2 Double Dip Read online

  * * *

  At eleven that night, down in the bunker, I was busy getting out of a Stella McCartney gold brocade dress and matching platform pumps (my dogs were barking), while everyone else was stretched out on the gold sofas.

  “Cowboy,” Fantasy said, “you haven’t been here long enough for a sofa. Move.”

  “Well?” No Hair asked, when I fell into the seat Cowboy had warmed up for me wearing yoga pants, flip-flops, and a sweatshirt.

  “I had a ball!” My words came out on a laugh. It was fun, and it was distracting. In the middle of the first round of tournament play, a mental picture of Bradley Cole popped into my brain, and I honestly felt a stab of guilt when I realized I’d been so caught up in the excitement I hadn’t thought of him in hours. My ear-to-ear smile slid off as I picked up my heart, and Cowboy, who was proving himself to be good at having my back, had jumped, thinking something was wrong.

  “You were great!” Fantasy said. “Bianca’s stock rose through the roof, girl. She’ll be lovin’ all over you tomorrow.”

  I could use some all-over lovin’. Not necessarily from Bianca.

  “Who authorized five-thousand bucks to the marketing girl?” No Hair tapped a gigantic foot.

  My good-for-nothing coworkers pointed at me. No Hair’s nostrils flared.

  “So?” I changed the subject. “Did we catch anyone?”

  “As of yet we don’t have anyone in or near the tournament who has any obvious connection to Beehive,” No Hair said, “including our own staff. But seven of the spectators didn’t check in for the first round, so we’ll take a hard look at them when they do. And these two players popped.” He passed out eight-by-tens. “They’re the most likely candidates for the church scam, so I’ve put round-the-clock surveillance on them. This first one, Florence Cole, age sixty-eight, is from Beaumont, Texas. She’s a widow and lost her only son in the Gulf War seven years ago. Her closest relatives are a set of nieces in the Los Angeles area and she’s from Cadillac money.”

  “She’s a perfect Beehive target,” Fantasy said.

  “Yes, she is,” No Hair agreed.

  “What’s Cadillac money?” Cowboy asked.

  “Her family owned Cadillac dealerships in Texas.” No Hair rubbed cash fingers in the air. “This is her first year in the tournament.”

  “Dragonfly.” They all looked at me. “She had a dragonfly pinned on her shoulder at the tournament today. I thought it was a bug and tried to knock it off.”

  No Hair took a deep breath. “The other player who could have a big Beehive bullseye on his back is this guy,” he said. “A man named Otis Cummings.”

  “Hush Puppies.”

  Fantasy asked if he had a dog on his shoulder.

  I told her he was wearing Hush Puppies.

  “What are hush puppies?” Cowboy asked.

  “Shoes,” No Hair and I said.

  “He’s sixty-six years old, from Augusta, Georgia, and his family was in the peppermint candy business,” No Hair said. “Big bucks.” He shifted his weight. The whole room slid starboard. “He wrote his three sons out of his will a decade ago.”

  “Peppermint money.” Cowboy looked like he could taste it.

  “Watch them both.” No Hair shifted his weight again, and the room slid port. “Stay sharp. If anyone from Beehive is here to recruit these people, we’re going to intervene.”

  Aye, aye, Captain.

  The room settled, then grew still, too still, except for throat clearing (No Hair), yawning (Fantasia), and eyes darting (Cowboy).

  “I’ll do it.” I said it on a long weary sigh.

  “That would be best,” No Hair said. “I know you’re tired, Davis. We’re all tired and we all have to be right back here bright and early tomorrow, but maybe it’ll go quickly.”

  “That,” I said, “or one of you will have to get out of bed and identify my body.”

  “I’m going with you,” Cowboy said. “I’ll identify your body.” He jangled car keys. “Ready when you are.”

  It was a twelve-mile drive, but with Cowboy at the reins, we were there in a blink. We parked at a praying angel with a six-foot wing span.

  “Stay back a little bit, Cowboy.”

  The flip-flops were a bad idea. My achy feet turned to ice as I made my way through the winding concrete paths. I knelt down beside her and put my hand in the middle of her back. “Peyton,” I whispered. “Come on.”

  Her lips were blue, her eyes red, her skin almost translucent. She was slack and prone on the cold ground.

  “Let me help you up,” I whispered. “Come with me. Get some sleep,” I said. “We’ll get you something to eat, some clean clothes, a warm bed, then I’ll bring you back in the morning.”

  Cowboy scooped her up like a rag doll.

  * * *

  One might think after my day, my week, my month, my life, I’d pass out before my head hit the pillow, but when I climbed into the empty bed, sleep wouldn’t come at all. It might have been the dull buzz ringing in my ears because of the slot-machine din earlier, but that wasn’t it. Tonight’s insomnia was brought to me by the letter B, for Bradley, and by the letter P, for Paperwork, because something I’d seen earlier had been waiting patiently at my brain door all day.

  I wasn’t about to get out of bed, sneak past Peyton (in the guest room again) and Cowboy (sleeping on my marshmallow sofa again), then drive to work, but I did throw back the covers, pad across the room, and fire up my laptop.

  I looked up Leona Powell’s Bellissimo player number. 8709074.

  What was Leona Powell’s So Help Me God resident identification number? 008709074.

  Hack, hack, hack into the church’s Senior Residence Center.

  I ran the resident identification numbers against the Bellissimo player list.

  More than sixty percent of the So Help Me God residents had come straight from the Bellissimo.

  And while I was at it…

  How much did GOBAHIP shell out to So Help Me God last year?

  Hack, hack, hack. Three-point-eight million.

  How much did Medicare pay So Help You God during the same time period?

  Firewall one, hacked. Firewall two, hacked. Firewall three, hacked.

  Three-point-eight million.

  They were billing Medicare and GOBAHIP simultaneously for the exact same therapy treatments.

  So Help Me God was double dipping.

  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 f
rom 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.