Authors: Gretchen Archer
TWENTY-FOUR
Bianca Sanders was in a foul mood, which meant it was one of the seven days of the week. “Can’t you be a little more reserved, David? Must you get in everyone’s face and shriek, like a madwoman?”
I batted through the cigarette smoke. “Have you ever been to one of the tournaments, Mrs. Sanders? It’s exciting. And the excitement is contagious.”
“I would like to have a little dignity left when this event is over. And I’m telling you to use better judgment and conduct yourself with a little more
decorum
.” She tapped her cigarette ashes into a waste can full of paper. “Stop groping and fawning strangers, David.”
“It’s Davis.”
She smoked.
“How’s your foot, Mrs. Sanders?”
I only asked because I could see her warming up for round two. Obviously, her foot was better. For one, she’d traveled unassisted down thirty stories, the length of the mezzanine, behind Shakes, then two more floors down, where she scared us all to death by trying to beat the door down.
And she calls me a madwoman.
For two, she was wearing designer espadrilles in a very light creamy color no one but her would buy, because they’d get dirty the second they came out of the box, and I couldn’t see a bulk of bandages under the fabric. She was working undercover today as a designer ghost, dressed head to toe in the same ivory color. She had on an eggshell trench coat, double-breasted, with wide floppy lapels, and pleated cuffs. (I want one. Pretty.) She had a wide silk scarf in a buttermilk color wrapped and tucked around her head, and milky-framed Cat Woman sunglasses. Until she yanked them off. “Don’t change the subject, David.”
She went on to instruct me to pack my bags for West Palm Beach, Florida. She’d booked us suites at the Willoughby. (Never heard of such.) We would leave by Bellissimo jet on Monday morning. Dr. Doogie Howser would be accompanying us.
“When will we be back?” I asked.
“After I’ve healed.”
“From what?”
“I’m having my neck done.”
(Snapped? She could have that done here.)
“The beach sounds lovely, Mrs. Sanders.” It sounded harrowing. “Do you need me for security purposes?”
“No.” She put her Cat Woman glasses back on, blew a plume of smoke big enough to set off alarms, and turned for the door. “I need your neck.”
I grabbed it with both hands.
“Wear the lace peplum this morning,” she said, “and for God’s sake, don’t make a spectacle of yourself.”
I counted to ten. “The coast is clear!”
Cowboy popped up from behind a sofa and Fantasy came out of the closet. “What is her problem?” Cowboy asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Let’s finish these background checks.”
“You have twenty minutes, Davis.” Fantasy tapped her watch.
Nineteen minutes later, we had No Hair on speakerphone. I did the honors. “I’ve run today’s new faces through the system and there are no Beehive connections.”
“Okay.” No Hair’s booming voice made the phone shake. “We can’t let our guard down, because whoever poisoned the pudding is still out there, but at this point it’s safe to assume no one from Beehive is at the tournament. Matthew Thatcher was their in, and now he’s out.” (Cross, cross, cross.) “They haven’t had time to regroup and we’ll shut them down before they do.”
Sirens blared from control central. “Hold on, No Hair.” I ran in there. Every screen was flashing; we had a facial-recognition hit in the lobby.
“Who is that?” Cowboy was right behind me.
“That’s Matthew Thatcher’s grandmother.” Fantasy was right behind Cowboy.
I ran back to the phone and took it off speaker mode. “No Hair,” I said, “we spoke too soon. Jewell Maffini is in the lobby.”
“I got her,” No Hair said. “Have Baylor meet me.”
Who?
On the way to the convention level to get gussied up for Double Dip Round Two, Fantasy chitchatted, which is how she starts when there’s something she needs to get off her chest.
“What’s up with Peyton?”
“That girl’s a mess,” I said. “Staring at the walls.”
“Tell me there’s security on her.”
“Yes,” I said. “No Hair has security outside my building, in the garage, and inside the door. They’re on banana pudding patrol and suicide watch.”
“Your poor condo.”
“Tell me about it.”
“She’s wily,” Fantasy said. “She could have easily pulled off the banana pudding business.”
“And hit the wrong target,” I said. “Which may be what her problem is.”
“Or hit the right target,” Fantasy said, “and regrets it.”
“Could be.”
“Man, it’s getting cold out.”
The elevator dinged and the doors opened to the convention level.
“What is it, Fantasy? Just say it.”
She pounced. “You’ve given up on Bradley.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have.” She had a hand on the bouncing doors. “You’re not being fair to him.”
“
Fair
?” Fair? “He hasn’t exactly been giving me the benefit of the doubt lately, Fantasy, which I don’t think is particularly
fair
.”
“You owe him the truth, Davis. You need to tell him.”
She let the doors close and punched random numbers.
“You’re avoiding him.”
“I’ve been a little busy, thank you.”
“No one’s that busy.”
