“I don’t know him. I’m just a man trying to do a job.”
Screeches and other child noises came from inside her house, deepening her scowl.“Damnkids,” she said. “I should’ve had my tubes tied after the first one.”
Fallon said, “Does he own the house over there?”
“Who? Bobby Jackoff and his slut?”
“Jackoff?”
“That’s what my husband calls him. Some Polish name.”
“What name?”
“Don’t you know, you have business with him?”
“All I know is Bobby J.”
“Jackowsky, Jabowski… no… Jablonsky. That’s it, Jablonsky.”
“About the house. Does he own it?”
“Leased. The slut lived there before he moved in last year.”
“Candy?”
The woman made a spitting mouth. “Candy Barr. With two r’s. My God, the names these women give themselves.”
“Can you tell me what time they left this morning?”
“For all I know,” she said, “neither of ’em was home all night. It wouldn’t be the first time. Quiet over there for a change.”
“You didn’t see his car?”
“Didn’t see it, didn’t hear him jazzing the engine like he does some mornings. Or when he comes home drunk or stoned in the middle of the night when decent people are trying to sleep. I can’t tell you how many times he’s woken up the kids. They get woken up, I don’t get any sleep, my husband doesn’t get any sleep.”
“Do you know if he has a job?”
“A job? Him? Hah. He does anything at all besides gamble, it’s probably something crooked.”
“He’s a gambler?”
“Poker. Big poker player, to hear him tell it. Bragged to my husband once about how much money he wins at the casinos.”
“Any one in particular?”
“Who knows? The one where Candy Barr works, probably. Calls herself a dancer. Hooker, more likely. Foul mouth. You should hear the things they shout at each other over there. You should’ve heard what she called
“There’s a friend of Bobby J.’s-big man, blond, thick blond beard. Drives a Ford Explorer.”
“Oh, him. He comes around sometimes. Another sleazebag.”
“You know his name?”
“No, and I don’t want to know it.” She frowned at Fallon. “You sure ask a lot of questions.”
Before he could make up a response, more screeches rose from inside her house, followed by a long wailing shriek. A girl about five came running out in her pajamas, yowling. “Mommy, Mommy, Conner hit me, he hit me with a
“I’ll hurt him,” the woman said grimly. “I’ll blister his little ass for him.”
“Blister his ass, blister his ass!”
“Shut your mouth. You sound like the slut next door.” She took the little girl’s hand, led her inside without another word to Fallon.
Casino Slot Machine Repair was open for business when Fallon pulled into the lot. The only vehicle parked there was a van with the name of the business lettered on the sides. He slotted the Jeep next to it, went inside to the offkey clang of a bell above the door.
Cluttered showroom, heavy with the smell of machine oil. Rows of electronic and mechanical slots and video poker machines lined two walls. Restored and for sale, according to placards on each, their cases polished, their glassed-in faces making the room bright with color even though they were unlit. A combination workroom and warehouse, visible through an open set of doors, took up most of the rear of the building-the place where Bobby J. and Yellow Beard had waited in ambush.
A man in overalls, wiping his hands on a greasy towel, appeared from the workroom. Midforties, fair-haired, clean-shaven except for a Fu Manchu mustache. And big-almost as big as Yellow Beard. He looked at Fallon in a neutral way before he said, “Sam Vinson, at your service. What can I do for you? Repair problem?”
“No. I-”
“Looking to buy, then? I just finished restoring a real nice ’64 Bally Star Special, one of the first electro- mechanical hopper pay slots. Perfect condition. Make you a good price on it.”
“No thanks. I’m looking for Bobby Jablonsky.”
“Bobby J.?” Nothing changed in Vinson’s expression. “Well, then, you’ve come to the wrong place. Jablonsky don’t work here.”
“Friend of yours, though, isn’t he?”
“Not me. My brother Clem.”
Clem Vinson-Yellow Beard. The resemblance was plain enough. “Clem work here with you?”
“Sometimes. Not today.”
“Where would I find him?”
“At his other job, probably. Golden Horseshoe in Glitter Gulch. Maintenance staff.”
“I hear Bobby J. plays some poker at the Golden Horseshoe.”
“
“Not me. No way.”
“Then how come you’re so interested in Bobby J.?”
Fallon gave him the business proposition line, and Vinson laughed. “Well, if there’s money in it, Bobby J.’s your man. He’s open to just about anything that’ll support his poker habit.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Oh, yeah,” Vinson said, soberly this time. “Just about anything at all.”
In the Jeep, Fallon tried Casey’s cell number again. Still out of service.
He called her home number in San Diego. No answer.
Vernon Young Realty would be open by now. He called there, on the chance that Vernon Young had heard from Casey, but the woman he spoke to said Mr. Young was out of the office. She didn’t know when he would return.
He called Young’s home number. Answering machine.
He listened again to the brief, anxious message from Sharon Rossi, left on his voice mail while he was talking to Sam Vinson. She hadn’t heard from him, would he please call her as soon as possible?
Yes, but not yet. Not just yet.
The Golden Horseshoe’s Poker Room, like the rest of the casino, had a Western motif-loosely patterned after the standard saloon sets in old TV shows like
This early in the day, only two of the tables had players. Omaha and Texas Hold ’Em games. Four men, one woman at the Texas Hold ’Em table. Fallon quick-scanned the men there and those at the other table as he walked by. Bobby J. wasn’t one of them; neither was Clem Vinson.
