hit-and-run in his own parking lot. Only after its closing around dawn, with the target leaving the building to head for his own parked car in an otherwise empty lot, security deputy long gone, would Monahan practice his vehicular artistry.
I backed my Sunbird into a space in a row parallel to the river, leaving a little room to get around to the trunk, where the blond kid was sound asleep, the little angel. After folding it inside a road map, I tucked the nine millimeter in the glove compartment, having no intention of walking into the place armed. Holsters, shoulder or belt, weren’t my style, and I couldn’t risk that kind of lump under the lightweight white jacket.
Having parked fairly close, I felt loose and at ease-I’d willed myself to leave any misgivings behind, and anyway, the warm night and the cool breeze were battling in a gentle, soothing way. Nothing about Monahan’s poolside behavior gave me reason to believe he’d made me-actually, quite the opposite.
Still, he was a pro and not to be underestimated; he could easily have been playing me. And because this was a speculative project, I had the ability to bail at any time. True, I’d spent some money and had strained my lower back a little, stuffing that blond punk in the trunk. But I still could say fuck it and go home to my A-frame on the lake.
Nice to have options.
The big old brick building that housed the Paddle-wheel had been built into the small rise along the river so that its lower level was underground except on the Mississippi side (back when the structure had been a warehouse, that was where goods could be on-and off-loaded). That meant you entered from the parking lot onto the second floor.
I moved past a coat check area and restrooms to a hostess station, where a good-looking brunette in a white tuxedo blouse and long black skirt with high-heel boots was currently occupied with a quartet of couples who hadn’t bothered with a reservation. So I didn’t have to deal with her right away, and could get the lay of the land.
Down a few steps from this entryway was a long dining room, with tables covered in white cloth with glowing red candles, and a big mural of a paddlewheel boat along the left wall, a magnificent picture-window river view at the far end. There were a few empty tables but, for this time of night mid-week in the Midwest, the dining room was bustling.
A bar was at right, and it was crowded, too, possibly with diners waiting for a table. The smoky area had redcovered booths against a wall newer than the other sandblasted brick ones, indicating the floor had been halved to allow for kitchen and possibly offices. Tucked in the corner was a small stage with a pianist in a tux at a baby grand, noodling show tunes; a stool at a mike indicated a singer was part of the mix, but not right now.
The help’s attire was on the formal side-waitresses in white tuxedo blouses and black trousers-while the patrons ran the gamut: guys in everything from leather jackets and stonewashed jeans to suits and ties (though my Armani over a Ralph Lauren tee was about par) and the women sporting designer shit including plenty of shoulder pads and big earrings and miniskirts and feathered hair. But everybody seemed to be spruced up, at least their idea of it.
The group at the hostess station was getting irritable-they could see enough open seating to service them- and the brunette was patiently explaining that it would take a while to put some tables together, and if they’d just go to the bar, she’d call them.
I had no problem. I even got a table by the picture window, and all it had cost me was my charming smile. The river was reflecting the moon and a silverivory shimmer made it very romantic, except for the part where I was sitting at a table for two by myself.
The food wasn’t pricey-my assumption was, the casino was the money maker-and I took my time eating a fried scallops dinner, including their “signature” beer-battered baked potato. The thing was pretty good, even if it didn’t rise to the status of a Famous Bacon Cheeseburger.
This far down from the bar, the piano noodling was fairly distant, and didn’t cover up the lowend pounding of drums and bass guitar above. Couldn’t pick any tunes out, but you could tell it was rock and not country. Between whatever songs were going on up there, you could make out the muffled music of slots and poker machines below, playing their bells-and-whistles refrain.
I killed maybe an hour with the meal, which included two glasses of Diet Coke with twists of lime. I left the waitress a nice tip, then walked back to the restrooms, to get rid of some of the cola. I noticed an elevator tucked back behind the coat check, and went over to the hostess to ask her about it.
“Is that for the casino?” I asked her.
She had big brown eyes and lots of blue eye shadow that clashed, but her lips were full and red-lipsticked, so I forgave her.
Friendly but guarded, she said, “That’s for our Key Club.”
“Ah. How do you join?”
“You take that elevator down, and go to the window that says ‘New Members.’ ”
“Cool. Thanks.”
So I had a look at the casino. First I joined, of course, and it cost all of ten bucks. I wasn’t sure how joining made this any more legal, but it must have had something to do with the arrangement with the local law. The “New Members” window was just one of half a dozen cages, the rest of which were to buy or cash in chips.
The casino wasn’t the Flamingo but, for the middle of the Midwest, was impressive enough. Certainly was hopping, a couple hundred guests partaking of half a dozen blackjack tables, a trio of roulette wheels, the latest Vegas-style slots on one side, video poker on the other. The far end had a bar with some booth seating along another river-view window.
What decoration there was ran to riverboat stuff, paintings of Bret Maverick-type gamblers and Mark Twain in a captain’s hat and paddlewheels on the river. Mostly, though, the room was just a charmless space of sandblasted brick walls crammed with gambling gear. I noted a security staff-rugged-looking characters in black trousers and red satin vests and white shirts with string ties and no name tags, all blessed with the craggy, humorless mien of the strip-club bouncer.
I counted six of these characters, roaming, keeping a hard eye on things, occasionally communicating with either a boss or their musclebound brethren by walkie-talkie.
I had a beer in the casino bar, served by a perky little redheaded waitress in a red satin outfit that was little more than a low-cut one-piece bathing suit with mesh stockings and black heels; if her push-up bra had pushed any harder, her nipples would’ve popped out.
Half a dozen little booby-displaying beauties were weaving around the casino, providing free drinks. I made conversation with mine and learned she was a community college student across the river-most of the girls were.
“So,” I asked her, “you don’t live in Haydee’s Port?”
“No!” she said, eyes so wide you’d think I goosed her. “ Nobody lives in Haydee’s Port!”
“What about your boss?”
She got coy. “What boss is that?”
“Mr. Cornell. Does he live across the river, too?”
My knowing the boss’s name was enough for her to replace coy with chatty. “He lives close. A regular mansion. Ever see Gone with the Wind?”
“Sure.”
“Like that. White pillars and everything.”
“He lives in Tara and you’re a wage slave, huh?”
“Yeah, minimum wage, but the tips are good.”
I considered kidding her about darkies all working on the Mississippi, but figured the reference would be lost on her.
“Kind of business this place does,” I said, “I’m not surprised Mr. Cornell has a mansion. He here tonight?”
“He’s always here. I’ve been at the Paddlewheel a year, and he’s never missed a night.”
“Could you point him out to me?”
She shook her head. “He’s rarely in the Key Club, unless he’s in the back poker room.”
“Is he in the back poker room now?”
“No.” She got narrow-eyed. “Why?”
“Just like to meet him. Tell him how impressed I am. I mean, I’d heard about this place, but it exceeds all my
