explain to her that he’d just killed three men, even though it was in self-defense. He’d disappointed his wife too much to drop this on her. So he decided to wait until he got back home. He knew it was shitty, but it was the only way he could handle it.
25
Mabel unlocked the front door of Tony’s house and was punching the code into the security system when the phone in the study rang. She didn’t like coming in Sunday mornings, but when Tony was out of town, there was no other choice. Casinos around the world did big business on Saturday nights and, as a result, were more susceptible to cheaters than any other day of the week.
The security system accepted the code and beeped. She walked down the hallway to the back of the house. Entering the study, she heard the phone stop, then immediately start ringing again. She guessed the caller was using speed dial to call back and was desperate.
“Grift Sense,” she answered cheerfully.
“Do you do psychic readings?”
It was Tony. She lowered her body into the chair behind the desk. “Just tarot cards and tea leaves.”
“No palm reading?”
“Afraid not. I once had a man read my palm. He told me I had a wet future and spit in my hand.”
She heard him laugh. It was an infectious sound, and she realized that he hadn’t been doing enough of that lately. She guessed it was because of that damn woman in Las Vegas, Lucy Price. Every time Lucy called, it put Tony in a terrible mood.
“Heard from Gerry?” he asked.
“Yolanda talked to him last night,” Mabel said. “Gerry met with Tex Snyder but didn’t learn anything. He was on his way home.”
“Tex didn’t think he was cheated?”
“No,” Mabel said. “Is that bad?”
“It’s the one part of the puzzle that doesn’t make sense. Games can be rigged. But cheating a world-class poker player is different.”
Mabel stopped reading e-mails. “So you think Ricky Smith is a cheater?”
“Let’s say I’m getting warm,” he said.
Tony’s computer sat on the desk, and Mabel scrolled through his e-mail messages. Over a dozen casinos had contacted him since yesterday. Normally, Tony would ask her to read the messages to him. He was more than warm, she decided.
“I need you to take a road trip and do some snooping for me,” he said. “Feel up to it?”
“Today?”
“Yeah. Take Yolanda and the baby with you. Make an outing out of it.”
“Well, aren’t you just filled with wonderful ideas. Next you’ll be telling me to pack a picnic. Now, where exactly am I going?”
“To the land of make-believe,” he replied.
At noon, Mabel pulled out of her driveway in her Toyota Tercel, drove half a block, and pulled up in Yolanda’s driveway. To her amazement, Yolanda came outside a few seconds later, holding the baby in one arm, the car seat in the other. Mabel had never known a new mother to ever be on time to anything. Yolanda strapped the baby in, then jumped into the front seat.
“Let’s roll,” she said.
Mabel stared at her. “Are you auditioning for Super-woman?”
“Why, is something wrong?”
“New mothers are always late. It’s a tradition.”
“I talked to Gerry earlier, and he got me so excited,” she said, a smile lighting up her face. “He’s going to be staying in Gulfport a few more days. The Mississippi Gaming Commission is asking him to help them with a case.”
Mabel backed down the drive. “You sound happy he isn’t coming home.”
“Oh, no. I miss him terribly. It’s just…” Yolanda struggled for the right words. “I’ve always wanted Gerry to be engaged in something. I think working for his father is going to turn out great.”
Mabel handed her a sheet of paper lying on the seat. It was driving instructions she’d printed off an Internet site called MapQuest. Yolanda’s eyes scanned the page. “Is this where we’re going?” she asked.
“Yes. The little town of Gibsonton. It’s about an hour’s drive.”
“What’s in Gibsonton?”
“Carnival people,” Mabel said.
Gibsonton was eight miles south of the interstate and smack in the middle of nowhere. The town barely resembled one, with a few businesses and mom-and-pop restaurants lining a deserted street, and a trailer park at the far end of the road. It was like many central Florida towns—sleepy and small—and Mabel found herself feeling mildly disappointed. She’d loved going to carnivals as a child and had envisioned the town having men walking around on stilts and jugglers on every corner. Yolanda pointed at a building on the other side of the street. A hand- painted sign said SHOWTOWN BAR & GRILL.
“Let’s go in there,” she suggested. “I need to change the baby’s diaper.”
Mabel pulled into the lot and parked by the front door. The drive had taken less time than she’d expected, and it was only twelve-thirty. Bars and restaurants weren’t allowed to sell alcohol on Sundays until after one, and she had a feeling that no one would be inside. Maybe they could get a bite to eat and wait for the regulars to arrive.
The Showtown was your average watering hole, with a long water-stained bar and a few tables scattered around the room. It was deserted save for two men—the bartender, a rail-thin man in his sixties sporting a goatee, and a dwarf sitting on a bar stool, nursing a glass of tomato juice. They both said hello.
“Good afternoon,” Mabel said, sidling up to the bar. The backlit mirror was covered with postcards, most of them showing traveling circuses and sideshows. The dwarf courteously removed his hat, and a butterfly flew out of its folds. He cackled with laughter.
“My name’s Brownie, and this here’s Little Pete,” the bartender said. “How can we help you ladies?”
“I was trying to get some information about a carnival that used to run out of Panama City,” Mabel said, “and was hoping one of you gentlemen could help me.”
Little Pete glanced over his shoulder. “Gentlemen? Who walked in?”
“You’ll do,” Mabel told him.
The dwarf smiled and so did the bartender.
“Hey,” Yolanda said from the other side of the room.
Mabel turned from the bar. “What’s wrong, my dear?”
“This door to the ladies’ room isn’t a door.”
The room’s light was poor, and Mabel squinted at where Yolanda was pointing. There was a door to the men’s room, and beside it, a door to the women’s room with a brass plaque. Yolanda was pushing on the women’s room door, but it wasn’t budging.
The baby was crying, her mother losing her patience. Mabel crossed the room, assuming the door was locked. Only when she was a foot from it did the illusion stop. It was a painting. The shadowing and detail were so exact, it tricked the eye into believing it was a door.
“It’s around the corner,” Brownie called out.
“What a bunch of practical jokers,” Yolanda said under her breath, hurrying away.
Mabel saw the men at the bar smiling at her. Little Pete pointed at her head.
