Loaded Dice

glass cutout, and she spied an attractive male in a suit and tie on the stoop. Most of their visitors were delivery people who resembled rejects from a hostile alien planet. She unchained the door and pulled it open.

“Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

“Special Agent Timothy Reynolds of the FBI,” he said, holding up a laminated ID. He was about six-one and athletically built, with a cleft in his chin and eyes too small for his face. Mabel squinted at the ID, and he flipped his wallet shut.

“I’m looking for Tony Valentine. May I come in?”

The two statements did not go together, and Mabel felt herself stiffen.

“Tony is out of town, and no, you cannot come in.”

“I was being polite, ma’am,” he said.

He opened the screen door and put his foot deliberately inside the house. Mabel didn’t budge. Two months ago, a man from the swamps had entered the house and abducted her. She’d made it easy for him by turning her back. Never again.

“No,” she said firmly.

“Ma’am, by the powers vested in me—”

“My name is Mabel. Mabel Struck.”

“Ms. Struck, by the powers vested in me by the United States government, I’m asking you to please stand aside so that I may enter this house.”

“Where’s your subpoena?”

Reynolds paused, studying her. “Homeland Security Act. I’m sure you’ve heard of it?”

“Yes,” she said coolly. “I didn’t know that it meant that you could come to a private residence and, without stating what you wanted, barge unannounced into someone’s home. There happen to be other people here.”

“I told you what I wanted,” Reynolds said.

“And I told you, Tony isn’t here. Do you want to search the place?”

“I want you to step aside so that I may enter the house. Otherwise . . .”

Reynolds didn’t want to say it. Otherwise, he’d have to cite her for obstructing justice. Up close, he wasn’t a bad-looking young fellow. Nice teeth, strong jawline. His breath smelled like a mint, and she guessed he’d popped one into his mouth in the driveway. Not a beast, she decided.

She let him enter, then locked the door behind him. “I thought the FBI always worked in pairs,” she said.

“We do,” Reynolds replied.

Reynolds’s partner had come in through the back door. As Mabel entered the kitchen he introduced himself. Special Agent Scott Fisher. Another handsome, clean-shaven fellow in a suit and tie.

Reynolds pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. “Please, make yourself comfortable, Ms. Struck.”

Mabel remained standing. She glanced at Yolanda, who still sat at the table, and saw the frightened look on her face. Yolanda was equating the FBI’s appearance with something Gerry had done.

“These men are looking for Tony,” Mabel explained.

“Oh,” Yolanda said.

“Please sit down,” Reynolds said.

Mabel felt herself growing angry. Two men imposing themselves on two women, that’s what was going on here. Her rear end made a loud rhump! as she hit the chair.

Reynolds crossed the kitchen so he was standing beside his partner. He pulled a spiral-bound notebook out of his back pocket, flipped it open, and stared at his notes. “Here’s the deal, ladies. We need to talk to Tony Valentine, and we need to talk to him right now.”

“Good luck,” Mabel said.

When neither man said a word, she explained. “Tony considers cell phones one of life’s great nuisances. He rarely leaves his on, even when someone says they’ll call him.”

“Have you spoken to him recently?”

“Yes. A few hours ago.”

“Where was he calling from?”

“Las Vegas.”

“We know that. Where in Las Vegas? The FBI has been looking for him since yesterday. He’s not registered in any hotel.”

Mabel stiffened again. How did they know that? “He’s on a job. If you want to talk to him, leave a message on his cell phone. I’m sure he’ll get right back to you.”

Reynolds flipped his notebook shut. The nice-guy look had vanished from his face. “Are you his wife?”

“Office manager,” she replied.

“Are you aware that Tony Valentine wrote a letter right after 9/11, claiming the FBI was harassing Arab Americans living in the United States?”

Mabel nearly choked. “What?”

“And that he’s a suspect in the murder of a woman suspected of laundering casino chips for an Arab gambler, who’s also wanted by the FBI?”

Mabel shook her head, stunned.

“My partner and I are going to search the house,” Reynolds said. “We are looking for any correspondence between your boss and any Arab gamblers. We’re also looking for these.” From his pocket, he removed a casino chip and held it in front of Mabel’s face. It was brown, or what gamblers called a chocolate chip. “If you can help us in any way, please do so right now. Otherwise, I advise you to remain seated.”

“And if we don’t,” Mabel said.

“Then we’ll be forced to arrest you.”

He stared at Mabel with murderous intensity, then shifted his gaze to Yolanda. The younger woman looked petrified, and an alarm went off in Mabel’s head. Yolanda was as big as a house, yet neither man had mentioned it. Men always said something around a pregnant woman. Tony was always telling her to look for the little incongruities, and Mabel realized this was one. These men weren’t FBI agents. They were imposters.

“Do you understand?” Reynolds asked them.

The two women nodded their heads.

“Good,” he said.

Mabel knew who they were. They worked for a competitor of Grift Sense. The same competitor who’d tried to hack Creep File from Tony’s computer a month ago. Tony’s firewall had stopped them, so the competitor had sent these thugs.

“I’d like to see your credentials again,” Mabel said.

Reynolds glared at her.

“I didn’t have my glasses when you came to the door.” She picked them up off the kitchen table and put them on. “If you don’t mind.”

Reynolds shook his head. “No,” he added for emphasis.

“A real FBI agent wouldn’t refuse my request,” she said.

“Don’t push it,” Reynolds said.

It was all the proof Mabel needed. To Yolanda, she said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m parched. Want a cold drink?”

Yolanda said “sure” under her breath, her eyes glued to Reynolds’s face. Mabel thought of the burden of carrying the unborn, and what had to be going through her head. She rose from the table, looked casually at Reynolds and Fisher and repeated the question. She touched the refrigerator door, waited.

“Nothing for me,” Fisher said.

Reynolds grunted, “No thank you.”

Opening the refrigerator, Mabel removed the loaded Sig Sauer keeping the cottage cheese company. It had been Tony’s idea to put the gun there, instead of the hollow book in his study. It was the same gun she’d used two months ago to shoot her abductor through the heart. The therapist she’d gone to see had asked her if she felt revulsion toward the weapon. On the contrary, she’d told him. She kissed its barrel every day.

Pivoting on the balls of her feet, she aimed the gun at the two men and saw the life drain from their