I sat between an elderly woman in a hoodie and a young Black man in a business suit and a bolo tie. Gary Lake, middle-aged and balding, sat two stools away. Twelve of us sat at the table, watching the dealer, who showed a Two of hearts up, shoved cards our way.
I had a king of spades and a two of clubs. At the end of the table, Rachel, in a floppy hat and sunglasses, had a nine of diamonds and a five of hearts. Lake had a three of clubs and a seven of spades.
I was betting five-dollar chips. Lake was betting $100 chips.
The dealer, a young Hispanic woman, waited as I checked my cards. Then I motioned. Hit me. Ten of diamonds. Busted.
The woman with the hoodie took a card, then shook her head, holding at 17. When the deal came to Lake he nodded for a card. Ace—21. Rachel took a card and held at 19.
The dealer flipped her hole card. Five of hearts. She kept going until she busted.
The dealer paid out. We turned in our cards.
Rachel collected her chips and stood up. Without looking at me she wandered into the crowd. I played one more hand—losing again—then scooped up my remaining chips and thanked the dealer. Lake stayed put.
I found Rachel with her fingers on the handle of a Real Housewives of Las Vegas-themed slot machine. “I would almost play this.” She loves reality TV. I tolerate it because, well, she’s my girlfriend.
“So what about Lake?”
She blinked, as if the answer was obvious. “Oh yeah. He’s got something. He knows what the next card is going to be.”
“My husband goes to Las Vegas every two or three months.” Marcia Lake sipped a cup of tea in her small suburban house outside of Chicago. Not big or fancy, but nice. “He won’t let me come with him. I want to know what he’s doing there.”
I nodded. “Following someone around a city like Las Vegas could be complicated. Or expensive, if I have to hire other people to help.”
She shivered. “We’re not rich. I can’t pay for an army of private detectives.”
“I’ll do my best, if I can take one associate with me. She won’t be working at my full rate.” Mostly because the “associate” was my girlfriend Rachel. She’s psychic—at least a little—and she’s also a good investigator, after helping me out on my cases over the years.
“Okay.” Marcia Lake opened a checkbook. “He’s leaving this Friday. Can you do that?”
Today was Tuesday. I hadn’t had a new case in a week or so. “I can clear my schedule.”
So I got tickets on Gary Lake’s flight.
At the terminal Rachel yawned in the chair next to me. Wide sunglasses covered her hazelnut eyes, and she wore a droopy hat over her red hair. “Did we have to leave at the crack of dawn?” The flight was scheduled for 8:37, so we’d had to get up ridiculously early to reach O’Hare in time to get through the check-in line and reach our gate.
“Part of the biz,” I said. Around us passengers checked their text messages, watched CNN on the TVs or movies on their iPads, drank coffee or soda, or napped. Japanese tourists, families with kids, businessmen tapping their laptops, giggling girls sharing videos on their phones.
“That’s him?” Rachel gestured with her head at the next row of boarding area seats. Middle-aged and balding, Lake wore jeans, a cheap gray blazer over a T-shirt, and sneakers. A canvas carry-on bag sat next to his feet. He read a newspaper, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for the boarding call.
“Yeah. Anything?”
She shrugged. “Restless. Nervous. Nothing you can’t see.”
I sipped my own coffee. “Yeah.”
They finally called our flight. Rachel and I hefted our own carry-ons and headed down the tunnel into the plane.
Rachel read a biography of Ruth Bader Ginsburg while I dozed. She jabbed an elbow into my ribs as we started to land. “Wake up, shamus. How are we going to do this?”
“Follow him as best we can.” I rubbed my eyes. “We know what hotel he’s staying at, and where he’s renting a car.” Lake had shared all the details with his wife. “Either way, I told the client this would be complicated.”
I jostled a 60ish white-haired man bickering with his girlfriend as Rachel and I made our way up the aisle. Out in the terminal, I spotted Lake walking quickly away from the gate. “Let’s go.”
Slot machines were waiting for us just outside the gate, eager visitors already loading them with coins and yanking their levers, hoping for an instant payoff. Lake walked past them and headed toward the car rentals.
The white-haired man from the plane was ahead of us, pulling a suitcase and still bickering with his girlfriend. “Yes, my queen, we’ll do it your way.”
She glared at him. Then she glared at me. “What are you looking at?”
I held up a hand. “Just on the way to rent a car. And wondering where the best casinos are. This is our first trip.”
“Stay off the strip.” That came from the white-hair man. “That’s for tourists. Stay downtown.”
Lake stopped at a rental counter. I smiled. “Thanks.”
Rachel slugged my shoulder. “Are we going to go to the pool? I bought a new bikini.”
“Of course. As soon as we get to the hotel.”
I was close enough to overhear the model and make of the car Lake rented, a blue Hyundai. He didn’t seem to notice us as he picked up his keys and headed for the lot. Rachel and I saw him pull way as we got into a white Nissan.
Fortunately we knew where he was going, so I didn’t have to tail him closely on the streets of Vegas. The casino/hotel was off the Strip, at the edge of downtown, and it had a big parking lot to one side. I cruised, looking for Lake’s Hyundai, and found it after ten minutes of searching. At least I hoped that it was his, but the hood was still warm, so it had been driven recently. I parked a few spots away.
We checked in, but our room wasn’t ready this early, so we checked our bags and headed into the casino, looking for Lake.
I’d seen Las Vegas casinos in movies, but I wasn’t ready for the full real-life experience. I felt like I was entering a cave promising wonders and delights—loud, dark, crowded, smoky, with joyful shrieks and vicious curses rising and falling from rows of slot machines stretching to infinity. A platoon of miniskirted waitresses in fishnet stockings handed out drinks and packs of cigarettes with cheerful, pasted-on smiles. Blinking lights and crashing music blared from every direction—it was like Disneyworld, a magic kingdom of its own, but without Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck. Everyone around us seemed like they were enjoying the happiest place on earth, even as they lost their money over and over again.
Rachel and I split up. She walked through the rows of slots, and I made my way toward the tables—poker, blackjack, craps, roulette. I found Lake playing blackjack. I would have joined him, but I hadn’t gotten chips. So I stood back, leaning against a slot machine with two people pulling the lever, and called Rachel. “Got him. Over by . . .” I looked up. “Somewhere they’re playing blackjack. Does GPS work in a place like this?”
“I’ll find you.” She hung up.
Two minutes later Rachel was at my side, her sunglasses on top of her head, chips in her hands. “So now what?”
“We play a little blackjack.”
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