It was nearly five when they reached the motel. She stirred then to look at the clock on the dashboard. “Is that clock right? Five o’clock?”
“It’s right.”
“God, the time just crawls. I feel like I’m living in a vacuum. I don’t know how I’m going to get through another eight or nine hours.”
He said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“What time are you going over there? To the casino?”
“Before six. I’ll be there when Spicer starts playing.”
“You’re not going to talk to him?”
“Of course not. Don’t worry, he’s not going to know me from any other customer. I just want to get a look at him, watch him for a while. Then I’ll come back here and we’ll have dinner-”
She made a face. “No more food. I feel like puking right now.”
“Dinner, and then we’ll wait together until it’s time for me to shadow him.”
“I want to go with you.”
“No. I thought we settled that.”
“If he leads you to Kevin-”
“Then I’ll call you first thing. It won’t do either of us any good if you’re there when I brace Spicer. You have to let me handle this my way, Casey.”
“Your way. Your way.” But she didn’t argue anymore.
He said, “We’ll play cards.”
“What?”
“Cards. Gin rummy. You know the game?”
“Yes, I know the damn game.”
“It’ll help keep your mind off the clock.”
“All right, gin rummy. Anything to make the time go faster. I’ll even let you fuck me if you want.”
The last words shocked him a little. Until he realized that that was all they were, just words. Meaningless, driven out of her by the yearning for her son and an abstract need for tension release and a calming of her inner turmoil. If he tried to take advantage of them, something he’d never do, she would either fight him off or submit like a rag doll.
He’d been sorry for her all along. Now what he felt was a kind of tender pity.
THREE
AT SIX O’CLOCK, THE Sunset Lounge was moderately crowded with cocktail-hour and predinner drinkers and sunset watchers. The fading sunlight that streamed in through the tinted windows had a mellow golden tone. Fallon sat in what the management would consider the least desirable location, a stool chair at the inner end of the bar. From there he couldn’t see much of the flaming western sky, but he had a clear view of the piano on the raised dais.
The only problem was, the piano bench was empty. Spicer hadn’t put in an appearance yet.
Fallon sipped a draft beer, waiting. There was a closed door in the wall near where he sat that would lead to dressing rooms and offices; the public restrooms were off the lobby outside. When Spicer finally showed, he would probably make his entrance through that door.
Only he didn’t show.
6:15.
6:30.
No Spicer.
Fallon finished his beer, motioned to the redheaded woman bartender for another. When she served it, he asked, “Where’s the King of the Ivories tonight?”
She didn’t seem to know how to answer the question. Finally she said, “He should be here any minute.”
“How come he’s late?”
“Well, you know,” she said vaguely, “delays.”
“Sure. Delays.”
6:45.
The door in the inner wall opened, but the man who came through wasn’t Spicer. Young, plump, wearing a Western-style suit and tie. An agitated frown wrinkled his smooth features when he saw the empty dais. He caught the redheaded bartender’s eye, gestured for her to come down, then leaned up close to the bar behind Fallon. The two of them spoke in low tones, but his hearing was acute and he could make out what they were saying.
“Why isn’t Courtney here?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Haskell. I thought maybe he called in sick.”
“He didn’t call in at all.”
“He’s never missed a night or been late before. Maybe he’s got the flu or something.”
“Too sick to use the telephone? Too drunk is more likely.”
“Well, he does like single malt Scotch. But I’ve never seen him drunk.”
Haskell said, “Why do hassles like this always happen on my shift? All right, Tracy, let me know if he comes in,” and disappeared through the door.
7:00.
The last of the sunset colors were gone and darkness had begun its descent. The evening star grew bright to the east in the clear purple-black sky. People came into the lounge, people went out. None of them was Court Spicer.
Fallon was on edge now. If Spicer wasn’t sick or drunk, if he had spooked and gone on the run again, finding Kevin would be a hell of a lot more difficult, if not impossible. He didn’t want to think what Casey might do if that happened.
7:15.
The inner door opened. Haskell again, looking flustered and angry now. He motioned Tracy down and leaned toward her over the bar, once more within Fallon’s hearing.
“Still a no-show,” she said.
“Damn these musicians. You can’t depend on any of them. I called his cell number and it went straight to voice mail.”
“Should we make an announcement? Some of the customers have been asking about him.”
“Not just yet,” Haskell said. “Give him another fifteen or twenty minutes. And give me a Wild Turkey on the rocks.”
Haskell stayed put at the bar with his drink, glancing at his watch every three or four minutes and scowling. Just past 7:30, he went back through the door-to make another call to Spicer’s cell, Fallon thought. He was gone less than five minutes.
“Still not here and still no answer on his cell phone,” he said to Tracy. “If it’s up to me, he’ll be looking for another job tomorrow.”
She said, “Maybe we ought to send somebody out to check on him.”
“Oh, sure. Who? I’m not about to drive all the way out to Bullhead City. Go ahead and make the announcement.”
Fallon thought: What the hell, give it a shot. He swiveled his stool chair to face the night shift manager. “I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for Courtney myself, and not to listen to his music.”
“Yes?” Haskell gave him a half-appraising, half-distracted look.
“My name’s Jackson, Sam Jackson. I own a half interest in a club in Vegas. So happens Steve Courtney played with a trio at my place a while back.”
“Is that right?”
“I heard he had a gig here and I drove down to see him. I’ve got a business proposition he might be interested in.”
