Game Over 9781930650152, 9781930650121

Citation preview

GAME OVER

GAME OVER Bernie DuBois

Trellis Publishing, Inc. P.O. Box 280 New York Mills, MN 56567 www.trellispublishing.com 800-513-0115 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Printed in the United States of America Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication (Provided by Quality Books, Inc.) DuBois, Bernie. Game over / Bernie DuBois. p. cm. ISBN-13: 978-1-930650-12-1 ISBN-10: 1-930650-12-4 1. Compulsive gamblers--Fiction. 2. Legislators-United States--Fiction. 3. Indians of North America-Fiction. 4. Gambling--Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories. 6. Love stories. PS3604.U255G36 2011

I. Title. 813’.6

QBI10-600218 14 13 12 11 10 / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Ordering Information Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, book clubs, and others. For details, contact the publisher. Orders by U.S. trade bookstores and wholesalers: Consortium Book Sales and Distribution, (800) 283-3572 or visit them at www.cbsd.com.

Cover and Interior Design by Design Angler Inc.

To my family member, whose struggle inspired this story, and to all who hold the tiger by the tail. May the force be with you.

Prologue Washington, DC February 15, 7:00 pm He was becoming impatient as he got ready to hide in the clutter of the garage. Darkness was deepening, and with that darkness came the time of night when she should come home. He also knew that impatience – especially when one was hunting – inevitably led to mistakes. He had learned about those mistakes hunting deer out of season on the reservation; those lessons stayed with him. He’d come to appreciate her during the past week. He had shadowed her every activity, observed her at home and at work, watched her courteous behavior toward even those people who disagreed vehemently with her political goals. He began to regret what he had to do, to hunt a human being. He had done this once before though, and he had not gotten caught for it. But they had busted him because he showed up on a security camera in a Stop and Go he had robbed. His third time in front of a judge, and the fact that he had used a gun, had put him in prison for a seven-year stay. He readied his hiding place. A small pegboard wall would keep him from her view. He moved a table saw over to make room for himself. From there he could see when the overhead garage door opened, could see her exit her car to go into the kitchen, could see where she would be when he rushed into the kitchen at her. And he could watch her through the holes in the pegboard if she lingered in the garage. He was ready. Unsure, but ready. His hiding space wasn’t large, but then neither was he. He was wiry and strong from lifting weights in prison, and he was quick. He prided himself on that quickness. He had

proven it after a couple of fights in prison when the white Aryans had singled him out because of his Indian looks and heritage. Things had gotten pretty tense – fights happening almost every day – when suddenly the annual parole board had kicked him out two years early. Maybe luck was indeed better than skill. But then two days after his release the phone call came. “I need you to do something for me,” said the man’s voice, “something you’ve done before.” He had done a lot of things before, and said so. “Get rid of this person for me, and we’re even,” continued the voice. “And there’s ten grand in it for you,” the voice continued, “or if you don’t, back to the Aryans waiting to scalp you.” The voice chuckled, then gave him instructions, and hung up. So here he was, waiting. Hunting. Worrying a little. Feeling trapped in this situation, one not of his choosing. Worrying about someone with enough clout to pull a guy out of prison and put him back in. Initially he planned to hide in her bedroom, but he investigated the house and realized the original wood floors creaked. The noise could be a problem. Ten grand. One woman. No prison. He had done it before, and he could do it again. Tools were scattered in disarray – hammers, a wire cutter, a hack saw, screwdrivers, a set of ratchet wrenches in an old toolbox with the cover open, and an electric sander. The woman evidently did not see the advantage of a pegboard. He picked up one of the hammers and swung it a few times and set it near the toolbox. His tobacco-stained fingers lingered on the smooth wood of the handle. He closed the toolbox and started arranging the other tools when he heard the car turn in the driveway. He heard the car drive up, saw the garage door open, and watched her go into the kitchen. He began his stalk.

Chapter One Senator Jean Anderson Buffalo sat at her desk. With elbows resting on the open pages of the newspaper and fingers pressed to her temples, she attempted to read an article about the latest congressional proposal. Dusk began to deepen, and a soft, barely-visible light glowed from her ceramic desk lamp. Her responsibilities as vice-chair of the Senate Indian Affairs Committee had proven challenging, the polite word she’d used when complaining of the stress to her mother. “You’re lucky to have such important work.” Jean’s mother, Margaret Buffalo of the Chippewa tribe, had told her many times. Margaret was a woman of influence on her Wisconsin reservation. Her quiet manner and wisdom brought many to her door to share tea and confidences. Margaret had told her daughter to listen to her heart and spirit and to do what felt right for herself and her people. Her father, on the other hand, called her work “bottom-feeding” and told her to get her butt back home on the reservation where it belonged. Warren Brandt sat across the desk from Jean, waiting for her to come back to the conversation. She ignored him, something she did quite well, and continued reading: WASHINGTON POST: New Rules on the Horizon Indian tribes have been legally permitted to operate gambling casinos on reservations since 1988. Key lawmakers are now looking at the multi-billion-dollar-a-year industry with increased skepticism and concern. Last Thursday the chairman of the Senate Indian Affairs Committee, Warren Brandt, proposed that tribal casinos adhere to new federal guidelines. Licensing of games, increased and stricter adherence to accounting procedures for revenues, expenses and profits, and background checks 1

GAME OVER

of key casino employees would be required under the proposed regulations. The states most affected would be California, Oklahoma, Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan, each with several tribally-owned casinos. Brandt also seeks some form of federal taxation on profits. Jean looked up from the article, exasperated. The crow’s feet wrinkles that were starting to show around her eyes grew deeper with each new problem. “Federal taxation? You actually said that to a reporter? You said we want to tax tribal profits? I don’t care about your constituents, Warren. Give me a break! What were you thinking when you broke this story? And why does the reporter say this is your proposal when we were supposed to do this together?” Warren Brandt sunk a little lower in his chair. “And tell me this. Why did you say we wanted increased accounting procedures? We never agreed to that, damn it! You’re just using the pressure from the fucking press to get me to cave in, aren’t you?” Jean tossed the newspaper toward him. “Must you always be so vulgar?” Warren closed his eyes and held them shut, as though trying to erase a headache or a bad memory. He leaned back in the plush leather chair. “I’m just saying maybe we need to agree on our concessions now, before we get to conference committee.” Jean rose and paced behind her desk. Her high heels clicked on the hardwood floor. “Think straight for a minute. If we look like we are giving in already, we’ll get talked into many more concessions between now and the conference committee meetings. We’ve gotta be strong here. You knew my stand. You’ve always known my stand.” Her “straight” and “strong” sounded like “shhhtraight” and “shhhtrong,” because she was sucking on broken bits of a butterscotch candy Warren brought to the meeting to help Jean cut down on her smoking. While they hadn’t become exactly friends since they began working together on the Senate Indian Affairs Committee, he had been overheard commenting on her commitment and hard work. Ethical, tough, no nonsense. He publicly used those terms in conjunction with Jean Anderson Buffalo’s name. Warren’s voice sounded reassuring. “Jean, look at it this way. The House is going to pass their version of this bill within a few weeks. We want as much influence as possible when both bills go to the conference committee. Many states are already getting a cut of profits. It’s only a matter of time before the federal government gets theirs, and we need a game plan to keep the percentage of tax as small as possible.” 2

ChapterOne

“Profits and game plans. How can you say those words in the same sentence?” Jean sat down hard in her leather chair and frowned. She pressed her lips together and swallowed the last of her candy. “This isn’t a football game, Warren. Taxation and regulation mean a loss of sovereignty for the tribes, and I just can’t support that.” Jean pulled on her blouse collar and stretched her neck back, like an asthmatic trying to catch her breath. She caught sight of an article on a stack of papers: NEW YORK TIMES: Critiques of Casinos Abound There has been criticism from governors over the lack of tribal casino regulation. Under a new proposal, states could refuse to allow Indian gambling. Tribes would have the right to appeal to the Department of the Interior, which would have the final authority to approve gaming requests. For some tribes, gaming has become the highest source of income available, funding reservation improvements such as schools, roads, health services, and college scholarship programs. Senator Warren Brandt, chairman of the Senate Indian Affairs Committee and author of the proposal, said today, “This legislation will answer many of the concerns about Indian gaming, and all will benefit from increased regulation and taxation, including the casinos. Perhaps a federal tax could go back into the budget of the Bureau of Indian Affairs.” Warren cleared his throat and slowly folded his fingers together, looking over them at Jean. “Jean, I’ve been a politician for 28 years. I’ve always been an advocate for the tribes, you know that. And I have some experience here. You need to listen to me. The tribes have to give up some control.” He rubbed his eyebrows, pushed up his glasses, leaned forward, and waited for Jean’s response. She shattered another candy, knowing she was making him nervous. He spoke again. “This won’t be seen as a sign of weakness, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s just how political compromise works. We need to decide now what we want out of this, before we present our case tomorrow.” Jean’s eyes darted quickly around the room, looking for invisible enemies, before her stare settled on Warren. “What we want, Warren, is what we started out to get. The minimum of federal regulations over Indian gaming, period. No taxation. You agreed to that concept. I agreed that states should not be forced to allow Indian gaming. But that’s all I agreed to.” Damn him! The tribe would never believe she wasn’t a part of this! 3

GAME OVER

The intercom buzzed but Jean ignored it. She needed to try a more direct approach before Warren quit listening. “Jesus, Warren. You told me you could take the heat.” She leaned forward, put her chin in her right hand, and squinted the clear, blue eyes she had inherited from her father. “Why are you wimping out?” “You have no right to question my motives!” His voice rose to nearly a roar, but Jean never flinched. “Compromise is part of the process. Why won’t you listen?” “Because I don’t know how in hell I’m supposed to explain this to my tribe. They’ll see this as a direct attack on tribal sovereignty. Hell, what am I saying? Every tribe in the entire U.S. will see it that way.” Jean threw another newspaper in his direction. When Warren didn’t budge she decided to try another tactic. She stood and gazed out her window for a moment, then turned to face him. “Is it Sam Lyons? Is he the reason you’re buckling under pressure? After all, you two go back a long way. Isn’t that what you once told me? That night you drank five martinis, and you said you always told the truth while drinking martinis.” Warren stood and scowled. Towering over her desk, he slapped his wide hands down on the surface, nearly toppling the lamp. “Nonsense. Sam has nothing to do with this.” He put his hands on his hips in a way that reminded Jean of the Jack Benny reruns she and her mother used to watch together. She turned her back on him so he wouldn’t see her smile. “Jean, you must accept the reality of political compromise. I just hope it won’t be too late after all the work we’ve done. You can’t always have it your way.” Warren stomped out of the room. Jean stared out the window as she heard the door slam. The view from her office was comforting in the summer – then at least the hedge outside the Hart Senate Office Building partially hid the parking lot that took up most of her view, and she could concentrate on the green in that ragged hedge and pretend that there were forests nearby. Now in the dead of winter, all she could see was the roof of the parking attendant shack. The on-again off-again snowfall had formed slushy ruts now frozen into rivulets of ice around the parking lot. Miniature mountains and valleys of frozen terrain. Jean focused on the view in the distance where she could see a thin stand of tall pines, and just beyond it, bustling Massachusetts Avenue curving around Union Station. She wondered if she’d ever get an office in the Russell building. She could at least see the Capitol from there. She sighed and noticed that the holiday wreath with its monstrous red bow, now losing its color from the alternating snow and sun, still hung in the center arch of the train station. She could barely glimpse specks of red through the tops of the 4

ChapterOne

pine trees. Dusk was fading fast, making the scene all the more ominous. The fight to balance her duties as a Native American and a woman in the Senate consumed her. With each decision and vote she weighed her responsibilities. Even her family could not agree on what her proper role should be. To represent her people? To represent Wisconsin? To represent women everywhere? Her political career had started with a surprise election for a seat in the Wisconsin House of Representatives. Her family repeated for weeks afterwards how shocked they were to see little Jean Buffalo go to Madison. She had only meant to help a candidate she believed in get elected, but the candidate had a massive coronary during the campaign. The Democratic Party thought she’d make a politically correct replacement. She had merely taken a tough-on-crime stand, said some things about educating all students, and talked vaguely about where she stood on Wisconsin tribal fishing rights. Two months later she was elected. She served three years in Madison. When one of Wisconsin’s U.S. Senators found himself indicted on two counts of improper use of campaign funds just four days shy of the cut-off date for candidate registration, the party searched again for a replacement. Someone with a history of winning easily. Jean Anderson Buffalo. Party handlers advised her to drop “Buffalo” since her Native American status might not be an advantage. “Your name could even hurt your chances. You need to be attractive to the entire state to win a national office,” the campaign director told her. She’d called home. “Mom, they want me to drop ‘Buffalo’ from my name for the duration of the campaign. What do you think?” “Will it give you a better chance to be elected and do some good work?” Her mother’s voice sounded calm, but Jean could imagine her mother’s concern. “They tell me it’ll help significantly.” “Do you want the job if you can’t be Jean Buffalo?” Jean kept her name, and six months later she sat in her newly-won office in Washington. Indian gaming had become a hot political issue, and Warren Brandt, the good senator from Illinois and chairman of the Senate Indian Affairs Committee, had insisted that Jean serve on the controversial but powerful committee. He teased her about being his “Native American conscience.” She put up with his condescending attitude because she wanted to serve on the committee. What they needed was more Native American legislators, she thought. A little diversity for the new millennium. She quickly learned to be tough. 5

GAME OVER

As far as Jean was concerned, Warren Brandt was basically a good person. But politicians like Warren worried Jean. They had enormous power and were not always aware of the consequences of the laws they created. She feared that if a national policy was not adopted to maintain sovereignty for tribes involved in gaming, they could soon lose control over casino operations – an unacceptable consequence. A little give here, a little take there, and pretty soon you have a law that makes no sense. Lawyers come in and take control. How could she make her tribe understand that they needed to agree to even more regulation? And federal taxes on profits! Last visit home, she’d been interviewed on a radio talk show. Her Uncle George had called in and asked how she could possibly show her face on the reservation. “And don’t try to bullshit me, Missy Jean, you went over to the white side.” No one ever called her Missy Jean but her Uncle George, and there he was, critical right over the radio, with all of her fellow tribesman to hear. Jean stared at the parking lot ice patterns, and her shoulders bent lower with each exhale of her breath. Uncle George was not going to like this. Her secretary’s voice blared over the intercom. “Senator Buffalo, Senator Brandt for you on line one.” Jean squared her shoulders as best she could. That damn Warren is folding under the pressure. And he’s supposed to be the hard ass with experience! Jean picked up the phone. “What’s the matter, you forget one last concession you’d like me to make? Maybe turn a few casinos over to Vegas billionaires?” She slumped down in her chair. “I didn’t mean that, Warren. I know you’re only trying to keep me focused on political realities. It’s just that my tribe is never going to accept these changes.” “I just wanted to say we can talk in the morning. We’ll both have time to cool down. We can figure out something that will work. You want to meet me for an early breakfast?” Jean looked down at her desk. In the Washington Post, another headline screamed out at her. “Attack on Indian Gaming Comes from Senate.” “No, but don’t say I won’t compromise. How about coffee, eight o’clock, basement restaurant?” “Okay, see you there.” Resisting the urge to slam down the phone, she set it into its cradle and surveyed the pile of newspapers. She decided to go home early and fix herself a stiff drink. She stuffed the papers in her briefcase and picked up her coat. “That damn Warren is giving up.” She reached for the leaded crystal candy dish that her mother gave her when she first came to the Senate, grabbed some of the butterscotch candies, and jammed them 6

ChapterOne

into her skirt pocket, wishing she had cigarettes. She fingered the candies. “At least he brought me something positive today.” She slammed her door shut as she walked out, ignoring the buzzing intercom.