The doors opened to a guest floor. Fantasy glared at three people who each had a leg mid-air. They decided to wait.
“Have you called him?”
I sniffed.
“Do you even know where he is?”
I shrugged. I think we were going down. “The last time we spoke he was headed to Vegas to hammer out a settlement deal, so I guess he’s there.” Now we were going up. “If that’s changed I wouldn’t know because he hasn’t called.”
“Why don’t
you
call
him
, Davis?”
“Last time I checked, Fantasy, they still had phones in Las Vegas. He can call me if he wants to talk. And it’s none of your business anyway.”
Uh-oh. Mighta shoulda coulda worded that differently.
“What did you just say to me?”
And now we were in each other’s faces. The doors opened
again
.
“GO AWAY!” We both screamed it. At No Hair.
“What the
hell
?”
No Hair and Cowboy had the dishrag that was Jewell Maffini between them. She looked to be in no better shape than Peyton. In fact, she looked worse.
“What is going on here, ladies?” No Hair’s big head jerked back and forth between us.
“Nothing, No Hair.” I smoothed my blonde hair. “We’re fine.”
He hairy-eyeballed Fantasy, then he hairy-eyeballed me. He swept his arm out: After you, Mrs. Maffini. She stepped in hesitantly, found a corner as far away from Fantasy and me as she could, then squeezed herself into it.
“This is Jewell Maffini,” No Hair said. “And she’s here to talk.”
“I’m sorry about your grandson,” I said.
It started with a whisper, it worked its way to a wail. I mean it, the woman detonated.
Cowboy pushed C for Convention Level. “Never a dull moment.”
* * *
For all the fun and frivolity on the outside of a slot machine—you can catch fish, choose your favorite Brady (Peter), or spin the wheel—they’re all the same on the inside: motors, gears, graphics on spinning reels, computer chips, cash/voucher collectors, and wires, wires, wires.
The player puts money in. The machine eats the money. The player hits a button or pulls a lever, and a very long number randomly generated by a computer program tells the mechanical reels where to stop.
Most of the time, the reels stop on a combination that doesn’t win—Sam the Butcher, Tiger, Carol Brady. But every once in a while, the reels stop on a winner—Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!
It’s a cold, electrical, mechanical, computerized process on the inside, it’s everything but on the outside. More and more, with video-display slot machines replacing traditional three-reel slot machines, they could, and did, put on a show.
The Double Dip slot machines put on a show like none I’d ever seen.
Tournament machines are different in a few distinct ways. One, they have a different computer chip; they’re set to win and win and win. And win. Two, they’re pre-loaded with credits, in this case a thousand credits per machine, each round. And three, they’re on timers. After a pre-set amount of play time they come to a screeching halt. There is a fourth, and very remarkable feature of tournament slot machines—the tournament administrators know which machine will be the grand-prize winner beforehand.
The Double Dip tournament slot machines had made a huge splash during the first round of play on Friday night. When the third wheel fell into place, the screen suddenly burst alive, sending 3-D sprinkles everywhere. Chocolate sprinkles burst from scoops of strawberry ice cream, multi-colored sprinkles exploded from vanilla scoops, and shiny gold sprinkles appeared out of nowhere to top chocolate scoops. The sound effects that accompanied the sprinkles were incredible—cymbals, pinball trills, cannon booms, hand-bell arpeggios—and it happened every five seconds on fifty different machines.
I couldn’t wait to see it all again and at the crack of noon Saturday, when I finally got it together enough to step through the curtain, the fifty players, their plus-ones, along with the hundred paid spectators and their plus-ones, broke into thunderous applause. They seemed very happy to see me and none of us could wait to see the slot machines in action again.
Three hundred bodies turned my way. I tapped the microphone ring on and hailed out to the crowd, arms open wide, “Who’s ready for a Double Dip?” The crowd reacted as if I’d said, “A million dollars and a puppy for everyone!”
Two waitresses, dressed as cupcakes (teeny silver pleated skirts that looked like cupcake liners and six-inch strips of white organza for icing tops) each took one of my hands and led me down the stage steps, Miss America style, for my pre-tournament meet-and-greet. I worked the crowd as quickly as I could in an attempt to cover the room. I kissed cheeks, I squeezed hands, I hugged, I congratulated, I welcomed, and I took a sip of a lady’s blueberry martini she promised me was delicious. (It was.) I showed the crowd my blue teeth, and they roared with laughter, then cupcake waitresses were sent scrambling. “I want blue teeth like Bianca!”
No Hair boomed into my earpiece. “Davis, don’t eat or drink…hands you! Do you want to…in the hospital?” I pretended to fiddle with my Marco Bicego drop earrings, but I was really pressing my earpiece, because No Hair’s big mouth was still going. “…watching by close-circuit, and threw…at the television. Tone it down unless…ripping your head off.”
