Step To The Graveyard Easy Part 8

"She feels sorry for me. Thinks I'm an alcoholic."

"Are you?"

"You bet. d.a.m.n good one, too. Very controlled. I could give lessons."

Cape slid the photos partway out of his pocket. The one of the ice-eyed man was on top. He held that one up.

"Recognize this man?"

Lacy looked, blinked, frowned. "Where'd you get that?"

"I'd rather give your sister the answer to that question."

"Oh, you would."

"If you don't mind."

The dark look and spitting mouth again; and again, as mercurially as before, her mood changed and she burst out laughing. A rich, bawdy laugh that said she was genuinely amused.

"What's funny?" Cape asked her.

"You know who he is?"

"No. Who is he?"

"If you don't know, how come you have his picture?"

"It's a little complicated."

"I'll just bet it is. And you don't want to explain it to anyone but Stacy."

"Or her husband."

"Aha." The laugh rolled out again. "Those other photos in your pocket-little sister?"

"Two of them."

"p.o.r.nographic? Let me see."

"Just snapshots. n.o.body in them but her."

"Well, that's too bad. Who's in the others?"

"One other. Your sister's husband."

Lacy thought that was even funnier. The laughter rolled and echoed, finally caught in her throat and made her cough. She drowned the rest of her mirth with the last third of her drink.

"I haven't laughed this hard in weeks," she said a little breathlessly. "So it's like that, is it."

"Like what?"

"Come on, what're you selling? And who to?"

"I'm not selling anything."

"Shakedown? That's what they call it, right?"

"Wrong."

"What're you up to, then? Oh, I know. You're a private detective."

"Wrong again. I'm here to do the Vanowens a favor."

"Sure you are. And yourself a bigger one in return."

"Look," Cape said, "I don't really care what you think of me or my motives. If your sister's cheating on her husband, or vice versa, it's none of my concern. That isn't why or how I came into possession of these photos."

Lacy's amus.e.m.e.nt had vanished. Now she looked sullen, unhappy. "s.h.i.+t," she said.

"How about telling me the name of the man in this photo?"

"No. Ask Stacy, when you see her. Or Andrew."

"The phone number here? So I can call later."

"It's unlisted."

"I know. I checked the directory before I drove out here."

"Well, you'll just have to drive out here again."

"So you won't let me have the number."

"Salesman, I won't let you have a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing."

"Will you at least tell your sister I stopped by?"

"Why should I? None of my business. You as much as said so."

"If you change your mind," Cape said, "I'll be at the Lakeside Grand in Stateline. Staying there tonight if I can get a room. In the casino after seven o'clock, either way. If neither of them wants to see me in person, they can call my room or have me paged."

"I've already forgotten you. More important things on my mind."

"Such as?"

"Such as how much gin to put in my next drink."

Cape stopped the 'Vette at the top of the driveway, next to the Vanowen mailbox. On a piece of sc.r.a.p paper he wrote a note addressed to both Andrew and Stacy Vanowen-the same information he'd given Lacy, 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 c.o.c.ked 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 a matter 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 his between long-fingered, delicate-looking hands. Gambler's hands. Cape nibbled his cognac, set the snifter down.

He said, "I used to be a salesman for a company that manufactures industrial valves in Rockford, Illinois. Dull work. So I decided to retire and do what I've always wanted to do-see some of the country, live it up a little."

"And you finance this new lifestyle how? By gambling?"

"No. I had some money saved."

"A man can always use more, though."

"I'm not looking to get it the way you're thinking."

"What way is that?"

"Look," Cape said, "why don't we quit sparring and get down to it. You've got a notion that I'm here to try some kind of scam with a handful of photographs. The truth is just the opposite. I'm here to warn you and the Vanowens that somebody else might be planning a scam, one that involves the three of you."

Mahannah c.o.c.ked the eyebrow again. "Who would that somebody be?"

"A couple of small-time grifters I met in San Francisco two days ago. Tanya and Boone Judson-at least, that's what they're calling themselves. Names mean anything to you?"

"No."