be able to find out by tonight whether Spicer and Kevin were still in the Laughlin area.
There was another thing, too-Fallon’s promise to Sharon Rossi. She’d brought them to this point; he owed her the effort to keep it.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.”
TWO
THE WAGONWHEEL HOTEL AND Casino was one of the smaller, newer resorts along Casino Drive. It didn’t look like much in proximity to the Colorado Belle, one of the gaudier gambling palaces built to resemble an old Colorado River steamboat that bulked up next door. The covered-wagon design was spoiled by modern architectural modifications and too much splashy neon. The front entrance simulated a huge revolving wagon wheel, and you entered by following one stationary lighted spoke into the hub.
Fallon went in alone here, too, Casey waiting in the Jeep in a public parking lot nearby. There wasn’t much chance Spicer would be at the Wag-onwheel this early, but why run the risk?
The casino was moderately crowded, the banks of electronic slots getting most of the play, and the usual pulsing clamor made Fallon clench his teeth. The Sunset Lounge was on the second floor. A pair of marquee posters behind glass framed the entrance; he stopped to look at one of them. Medium-distance photo of a half-smiling man seated at a piano. Light-brown hair in a brush cut, light-brown goatee and mustache-not a match of Casey’s description of Court Spicer. But the facial and body types were right, and it didn’t take much imagination to picture him clean-shaven, with dark hair in a ponytail. The clincher, just discernible in the photo, was the mole on his left cheek near his mouth. Spicer, no mistake.
The lettering on the poster was all in black. Downcurving above the photo: STEVEN COURTNEY. Upcurving below it: KING OF THE IVORIES. Across the bottom: MOOD MUSIC FOR YOUR LISTENING AND DANCING PLEASURE. Trite and old-fashioned, aimed at the Baby Boomer generation. Fallon wondered if the poster was Spicer’s doing, or a product of the Wagonwheel’s PR staff.
The Sunset was the kind of lounge intended as an oasis for those who preferred quieter, more traditional surroundings. Stitched-leather booths, tables with leather chairs, a long neon-lit bar, a piano on a raised dais-seat empty, keyboard covered-and a small dance floor. Three big flashy keno boards served as reminders that this was first and foremost a casino lounge, with gambling the primary lure. Tinted glass composed the entire back wall so that you had sweeping views of the river, parts of Bullhead City and the Arizona desert stretching beyond.
There were only a handful of patrons at this hour, most of those grouped in one of the booths drinking Bloody Marys and marking keno tickets. The bartender, gray-haired, sixtyish, wearing a Western-style shirt and a string tie, stood slicing lemon and lime wedges with bored attention. Fallon sat down in front of him, ordered a glass of club soda with lime.
While the bartender poured it, Fallon said casually, “I noticed the posters on the way in. Steven Courtney, King of the Ivories.”
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“I hear he’s pretty good.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that. I work days.”
“What time does he come on?”
“Six o’clock.”
“Tonight-Monday?”
“Every night except Sunday, six till midnight.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find him now, would you? Where he lives?”
The bartender looked straight at Fallon for the first time. “No, I wouldn’t,” he said as he set the drink down. “Why?”
“He’s an old friend. Happens I have some business with him.”
“I couldn’t tell you where the man lives even if I knew.”
“Who could?”
Shrug. “Day shift manager, maybe, but he’s not here. Why not just come back tonight?”
“I need to talk to Courtney as soon as possible.”
“Well, you could check with the business office downstairs.”
“Thanks,” Fallon said. “I’ll do that.”
He did, and it was what he figured it would be, a waste of time. They wouldn’t give out any personal information about their employees.
Casey said, “It’s not even noon yet. What’re we going to do for six hours?”
“The wait’ll be longer than that. Fourteen or fifteen hours, at least.”
“Why? Why so long?”
“I can’t just walk in and brace Spicer at six o’clock, in front of a crowd of people. I’ll have to wait until he’s done playing for the night and follow him to where he’s living. Just the two of us then. And, with luck, the boy.”
“Oh, God. Isn’t there any way to do it sooner?”
“I suppose I could talk to employees at the Wagonwheel and the other casinos, try to find somebody who knows him and is willing to give out his address. But the chances are slim, and there’s the risk of word getting back to him.”
“Yes, you’re right. It’s just that I can’t stand waiting when we’re this close to finding Kevin.”
“You’ll get through it.”
“How? What are we going to do all day?”
“The first thing is find a place to have lunch-”
“I’m not hungry. I couldn’t eat.”
“-and then I’ll get us a couple of motel rooms. After that, a long drive in the desert. Time passes more quickly when you’re on the move.”
“Another motel room? Why?”
“Place for you to be while I’m at the Sunset Lounge,” Fallon said. “Place for you to spend the night-with Kevin, if I can make it happen.”
“You will. You have to.”
“We’ll see. One step at a time.”
They ate in a coffee shop on a side street off Casino Drive. Casey picked at her food. Fallon ate most of his, slowly, not because he was hungry but to kill an extra few minutes. Afterward, he found an inexpensive motel near the Laughlin/Bullhead International Airport on the Nevada side of the river. Separate rooms again, adjacent. He used up another half hour showering, shaving, changing into a clean shirt. Casey hadn’t bothered; she still wore the same skirt and blouse, and her hair and face were still sweat-damp when he knocked on her door.
He drove them over into Arizona, through Bullhead City and out past Davis Dam and Lake Mohave, into the badlands toward the stark hills surrounding the old gold-mining town of Oatman. Fallon wondered if the renewable energy boom that had begun in the southern California deserts in recent years would extend out here one day- geothermal power plants that ran on hot water pumped from deep underground. Probably. Someday there might well be vast solar energy farms in all of the western deserts, supplying enough electricity for millions of homes and businesses. He had no objection to open space being used in this way, in the better-late-than-never battle to overcome the effects of global warming; the geothermal plants were designed to be eco-friendly, to take up the least possible amount of space in remote areas. Man finally taking positive steps to confine the crawling creatures, control the greed and waste that helped to feed them.
Casey showed no interest in the scenery or in the ghost buildings and mining works that dated back to the area’s first gold strike more than a century ago. She sat stiff and silent the whole way, and when he stopped in Oatman and suggested that they have a beer, she let him lead her inside a tavern like an animal on an invisible leash. She had the same tightly wound inner focus on the way back.