7

GAME OVER

8

Chapter Two February 8, 6:30 pm. Magic Days Casino was truly magical to Debbie Wood. From the moment she passed the stretch limousines parked outside and stepped into the front lobby, she forgot about life elsewhere. She instantly got caught up in the low hum of the crowd noises – the electronic songs coming from the new machines, the coins clanging against metal trays of the old coin model machines, the constant pinging, music blaring from the lounge, blackjack dealers calling out the cards. It felt soothing to let go of her worries, lulled by the sounds. Cigarette smoke swirled around Debbie as she stared at the screen. Her gaming machine sat in the middle of a long row – twelve to her left and twelve to her right, all busy when she first arrived. This was her lucky spot in any row. The video poker units, arranged back-to-back with an entire row consisting of fifty machines, all rang at slightly different pitches. Hers had a lower-sounding pitch than the ones on either side. Debbie liked the low tones – ping, pong, ping, three tones in all, each time she hit any poker hand that paid a return and added credits to her total. Of course if she had no credits and lost, she needed to feed in her own money, something that happened a lot lately. “Anything to drink?” a waitress called out as she passed by. Debbie didn’t want to tear her eyes away from the screen and the five cards dealt to her. She had to decide which to keep and which to throw away before the machine could replace her discards for a possible winning hand. She turned anyway. “A diet Coke, please.” Debbie hadn’t ordered alcoholic drinks for several months. They used up too many quarters since they weren’t free like in some Vegas casinos. Soda didn’t cost anything, but even ordering that caused a problem because she felt obligated to give a quarter or two tip 9

GAME OVER

to the server. When she turned back to the machine, four hearts stared at her – ace, three, ten, and seven. Too bad she also had the jack of diamonds. Debbie kept the hearts by pressing the “hold” button underneath each card. Please God, give me a heart. She’d been playing for just an hour or so. She wanted to make it a quick stop after work. So far she’d lost a hundred and twenty-five dollars. When she first started playing video poker a few years ago, she gambled once every six months or so, and she limited herself to twenty or thirty dollars per night. Now she just knew her luck would change. She could feel it. The jackpot would be hers, and she could pay off her debts. She would get ahead on her bills. Maybe she’d even stop coming to Magic Days. She could do something wonderful for her sons, Philip and Steven. They’d love a European summer trip, something they had never been able to do. She imagined it now, sitting around a table at an outdoor cafe, sipping coffee, the boys eating pastries and watching people walk by their table. What an education for them! Debbie examined the screen and pressed the “deal” button. The machine made a sound like the dealing of a card, a low ffssssshht. The jack of diamonds disappeared, and in its place stood the ten of spades. No heart, no flush, no winner. “Shit, this machine is cold.” “You should try this one,” said a distant voice. A man sat four machines to her right. Debbie hadn’t noticed that most of the people around her had left, nor had she realized she’d spoken loud enough to be heard. He looked familiar. “Hitting anything?” she asked, welcoming the break in play to straighten her back and loosen her tightened neck muscles. “Not today, but a few months ago I hit a straight flush, and I’d only put in a couple bucks!” He looked her way and smiled, then turned back to his poker screen. Turquoise rings glittered as his fingers tapped the buttons on the machine. Debbie glanced at his credit total. “You’re not doing too badly. You’ve got over three hundred credits!” Each credit was worth a quarter. “Yeah, but after that straight flush it doesn’t seem like much.” Debbie looked him over more closely. Then she remembered why he seemed so familiar – he was a fellow student in her law class! He sat way in the front, off to the left. A quiet sort who never said much unless called upon, and then he gave brief answers. She thought perhaps he was Native American because of his high cheekbones and dark, olive-toned 10

ChapterTwo

skin, but mostly because he had one thin, long braid hanging down the back of his red and blue plaid flannel shirt. She hadn’t noticed his braid in class. She wondered whether she should converse with him. Politeness called for saying a few words about how the luck was going, how the machine was treating you, but anything personal or long-winded got in the way of concentration. He seemed friendly enough. “I suppose you’re wondering how I know you, Ms. Wood?” “How’d you know my name?” Debbie shook her long, thick brown hair. She let her short legs dangle from the stool since they wouldn’t touch the floor and otherwise she had to tuck them behind one of the metal bars. She noticed his legs reached the floor with ease. “Professor Tarpen says your name every time he calls on you. Do you know mine?” He looked at her with brown eyes that turned up at the corners when he smiled. Debbie thought maybe he enjoyed her discomfort. “I’m sorry, no. I’ve never been good with names. And Tarpen doesn’t call on you often.” She glanced back at her machine, sorry that she didn’t know his name, sorry that she knew him at all, and sorry that she’d taken this break from play. It was time to go home anyway. She had only a few dollars left, her machine had gone cold, and there were no credits left in her machine. She’d promised the boys she’d cook them a pizza tonight when she got home. They loved helping her chop and arrange the pizza toppings. She was determined to get home early. “Ah, so you don’t know my name. Actually, I like it better that way. Mystery Man.” Debbie got off the stool and gathered her coat and got ready to leave. The mystery man smiled and said, “Okay, I see you don’t like mysteries. Name’s Craig Two Horses.” She smiled sideways at him, looking first at her screen and then at his profile. Handsome, probably thirty-five or so, maybe a little older. He continued to play poker while he talked. Ffssssshht, ffssssshht. He laughed when the machine hit a full house. “Where are you from, Ms. Wood?” “Just call me Debbie.” She put a dollar in the machine. She pressed the “deal” button. The cards didn’t seem to be dealt quite fast enough. Two jacks, two queens, and a three. She held the jacks and queens, discarded the three, and pressed the “deal” button again. Another jack. Full house. Maybe Craig brought good luck. She sat back down. “I’m originally from Rochester, but I’ve lived here in St. Paul for so long, I’m starting to feel as though I’m from here. How about you?” She smiled while her machine made music and added the full house credits to her total. 11

GAME OVER

“I came from Wisconsin but for many years I lived in Oklahoma. I’ve only been back here in the Midwest for a few years. Although why Minnesota is considered part of the Midwest, I’ll never know. It’s a Godforsaken frozen place, not in the middle of anything, much less the West. At least, that’s how I felt this morning when I heard the forecast. Temperatures are supposed to plunge even lower next week.” Debbie played three more hands and lost fifteen credits. She suddenly felt an urgent need to escape. She had no time to make new friends. She took a deep breath and played another hand – three of a kind. She pressed the “deal” button. Two nines, the five, six, and seven of clubs. Craig studied her screen. “Go for the straight flush, forget the nines. Nines will kill you every time. At least that’s what my friend Paul claims, and he’s playing at the dollar machines. He must know.” She saved the nines. Ffssssshht, ffssssshht, ffssssshht. No nines. Just the two, three and jack of clubs. No winner. She wondered if those clubs would have turned up had she kept the clubs, instead of keeping the nines. Maybe she should have listened to Craig. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his flannelled arm moving forward, pressing “hold” buttons on his machine. The flannel looked soft and inviting. “Well, I gotta go. See you in class, Craig.” No sense in revealing too much. Concern had lately started to gnaw at her – concern about her family and friends finding out how much time and money she spent in casinos. As she left the machine, she resolved to find a different place to gamble. Conversations got in the way. “Catch you later, Debbie.” Walking into the restroom, she thought Craig looked a little like her older son, with that fresh, open smile. She put a brush through her hair, thinking of her son Philip’s smile when he was in a good mood, and the way they teased each other over little things. She loved both her sons fiercely. But now Philip had become a sullen teenager and she hoped he’d grow out of it soon. The natural waves in her hair calmed down a little with the brushing. Debbie applied her trademark copper-colored lipstick, smacked her lips together and smiled at herself, checking her teeth for any lipstick smudges. Her hazel eyes with green flecks were a perfect complement for the copper lipstick color, or at least that’s what her first boyfriend told her. She’d stuck with the color ever since. She once longed for red hair to go with her eyes, but brown was what she was born with, so that’s the way it stayed. No use messing with nature, her father had advised. An old woman left one of the stalls, staggered to the sink, and rinsed her hands, getting water on the sleeves of her red wool coat. “Having any luck?” she asked Debbie’s reflection in the mirror. The woman’s 12

ChapterTwo

breath reeked of brandy. “No, nothing special. Maybe next time,” Debbie answered, just being polite. It seemed a night for odd conversations. “Well, I am,” the woman slurred. She turned and weaved out the door. Debbie put her lipstick in her purse, and she saw a note from Philip – Make pizza for dinner, you promised! She smiled and stuffed the note back in her purse. Then she noticed the plastic cup. The old woman had left it on the counter next to the sink. Debbie grabbed the cup and ran after the woman. Where was she? Debbie scanned the crowd for a red wool coat, but she couldn’t see any red down the aisles. She headed toward the entrance door, seeing only a man with a flimsy red windbreaker. The woman said she had been lucky. Debbie looked at the bills resting on top of the dollar coins that filled the bottom of the cup. The cash made a thick wad. Now what? She walked past the cashier’s window, glancing down the aisles for any signs of the old woman. Debbie remembered the woman’s brandy breath. If I give it to the casino, it just adds to their profits. Keeping it isn’t exactly stealing. They’ve taken plenty of my money! She stuffed the wad of cash into the pocket of her coat and strolled over to the dollar machine section. She fingered the coins in the bottom of the cup. What if they have video cameras in the restrooms? She imagined everybody was looking at her bulging coat pocket, which suddenly seemed enormous. She started to sweat and her heart pounded so hard against her shirt that she thought the palpitations might give her away. Maybe sitting down would help. Debbie chose a dollar slot machine and reached into the cup. She took out three of the dollar coins and looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching her. Gamblers walked up and down the aisles, some searching for just the right machine, others talking and laughing. An attendant milled about, change belt pulled around his waist, looking for people who needed change. Three credits showed on the screen. She pulled the lever and the three credits played. No winner. She put in three more coins and pulled again. Four stars flashed across the screen, and music blared from the machine. “Oh, my God, four stars!” Debbie’s credit total whirled and finally stopped at three hundred. She pressed the “cash out” button and dollar coins clanked into the coin tray. The white light on the top of the machine started blinking, and “Hopper Empty - Attendant Called” flashed on the screen. It seemed like an eternity before an attendant came. “Here, let me fill that for you.” The attendant used a key to open the gaming machine, untwisted the tie of a cloth bag filled with dollar coins, 13

GAME OVER

and poured the contents into the machine. She wrote something on a notepad stored inside the machine, and closed the lid. She pressed the “cash out” button and the machine resumed its familiar clanking. “There you are. Good luck.” Debbie picked up five of the dollar coins and handed them to the attendant. “Thank you,” she said quietly. May as well tip when you win big. These people work hard. The attendant looked surprised. “You’re welcome. Have a good one!” Hoping the old woman was in another part of the casino, Debbie glanced over her shoulder. She spotted a plastic bucket with the Magic Days logo. The coins nearly filled two buckets. I better leave now. She stacked the buckets as best she could and lugged them to one of the change counters. “I’d like to turn these in, please.” “Are twenties okay?” “Yes, that’d be fine.” Debbie took the bills and stuffed them in her coat pocket with the others. She tried to keep her walk steady as she approached the exit door, past the rotating pedestal that tonight carried a Polaris snowmobile for some lucky winner of the progressive jackpot dollar slots. Her fingers played with the bills in her pocket. Damn, I should have put this money in my purse. The guard had seen her there many times before, and he nodded in recognition. “Good night,” he said as she walked by. “Good night,” she tried to say calmly, but her voice quivered. Did he notice her bulging pocket? She got in her car but didn’t dare look to see how much money she had. She drove home in a daze on a freeway still busy with evening traffic. She pulled into her driveway and pressed the garage door opener, but the door seemed stuck. It moved up a few inches and jarred, then moved back down. Debbie thought about honking, but decided not to make the boys come outside. Braving the cold, she left her car in the driveway and fumbled with her keys at her front door. After three tries, she unlocked the door. She walked soundlessly into the kitchen. She crept up to her bedroom and pulled the money out of her coat pocket. She counted over two hundred dollars of the old woman’s money, three hundred dollars of her own winnings, for a total of five hundred forty-four dollars. The back of her shirt was soaked with sweat. What have I done? That money was not mine to use! I’ll have to take it back. How can I explain this? “Mom, are you home?” Steven walked into her bedroom without knocking. “Wow, where’d you get the dough? Did you hit it big?” “Well, yes, I, I did. How was your day? Did you see your buddy John at school? ”Debbie shoved the wad of cash back into her coat pocket, 14

ChapterTwo

hoping to change the subject to Steven’s eleven-year-old best friend and constant companion. Debbie felt grateful that Steven had good friends, since she couldn’t be home much, with her job, law school, and lately the casinos. She told Philip to stay home and watch his younger brother when she wasn’t there, but she often let Philip spend some time playing basketball with friends at the high school gym. Last month she found out that Philip had been hanging out at his new girlfriend Marcia’s house. “Dad brought us home early, about four o’clock, and John was here for awhile, but his mom came and got him. She asked where you were, and I told her you were studying.” He cleared his throat and looked away. Debbie knew that Steven understood the unspoken rules. People didn’t always approve of gambling, and it was best they didn’t know where she was, even if the boys knew. At first it hadn’t mattered – she went a few times a year, on special occasions or with friends. Once she progressed to gambling a few times each week, Steven stopped answering questions from outsiders and stopped asking them of her. “How’s school going?” Debbie sprawled on her stomach across the foot of her bed. “Oh, school’s going okay. English is a drag, ya know?” He lay on the edge of the bed and grinned his sheepish smile. Debbie wished she could get him to stop saying “ya know,” but she gave up long ago. She played with his nearly blond hair, winding her fingers around his short curls. “You’ll do well. You always do. How’s hockey practice these days?” Steven’s face took on a worried look. “I like it, but hockey’s hard work, ya know, all those calisthenics, and practice every day. It’s tough. John’s really getting good, man can he hit the puck!” Steven brightened whenever he talked about his best friend John. “You’re used to hard work, Steven, and remember, it’ll pay off.” “I know Mom, but sports are expensive. The coach said we need our skates by next week, and they’re like a hundred and seventy-five bucks. Even used ones are about fifty bucks. I don’t need to stay on the team, Mom.” Debbie picked up her coat and took out seventy-five dollars. “Here, Steven, I want you to have this for some used hockey skates, and a little extra. You can get some of those good skating socks, too.” She held out the money. Steven smiled. “Oh, Mom, thanks. This is great! But are you sure we don’t need the money for something else?” She had been giving the boys frequent lectures on household costs. The phone bill skyrocketed last month and they might need to get the phone disconnected. Lights must be turned off when you leave the room 15

GAME OVER

in order to save electricity, and wasting food was downright sinful. Debbie had thought no one listened, but apparently Steven had been paying attention. Looking down at the money, he frowned a little. “No, it’s fine. Just be sure to get skates big enough to last you awhile. And you know the rules with cash. Bring me back the receipts and the change. “Thanks, Mom.” His smile beamed wide. “I’ll go get ’em tomorrow. Heck, that means I’ll have ’em in time for practice!” He hugged her around the waist, and Debbie held onto him and kissed the top of his head. “You’re welcome, honey. Now go put your money away and get your brother. We have a pizza to make.” She told herself to stay calm. He needs those skates, and she still had plenty of money. I can turn in the woman’s money at the security office. That’s what I’ll do. Say I found it in the parking lot. Otherwise, I’ve kept something that’s not mine. Turned into a criminal. A common criminal.

