Part 14 (1/2)

”You're the One-Eyed Jack,” he said. ”And this must be the Suicide King.”

I shook, and so did Stewart. ”You've heard of us?”

”Show folk bend our luck a lot,” he said. ”It pays to know who the intermediaries are. Have you come for a t.i.the?”

I reached into my satchel and found a handful of thick poker chips. The Silver Slipper ones were just collectors' items now, but the ones from the Stratosphere had intrinsic value. I laid three thousand dollars in stamped, high-impact plastic on the card table and said, ”Actually, we've come for information. This is Stewart. Call me Jackie. Everybody else does, and I want us to be friends.”

He eyed the chips suspiciously, did not touch them, and sat back down. ”Information is not something I'm generally comfortable giving out,” he said. ”Especially when it commands that sort of price. Too many people think they can buy more than anybody ought to be able to buy for a couple thousand dollars.”

”Mmm,” Stewart said. ”You have kids, Bartolomj? Grandkids? They have health insurance? Take the money. It's nothing to us. It's useful to you.”

He eyed the stack. ”Tell me what you want to know.”

I looked at Stewart. Stewart looked at me. I shrugged and did the talking. ”Did you have an uncle or an older brother, maybe, who jumped s.h.i.+p here in Vegas some time ago and married a local girl?”

Bartolomj did not look away from my face. But his left hand crept out, encompa.s.sed the chips, and swept them to his side of the table.

”That,” he said, ”I don't mind talking about. But you have the story backward.”

”We do?” Stewart, doing his best wide-eyed innocent. It's amazing how people will rush to fill that perceived void.

”Absolutely,” Bartolomj said. ”You are thinking of my aunt, Branislava. My father's oldest sister. I never knew her; she left before I was born. She was a flyer, very beautiful, I'm told.”

”I don't think it can be,” I said. ”The woman I'm thinking of is about ten years older than you, I'd guess. But not well. She looks her age.”

”Are you sure?” He raised an eyebrow. ”Branka would be in her eighties. Maybe older. Of course, we do tend to live a long time in my family...”

He shrugged.

I put another thousand in chips on the table, and he raised an eyebrow. ”I told you I would help.”

”I'm helping, too,” I said. When he grinned he showed a gold tooth, which made me realize he hadn't smiled before. ”What would you say if I told you your Aunt Branka was still alive and needed your help?”

”This kind of help?” He tapped the chips.

I shrugged, copying his gesture.

”I'd say we look after our own.” He sucked on his teeth and pulled his hand back. ”And I'd say she left us, and it was up to her to come back and ask if she wants that changed.”

”I don't think she can ask,” I said, and pulled out the chair across from him without actually ever being invited. ”Tell me all about it, why don't you?”

Bartolomj gave me that look again, and I pushed the chips toward him with a fingertip. ”Good faith gesture.”

He swept them to him much less tentatively. ”We came through when the dam was going up, according to my father. She met a man and she married out,” he said. ”I don't know what else to tell you. We never heard from her after.”

Stewart, standing behind me, cleared his throat. ”Who did she marry?”

”Some guy,” Bartolomj answered. ”I can call my dad at the home and check. He's still pretty sharp for a guy in his eighties. He'll remember.”

”That'd be great,” I said. ”Bartolomj, can you answer me one more question, maybe?”

”I can but try.”

”If she married out,” I asked, ”why did she keep her own name?”

”She did?”

I nodded.

He let his head linger in that tilted pose for a moment before he shook his head. ”I can't say, Jackie. It wasn't done, in those days.”

”She's divorced,” Stewart said in the car, quite abruptly. He always was the smart one, blond or not.

”We can pull the marriage license,” I said.

Charleston Boulevard runs west all the way to Red Rock and the mountains from which it takes its name. Stewart and I go up there when we need to think, and we had planned to take our cell phones and wait for Bartolomj Bukvajova to call. But Stewart pulled a U-turn right in the middle of Charleston, while I bent my luck hard to make sure that if there were any cops in the neighborhood, they were distracted by a flock of pa.s.sing teenagers. It seemed like the least I could do.

Twenty minutes later, we had parked at a downtown casino and were crossing the street to the courthouse. Pulling the marriage license was easier than you'd expect; we're not really big on the expectation of privacy around here, and anyway it was a matter of public record. The hardest part was figuring out the date, but it was slow-just after lunch-and we got a helpful clerk, and I made sure she got lucky.

Sure, it's abuse of power. What's the point in power if you can't abuse it? Anyway, it was in a good cause. And it's how I make my living.

You know, it's more honest than what a lot of guys do.

She brought the photocopy to the window of a waiting room where we sat side by side in scoop-shaped plastic chairs, me slumped and Stewart kicked forward like a vulture on a bender. Stewart was on his feet first, and so he paid the fee and collected the copy. When he glanced at it, the color faded from his cheeks. He looked up at the clerk, who was regarding him with raised eyebrows, obviously waiting for some response. She smiled when she got it: ”Thank you,” Stewart said automatically. Then he caught my elbow and, without explanation, steered me toward the street.

When we pa.s.sed outside the courthouse door, into the wall of heat, onto fresh-mown gra.s.s dotted with sleeping vagrants and fat palm trees, I planted my feet and jerked him to a stop, because he didn't let go of my arm. He looked at me as if startled to realize I was still there and had opinions, and then shook his head. ”What?”

”Still not a mind reader,” I answered, and held out my left hand-the one he wasn't using as a tiller. And Stewart blushed right up under his hairline and handed me the still-warm photocopy.

”Sorry?”

”S'okay.” The paper shook in my hand; the day seemed very bright. ”Elijah Powers? Eli Powers? Babylon Hotel and Casino? That Eli Powers?”

”Shh,” he said. He took the paper, folded it one-handed, and tucked it into his pocket. But he was still looking at me, and when I mouthed, ”She married Eli Powers,” he nodded.

Well.

s.h.i.+t.

Just then, my cell rang. It was Bartolomj Bukvajova, calling to tell us that his dad said his sister married some guy who ran a gambling hall in Block 16-the old red-light zone-when the dam was going in over in Boulder City and Vegas was where the workers came to blow money and chase skirts on weekends. He thought it had been annulled shortly after, but he never spoke to her again.

Elijah Porter, his father thought. Some Biblical name like that.

Stewart took me to the Lucky 7's buffet at the Plaza, plunked me down in a corner, and brought me a plate before he fetched his own. I ordered him a Sprite and a gla.s.s of the house red-you try to get ginger ale in Vegas; it's worth your life-and coffee and an ice water for me. I waited to start eating the fried shrimp until he got back the second time.

”So,” he said, settling himself behind a plate of roast beef and cornbread, ”how are we going to get at Eli Powers?”