I squealed with delight as a player waved a phone in my face. “Mrs. Alexander! Is that your new grandbaby?” That baby looked like E.T.
Round Two upset the leader board. A woman from New Orleans gained a substantial point lead, having lined up triple scoops four times during the twenty-minute round—sprinkles bursting everywhere with spectacular fireworks sound effects—and second and third places were only a scoop apart. When the machines powered down, the contestants kept their seats as Armani-suited accountants from Deloitte recorded player scores. The accountants started at one end, I started at the other with a cordless mic.
“Good grief, Mr. Rosenberg! Give someone else a chance!”
He was dead last, but he enjoyed the attention so much, he forgot. I wished him luck for round three. Down the row.
“Elaine Vega! Stand up! Could we have a spotlight? What’s this I heard about you?” I grabbed her hand and held it up high. “Everyone say hello to Mrs. Vega! Look at this ring! Elaine’s a newlywed!” She turned fifty shades of red. “Elaine,” I covered my mouth with my hand, “just between us girls—” (into a microphone for all to hear) “—this marriage business ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.” The audience, who loved Bianca’s husband, roared.
And on. Until the accountants finished and I’d let everyone know how much we appreciated their money. (Them being there! Them being there!) I made my way to the stage. Someone in the audience shouted, “We love you, Bianca!” I found him, made eye contact across the big room, and told him I loved him too. He beat on his chest with both fists. I announced current first, second, and third places with a drumroll soundtrack, and told them I couldn’t wait to see them tonight.
The dizzy crowd exited the front and took a left for the banquet hall where they would have a fancy lunch, as a clean-up and overhaul crew entered through the back to repair and reset the room. Technicians came in from a side door and positioned themselves for the best possible views of the cupcake waitresses, who were clearing tables. Security entered through a different door to lock down the room while the techs switched computer chips in all fifty machines.
My marketing handler, Laney Harris, was waiting for me at the stage door after I said my goodbyes and good lucks to the tournament participants. “You’re a rock star, Bianca.” She handed me off to my assistant Fantasia, who looked like she’d seen a ghost.
I stopped dead in my Dolce & Gabbana tracks. Was it Bradley Cole?
Laney, no flies on her, said, “I’ll leave you two alone.” She shooed everyone out of the dressing house.
“Sit down, Davis,” Fantasy said.
I collapsed into the salon chair.
“It’s your grandmother.”
I bent over double, like I’d been chopped in two.
“Not that, Davis! Not that!” She crouched to my level. “It’s not that anything bad has happened.” She tilted my face up. “Your family can’t
find
her.”
“Fantasy, you can’t
hide
in Pine Apple!” I cried. “Something’s happened to her!”
She passed me my phone. “Here,” she said. “Get it together. Call home.”
The door burst open, and Bianca came roaring in, dressed exactly like she had been this morning, except she’d been dipped in black paint. Black shoes, trench coat, sunglasses, and scarf.
I shot out of the salon chair. “No!” I yelled. “I’m not listening to it, Bianca. Get out!” I pointed for the door with a shaky hand.
She stood there statue still. She spun and left, Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman on her heels.
There goes my job.
* * *
It took a lot to rock my sister. When I got Meredith on the phone, though, she was a driveling puddle. “Oh, God, Davis! We can’t find her anywhere!”
“Who else is missing, Meredith?”
“
What
? We’re looking for Granny, Davis. We’re not taking roll all over town.”
“Where’s Cyril Bunker?”
“How would I know where Cyril is? Again, Davis, we’re looking for
Granny
.”
“Go find Cyril. And let me talk to Daddy.”
“Daddy’s out looking,” she wailed. “Call him on his cell.”
Fantasy traded me a glass of water for my phone. She scrolled to my father’s number, tapped, then handed it back.
“Daddy.”
“Cyril’s gone too,” my father said, no preamble.
I was born on his page.
“Surely neither of them would try to drive, Daddy. They’ve got to be with someone. Who else is missing? Who’s driving them?”
He must have had his window down, because I heard the crunch of gravel. Then I heard nothing until, “Eddie.”
I made immediate plans to kill him. (Eddie.) Dead. Very, very dead.
“Eddie’s Lincoln isn’t in front of his trailer,” Daddy said, “and it’s only one o’clock.”
Eddie Crawford, that total rat bastard, didn’t roll out of bed until three, and everyone knew it.
“Where could they be? Have you checked Cyril’s old property? Maybe they just took a ride.”
“I tried that first,” Daddy said.
“Have you tried Bates Turkey? Maybe they just went to Greenville for lunch.”
“I called,” Daddy said.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
“He’s taken them to Andalusia, Daddy.” I said it on a very long sigh. “They’re at the Sweet Gum Bottom Wedding Chapel. It’s where we eloped the second time.” I almost choked on the words.
“Sweet Jesus.” My father’s foulest language.