16

Chapter Three Standing there with the pantry door open, Jean Buffalo stared at the empty food shelves, not seeing anything that looked appetizing. She’d done this twice already and still couldn’t think of a thing to make. She had never been much of a cook. She hated cooking. She should have gone out for dinner. She rummaged through dusty cans of soup and a mildewed sack of rice. She picked up a can of pumpkin pie filling, shook it vigorously as though that would make it more appealing, and set it back down with a sigh. The label on a half-empty bag of chow mein noodles read: Packed under the CONTINUOUS INSPECTION of the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Missed the expiration date by over a year! Jean leaned against the kitchen counter. The phone rang. She grabbed it and barked: “Senator Buffalo.” “So, Missy Jean, that’s how you address your uncle?” It took her a moment to realize who it was. “Oh, hello, Uncle George! Sorry, I forgot I’m not in the office. Seems I live there these days. Is anything wrong?” Even though she was close to her Uncle George, he had never called her before. She would not have recognized his telephone voice. It sounded high-pitched and tinny. “Nothin’s wrong, I’ve just gotta talk to you before tomorrow’s meeting, that’s all. Your mom and dad say ‘hello,’ and so does Cousin Tommy.” Tommy wasn’t really a cousin. He was an Ojibwe from the Mille Lacs Band who lived on the reservation near Brainerd until about age sixteen, when he came to Wisconsin with his family to visit George. Tommy never went home; instead he stayed, and lived with Uncle George for years. “Well, say ‘hi’ from me. How is everyone?” Jean wished he would start with news of Tommy, but knew he would not. “Your mom’s good, very good. She’s had a lot of company lately, and 17

GAME OVER

you know how she likes that. Your dad’s ornery as ever, so no need to worry about him.” Jean patiently waited to hear the real reason for Uncle George’s call as he went down the list of relatives and friends, filling her in on all the latest events. “Tommy’s good. Took a job with the college.” “What kind of job, Uncle George?” “Not sure, exactly, but I think teachin’ in the chef’s program, or somethin’ like that.” Jean smiled, picturing Tommy in a chef’s hat, students gathered around him while he elaborated on the fine uses of paprika or basil or rosemary leaves, spices flying, totally oblivious to the ensuing mess. That’s how Tommy lived, never realizing the chaos he left in his wake. Jean looked down at the old bag of chow mein noodles and longed for some of Tommy’s cooking. He could’ve made a wonderful meal from these old noodles. Something in her chest pulled a little as she realized Uncle George had been going on about someone getting married. “Uncle George, did you say Tommy’s getting married?” “Sure did. June wedding, on the 7th. Just a small ceremony.” “To whom?” “To Shirley. You know, the girl he’s been keepin’ company with. Where’ve you been, girl? I’m sure your mom’s told you about Shirley. She snagged Tommy at the Winnebago powwow two years ago.” Where’d Jean been? In Washington, fighting endless, sometimes fruitless battles. Like paying attention to the latest health care bill, fighting for votes that would help give children under the age of six the right to see a doctor, no matter what the reason, for no cost. Of course she lost that battle, and evidently she also gave Tommy enough time to forget all about her, and to marry somebody like Shirley. Her heart ached a little when she thought of Tommy’s eyes, the way he used to look at her. “Give him my congratulations, Uncle George. Is there anything else we need to talk about? What did you say about a meeting tomorrow?” “Here’s the problem.” She could hear her uncle take a deep breath. “Tomorrow we’re having a meetin’ about whether to open another casino. The council asked me to call you to see what’s goin’ on with regulations. Most people here are pretty mad at you for supporting that new regulation. They figured I should be the one to call. Everybody knew you’d be straight with me. So, will you be closin’ us down if we open a new casino or what? I’ve got at least a dozen people here in the kitchen waiting for your answer.” Jean could hear murmuring, and thought she recognized her moth18

ChapterThree

er’s voice in the background. “Hang on a second, Uncle George.” She fetched a chair from the dining room. No wonder all the small talk. “Okay, here’s the deal. The Indian Gaming Committee is drafting a bill to be voted on next week. But no casinos will be closed down, Uncle George.” She drew some deep breaths herself, partly for courage, partly as a stalling tactic. “The committee chair wants to ask for a few accounting and hiring regulations, along with a few small concessions to states that have Indian gaming.” “Do you want that, Jean? Don’t you think all of those rules will hurt the casinos?” Jean stared for a moment at the kitchen wallpaper. Red square, blue square, teal green square, yellow square, red square, all on a faded orange background. For a moment she could see her shadow on the wall, her cropped hair made the shape of a bowl on the wallpaper. The shadow of her silver feather earrings formed miniature daggers pointed toward her shoulders. “Uncle George, if we don’t get the casinos regulated, the Feds are going to get greedy and try to tax us. We’re making tons of money, right?” “Right.” “Last year Ronald DaCosta, the New Jersey casino owner, testified in front of Congress against the Pequots. He said, ‘They don’t look like Indians to me!’ To the U.S. Senate and House of Representatives, that’s what he said, just because the Foxwood Casino now takes in hundreds of millions of dollars a year in profits. The competition makes him nervous, Uncle George. He says it’s unfair because we have no taxation, no regulation, no filing with the Securities and Exchange Commission, no revealing of foreign investors. I’m fighting against big issues. And I’m going to fight hard against a federal tax.” “We’re not competin’ with anybody. We’re in Wisconsin.” George said stubbornly. “Uncle George, if people only gamble a few times a year, and once is with us, that leaves fewer trips to New Jersey or Las Vegas. At Foxwood they’re putting in a theme park, monorail system, even golf courses to attract tourists. Vegas and New Jersey owners are going to be yelling louder still. And if the Indian Mafia gets involved, we’ll have real trouble.” “So, you think we’ll have to stop runnin’ casinos?” George must have been scribbling notes on pieces of paper because Jean could hear the rustling of pages whenever he paused. “I don’t know, but some say that organized crime has taken over a few tribal gaming operations. That Indian Gaming Working Group that was established a few years ago is looking everywhere for ties to organized 19

GAME OVER

crime. They say that Indians don’t know how to run a big money business, so we hire firms managed basically by whites to run the casinos. And those chimokramon either have connections to organized crime or they launder money illegally themselves.” “We’d never let that happen.” His voice rose in indignation. “You should know that. Our tribal council members are good at heart – don’t forget your own mother used to be on the council. We’re a very honest people! And we have no Indian Mafia either!” Jean could hear the murmurs of those in George’s kitchen. She pressed down on the chow mein noodles, crushing some of them inside the bag. She turned the bag over and over in her hand, and fine bits of noodles leaked out of a newly-made hole. “But this isn’t only about our casino operations. The regulations are about all tribal casino operations. All that cash, untaxed, unregulated, and mostly unreported. When organized crime becomes involved with Indian gaming, what a great excuse everybody will have for shutting down all of us. And if we end up supporting an Indian Mafia, even worse!” Jean paused, hoping that Uncle George was accepting some of her arguments. “Anyway, Uncle George, it’s not over yet. I’m still arguing for zero regulation, but I have to warn you that I may be losing the fight. Some tribal councils won’t even reveal their financial information to their own tribal members. They’re not like us . . .” Jean thought she heard someone at the door. “Just a minute, someone’s here.” She went to the front door and looked through the peep hole. No one. She was sure she heard a noise. Her one-stall, attached garage opened directly into the dining room in the old-fashioned, put-the-garage-anywhere style. As Jean walked back to the kitchen, she noticed that she had left the door to the garage ajar. She closed the door and shook her head, scolding herself. She’d have to be more careful. Mice, a big problem this time of year, may have ventured into her garage and would gladly help themselves to the run of the house if she didn’t keep that door closed. Mice had invaded most of the homes in her neighborhood, but she could not justify spending more than the nearly fifteen hundred a month rent just for a newer place. Washington real estate was a huge rip-off as far as she was concerned. “Set traps,” her dad had said. Her mom had suggested a cat, but even a cat needs a little consistency and care. Besides Jean didn’t relish the thought of watching a mouse being eaten alive by a cat. She opted for the traps. Jean picked up the phone and said to her uncle, “I didn’t see anyone at the door. Probably a mouse in the garage.” “Did you set traps?” 20

ChapterThree

“Yes, sir,” she said proudly, as she heard the faint snap of a mousetrap. “As a matter of fact, I just heard one go off in the garage. Most likely got that mouse I just heard.” “Good for you, Missy Jean. Now, one other thing I need to know. What do you suggest we do to make sure we stay in control of our casinos?” “Senator Brandt thinks that the books should be audited by a CPA firm. And the tribal council should make damn sure that all the financial information is shared at open meetings, since. . .” “Wait just one minute! You do that, and then the press and everybody else knows how much money there is, and everybody wants some of it. Why, people will be fightin’ and scrappin’ and carryin’ on about their fair share!” Jean heard someone pound a fist on George’s metal table. The ringing lasted for quite a few seconds. “Uncle George, why shouldn’t you and everybody else know about the profits? They shouldn’t be a secret.” Jean had crushed most of the noodles. She shook the bag, emptying some of the contents in a dusty spray that covered the counter top. “But that’s why we elect the council, to make decisions in the best interest of all of us. If they decide we don’t need to know certain things, then that’s that. Have you forgotten trust? It’s a key to good citizenship, Missy Jean. Leaders must lead, and followers must follow. You know this is an important principle in our governance.” Ah, Indian loyalty to the principle of trust. This could go on all night. “Fine, but you asked my opinion, and I think openness is the key. We should also make agreements with city governments, giving them something in exchange for the operation of a new casino. Contributions to a community gym, something like that.” “What the hell for?” George sounded more irritable. “Anyway, everybody’s gone into the living room. They’ve given up on you.” Jean could hear Wheel of Fortune on George’s television, the bells ringing when a contestant guessed a correct letter. She imagined Vanna White turning the letters over, audience clapping. “Is there a ‘t’ Pat?” “Yes, there is one ‘t’.” One bell for the ‘t.’ She rubbed her forehead with her free hand, trying hard to concentrate on what to say to her uncle. “Uncle George, we don’t want to be seen as greedy. Envy is what will get us in the end. Look at all the ugliness at boat landings over tribal spearfishing. We can’t afford to lose any hunting, fishing or gathering rights either. Do we want protesters at our casinos? Besides, the local governments do provide services, police protection, sewer and water, those kinds of things. Won’t that be true of the new casino?” “I’m not sure, exactly. The tribal council hasn’t talked much about 21

GAME OVER

that. Could be, though.” His weariness came through the phone lines, and Jean could feel the impatience in his pauses. *

*

*

The killer waited in Jean’s garage. He knew Jean Anderson Buffalo’s astoundingly predictable daily routine. Early to rise, awake around five am., a brisk walk at five-thirty, gone to work by six-thirty. She sometimes ate breakfast, sometimes didn’t, and she returned home shortly after eight pm. Read a lot of newspapers in the evening. Most nights brought dinner home with her or ordered food delivered about nine pm. Went to bed by eleven or so, although she often read in bed for about an hour. In those ten days, she’d had company only once – a man who brought over Chinese take out and stayed for dinner. They had spent a few hours in bed and he left at one in the morning. But tonight she had pressed the automatic garage door opener at around 7:05, catching him off guard. He immediately froze in a crouched position as she drove in. He admonished himself for cutting the timing too close. The hunter should be the one to surprise the prey. She had gotten out of the car and opened the driver’s side back door to retrieve her briefcase, newspapers, and dry cleaning. She struggled with her load and went inside, leaving the door to the dining room open. He took his time to bring himself up to a standing position. As he waited, he leaned back and hit the pedals of the bicycle, which rattled against the garage wall. He froze again, knowing full well that the door to the dining room remained open and Jean lingered in the adjoining kitchen on a phone conversation. Damn, damn, he should have moved those pedals! He bit down slightly on his right index finger to silence his breathing, a trick learned in his hunting days. “Just a minute,” he heard her say, and steeled himself for the task at hand in case she came into the garage. This stupid job should have been smooth. She closed the door to the garage. He let out a sigh of relief. Not that he couldn’t do the job anywhere in the house, but it would be easier on his terms, using his rules. Control was everything in a hunt. He crept from behind the pegboard, aware of the tools on the floor. The tension in his muscles grew and he stretched for some relief. He felt in his belt pouch for the syringe, readying it in his left hand. He removed the protective cap from the two-inch needle, pushed the release lever, filled it with liquid, then wrapped an elastic band around his left ring finger. The band would hold the needle in place and allow the full force of his hand to plunge the needle and its poison into her muscle. He needed to get closer to the door so he could tell when she was reading her news22

ChapterThree

papers. His hands touched the edge of the workbench on the east wall of the garage as he moved toward the hood of the car. SNAP. The mousetrap had been on the floor, slightly exposed, sticking out from under the workbench. His reaction was instant – hold still, stay silent. At least he was near the rear passenger door of her car so if she came into the garage to check on the noise, she couldn’t see him. How could he not have noticed this trap earlier? Amateur’s mistake! A minute passed, still no indication that Jean was coming back to the garage. He could hear her purposeful voice on the phone. His attention returned to the mousetrap. Plain wooden platform, typical metal snap device attached to the spring that set the snap in motion. He could choose to bend the snapping wire back, reset the trap and put it back in place, or just leave it sprung. He chose the latter. Jean’s voice floated in from the kitchen . . . “Yes, I’ll do that, you take care also. Let me know how the meeting goes. Yes, of course. See you at the wedding. Bye bye.” *

