plus his name at the bottom. He put the note in the mailbox.
Twenty-four hours was all he’d give them. If they hadn’t made contact by this time tomorrow, he’d be on his way to someplace else. Even good deeds had a patience limit and a time limit.
10
Cape looked at the ace of clubs he’d just been dealt, glanced again at his down card: ace of hearts. The dealer had an eight showing. Cape was at the end of the blackjack table to the dealer’s left; when his turn came again, he flipped over the diamond ace and laid it alongside the club ace. He said, “Splitting these,” and doubled his twenty-five-dollar bet. The dealer slid one card facedown under each of the aces. Cape didn’t look at these.
The dealer turned his hole card. Jack to go with the eight. Eighteen. After the house paid the two other players whose hands beat eighteen, Cape let the dealer do the unveiling of his down cards. Deuce to go with the first ace, six to go with the second ace. Another pair of losers.
“Tough luck,” one of the other players said. “Just isn’t your night, looks like.”
Three hundred and sixty in the hole now. Cape said, “Looks like,” and raked up his handful of remaining chips. He quit the table, started toward the hotel lobby to see if he had any messages.
He was halfway there, threading his way through the noisy crowd, when somebody fell into step beside him. A hand touched his arm, lightly. When he stopped and swung his head, he was looking into the cold eyes of the olive-skinned man in the photograph.
“Cape, isn’t it?” Caviar voice: slick, grainy, salt-oily. “Matthew Cape?”
“That’s right.”
“Let’s go to the casino bar, Mr. Cape. Have a drink and talk.”
“Suits me.”
The other man stayed close on the walk across to the bar, as if to make sure Cape didn’t try to get away. They took an empty table in one corner. Cold Eyes ordered cognac from a waitress in a skimpy purple-and-gold outfit. Cape said he’d have the same.
Once they were alone, he said, “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“No? I thought you’d have found it out by now. You seem to be pretty resourceful that way.”
Cape shrugged. “I figured one of the Vanowens would supply it. Which of them told you about me? Stacy or Andrew? Or was it the sister, Lacy?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really. I’m just wondering how you found me.”
“I’ve lived in this area a long time. Let’s just say I have contacts.” He leaned back, crossed his legs. A fat gold ring on one finger caught the neon bar lights, seemed to throw out sparks. An even fatter turquoise-and-silver ring gleamed on his other hand. His lightweight beige suit was shantung silk; the pale blue shirt was silk, too, and the mirror-gloss black shoes looked Italian made. “It’s Mahannah, by the way,” he said. “Vince Mahannah.”
“Mr. Mahannah.”
“What would you guess my profession to be?”
“I’m not good at guessing games.”
“Give it a try anyway.”
“Same business as Andrew Vanowen?”
“Do I look like a venture capitalist? The odds are poor in that kind of business, unless you have an MBA and the right kind of background. Too much risk, too easy to cash out all at once.”
“Gambling’s also a risky business.”
Mahannah cocked an eyebrow. “Is that what you think I am? A gambler?”
“This is a Nevada casino, you seem at home here, and you use terms like ‘poor odds’ and ‘cash out.’ Good a guess as any.”
“So it is,” Mahannah said. “I have a number of interests, as amatter of fact, but I admit gambling is one of them. What about you?”
“Gambling is one of my interests, too.”
“Professionally?”
“No. I’m strictly an amateur.”
“The high-stakes kind of amateur?”
“Depends on the game.”
“Is that why you’re in Stateline? To play some kind of high-stakes game?”
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
“Try me.”
Their drinks arrived. Mahannah sat warming
Twenty-four hours was all he’d give them. If they hadn’t made contact by this time tomorrow, he’d be on his way to someplace else. Even good deeds had a patience limit and a time limit.
10
Cape looked at the ace of clubs he’d just been dealt, glanced again at his down card: ace of hearts. The dealer had an eight showing. Cape was at the end of the blackjack table to the dealer’s left; when his turn came again, he flipped over the diamond ace and laid it alongside the club ace. He said, “Splitting these,” and doubled his twenty-five-dollar bet. The dealer slid one card facedown under each of the aces. Cape didn’t look at these.
The dealer turned his hole card. Jack to go with the eight. Eighteen. After the house paid the two other players whose hands beat eighteen, Cape let the dealer do the unveiling of his down cards. Deuce to go with the first ace, six to go with the second ace. Another pair of losers.
“Tough luck,” one of the other players said. “Just isn’t your night, looks like.”
Three hundred and sixty in the hole now. Cape said, “Looks like,” and raked up his handful of remaining chips. He quit the table, started toward the hotel lobby to see if he had any messages.
He was halfway there, threading his way through the noisy crowd, when somebody fell into step beside him. A hand touched his arm, lightly. When he stopped and swung his head, he was looking into the cold eyes of the olive-skinned man in the photograph.
“Cape, isn’t it?” Caviar voice: slick, grainy, salt-oily. “Matthew Cape?”
“That’s right.”
“Let’s go to the casino bar, Mr. Cape. Have a drink and talk.”
“Suits me.”
The other man stayed close on the walk across to the bar, as if to make sure Cape didn’t try to get away. They took an empty table in one corner. Cold Eyes ordered cognac from a waitress in a skimpy purple-and-gold outfit. Cape said he’d have the same.
Once they were alone, he said, “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“No? I thought you’d have found it out by now. You seem to be pretty resourceful that way.”
Cape shrugged. “I figured one of the Vanowens would supply it. Which of them told you about me? Stacy or Andrew? Or was it the sister, Lacy?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really. I’m just wondering how you found me.”
“I’ve lived in this area a long time. Let’s just say I have contacts.” He leaned back, crossed his legs. A fat gold ring on one finger caught the neon bar lights, seemed to throw out sparks. An even fatter turquoise-and-silver ring gleamed on his other hand. His lightweight beige suit was shantung silk; the pale blue shirt was silk, too, and the mirror-gloss black shoes looked Italian made. “It’s Mahannah, by the way,” he said. “Vince Mahannah.”
“Mr. Mahannah.”
“What would you guess my profession to be?”
“I’m not good at guessing games.”
“Give it a try anyway.”
“Same business as Andrew Vanowen?”
“Do I look like a venture capitalist? The odds are poor in that kind of business, unless you have an MBA and the right kind of background. Too much risk, too easy to cash out all at once.”
“Gambling’s also a risky business.”
Mahannah cocked an eyebrow. “Is that what you think I am? A gambler?”
“This is a Nevada casino, you seem at home here, and you use terms like ‘poor odds’ and ‘cash out.’ Good a guess as any.”
“So it is,” Mahannah said. “I have a number of interests, as amatter of fact, but I admit gambling is one of them. What about you?”
“Gambling is one of my interests, too.”
“Professionally?”
“No. I’m strictly an amateur.”
“The high-stakes kind of amateur?”
“Depends on the game.”
“Is that why you’re in Stateline? To play some kind of high-stakes game?”
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
“Try me.”
Their drinks arrived. Mahannah sat warming
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