Maybe it was a religious thing. Maybe she was meditating or slowly saying a special Russian prayer to herself over and over like the one in Franny and Zooey.
“Miss?”
Her eyes shifted upward.
“We need to speak to the sheriff.”
“Sheriff Beckum?”
“Is there another one?” U asked.
She looked annoyed. A reaction. A movement of facial muscles. Amazing.
“He’s in a conference right now.”
Above her hung a picture of the man himself. Sheriff Beckum. Looked to be in his early thirties, businessman haircut, porn star mustache. Not that I watched a lot of porn or anything. It was just that few people could really pull off the mustache thing and look cool.
“You think we could wait?” U asked.
“Can a deputy help you, sir?”
U crossed his arms across his chest and looked away, annoyed.
I took a huge breath of air and said simply and slowly: “Ma’am, we have a murder to report.”
S heriff Robert Beckum entered the hallway in a way I didn’t expect. No creased khakis or frowns or mirrored Smokey and the Bandit sunglasses. Beckum was clean-shaven – I made a mental note to compliment the change later – and wearing corduroy pants and a faded-blue flannel shirt. Mud was scattered across one sleeve and he wore a big grin of a man completely and honestly content with his day.
He offered his hand to U and then turned to me.
“Y’all serious about a murder?”
He seemed thinner than the picture, and younger. Maybe even late twenties. Beckum had an intense face with a pointed nose and brown hair slicked back against his skull. He kept your attention like an eager shoe salesman and held your hand longer than was expected.
But I had learned long ago, handshakes truly told you little about a person.
I relied more on eye contact. And Beckum never broke away from my glance.
“There was some trouble last night at the Magnolia Grand,” I said. “A young woman was being held against her will. I helped her and in the process of getting away I shot a man.”
Beckum shook his head. “Well, goddamn. Nobody tells me nothing ’round here anymore. You’d think a sheriff would know when a man’s been shot.”
U stole a glance at me.
“Last night, about midnight,” I said.
“Y’all been gambling? Drinkin’ a little?”
I shook my head.
“I was there to talk to the man who runs their security.”
Beckum still never wavered from my glance. Kind of annoying. Had this look on his face like he could read minds and expected you to kind of quake with fear as he gave the ole squinty glance.
“Why?” he asked.
“I was looking for a friend.”
“He work there?”
“No.”
“The girl’s a friend, too?”
“No.”
“How’d you know she was being held against her will?”
“She was tied up.”
“In the casino?” Beckum asked, a sarcastic smile on his lips.
“In a storage room in the casino. I saw her on a video monitor. When we were running away from the casino a man started shooting at me. I shot back. And I hit him in the chest.”
“Why’d you bring a gun to a casino?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “I took it off one of the guards who tried to stop me from leaving.”
Beckum nodded and looked over at U.
“What’s your deal in all this, hoss?”
“I’m a registered bondsman,” he said. “I’m here to make sure he’s treated properly… hoss.”
Beckum snickered. Out of the corner of his eye, I saw U flex his jaw muscles.
Beckum saw it, too, but glanced away like it didn’t register. It did. His face flushed as he spoke.
“Guess it’s time we all take a ride to the Grand and see what the hell this is all about.”
“Indeed,” U said.
Chapter 19
Even in the middle of the day, the scene was the same as the night before. The perfectly dimmed blue and green neon light. The pinging electronic music. The hundreds of slots, card tables, and roulette wheels buzzing with the energy of a never-ending party. The scent was the same, too. A musky odor of nervousness and beer breath mixed with cheap cigars and endless cigarettes.
I walked toward the security offices flanked by U and Beckum, scanning the crowd for the men we met last night. Didn’t matter if I had two or two hundred with me, I still felt a raw nervousness in the back of my throat. I swallowed, ground my molars together, and kept walking.
Somewhere in the crowd, a craggy blond in a red cocktail dress whooped it up with a black man in a red suit after the dice she’d kissed rolled a winner. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the woman – bloodshot eyes, lazy grin – reach into the man’s pocket, give a tug, and then stumble backward.
On the opposite side, I saw two boys with black hair slap the heads of rubber frogs with cushioned mallets. One chewed gum. The other pretended he was smoking with a pretzel stick.
My stomach burned. The sound of my grinding teeth buzzed in my ears.
Ahead, two men in green blazers met Beckum by the cash exchange windows. U and I hung back. Beckum clasped the shoulder of one of the guards, a white man with teeth like a rake and a buzz cut, smiled, and pointed to a back door in agreement.
He motioned for us to follow.
“Big boss is over at the command post,” Beckum said.
“It’s the other way,” I said.
Beckum shrugged and kept walking. He had on tan ostrich-skin boots that probably cost a thousand bucks but had been worn like they cost fifty. Scarred and muddy.
“How could they not report this?” I asked in a low voice.
“Maybe you didn’t kill him,” U said, still staring straight ahead. “Maybe they don’t want folks knowing they keep little girls chained in back rooms.”
A minute later, we followed Beckum up a staircase to the casino’s second floor and into a wood-paneled office dotted with Tiffany lamps and sepia-toned photographs of Wild West scenes. Waxy looking figures in coffins. Hardened women holding six-shooters.
A fireplug of an old man stood as we walked in the door. Wide-jowled face with an Irish-veined nose and pale blue eyes. He had a round body, short legs, and thick stubby fingers that couldn’t quite clasp around my hand.
He smiled along with Beckum when the murder was mentioned. He scratched the back of his unshaven neck and stared over at another guard who sat in a far corner.
“Did we forget about a guard getting killed last night?” Fat Man asked.
The man in the corner laughed, too.
“He wasn’t a guard,” I said. “His name was Humes. Head of security for this whole damned place.”
Fat Man shook with laughter. “Not only did I find out a man got killed last night,” he said, “but now you’re