*

*

Jean put the phone back on the cradle. Just what we need now – family squabbles about another casino. She had been nibbling on the stale chow mein noodles during the phone conversation. “Oh, yuck.” Going to the liquor cabinet for something to wash down the dry taste, she mixed a scotch and soda and wondered how her tribe would handle the inevitable regulations. She opened a can of tomato soup and put some in a pan to heat on the stove, then grated some Colby cheese. As she headed for her favorite overstuffed chair in the corner of the dining room, she remembered the mousetrap. She couldn’t bring herself to touch dead mice, so instead usually picked up the trap, mouse and all, with a set of kitchen tongs used only for that purpose, and threw the entire contraption into her trash bin in the garage. She had used this system since the mouse invasion began a few weeks ago. Worth every penny to buy new traps. Grabbing the tongs which hung next to the door to the garage, she smiled at her Uncle George’s nickname for her. If he knew what a sissy she was about touching dead mice, he’d sure as hell call her ‘Baby Jean’ or ‘Prissy Jean.’ She opened the garage door, turned on the light and, tongs in hand, walked around the front of the car and spotted the sprung mousetrap. No mouse. “What the –” She looked around on the floor for the mouse. Nothing. She took a few steps toward the rear of the car and glanced at the tool storage area. 23

GAME OVER

Her brother’s tool box was closed. He came to Washington every so often, and she kept the tool box in the corner especially for him to maintain her car. She had come up with the idea of always leaving it open, so she wouldn’t think the top was latched if it was just shut and not latched. She’d done that before, jerking on the handle and spilling all the tools. That open tool box also served as a reminder that her brother would be coming back for a visit soon. Intense fear seized her. She blinked hard and looked at the tool box again. The lid was closed. She cast frightened glances around the garage but saw no one. As she turned toward the dining room door, she saw movement to her left. She screamed and ran, but he closed on her fast, plunging the needle and its numbing contents into her left shoulder, wrapping his right arm around her waist to subdue her. She spun around and hit him squarely on the nose with the tongs, then reached up and scratched his right cheek with her other hand. He grasped both of her wrists and twisted. “Scrappy little fighter, aren’t you?” he whispered as she became dizzy. “Why?” she asked as she fell limp against his chest, the tongs clanging on the cement floor. Is this it? Am I going to die? He carried her into the dining room, arranged her in her green overstuffed chair, newspaper on her lap. She could hear him rummaging in the kitchen as he turned off the pot of boiling soup. She tried to cry out, but all that filled the room was the echo of the man’s footsteps as he walked to her chair. Her muscles had become paralyzed, and she could move no muscle, could make no sound. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” he recited in a hoarse voice, “how does your garden grow?” She could hear cellophane crackling. She commanded her eyelids to open but they refused. “With silver bells and cockleshells, and Indian maids all in a row.” “Thanks for having these candies. You’ll die soon, but this is going to look like the perfect choking accident. He tipped her head back and shoved a butterscotch candy an inch down her throat.

24

Chapter Four “Come on, Mom, let’s go to McDonalds for dinner. It won’t take long,” Steven begged. “I only need Indiana Avenue for an EA Sports trip.” Debbie squinted between the fogged-up patches on the car’s windshield and drove slowly, hoping that the heater would soon clear the glass. Debbie could see from his reflection that her young son saw his chance. He was already quietly high-fiving with his brother in the back seat. “Besides, the windshield will defrost while we wait for the food. And you won’t have to cook tonight. You can zoom off to your night class. Please, Mom? Just think – an EA Sports trip!” Making a quick decision, Debbie took the next exit. “Okay boys, we’ll stop. But you may each order only one sandwich and one order of fries. And a small soda. You can drink juice when we get home.” Philip, now seventeen, exerted his man-of-the-family rights. “Ah, Mom, that’ll be ten minutes. We’ll be too thirsty to make it home, we need a large size.” “I think you’ll survive.” Debbie said. She had already explained the family food budget – only two trips to a fast-food restaurant per month. “Besides, this makes trip number three this month.” The McDonald’s drive-in lane was empty. Who else would roll down their window and let all that cold, mid-February air into the car when the warm restaurant beckoned a few feet away? Only a woman in a desperate hurry. “Two Big Macs, please, and two orders of fries,” Debbie yelled into the microphone. “That’ll be all. And we’d like any extra game pieces that you might be able to give us.” “Aren’t you getting anything, Mom?” Steven raised his eyebrows in concern. “No, I’ll wait and grab a sandwich at the deli after class. So tell me 25

GAME OVER

about your day, boys.” She drove to the pick-up window. Thirteen-year-old Steven chattered away. His teacher didn’t let him turn in his math assignment because the blockhead Billy Johnson had torn it into six pieces. The teacher said to copy it over. “And did you?” Debbie asked. She rubbed the inside of her window. “Yeah, for sure. Anyway, then blockhead Billy was mean to me at lunch.” Philip was his typical quiet self until the food arrived, when he wanted to compare the sandwiches to see which was the biggest. Both boys pulled on the white bag until it ripped and the contents spilled onto Steven’s lap. “Thanks a lot, blockhead!” Steven picked up a sandwich and handed it to Philip. He clearly had a new word. “No more arguing, boys. Philip, if there’s any mess in the car, you’ve got to vacuum it on Saturday. I need to pay attention to driving now, so behave yourselves. I mean it!” Debbie steered out of the parking lot and turned onto the freeway, and gunned it for home. She looked at her watch: 5:25 pm. Ten minutes to get home, then twenty-two minutes to the University. Should make it by six. Steven peeled the game piece off the side of his french fry container. “Oh man, I can’t wait . . . rats!” He showed his mom the result. Illinois Avenue. “Hey, Mom, if we win a trip for two, who gets to go? Me and you, right Mom?” “It’s ‘you and I,’ not ‘me and you,’ Steven.” Debbie said. She could not help but correct their grammar, a habit she acquired from her own mother. Steven smiled sheepishly at Philip, who promptly tapped on the bill of Steven’s Vikings cap with his fingers. “No way can you go, Stevie. You’re too young to appreciate it. Right, Mom? You and I should go,” Philip declared in his deepest voice. Steven’s eyes brightened. “I know, Phil and I could go. He’s almost eighteen.” “Not until next year, he’s not.” Debbie switched lanes to get to her exit. “And I don’t think we need to worry about who’s going on a sports trip.” She smiled into the rear-view mirror at Steven. “Illinois Avenue, remember? No winner yet.” Both of her sons wore caps – the only form of hat they would wear in public. She’d won the argument about taking them off at the dinner table at home, but only after refusing to feed them for an entire weekend. Philip finally gave up his cap on Sunday afternoon when Debbie cooked a ham dinner and again announced that no one in a cap would be fed. Steven gave up his cap by the time the potatoes started boiling. 26

ChapterFour

It seemed as though every boy in the Midwest over the age of ten wore a cap. Steven mumbled through a mouthful of fries, “Well, I say if we just ate at McDonalds every night, we’d win sometime.” The back wheel hit a chunk of ice and the springs rattled. “Crikes. Hope nothing broke. I can’t afford new springs now.” “Nah, nothing’s broken. You hit that chunk at just the right angle to push the tire up hard, that’s all. It’s okay, Mom.” Leave it to Philip to sound like a mechanic. Debbie had no idea if he was right. When Debbie dropped them off at home, Steven lingered with the car door open. “I’ve got to go, Steven. What do you want? And it’s too cold to leave the door open.” “I just wanted to know if you’re, um, if you’re gonna come right home after class.” Steven bit on his bottom lip. Debbie felt a pang of guilt. Even Steven, her most loving child, couldn’t come right out and ask if she was going to go gambling. “Honey, it might be late because I’ve got to spend some time in the library.” And maybe stop in at the casino, but just for a little while. “Can I wait up for you? I got my skates and they are awesome! Size nine, can you believe it? They’re black leather with white insides. And anyway, I, um I got you a surprise. No big deal, but it’s for you and I.” “Can’t it wait until morning? You need your sleep for school.” “Okay, Mom. It can wait.” He started to close the door. “Steven, by the way,” Debbie smiled, “that’s ‘you and me,’ not ‘you and I.’ Remember? ‘To’ and ‘for,’ say ‘you and me’.” “Oh, Mom. I’ll never get that straight.” “I’ll see you in the morning. Bye, sweetie.” Steven nodded and shut the car door. Debbie took a moment to watch and smile at her younger son as he skated his way to the house along the icy sidewalk, making a mad, freezing dash for the house. She blew him a kiss when he turned to watch her drive away. *

*

*

Debbie checked her watch for the third time in ten minutes. The Thursday night Contract Law class was usually tolerable because the professor mixed class discussion with his lecture – not tonight, though. Straight lecture, three and a half hours, one fifteen-minute break. Her Tuesday night professor always broke the class up with group discussion. But you couldn’t always count on Tarpen. And tonight it seemed as though he was not going to stop talking. Even his flaming red hair and Orson Welles body couldn’t keep her 27

GAME OVER

attention. If only she could have some time on the machines. Debbie closed her eyes and thought of the casino – the frenzy of the crowd, the clanking coins, the staccato beat of coins hitting the metal tray when she got a good hand and cashed out, the murmur of excited voices when she won big. Professor Tarpen sermonized, obviously relishing the various details of real estate contracts – time frames, written requirements, back-out periods. His bulky frame cast huge shadows on the blackboard as he strutted back and forth in the lecture pit. “Miss Wood, what is your thought on this?” Shit! Debbie snapped back to the present. He’s going to punish her for this. “Sir, would you repeat the question?” “I asked, what is your thought on the three-day refusal period? Have you been with us, Miss Wood?” Hardly. She’d been thinking of going to Magic Days Casino to see if she could win again, maybe make up for some of her gambling losses. Debbie took a guess. “The refusal period is necessary to protect consumers from being pressured into making expensive home purchases.” “Is that all you have to say?” Professor Tarpen looked over the class. He paused and let out a heavy sigh that resonated from deep down in his substantial belly. “Ah, I think so, sir.” “Then you didn’t think, Miss Wood, nor have you read your extra reading assignments, since your textbook already makes that very statement and the other readings are much more complex.” He’d been playing with an eraser and chalk dust covered his hands. He set the eraser back in its cradle and dusted himself off. “Please prepare a more thoughtful response to share next time we meet. Class dismissed.” Asshole! Debbie packed up her books, grabbed her heavy coat and insulated gloves, and left the lecture hall. She walked quickly down the long corridor to the exit and braced herself for the sub-zero cold outside. With car keys clutched in her gloved hand, Debbie left the building, head down, shoulders hunched against the freezing air. Winter in Minnesota could be cruel, but Debbie had always lived in the Midwest, and she could manage. She’d had her car, a dark green Mustang, winterized in late fall, and as she turned the key in the ignition the battery paused for only a moment before the engine started. She felt grateful for the fully accessorized Mustang – her only luxury. Charlie had helped her buy it just before the divorce in an ultimate attempt at reconciliation. After the divorce finalized, she decided to keep the car and the accompanying payments. Why not? She told herself at the time that she needed a reliable car to get to work. But lately she’d been thinking of trading it off 28

ChapterFour

and getting a used car, something with smaller payments. Damn Charlie. Girlfriends, vacations, and he still has his Lexus. And my lifestyle does nothing but go downhill. Twelve degrees below zero, and Debbie could only see her breath over the steering wheel as she waited for the car to warm up. She rubbed her ears to protect them from the few minutes of exposure to the frozen air. Why did so many people in Minnesota, herself included, go without hats in the winter? At least her boys wore caps. Adults usually had snowmobile suits, face masks, and insulated boots stored in the trunk of their cars for emergencies. They might have a stocking cap stuffed in a pocket. Many people out on the street, even in sub-zero temperatures, remained hatless in denial. Spring will arrive soon. Debbie squinted, trying to see through the frosted windshield. She reached for the plastic car brush, which had bristles and a chisel-shaped end. She swung the door open and started scraping ice off the windows. The huge figure of Tarpen walked by, all bundled up in a fake fur coat and hat with a scarf tied tightly around his throat and chin. His hair, looking darker under the streetlight, puffed out between scarf and hat, like a flattened scarlet marshmallow. “Is that you, Miss Wood?” He gazed through the cloud of exhaust fumes surrounding Debbie. Of course, Tarpen wore a hat. “Yes, sir. It’s me. We must have gotten another inch of snow during class. And look how it froze to my windshield.” Debbie scraped hurriedly. Tarpen stomped his feet, moving his considerable weight from one to the other. What the hell was he standing around for? “Is something wrong, Professor?” “No, but now that I see you here, I wonder if you have a few moments to talk.” “Come around and sit in the car.” Tarpen struggled with the hefty door, stiff with the cold. He dropped onto the seat and glanced at the mess in her car. He couldn’t touch his feet on the floor without touching something that didn’t belong there – empty pop cans, candy wrappers, notebooks, and papers. His eyes rested on the new CD player, one that could hold ten disks. A CD case with at least fifty CDs, all neatly arranged alphabetically, sat prominently in the back seat. Back seat in perfect order. Front seat in chaos. “Sorry about the clutter. Sometimes I think I live in this car. What did you need to talk to me about?” “Miss Wood, I’m concerned. It appears that you’re having difficulty in class. Lately you haven’t been prepared and you seem distracted. It’s a definite change from last year. Are you having any problems you’d like 29

GAME OVER

to discuss?” He folded his arms knowingly across the large belly that made a natural resting shelf. “No, I’m fine. But at this time in the semester I get a little frustrated, what with all the papers and projects we’ve been assigned.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Thank you for asking, but I’m really okay. You’ll see – I’ll be better prepared next week.” Debbie flashed a smile. Why should she have to explain herself to this guy? A few years ago, Debbie had decided that the boys didn’t need her as much as when they were little, and she should think about a career change. Law school seemed like a good choice. She knew she would have to work hard, but the classes would only take her three years to complete. The college offered the courses at night, and she could keep her job at the bank. The boys had said, “Why not?” So here she was in her second year. She hadn’t counted on the tedious homework, uninteresting lectures, no time to herself, feeling as though she’d abandoned the boys, and the competitive pressure of keeping up with other law students nearly half her age. And the money problems. Always the money problems. She remembered the conversation she had with her younger sister Liz, who implied Debbie couldn’t handle it. “Geeezz, Debbie, you don’t have to finish if the studying is too much for you. After all, you’re fortytwo years old. The pressure must be awful.” “I’m not much for quitting, Liz. This is my opportunity to better myself, and I’m not giving up. Besides, I can get a better job and provide a good living for the boys. And I don’t want to work at First Federal for the rest of my life. At least, not as an assistant in the trust department, and I have to get a degree in either business or law to get promoted.” Her dad had called it coming from strong stock. Once she had made up her mind and committed to a project, she persevered. With each passing semester, she became more determined to graduate. Sitting quietly in the car, her body moved in small but constant motions, one knee bouncing impatiently. Professor Tarpen sat perfectly still, staring at her. “Tell me, are you always this interested in the lives of your students?” She smiled again, holding his glance for more than a moment and throwing back her long, brown hair. Maybe she could charm him into thinking she was fine. “That’s a rare thing these days.” She narrowed her hazel eyes just a little. Perhaps she could get him to talk about himself. She had no intention of sharing the pressures of her life or showing any sign of weakness to Tarpen. She had always prided herself on being independent, even while married to Charlie. I hope Professor Tarpen hasn’t seen me at the casinos. No one can know how much time I’m spending there. Not until I win my money back. 30

ChapterFour

“I’m a single mom raising two teenage boys by myself, so things get pretty hectic at my house. This weekend my boys are gone, though, so I can get a lot of work done on the reading assignments.” She tried another small smile. Tarpen sighed one of his deep belly sighs. “Well, I hope you can catch up. Let me know if the material is too much for you before the next exam. I could assign you to one of the study groups, and sometimes that can give a student motivation to keep up with the extra readings.” “I’ll consider that, thanks.” Just what she needed, trying to adjust her schedule to fit in a study group. Cold air swept into the car as Tarpen shoved the door open and struggled out. His thick, rubber boots squeaked under his weight when he propelled his body out of the low seat, and the car floor rose a few inches. Debbie put her car in gear and pulled into the street. She pressed the “play” button on her CD player. She hadn’t purchased any new CDs for several years, and the ones she had were gifts from the boys and from Charlie over the years. The soft sounds of Kenny G’s saxophone filled the car. Debbie always felt a little sad whenever she listened to this music, remembering that Charlie had given this one to her on their tenth anniversary, along with tickets to Hawaii for a trip that would change their lives forever. It all flooded back to her at once – the moment she saw him on the beach caressing the tan skin of another woman, the stormy months that followed, his many affairs coming to light, even those he began only a few years after the start of their marriage. She hit the “off” button. She noticed Tarpen standing in the middle of the street, watching her drive off into the cold night. He became a shadow as the haze of frozen exhaust swirled up from her tailpipe and blocked her view out the back window. Weird guy. I have reached a new low, trying to charm the likes of him. Hope he doesn’t ask any more questions. Just let me get through this semester.

