting the Crawfords and the others aligning themselves with another family. The Crawford ranks were dwindling.

'Oksana told me the other Crawford brothers aren't allowed here anymore.'

'They're not allowed on the reservation any longer either.'

'Why not?'

He shrugged. 'Hey, they had their turn, now it's someone else's chance to be in charge. Like the Democrats and the Republicans.' I was beginning to appreciate Hector's simplified view of the world.

'They can't come here because the Mishkins got a restraining order against them. Crawfords are anti-gaming. They think if Bernie gets this loan . . .' He didn't need to finish. If Bernie got the loan he could pay off his debts and still fund the Quepochas' recognition suit. Presumably if the suit was successful and Congress officially recognized the tribe Bernie and the Crawfords would profit.

'Wouldn't they stand to make a lot of money if it happened?'

'I know,' he said. 'They're some crazy dudes.' It was inconceivable to him that anyone would not be motivated by money. And, in truth, the amount of money being made by casinos in Connecticut was astronomical. Mother Teresa would have had a hard time turning it down.

'How crazy?' I thought of what Oksana had said about the brothers being seen at the hotel the night Lucy was to arrive.

'Crazy enough to set fire to a covered wagon on Titans property as a protest against what they called the exploitation of the tribe. They make enemies everywhere. I say live and let live, bro, you know what I mean? You know what else those crazy mo'fos did, oh, excuse me. They kidnapped a lawyer, to get her to take their case against their own tribe.'

'They couldn't just call him?'

'It was a her. She was just as loco as them—she took the case. I think they call that Stockholm syndrome, or some shit like that.'

I told Hector what Oksana had said about their being at the hotel, but he shook his head. 'They know better than to come here when I'm around.' He puffed out his chest.

'Oksana around?' I asked.

'No, and she's in trouble. She didn't show up today and she didn't even call.'

Twenty-five

'Oksana's very responsible. She doesn't want to lose this job.' That's what the dark-haired bartender said and she was probably right, especially if her only alternative was going back to Sergei Russianoff. So were there now two girls missing—or gone poof, to quote Stacy Winters?

I ordered a cranberry juice and club soda to make the girl stick around. Bartenders were great sources in the afternoon when there were few patrons and they had time to chat.

'Who would she have had to call,' I asked, 'if she was going to be out sick?'

'Mrs. Page.'

Rachel Page was in charge of all of the employees at Titans. She hired, fired, and generally made life miserable for the entire staff. As Bernie's sister she was half-owner of the property—he was the face of the hotel, but she wielded considerable influence over him, especially since his wife had died.

'How did Mrs. Mishkin die?'

'Car accident. Her brakes gave out.' She leaned in to elaborate. 'She went over the edge on Route 293.