The Lover's Children novel Chapter 108

PAT

Our eyes meet. Full in the face.

A glance, the briefest of looks, but just for a second, I get a good look at him. And he of me.

Those eyes.

I don’t want to meet those eyes again.

Who is he?

He was at the morgue.

Borje knows him.

Why’s he chasing me?

Why was he at Lily’s apartment?

What’s he to do with her?

I’d like to go somewhere quiet. Get a bit of sleep.

But they’ve got me on the TV. They know who I am.

It’s hot. It’s so hot.

And my arm… It hurts…

*****

KLEMPNER

Hoodie pelts ahead of me, dodging bag-laden shoppers, women with strollers, men with briefcases.

Barging between a pair of suits yammering over take-away coffee cups, he staggers as he knocks one down onto the sidewalk. I hurdle the fallen, ignoring the indignant yells of the other as he tries to wipe coffee from his shirt. He lashes out, grabbing me at the shoulder, but I lash back, propelling the rest of the coffee over him…

And in the two seconds it’s cost me…

Crowds mill and push, and Hoodie has vanished in among the surge.

But he can’t have gone far…

Another squad car appears, but not now squealing by. Instead, it meanders, both driver and passenger scanning the milling crowds.

Dropping once more to a dogtrot, I weave through the hordes. At a corner ahead of me, a police officer stands, all too obviously watching, head swinging one way, then the other. His gaze slides my way and past, then double-takes back. For an instant his eyes lock with mine. He nods acknowledgment, then mutters something into a handset.

Never did I think to be treated as a fellow comrade by the police…

Surreal…

Then, I brush away my moment of unreality.

The officer has a complete view ahead and to the right. If Hoodie’s there, he should spot him. I turn left, moving at a steady lope that, even in the heat, I can keep up indefinitely.

Police have the centre covered…

Where would he go to lose himself?

Where could he go…?

?

What’s ahead?

Ah, yes…

*****

The Golden Fleece Casino. I sometimes wonder if its owner, Vince Caproni, stuck his tongue in his cheek as he named it. Certainly, the casino operates to painlessly separate clientele by the thousand from their money, depositing it into Caproni’s waiting bank account, and all whilst convincing them they’re having a good time.

Great business model if you can pull it off.

Cutting past the schmucks making their way up for their voluntary fleecing, I take the front steps two at a time to the be-columned, be-arched and overly grandiose entrance.

A pair of men stand as doorkeepers, calmly vigilant in their remit of separating schmucks and suckers from high-rollers, players and other annoying professionals. I’ve not a clue how Caproni deals with anyone he thinks might be trying to work the 5%-in-favour-of-the-house to their own advantage, and since I’ve never so much as bought a lottery ticket, I’ll probably never find out.

As I charge up the steps, the doorkeepers swivel to face me. Others emerge from inside, squaring up, hands resting suggestively inside jackets.

But one of the doorkeepers, I’ve met before, Decker. He’s a good man. His startled face greets me. “Mr Klempner? What…?”

“No time to talk, Decker. I’m hunting. On the trail of a killer. I’ll give my apologies to Caproni later.”

The urgency in my voice penetrates and he jerks jolts to attention. “Killer? Who?”

“The Surgeon...” His eyes widen and he reaches for his phone. He’s already talking into it, relaying my words as I speak… “… Thirty-ish. Mid-brown hair. Medium height. Jeans. Undistinguished. Probably sweating. Running from me. Check the local TV. His photo’s plastered up on Breaking News.

Decker spills the last few words into his phone, then jabs a finger at the other security guards. “You heard the man. Jackson, Williams, into the main hall. Morales, go check the security cameras. Ring through to me immediately if you see anyone answering this bastard’s description. Anyone who runs into Hickman, tell him what’s happening.”

Weaving through the milling crowds of the casino hall, I cover the left-hand side, waving Decker to the right. Paralleling one another, we work our way along the hall.

The Ever-Hopeful feed coins, one after another, into kaleidoscopic machines as reels spin, click and ring. A croupier at one of the Blackjack tables scratches at her ear in a signal I know is used to signal a possible ‘Counter’. At the roulette wheels, morons with more money than sense shove stacks of chips across the table.

Many of the punters look to be here for the show, peering over shoulders, living vicariously through the winners, indulging in a little schadenfreude with the losers. But I can see their faces. They’re no threat. Others hunch over tables, faces huddled anonymously into clutched cards

But by the time I’ve reached the rear of the hall, I’ve not spotted anything untoward. Glancing up to Caproni’s mezzanine office of glass and brass and upholstered leather, one of Decker’s men raises palms to me, shaking his head.

A commotion rises from somewhere near the entrance. Someone’s screaming and yelling. Pushing and shoving my way back, across the tables I see that Decker too is ramming through the crowds, making for the same point.

But it’s not Hoodie. Instead, a slot machine wails and hoots, vomiting a clatter of coins to spill into the tray, then bounce out and over the carpet. A beaming woman stoops, her purse open wide to intercept the apparently endless waterfall of coins. Beside her, a man stands nose-to-nose with another woman, scarlet-faced, hugely fat, almost incoherent with rage. Her collection of double chins wobbles with her screams as she tries to shoulder past him. “That’s my money! It’s mine!”

An audience gathers around the drama, some cheering at the still-rattling jackpot, others egging on the fight.

The man blocks Double-Chins. “No, it isn’t.”

“I’ve been at that machine all day!”

“Well, you weren’t there just now, were you...”

And there, I see him, Hoodie, standing at the exit, smirking, giving me a little wave as the rabble swarm in, blocking the aisle, the crowd thickening and clotting ahead of me while I jostle and curse.

“You should have picked a different machine.” Double-Chins voice rises an octave. “That one’s mine! I gotta use the john sometime.”

“Not my fault,” shrugs the man. “I only came in to pick up the wife.” Moving to block Double-Chins again, he casts over the crowd to an approaching bouncer. “I was lucky. My Josie won the jackpot. You didn’t.”

She shrieks at him, arms flailing in some attempt at a punch, and I duck to avoid a clout on the chin, then still stooping, slide under and past to the thinning edge of the mob.

The bouncer moves in, all looming six-three of him, grabbing Double-Chins by the elbow, steering her for the door. “C’mon, Maggie. You know the rules. Her cash went in last. It’s her cash coming out.”

Double-Chins squawks, batting uselessly at the slab of muscle towing her to the exit but I don’t get to see the end of the micro-drama. Decker arrives, another grunt in tow, clearing our way through.