31

GAME OVER

32

Chapter Five Debbie stepped on the gas pedal, weaving her way around slower drivers. She loved feeling the power of the engine, the fast acceleration that made her heart pound, just a little. What a wonderful car. She moved into the left lane on highway 35W going north. She’d had a convertible once – a used 1969 red Ford Mustang, the first car that made her heart pound. Her father gave it to her as a college graduation present, saying “Honey, it may seem extravagant, but it’ll be your only inheritance – enjoy!” They went to classic car shows together where she learned the many facets of car quality. “You listen to me,” her father would say, “when life gets tough, there’s nothing like escaping in a fine machine.” Whenever Debbie noticed him looking at his car keys on a peg by the back door, she knew he was contemplating going for a drive. He’d glance at her, and smile his widest, ear-to-ear grin. “Honey, come and join me for a ride. Let’s go down to the feed warehouse. I have to pick up my schedule for next week.” “Can’t you get it tomorrow when you go to work?” Debbie would ask. “Naw, I feel like getting it now.” Off they’d go. “Stanley Klatsky,” Debbie’s mother would call out from the porch steps, usually brandishing a spatula, her one streak of white hair at her right temple standing out against her pitch-black curls, “where do you think you’re going?” Too late. They were gone. Stanley giggled like a school boy, with his large, rough hands gripping the steering wheel, the dirt under his fingernails in proud view. He and Debbie didn’t talk about much of anything on those trips around town, but those drives represented her only positive connection with an otherwise silent father. He had unloaded grain at the same warehouse for thirty-five years, yet he’d make extra trips there if it meant having somewhere to drive. Sometimes, just before he went to bed, he would try to clean those dirty fingernails of his, digging 33

GAME OVER

fiercely with a jack knife, but they wouldn’t stay clean for long. As soon as he had the chance, he’d spend an evening in the garage, tinkering on old scrap cars he hoped to sell. Dirty, greasy fingernails all over again. Debbie grimaced each time she caught him digging at his nails with his jack knife, especially if he dug too deep. “Oh Daddy, look what you’ve done,” she’d scold, and bring him a Kleenex to dab at the blood. He’d smile and say, “No pain, no gain.” His low, deep voice would sometimes ring in Debbie’s brain as though he was still with her. His anecdotes echoed with a permanence that belied his death. She could remember their conversations, word for word. “Honey, you should always give an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay. No pride in being a slacker. You’re getting that fancy college education, but you’re still the oldest of the kids. You have to show your brothers and sisters what hard work is all about.” “But Dad, I worked hard to get that Lutheran Brotherhood scholarship, and don’t forget the AAUW scholarship I got last year. I work hard at my jobs, too, Dad. I’m paying my own way. It’s not always a thrill to be a bank teller working for minimum wage, you know. I’m pulling my weight.” “Start a family at nineteen, the way I did, and you’d know what hard work is. No chance to go to school, not that I minded. But it’ll be different for you. Once you get that education, you’ll think you won’t have to work hard.” He stared at his fingernails and tore off a cuticle. “An education is no excuse to become a slacker.” He talked about her marriage choices. “At least women can always get married no matter what. After all, you’re meeting all those college guys. Although what you’re gonna do with a psychology degree, I don’t know. Doesn’t seem like there are too many of those jobs.” Just thinking about their conversations could make her pulse quicken with anger. Cars and work, that’s all he talked about. She knew that beyond his stereotypes, he had depth that he would never reveal, at least not to his daughter. And he had been right about the psychology degree. A few times, her father met her in Minneapolis for a special classic car show. He’d call and say, “I’m coming to the Cities on Saturday, wanna go’t the show?” They both knew he wasn’t interested in movies – only cars. They’d always go out to dinner afterward and discuss cam shafts and carburetors. On the day her father died of a stroke, Debbie gave birth to her first child, Philip Stanley Wood. Charlie, her husband of only one year, took her to the hospital. He told her, “Listen, Debbie love, I’ll come straight back to the hospital as soon as I get those floor plans finished. Should only take me another hour. Doug says it has to be in by tonight or I won’t 34

ChapterFive

get to work on the Huntington job next month. And the doctor said it’ll be several more hours.” “I’m sure the doctor’s right, Charlie. You go ahead, and hurry back when you can.” Charlie smiled and kissed her warmly as another contraction started. Debbie understood. After all, she was the eldest, reared on responsibility, and Charlie’s work ethic had attracted her. That and his dark hair, refined good looks, his tall, slim frame, and his love of architecture. In later years, they’d reminisce about that day, and Debbie felt guilty because she’d missed going home for her father’s funeral. She also felt some resentment for Charlie’s missing the birth of his son. But a new family had begun, and Charlie and Debbie were in love. Now their relationship only consisted of discussions about child support checks, doctor bills, and when Charlie planned to see the boys next. As she drove into the First Federal parking ramp, Debbie could hear her father’s voice saying, “He’s working hard, Debbie. Doing what he can. And here you are, parking in a rented space in an expensive car garage.” She pulled into number 353. Before acquiring the parking space, Debbie occasionally forgot where she’d parked and she’d imagine her car stolen by the time she’d finally find it. “News flash, Daddy. My year lease is up next month, and I’m giving up this space. I can’t afford it anymore. My car’s going to be out on the street ready for vandals, so how do you like that!” She wondered how many other full-grown women debated out loud with their dead fathers. She turned off the engine, and the music she had been listening to faded away. “I’m going to miss this space.” She took the keys out of the ignition and patted the steering wheel. She suddenly felt very sad and thought of her father’s big smile. “I miss you too, Daddy.” Debbie walked into the employee entrance area, placed her thumb on the identification indicator and held it there for the required six seconds. The metal was cold. She put the glove back on to warm up her thumb. When the automatic door opened, she moved into the last employee access point for those who did not handle cash. “Hi Rob, how’s it going?” Debbie said the same thing to him every morning, and he never responded. The young security guard looked nervous as he checked identification badges. He eyed Debbie closely and frowned as he examined her badge, just as he had every day for the three weeks he’d worked in employee access. “Access cleared,” he mumbled, checking her off the roster. “Not much hope for you,” Debbie muttered under her breath, picked up her time card and pushed it in the slot. Every employee below the 35

GAME OVER

vice-president level punched the time clock. With Wood as her last name, her card was always close to last, easy to find in the alphabetized slots. Debbie looked forward to her probate work in the trust department. At least she’d be distracted from her academic and financial woes for the day, and she even found the obituaries interesting. You never knew what rich person would name the bank as their executor. With their death, Debbie’s job began. Sally Morrison worked at the desk next to Debbie’s in a large open office area that accommodated twenty workers, desks lined up in four rows, five in each row. The smell of Sally’s coffee wafted through the air most mornings, and today was no exception. Debbie thought that Sally made a superb bank employee: always prompt, honest, and soothing. She also made an excellent colleague: asked insignificant, impersonal questions, stayed cheerful, and took good messages. “Good morning, Sally.” “Morning. Mrs. Dorothy Olson-Reiner just called, and she said you missed a series E bond in the list. You’re to call her right away.” “There are over a hundred bonds on that list now. How could she possibly have caught one missing bond?” Debbie sat at her desk and picked up a file: Olson-Reiner. “I don’t know how she did it, but she doesn’t sound happy.” Debbie rolled her eyes. “She never sounds happy. Hey Sally, this is my best Mrs. O-R imitation.” Debbie picked up the phone and put her lips tightly together “Helleeewwww. Is my money ready yet? My millions upon millions? Can you send it right over? Helleeewwww?” Debbie put the phone down, still pursing her lips, and they both laughed. “I don’t know how you put up with her. She is a doozy! By the way, Broxton wants to know when you’ll be done with the asset list. He says it’s time to estimate the probate tax.” “So soon? The tax won’t be due for many months. Maybe not even until next year. I think almost all of their property is held jointly anyway.” “You got me. Mrs. O-R probably wants to know the details.” Sally blew in her First Federal coffee cup as though dust might have accumulated since yesterday. “I’m sure that’s it.” Debbie started going through the Olsen-Reiner file. “Oh here – the artwork is all in a trust. Shouldn’t be very many taxes due.” Debbie found probate work fascinating, enjoying different family reactions to inheritance and money. At times the relatives left behind seemed ungrateful, uncaring, and in Debbie’s mind, undeserving. Other families sincerely mourned the death of a father or mother, aunt or uncle, good friend, brother or sister, and they didn’t care much about the money to be inherited. The families most interesting to Debbie had 36

ChapterFive

a combination of people: some detached yet curious about the process and the amount of money they would receive; others obsessed with every penny and worried that the bank would charge too much in executor fees; still others would call Debbie and cry about their recent loss. These were the families that seemed real. At the reading of the will, Debbie could never guess which roles the various family members would take, but it didn’t take long for the phone calls to start coming in, and then she’d know. After about two days on the file, she knew that she’d be getting a lot of calls from Mrs. Olson-Reiner. Sally strolled over to Debbie’s desk, coffee pot in hand. “Coffee?” she asked, ready to pour Debbie a cup. “No, I better call her before I get too much caffeine buzz going on. Thanks anyway.” Sally poured some for herself and called over her shoulder, “Don’t forget the meeting with decorators this afternoon. We get to choose the new carpet color.” Debbie smiled, reached for the phone, and thought about Mrs. OlsonReiner, the obvious penny pincher in the family. It rang several times before Mrs. Olson-Reiner, widow of a modern artist and herself an accomplished concert pianist in her day, answered the phone. “Helleeww,” she drawled. Debbie stifled a chuckle. “Hello, Mrs. Olson-Reiner, this is Debbie Wood. I’m returning your call. What can I do for you?” “Ah, Ms. Woods, I believe there is a bond missing from the list. I’ve faxed the details to your office. Floyd inherited those bonds from his father, who would be horrified at the loss of even one of those bonds. He didn’t make his money from strip mining the Iron Range of Minnesota just to lose track of it, you know.” “Oh, please be assured that the list we sent you was a rough draft. I’m glad you caught the error, but it would have been found when we compared the list to the actual bonds. Not to worry, we have the bonds safely locked away.” “I’m not worried. But those bonds are worth over a million dollars, and it’s important to have the utmost accuracy. Surely you agree?” Mrs. Olson-Reiner’s tone made it clear she did not expect the slightest disagreement. “Certainly, Mrs. Olson-Reiner, certainly. I’ll get the corrected list to you this week, right after we do our final comparison to the actual bond file.” “Dear, I wonder if you could tell me a little more about the auction of Floyd’s art. I see the tentative appraisal is between two and three million dollars. When will you be narrowing that down?” 37

GAME OVER

“You could ask the trust officer about that, but we never truly know what price we’ll get until the auction takes place. Sometimes people bid way above the appraisal amount, and other times we come in at the lower end. It all depends on the buying public on that day. At the Jackie Onassis auction, the bidders went wild and appraised values became meaningless. Then at the Florence Jackson auction last year, bidding was flat and we came in well under appraised value on almost every item.” “You don’t say? Then perhaps I’d best talk to the trust officer to get my answer.” Mrs. Olson-Reiner let out a heavy sigh. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Debbie could tell Mrs. O-R would be one of those heirs who just kept making calls to different people until she got the answer she wanted. “Evidently not.” Click. This woman thinks she’s got problems. Debbie wondered how she could get the boys fed and started on their homework, do her own studying, and get to a casino to win some extra money, all before midnight so she could still get a good night’s sleep. She had heard about the new poker room at Pine Bend, where they played Texas Hold ’Em. Perfect. She could match her skills against the other players at the table. I can play much better against other players than on a stupid video machine. I’ll catch up on my credit card bills. Maybe I can win enough to buy something special for Philip, too. Make up for being gone so much. Could even turn out to be a part-time job. And in the meantime, do another day’s work for another day’s pay, as her father would say. “Hey, has anybody seen the cup for the coffee money? It was right here by the coffee pot,” Sally yelled loudly. No one even bothered to look up from their work. She walked back to her desk and opened her top drawer. “What about you, Debbie? Did you see that . . .” “Why are you asking me?” Debbie looked around nervously, remembering her stolen money cup from the casino. “It was in a green cup. . .” “I didn’t take it!” Debbie said, a little too loudly. Some coworkers turned and looked at her. “I didn’t say you TOOK it, I asked if you SAW it.” Sally closed the top drawer and opened the next one down. Debbie froze. She worried people were watching her, just as she feared they would at the casino when she had the old woman’s money in her pocket, but no one was paying attention anymore. “Well, I haven’t seen it.” Debbie’s heart started to pound. Would Sally accuse her of something she didn’t do? 38

“Well, get a grip. Why were you so defensive, anyway?” She slammed the last drawer shut. “Oh, here it is!” Sally held up the coffee money cup. “I found it, everybody. It was behind my computer. Nobody took it after all.” Sally giggled, but stopped when she turned and saw Debbie. “Are you all right? You look a little sick.” Debbie smiled sheepishly and looked down at her desk. “I’m okay. My breakfast isn’t agreeing with me, that’s all. *

*

*

Craig Two Horses took 35W north to 694E, drove for three miles, and turned off on County Road B. On the left was the Pine Bend Casino. No one really knew why it was called Pine Bend, since there were neither pine trees nearby nor bends in the road. It sat on Native American land that sprouted a few tall cedar trees near the entrance and a cedar swamp in the back forty acres. On a busy day the entire twelve hundred parking spaces would nearly fill up and a shuttle bus would run through the lots picking up passengers. The employee lot – with space for only fifty cars – was located the furthest away from the casino. Better that the employees wait a bit for the shuttle than the customers. Craig parked in the employee north lot and looked for a shuttle bus. “Over here, over here!” He waved at the bus driver, but the bus kept on going toward the casino. “It’s going to be that kind of day.” He jogged quickly to the employee entrance and showed his identification badge to Susan, the check point guard. Even though Craig had worked there before she came on board last year, she still glanced at his badge every day. “Hi, Craig, how are you doing?” Susan always seemed sincere to the many employees she checked in and out each day. Everyone needed to show their badge, then walk through a metal detecting device as they entered and exited the casino. Most casino security systems were not that elaborate, but Pine Bend had been “built for the future, better than any of the other casinos in the state.” The architects repeated it frequently when building costs mushroomed by nearly two hundred percent from original estimates. Craig took his coat off. “Great, Sue.” He leaned forward and asked quietly, “Is Jack in his office?” “You could be in luck, he might be on the casino floor. I thought I saw him leave his office a few minutes ago.” Craig glanced at his watch – half an hour late again! He hung his coat in the employee closet. He had to walk past the office of his boss, Jack 39

GAME OVER

Winger, who usually kept his door open, and who would undoubtedly point out that he was late, yet again. Luckily today it was closed. Craig walked quickly past the door, relieved to arrive at his own office undetected. His desk stood in the middle of the room, mountains of papers and files spread out over the desk. The year-end report, due in only three weeks, sat in a disorganized heap. The mess moved out from there in concentric circles. Craig kept track of daily entries and helped with closing the books. He analyzed year-end entries. Jack, the supervisor and casino daily manager, grew more cantankerous each day. Craig partially closed the door and sat down at his desk. He began looking for last month’s accounting sheets. Jack snaked his narrow head and neck around Craig’s door. “Hey, Craig, glad you could make it!” He got a kick out of opening doors quietly and bellowing at people, a game he’d started shortly after he began working at Pine Bend. His wiry body and pencil-thin handlebar mustache added to his sneaky demeanor. Jack had a secure job. His cousin, tribal chairman John Longie, had much to say about jobs at the casino, particularly who would run the place. Jack slapped his hand on a metal file cabinet and smiled at the resounding bang. “Three years of working here and you still can’t check your schedule? And you didn’t even have to start until ten am. today, and still you come in late.” “Sorry. The roads were slippery, and I got an unexpected phone call just as I was leaving.” Craig was dismayed at the mounds of paper on his desk. “Look at this crap. I’ve got to get this year-end information organized.” “Right, Craigie. Let’s finish up the year-end entries soon, okay? And I’ve brought those additional entries for you that we talked about last week.” He tossed more papers on Craig’s desk. Jack sometimes called him Craigie, saying that anyone with a one-syllable name couldn’t be trusted. And that he should know. “Is this the final set of entries or will you have more changes?” “That should be it. But the accountant will decide if anything else needs to be done after he sees the tentative financials. Say, Craig, I’m thinking about getting a Jeep. You know, now that I’ve gotten that raise. . .” Craig tried to keep his attention on the entries. “I’m sure you’d enjoy it.” “Well, a supervisor should have a reliable car.” “Come on, Jack,” Craig snorted, “you only live a few miles away from here, and you’re on a bus line. Isn’t that why you had to move out of our cabin, so you could be close to work in case of emergency? That hardly 40

ChapterFive

warrants a new Jeep.” Craig had little patience for Jack, now that being a supervisor was all he could talk about. Jack had taken on a long-term boyfriend, but everybody was supposed to pretend not to know that Jack had moved in with his lover. They were also supposed to pretend not to know Jack was gay. Impossible. “That’s not the only reason I moved out. It’s just not, ah, wise for a supervisor to live with his employee.” “Right. As if it makes any difference to me. Don’t hide behind your damn title.” Quiet for a moment, Jack nervously glanced around Craig’s office. He took a deep breath. “You know our boyhood friendship has caused some complications here. You only work day shifts unless you agree to change with someone else. Some people see that as special treatment.” “Like that has anything to do with my job. You know I need to work the day shift so I can go to night school. It’s not that I wouldn’t prefer security to this damn paperwork you give me. So don’t talk like I’ve got the best deal here. Go buy yourself a new Jeep, if that’s what you want. I’ll go with you. I’ll help you pick the color. Just don’t hide behind your job!” Craig rubbed his eyes for a moment, then looked up. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m just a little tense. I really will come with you to pick out a Jeep. We’ll go for a beer afterwards.” “Never mind. I know you’re stressed out with your classes and all.” Jack fell silent and scratched his chin. “What was your phone call about, anyway? The one you said you got before work today?” Craig hesitated. Should he share anything personal with Jack? Could he trust him? They had played together since they were six years old. Now he felt like he was looking at a stranger. He took a deep breath. “It was about my cousin Jean. Nothing to talk about at this point, though.” He glanced at Jack, trying to gauge a reaction. “Your cousin, the Senator? I like her. And I saw a recording of the speech she gave at the casino grand opening. She was pretty impressive, even if I do say so myself.” Jack sat down on the chair opposite Craig and smiled, his mustache turning up at the edges. “It’s true, Craig,” he said. “I really do admire her.” “Thanks. I admire her, too. She does so much, and not just for her Wisconsin tribes, but for everybody. She seems to understand all the issues.” Craig let out a low chuckle. “When Indian gaming first started, let’s see, 1988 or ’89, anyway I was just a kid. Everybody was talking about feisty cousin Jean, how she took on the State of Wisconsin and forced them to realize tribes were sovereign nations. Not just some folks out in the backwoods, but nations, with their own government and their powers, above the laws of the states. Quite the woman.” 41

GAME OVER

Jack nodded. “Remember that time she stood on the steps of the Wisconsin state capitol?” Jack slapped his knee. “What exactly did she say? Something like, ‘If you had conquered Bulgaria, of course you would have given Bulgarians some rights as a sovereign nation. It would be expected that you would enter treaties for the land you take over.’ She is so great.” “Bulgarians!” Craig said, and they both laughed. Craig felt lonesome for his old friend. Maybe he could relax and be himself with Jack. “Her dedication blows me away. Sometimes I think I only go to law school so that I can be like her, you know? Passionate about issues, involved in decisions, contributing to the future . . .” “What was the call about, though?” Jack leaned forward at the edge of chair and tapped his fingers together. “It seems she had some trouble at her house. Her newspaper boy called my great Uncle George and said the ambulance and police cars are parked out front right now.” “No way!” Jack stood up quickly. “What do you think is going on? Is she sick, or did she have a fire or something?” “We don’t know the details, but Uncle George said he’d call me here, and I knew you needed me to get going on the year-end stuff. He had just spoken to her on the phone last night though, and she was fine. He’s not worried. If he’s not worried, then I’m not worried either.” “Okay, if you get any news, let me know.” Jack reached out and they bumped fists. “Thanks, man.” Craig said. “Will do.” Jack moved to the office door and cleared this throat. “If you need help on those entries, let me know.” “That reminds me Jack, have you seen my accounting sheet for December? I know I gave you a copy, but I can’t find the original.” Craig started rustling through the piles of papers on his desk, tossing unused files out of the way. Jack scowled. “No, I haven’t seen it. You didn’t give me a copy.” “You know I did. The day you had chairman Longie in your office. I came in and handed it to you.” Craig picked up a small pile of papers on the edge of his desk and started paging through them. “Remember, I said, ‘Sorry to interrupt, but here’s the accounting sheet for December.’ I thought you might need it for your meeting.” Jack pulled on his mustache. “No. It must have been something else you gave me. I haven’t seen it. Why don’t you retrieve it in rough form from your computer files, and we’ll finish it in the next few days? I gotta get back to the floor now.” Usually Jack would have taunted him for quite a while over something 42

ChapterFive

like this. He must be looking forward to a damn good weekend. “Okay, I’ll get to work on it.” Jack turned on his heel and walked out, and Craig called up his computer files for December. Craig knew he had given him that file. *

*

*

Debbie’s work day felt like it would never end. Mrs. Olson-Reiner called six different times during the afternoon with an urgent problem that needed immediate attention. “Miss Woods, I don’t see how we can proceed on the list of assets if you haven’t described each one of my husband’s works in detail. They deserve to be listed separately.” “But it’s customary, Mrs. Olson-Reiner, to list each piece which has been appraised at over twenty-five thousand dollars. The rest of the works are put in a category called ‘Miscellaneous Works,’ and that block of work will be described as a collection.” Debbie found the conversation most annoying, since Mrs. Olson-Reiner would not stop adding an ‘s’ to her last name. Debbie held her lips together tightly, hoping no curse words would escape. “What? ‘Miscellaneous?’ How can my husband’s work be considered in such a way? Besides, I can’t imagine the appraiser saying that anything is worth less than twenty-five thousand. You should get another appraiser to take a look before we’re stuck with these small values.” Debbie struggled to keep a pleasant telephone voice. “What you’re looking at is only a draft listing of the appraised value of the work. We’ll provide the buyers at the art auction with a brochure containing a description of each major piece, and a few paragraphs of description for the . . uh . . .m . . . minor pieces. That’s not to say somebody won’t bid more than we expect for any item when it comes up for sale. The brochure is only a guideline, and that’s the way the bidders use it as well.” Debbie doodled on her rough-draft of the miscellaneous list, drawing little flowers alongside pictures of Floyd Reiner’s grand interpretations of the world. “Miss Woods, don’t you see that if the appraiser has already said the item is worth less than twenty-five thousand, then no one will bid more for it. If anything is labeled ‘Miscellaneous,’ there goes any hope for getting more.” Mrs. Olson-Reiner had the voice of someone not about to be cheated out of a few dollars by a mere probate clerk. “That may be true, but please understand that we are not going to publicize the appraised value of the art pieces. We’re only using that as a way to classify the works here in our office.” Had this woman ever attended an art auction? Did she not know there were many ways to hold 43

GAME OVER

a major auction, depending on who handled the sale? This had been her husband’s life career – he was a painter, for God’s sake! They must have lived very separate lives. Debbie felt a pang of sadness for the woman. Better hang on to that feeling, you’re going to need a little sympathy and patience to deal with this one. “You mean the bidders won’t know what the appraised value is?” asked Mrs. Olson-Reiner. Debbie could hear the fatigue in Mrs. Olson-Reiner’s voice. From what Debbie knew of her background, Mrs. Olson-Reiner had grown up poor. The week First Federal got the account, Debbie drove by the Reiner family mansion, located on Summit Avenue in St. Paul. People would slow down to gawk at the massive stone and stucco showcase as they drove by and Debbie was no exception. Yeah, she made it big time. Yet one of her first conversations with Mrs. Olson-Reiner had been about Floyd and his improbable success in the modern art world. It seemed like a year ago, but it was only last month. Mrs. O-R had then said to Debbie, in a quiet, hushed voice, “Frivolous, dear. Look at this one. He went into his studio, threw some paint around, and some fool will now pay an outrageous sum for it. Frivolous.” She had shaken her blue-white soft curls in stunned disbelief. “Not like my work of a concert pianist. Hard work and discipline. That’s what is rewarded. As it should be. But ever since Floyd’s first art show in New York, I think it was . . . let’s see . . . 1978, his work has been popular. Such a surprise.” At the time, Debbie thought Mrs. O-R sounded jealous. Now she just sounded confused. Debbie pulled on the telephone cord and decided that the trust officer was not telling Mrs. O-R all that she needed to know. “We’ll only be informing the bidders about the last sale price of a piece, and the year of the sale. We’ll have all the descriptions of the major pieces in a separate catalog. Descriptions of the minor pieces will be a page or two long. Will that be acceptable?” Debbie tried to sound cheerful and accommodating. “Yes, all right, Miss Woods. I see that may work to our benefit. Am I to be there at 10 am.?” Debbie didn’t have the heart to tell her that she needn’t show up at all. The bank and the auction house could handle the sale without her, thank you very much. They had handled sales a hundred times larger than this, everything from art to antiques, collections of signatures, even a pornographic collection that sold for twice what her husband’s art was going to fetch. Best not to point that out. Debbie tapped her mechanical pencil on her desk. “Yes, ten o’clock would be fine. But if you’re not up to it, there is no need for you to put yourself through this. The bank can handle it. That’s what we’re being paid to do.” 44

ChapterFive

“I’ll be there. I want to see Floyd’s work one last time. I assume you will be there?” she asked, suddenly with some warmth in her voice. “I’m sorry but I don’t usually attend the auctions. Mr. Broxton will be there, of course. And we have a probate officer, Ms. Houghton, who’ll be there. You’ve spoken with her, I’m sure.” Probably several times that day, if Debbie wasn’t mistaken. “Yes, I have,” she said crisply. Probably can’t push her around. “If there’s nothing else . . .” “There’s nothing else, Miss Woods.” The phone clicked. Mrs. O-R had hung up, without a goodbye. Debbie looked up and saw Sally standing next to her desk, straight blond hair falling to her shoulders, coffee cup in hand. “Now can we go for a coffee break?” Sally smiled her thin, crooked smile. “After all, you didn’t get to go this morning.” “She calls me ‘Miss Woods.’ Woods. I told her twice this month that my name had no ‘s.’ Wood, with no ‘s.’ I get no respect.” They laughed easily, like old friends. Debbie looked down at her desk, knowing another task needed doing before day’s end. “No, I can’t go for coffee. I’ve got some personal calls to make. Bring me back some, will you?” she asked, handing Sally her blue First Federal coffee mug, like those that sat on most of the employee desks. “Sure thing, but it’s your loss. Don’t expect me to fill you in on any gossip I hear in the lounge,” Sally turned, waved the cups in her hands and walked away. The staff lounge was always good for at least one true rumor and several utterly false ones. Sally had a reputation for repeating the latter. Debbie pulled a slip of paper from her purse and stared at it, then dialed the number. “Thank you for calling VISA. Para Español, marque numero cinco. For English, press or say ‘one.’ If your card has been lost or stolen, press or say ‘two.’ If you would like information on your present balance, press or say ‘three.’ If you would like to discuss payments or your credit limit, press or say ‘four.’ If you would. . .” Debbie pressed four. “This is Alexander, may I help you?” “Yes, my name is Debbie Wood, and I have my credit card number here. Would you be the person to talk to about getting my credit limits raised?” She kept her voice cheerful, upbeat, and optimistic. “What is your card number and expiration date please?” Debbie recited the number and date. “What is your mother’s maiden name?” “Griffin.” Debbie replied, and she heard clicking on the other end of the line. 45

GAME OVER

“I see that you have been making the minimum payments for the last five months and you are at your maximum balance of three thousand.” “Yes, that’s true, but I was recently promoted and given a raise, and I would like to use my card for a few things. Can I get the limit raised to four thousand? It would help a lot.” She smiled into the phone, knowing that it would help her voice sound cheerful, less stressed. “Just a moment please.” Alexander put her on hold. Oh shit, I’m going to have to start again with a new person. He came back on the line. “Yes, Ms. Wood, we can make that change for you. It will be effective as of today. You’ll receive a new credit application in your next bill. Just fill out the section on your yearly income, sign and return it, and you’ll be all set. Or your supervisor could send us a confirmation letter.” “Thanks so much. You did say that would be effective today?” “Yes, Ma’am.” “Great. I’ll get the paperwork done right away. Bye now.” Debbie’s left hand gripped the receiver tightly, and she set it down on the phone base with a sigh of relief. Now she could pay part of her mortgage back payments with a credit card check. She’d gone over to the First Federal mortgage department several months ago and asked if she could pay only the interest on her mortgage for awhile. They’d been very accommodating when she’d told them of her son’s need for an operation – a story she herself nearly believed by the time she left the office – but she wondered when the phone calls would start. No one from mortgage had called her yet, probably because she was a hard-working employee. Part of the First Federal happy family. She’d never been this far behind before. She’d even kept up with the payments during the midst of the divorce when there was no telling who would end up with the house. Debbie wanted to be sure that her boys didn’t lose the right to live there. She looked at her right hand. She had been balling up the paper with the VISA number and had been absentmindedly picking at a hangnail. She had smeared a small streak of blood on her desk calendar. Bloody February 16. And she had three more calls to make.

46

Chapter Six Warren Brandt waited patiently for fellow Senator Jean Buffalo as eight o’clock came and went. He read newspaper accounts of politics of the day, sports around the nation, and the latest crime statistics. Nothing new. He turned his attention to his political reading, Abraham Lincoln: Speeches and Writings, a book he took with him in case he had extra time to read – at the toll booth, in a traffic jam, one never knew when precious reading time could occur. He was in the middle of Lincoln’s speech at Chicago, Illinois: “Popular sovereignty! . . . another name for the same thing – Squatter Sovereignty . . . What was Squatter Sovereignty? . . . the right of the people to govern themselves, to be sovereign of their own affairs while they were squatted down in a country not their own . . . , in the sense that a State belongs to the people who inhabit it – when it belonged to the nation – such right to govern themselves was called “Squatter Sovereignty.” Warren looked up when his aide, Lorna Thompson, caused a commotion by the coffee shop door leading into the senate cafeteria. She charged toward his table, pushing chairs out of her way. Even when not in a hurry, Warren thought she had the appearance of a goose on the attack – long, stretched-out neck, buttocks lagging behind, and arms almost flapping. He suppressed a smile. Warren looked at his watch. Almost 9 am., and it wasn’t Jean’s usual style to be more than a few minutes late. Now he had no excuse for Ms. Thompson as to why he was lingering in the coffee shop. “Senator Brandt, Senator,” she shrieked as she approached the table, “I thought I might find you here when I checked your calendar this morning and saw ‘Coffee – Buffalo’.” 47

GAME OVER

“Jean never showed. Has she called the office with a message?” Warren noticed Ms. Thompson’s disapproving look, as though she thought the appointment had been a setup. Just an excuse for the good senator to get in some reading time. She puckered her thin, almost white lips in a scowl. “Why no, no, I’m sure not. But Speaker Adams needs to hear from you right away. He says it’s urgent, very urgent.” She put the message down on the table with the firmness of someone pressing an elevator button. Even when she stood close in conversation, Ms. Thompson’s voice had a cackling strain to it, something Warren had never gotten used to. Most people unconsciously cleared their throats when in conversation with her, as if they were helping her out. Other senators had encouraged him to move Ms. Thompson to another department and get himself a different aide, but she served as an effective assistant, most valuable in the competitive Washington environment. Her uncanny way of knowing where everyone could be found had come in handy more than once during hectic sessions. With just minutes before votes were taken, Warren would ask her to track down an opposing Senator so that he could get in one last plea for his cause. He also never had to worry about her work getting done. “Maybe I wrote down the incorrect time. Send someone over to Senator Buffalo’s office to check on her schedule. It’s vital that I speak to her before the eleven o’clock session.” Warren tapped absentmindedly on his book. “Sir, I already called her office to see if she had written down the location of your meeting so that I could bring you this message from Mr. Speaker. There was nothing except the eleven o’clock session written on her calendar, and she has not yet checked in with her office staff. Dead end there.” She scratched at her old-fashioned bee-hive hairdo and tucked a stray ash-brown hair into one of her hair pins. “Then I may as well give up. She’s not coming.” He stood up to leave. Leave it to Ms. Thompson to actually go check out someone’s calendar. What could have kept Jean from meeting this morning? She’d never missed a meeting with him before. Ms. Thompson made some throat noises, rattled some phlegm, to no avail. Her voice sounded consistently abrasive. “I do know that she also does not answer at home, sir. I had her office staff call there to see if perhaps that’s where you were, um, having coffee.” Warren looked at her over the edge of his glasses, something he did whenever her persistence took him by surprise – not so he could see her any more clearly, but so her face would be blurry and he could hide his reactions. It didn’t happen often anymore, but she still amazed him once in a great while. “Humph,” was all he said. 48

ChapterSix

They walked back to the office in silence, the Senator wondering how the session would go if he couldn’t meet with Buffalo first, and Ms. Thompson looking left and right, as though searching for Jean Buffalo around each corner. “Would you like me to keep in touch with her staff, Senator, and let you know when she comes in?” Ms. Thompson made her voice as pleasant as he’d ever heard it. “Yes, please, Ms. Thompson.” He knew she would make sure she knew of Senator Buffalo’s whereabouts no matter what he said. Warren walked over to the Senate chambers to prepare for his speech, already tucked into his jacket pocket. Jean’s not going to like him announcing these changes without her, but it’s not like he didn’t give her a chance to agree last night and allow more time for discussion this morning. The good senator started his speech promptly at eleven: “Since the adoption of the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act of 1988, tribes have had exclusive rights to regulate their own gaming activity on tribal lands, if such activity is not prohibited by federal law. Therefore, if the tribe’s home state allows Catholics to have bingo in the church basement, then tribes can also have bingo. And tribes can force such states to negotiate a contract with them. Tribes now feel that such contracts, and the selfregulation of their own casinos, are their sovereign right . . .” Most senators did not truly listen. They could get issues reports and summaries from their aides in the days to follow. Some did paperwork; others held quiet conversations. A few new senators still thought they needed to pay attention to speeches. Warren could see that two or three actually took notes. To them, he continued: “Of course, states do have rights here. They can make all gambling illegal within their borders or they can negotiate revenue-sharing agreements with tribes. Michigan has received over two hundred million dollars in shared revenues in the last fifteen years, and those revenues have been over twenty million each year now for several years.” “You have before you the bill from the Senate Indian Affairs Committee, delineating auditing and reporting requirements for tribally owned gaming casinos. Our bill contains only a very small Federal tax on gaming profit – less than one percent, and all monies will go back into the Bureau of Indian Affairs budget.” Warren pushed his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose and took a moment to take a drink of water from the glass that sat on the lower shelf of the podium. Heavy mineral taste. A slight smell of sulfur. He let the water glide slowly down his throat. He coughed a few times and got ready to do his best “hands waving 49

GAME OVER

in wisdom and passion, embracing the crowd” moves. He sometimes programmed his home television to tape himself so he could fine-tune his presentation skills. He had a particular head-shaking move that he used at just the right senatorial moment. While frowning slightly and tilting his head, he pointed into the air and jabbed his right index finger. “Senator Buffalo agrees with the changes you see.” He knew he looked impressive for the television cameras that now hummed away during each session. He got ready to use his finger-pointing move during his next paragraph. The senate floor page approached with a note. Warren reached for the paper casually and unfolded it while he continued his speech. “The increased BIA money will insure that tribes have better education, better . . .” He read Ms. Thompson’s cryptic handwriting: Must speak with you NOW. Will wait here by the door. Emergency. “. . . services of all kinds.” What the hell is going on? He looked at Ms. Thompson, but her face was in the shadow of the doorway, and he couldn’t read anything from her expression. He coughed again. “All of these changes are for the better. I must excuse myself for a moment, ladies and gentlemen. I hereby relinquish my remaining time to Mr. Speaker. Thank you.” The change of tone in his voice got the attention of most of the senate audience. He moved as naturally as he could muster, crumpling up the note and putting it in his jacket pocket, taking off his reading glasses, fumbling with them for a moment, picking up his remaining undelivered speech. In all his years at the senate, Ms. Thompson had used the word ‘emergency’ in a message only three times – when his mother died in 1991, when his daughter had been arrested for prostitution at the age of eighteen, and when his rival in a senate campaign had been killed in a car accident. Each time, the press had been waiting for a statement. He had learned through those situations that information is only powerful if you can control it. “What is it, Ms. Thompson?” he whispered as they walked quickly in unison toward his office. “So sorry, Senator. I’m not even sure this qualifies as an emergency. Here – read this.” Ms. Thompson squeaked in her lowest possible voice. Warren had told her many times that she had no capacity for whispers, so she had typed: Senator Buffalo’s office is buzzing. They have not indicated the nature of the trouble, but they used the word ‘emergency.’ They 50

ChapterSix

are planning a press conference at noon in her reception area. I could get nothing more from them. I called both local hospitals– nothing from them, either. None of my sources know anything more. Most unusual. “I thought perhaps with your meeting this morning and the committee work you two are working on that you might need to know this. I hope you are not angry about the interruption.” “No, of course not. Well. What to do now. Yes. Let’s see.” “Maybe if you call her office staff yourself, they’ll be more forthcoming. Since Elaine retired I have no contacts there.” Ms. Thompson had worked in Washington for twenty-three years, gathering and saving office favors like postage stamps. A frugal person in all aspects of her life, she had carefully doled out harmless bits of information to clerical staff and other senate aides. Warren knew that Ms. Thompson garnered her own power. In nearly every office, she always had someone she could call to get quick answers and the latest news. But Jean Anderson Buffalo, relatively new in Washington, hired her own staff. She had a newbie named “Frank,” and he didn’t share information like the others. Ms. Thompson was cut off. Warren had formulated a plan by the time he returned to his desk. He started with the newbie. “Frank, this is Warren Brandt. Can you tell me what’s up at Buffalo’s office?” Frank seemed young and eager to please. Maybe he would be a good bet for a leak. “Senator Brandt. We have some trouble here, but I’m not free to talk about it.” “Oh, come on, Frank. Jean and I worked hard on the legislation that I introduced this morning and she didn’t even show up to discuss some final changes. I hear there’s going to be a press conference. You’ve got to tell me what’s up. As Jean’s assistant, she would want you to talk to me.” “I can’t, Senator. The press already got wind of something and the phone is ringing off the hook. I’ve been given strict instructions.” “By whom? At least you can tell me who’s involved,” Warren hissed as he rubbed his eyebrows. “By the Majority Leader. He said not to say anything to anybody.” “Then at least tell me this. Is something wrong with Senator Buffalo? If so, she’d want me to know. You know that, don’t you? Tell me what’s going on.” Warren felt lightheaded. Could this possibly be happening? He scribbled fiercely on the notepad by his phone. “Okay, I’ll tell you this much,” Frank lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. “She was taken from her home in an ambulance last night.” 51

GAME OVER

“Jesus, Frank. Are you kidding me?” “Nope. Not kidding.” Click. “Ms. Thompson, get me the Majority Leader.” *

*

*

Warren tried to look dignified as he hurried to Senator Buffalo’s office, where commotion reverberated. Even the hallway outside her area bustled with activity. The press set up their microphones and lighting gear in the outer office, a reception room typical of all senators’ offices, although size varied with the importance and power of the senator. The staffers packed chairs into the small space to try to accommodate the expected forty or so members of the press and the onlookers already weaseling their way into the room. “We’ll begin in five minutes.” Jean Buffalo’s personal secretary waved her arms to quiet the crowd. “Frank, let’s move this fiasco into the outside corridors.” “It’s too late. The mike cords are all set to go.” Frank cut a piece of tape with his teeth and taped down more microphone cords to the table’s edge. The secretary frowned and surveyed the room. “Then move the chairs back a bit, please, so we have room for the Majority Leader to stand to the right of the podium.” Warren strode up to her. “Where is he?” he hissed, making sure his voice would not be picked up by any microphones already turned on. “Who are you talking about, sir?” the secretary asked. A low hum of murmurs came from the press and several members of congress who congregated in the back. Word of a press conference gets out quickly, and this one already had leakings of a big news story. Such a press conference could mean national exposure, even if it’s just a knowing nod or a well-phrased question. It’s good for the constituencies to see you hard at work. Warren looked over at Frank, who instantly stopped untangling microphone cords. Frank’s eyes moved toward Senator Buffalo’s office door. Warren made for the door. “Damn you, why didn’t you let me in on this?” he hollered as he burst into the room, Frank at his heels. “Now you calm down. You know how delicate these things can be.” Senator Lyons tucked his gold pen into his inside jacket pocket. “Get out of here, Frank, and close the door behind you.” “I didn’t tell him, Senator Lyons,” Frank whined as he backed away, still facing the two men. “I said, close the door behind you, Frank.” Lyons looked coolly at 52

ChapterSix

Frank and pointed at the door with his chin. Warren shoved the young man out the door and slammed it shut. “Tell me what’s going on!” Lyons calmly folded his handkerchief and placed it in his breast pocket, pushing it in with the tip showing. “It’s three minutes to press time.” “We are in the middle of a legislative nightmare with the casino bill. If something’s happened to Jean, you should have had me prepare a ‘business as usual’ speech from the IAC. Damn you, Sam. Tell me what’s wrong.” “She’s in a coma. Apparently she choked on a piece of candy last night. She was taken to the hospital, and the press knows something’s up. Doctors say it doesn’t look good. “Doesn’t look good? Is she hurt?” Warren grabbed Lyons’ suit lapels. “Is she dead? Did you have anything to do with this? You’ve been against her from the start.” Warren felt sickened by Lyons’ cool demeanor. How could he look so calm? “We thought it best to make an announcement first and then follow up with another press conference regarding her legislative efforts. Get more mileage out of two press conferences.” “More mileage? This is Jean you’re talking about. A fellow Senator. Someone we work with. If anything happens to her, I swear to God . . .” “Get your hands off me, you fucking idiot.” Lyons pushed Warren’s hands away. “You agreed to this whole thing, so don’t play innocent. We needed to give her a scare, and you knew it. We can’t blow this now.” Warren slumped down in the chair, the same one he sat in yesterday while arguing with Jean. He rested his hands on the smooth, worn leather, and the smell reminded him of sitting in a library. “A coma is not exactly a scare. And you were going to wait until next week, until I knew it would be necessary. She might have changed her mind!” Senator Lyons straightened his jacket. “We can talk details later, but we’ve got one minute until prime time air. Come on, we need to go take care of business. Stand next to me if you’d like, but don’t say anything. You got that? Nothing!” Warren rubbed his eyebrows, thumbs resting on his cheeks. “Yes, I’ve got it.” Something had gone terribly wrong. He rose slowly and followed Lyons out to the makeshift press area and the glare of the television cameras. Jean, I’m so sorry. Senator Sam Lyons began the press conference calmly, stating facts in a smooth, even voice. “Sometime between 8 pm. and midnight last night, Senator Buffalo apparently choked on a piece of candy and has been in a coma ever since. She’s been taken to Washington Memorial Hospital, and doctors there are preparing a statement for later today. 53

GAME OVER

They’ll be able to answer your medical questions.” Reporters began their frenzy. “Senator Lyons, what do you mean, ‘apparently choked’?” “Why didn’t the hospital release a statement before now?” Lyons held up his hand, but the questions kept coming: “Why wasn’t the press notified last night?” Lyons answered that one. “They needed to reach the family first.” “Isn’t the family from the Bad River Reservation in Wisconsin?” “Which family members did you contact?” “We won’t release any additional information about the family, but as far as I know the police are doing what they can. The public information office for the senate has data about all the senators and their families, so you can get what you need from them.” Warren noticed that a bead of sweat formed on Lyons’ upper lip. The reporters fired away. “Did you say ‘police’? Why are the police involved?” “Who found her?” “What about the gambling legislation she was working on? Will it continue to move forward?” The sweat on Senator Lyons’ lip now beaded in large droplets. “Stay calm, people. We’ll get all of your questions answered when we have information. The police are not involved, but as you know, anytime anything happens to a member of Congress, they are on the scene. Just a safeguard.” Lyons smiled a confident smile, his sweaty upper lip curving upward. “The Indian Affairs Committee presented that legislation today, and the first reading is scheduled for tomorrow.” Warren felt as though he was in the middle of a circus ring, all eyes on him. He must stay collected for the moment. He must look calm. He could plan a strategy later on when he had time to figure out what to do, when the cameras weren’t rolling. But what about Jean? He never knew until this moment how much he cared for her as a colleague, how much he depended on her for advice and even friendship. The reporters’ questions seemed like flies buzzing in the air, floating out there as a nuisance, but not harmful enough to take seriously. “So there will be no pause in that legislation or the work of the Senate Indian Affairs Committee?” “Will Senator Buffalo be temporarily replaced on the SIAC by another Native American?” Senator Lyons dabbed at his lip with his handkerchief. “These questions are rather premature. We need to let the committee meet and determine its own destiny. I’m sure the committee chair would agree.” Lyons looked toward Warren but didn’t give any time for an answer. “And even 54

ChapterSix

though the doctors are guarded now, Senator Buffalo may come out of her coma at any time.” “Senator Brandt, what are your comments? Can you tell us about the legislative work Senator Buffalo was working on? And what are the plans for continuation of the SIAC?” Warren let his gaze drop from the camera lights. He glared at Lyons with an ‘I told you so’ look, Warren’s bushy white eyebrows arched in half-circles above his round eyes. “We just don’t know . . .” his voice faltered. Maybe he should just tell the truth. Get it over with. “I’m sorry,” Lyons interjected, “Senator Brandt is not ready to answer your questions. He wanted to be here to show support for Senator Buffalo and to show concern for her family, but now is not the time for legislative questions. The hospital staff will have more to say about Senator Buffalo in their late afternoon press conference. Thank you for coming. This press conference is over.” The room cleared quickly, with reporters rushing off to file their stories. Sam Lyons passed the suddenly aged Warren, reached out, and took Warren’s hand gently between his. Lyons gave his most consoling smile for any cameras that may have been still pointed his way. Quietly, he muttered, “Just remember – we’re in this together. Better not forget it. Don’t do or say anything stupid. You talk to me and only me. No one knows anything. Got it? Because if you don’t, your career is history.” Warren hurried down the hallway. He just wanted to make it out of camera range. He bolted toward the closest men’s room, rushed through the door, but the only stall was locked. Frank stood at the urinal. When Warren dashed over to it and threw up, the putrid contents of Warren’s stomach splattered all over Frank’s hands and penis. *

*

*

“Hi, Steven, how was your day?” Debbie stared at her imperfect reflection in the metal front of the pay phone. She missed having a cell phone, but the monthly charges became too expensive. Some people gave up their home telephones and only kept cells, but she wanted the boys to have a phone in the house for emergencies. “Great, Mom. Phil and I went over to John’s for dinner, and John’s mom thinks my skates are really cool. Um, Dad called, he’s not coming to get us tonight, he’s coming in the morning. So, are you coming home?” She could easily guess why he always mentioned John’s mom. John’s mom was always at home, nurturing and caring for the nest and anyone who happened to be in it. As Debbie would be once she finished law 55

GAME OVER

school, or if her luck turned around and she got her debts in order. Charlie, damn him, postponing again on the boys. He was always cutting his weekends short in one way or another. “Honey, I can’t get home for a while. I still have library work to do.” No response. “Philip is supposed to be with you. Is he home?” “No, he left a few minutes ago. He’s at Marcia’s, but he said he’ll be right back.” Marcia. What a lost cause. Couldn’t Philip see that? Debbie grated her teeth, chewing on invisible food, as though with enough grinding, some bit of wisdom would be created and spew forth. Maybe she could figure out a way to tell Philip that Marcia seemed a little wild for him, too concerned with appearances, too something, so he’d stay away from her. “I better come home now if Philip’s not there. I didn’t realize you were alone, Steven, and I thought your dad would be there soon to pick you up.” There went her chance to get to the casino to make up for some of her losses. “Geez, Mom, it’s okay. I’m not a baby, ya know. I’m thirteen, and I’ve just been alone a few minutes. By the time you get here, you’ll probably make me go to bed anyway.” “Are you sure?” Debbie knew her youngest liked to stay alone, but it’s not like they lived in a small town. Anything could happen. She’d have to speak to Philip about shirking his responsibilities as an older brother. “I’m sure. Wake me up when you get home, will ya?” “You got it. Double check to make sure the front door is locked.” “Geez, Mom. I do that all the time. Bye.” Debbie drove the eight miles to Pine Bend Casino. Maybe she should talk to her family about her gambling. But people just didn’t understand. You just had to go often enough, have a bank roll large enough to get through the loss swings, and have the right luck or a good system. When she won, they’d see then. Debbie had gambled at Pine Bend only twice before, once with a group of friends for a wedding reception a few years ago when she first started gambling, and once by herself. The wedding reception paid off – her first big win, a jackpot of over a thousand dollars! And it had seemed so easy. She had used the money for summer camp for the boys, and the new winter jackets they liked so much. Deciding she could spend two bucks on the valet, she pulled up to the valet parking area. “Nice car, ma’am,” the attendant said as he handed her the parking stub. “Thanks.” She pocketed the stub and walked through the main entrance door, her purse clutched to her side. She had about two hundred 56

ChapterSix

dollars left from the old lady’s money. The rest she’d spent on a few bills to keep creditors quiet, and she’d treated herself to a crab salad lunch. But she could win it all back if she tried hard enough. Besides, she had found the money, not stolen it. Tonight would be lucky. She finally had enough backing to make it big. She headed for the main change booth, a circular counter with three windows. The lines of customers extended out from the curved counter like the spokes of a wagon wheel. As Debbie moved through the line, she scouted for the quarter poker machines. She craned her neck and looked in all directions, but she could only see dollar slots. “Five rolls of quarters, please.” Debbie had to speak loudly to be heard over the commotion of the machines and people all around her. The change clerk handed her five rolls of quarters. “There you are,” he said cheerfully. “And good luck to you!” Debbie worked her way to the other side of the casino, looking for the video poker through the tobacco haze and blinking, colored lights. A machine with a game called “Lucky 7” caught her eye. Why not try something new? Could very well be lucky. Her screen flashed a pay line showing the results of a winning pull. She ripped open her first roll of quarters, emptied them into the metal tray at the base of the machine, which came to about Debbie’s knees after she sat on the stool. She leaned over and swirled the quarters around the tray for good luck. “Here we go,” she muttered to herself, reading the instructions carefully, knowing that each brand of machine had its own rules and you could lose your money fast if you didn’t pay attention. This one looked easy. Players could bet up to five coins and win up to eight thousand coins if three sevens appeared in the pay line across the middle of the screen – one red, one white, one blue, in that order. An oval joker, all dressed up in a red and yellow puffy suit, counted as a seven whenever he appeared. “Play five quarters! Play five quarters!” the screen flashed. She inserted five quarters and pulled the lever on the right side of the machine. No winner. She played five more quarters. Blue seven, space, red seven. No winner. “Anything to drink?” a waitress asked over Debbie’s shoulder. “Yes, please, a Seven-Up.” Very appropriate, could be lucky. Four more pulls, not a coin paid. Then on the next pull, red seven, red seven, joker. The machine paid fifty credits. Hot dog, my money back, plus some. This is going to be an incredible night! The waitress came back with the soda and set it down on the counter next to Debbie’s machine. “Here’s a tip for you, thanks for the soda.” Debbie plunked down four quarters on the serving tray. By the time the waitress thanked her, Deb57

GAME OVER

bie had played two more pulls. Eight more pulls, and her credits were gone. The first roll of quarters disappeared quickly, and she decided to open up another roll. This machine could pay off big; I just have to stay with it. Otherwise someone else will come along and get this jackpot. After the second roll was gone, she decided she couldn’t quit now. Too much invested. When all of her quarters were gone, she rose slowly, patted the machine, and went in search of a change booth. As she walked away, an elderly man sat down at her machine, put in five quarters, and hit three jokers – two hundred credits. “What luck!” he said, and he settled in on Debbie’s still-warm stool. Damn, I’ve got to learn to be patient! Why couldn’t that have been me? She tried to find a video poker machine. She went to the change booth and bought a hundred dollars worth of quarters. Then she spotted it. Ah ha, here’s a good one. She smiled in satisfaction and sat down. She knew the game by heart. Video poker had always been her favorite because the player was part of the action, not just blindly pulling a lever. There were choices to be made, skills to be used, cards to keep or discard, decreasing odds for increasingly difficult hands, just as in real poker. She felt in charge of her destiny. As a young girl, she used to play poker with her dad at the kitchen table. “Honey, try not to bet on the chances of drawing to an inside straight,” he’d say, and then laugh himself sick when she’d actually try it and win. Once she had the four, five, seven, and eight of hearts, and she drew the six of hearts for a straight flush. After that he would sometimes call her “my lucky little lady.” But he never let her play when his friends came over for a night of poker. He called it “serious playing,” clearly for men only. There were always several smokers, and by night’s end the room had the smell Debbie loved of smoke, stale beer and chip dip. The men would ask her to run errands – she’d get beer from the refrigerator, open potato chip bags and empty them into a large green Tupperware bowl, fetch more of her mother’s cream cheese chip dip, empty ash trays. She’d tease her father every now and then, peeking over his shoulder at a hand or two. He never let her stay in the room too long, though, if she didn’t stay busy fetching. “Off you go,” he’d say, and at the end of the night, he and his friends would leave her a tip on the table. Her first waitress job. Now she played for herself. This one’s for you, Daddy. She tore open a roll of quarters and swirled them around in the coin tray. She put in five quarters, and the payout screen flashed messages: Jacks or better and your money back! Jacks or better and your money back! She pressed the “deal” button. Nine of spades, nine of hearts, nine of diamonds, three of hearts, jack of spades. She kept the nines. Ffssssshht, ffssssshht. Two 58

ChapterSix

queens for a full house. Thirty-five credits. “Now we’re cooking with the right sauce,” she whispered to herself as she hit the “Play Five Credits” button. Two hours later she had lost all of her of quarters and another eighty dollars. She checked her purse. Three dollars and eighty cents, and she needed two dollars to tip the valet and get her car out of the parking lot. A waitress came by. “Would you like anything to drink?” The anguish on Debbie’s face should have been enough to warn her off, but Debbie shook her head anyway. “No, no, thanks.” She ran her fingers through her hair and arched her back, stretching a little to relieve the stiffness that came from two hours spent hunched over, staring at one spot. Now what? she wondered, looking in her purse again in case she’d missed something. Suddenly she remembered. She had raised her VISA card limit, and she’d used about five hundred dollars to make minimum payments on her credit cards. She had been planning to use the rest for a partial mortgage payment, but she already had so much invested in this machine. It would be a shame to leave it. She pressed the “Change” button on the machine, and a yellow light perched at the top lit up. It took a while for a change clerk to arrive. “May I help you?” he asked, fingering the rolls of change in his apron. “Can you give me change using my credit card, because I don’t want to leave this machine to go to the change booth. Too much invested, you know.” Debbie smiled weakly. “No, ma’am, you’ve got to go to the main change booth for that, or use one of the instant cash machines by the lobby. Sorry.” “Sorry? What good does that do me? I can’t leave this machine!” Her voice had become high- pitched, slightly hysterical. “I can sit on the stool for you ma’am, but if you’re not back in five minutes, I’ll have to get back to my other duties.” “Oh, thank you, I’ll be right back. Don’t leave now. There’ll be a tip in it for you.” Debbie found the main change booth and stood at the end of the line. Every few seconds she stretched on tiptoe and looked back toward her machine, but she couldn’t see around the corner. “Four hundred dollars worth of quarters, please,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. She told herself to stay calm, that the machine would still be there when she finished getting money. It’s due for a big jackpot soon! She signed her VISA slip, collected her rolls of quarters in a plastic bucket stamped with the Pine Bend logo and marched off. She thought about using the bathroom, but the clerk might not wait that long. The clerk was there, sitting on her stool, looking nervously at his watch. He looked surprised when he saw Debbie, and said, “You made it!” 59

GAME OVER

“Yeah, thanks so much, and here’s a tip for you.” She opened a roll of quarters and put eight of them in his hand, but he looked a little disappointed. “No problem.” He hurried away. She tried to push doubts out of her mind. Now was the time for patience and confidence. What would she do if she didn’t win? Nonsense, of course I’m going to win! This machine will hit it big any time now. And if it doesn’t? Play smart, just play it very smart. Besides, four hundred dollars is a major investment in quarters: I can play for hours, all night if I need to. This machine is bound to pay off. Debbie put in five quarters. Three jacks, two queens – a full house on the first try, without having to discard. She pressed the “hold” button to save all of her cards, then pressed “deal.” The machine chimed a merry tune as it added twenty-five credits. Now it’s hot! Within fifteen minutes her credit total was up to four hundred. Maybe it paid to let the machine rest sometimes. A straight flush, the king, queen, jack, ten, nine of diamonds, for five hundred credits. Holy shit! The machine chimed away, noisily adding the credits to her total, while Debbie smiled at those around her who had stopped playing and were looking at her machine with a little envy. “What’d you hit?” asked the man sitting next to her. “A straight flush!” “Wow, you must be having some luck. If I were that lucky, I wouldn’t be playing quarters, I’d be playing dollars.” “How are you doing on your machine?” Debbie asked. In moments like these, winning moments, when the stress of losing was gone, Debbie could return to her old friendliness. She used to be able to find things to say to strangers, make small talk, even after she moved to the big city of St. Paul and speaking to strangers became taboo. Her dad worried about her lack of caution, but her mom understood: it was a matter of being polite, like Canadians. Minnesotans are much the same. They said “excuse me” when they bumped into someone, and occasionally they talked to each other in elevators. They only honked their car horns when a car accident seemed imminent. Debbie’s mom used to say that it came from the madness of enduring unbearably cold weather together. The man described his luck. “Oh, not much luck for me tonight, but last month I won over a thousand dollars on a nickel machine progressive jackpot. Now that was a good night!” “I should say. Well, more good luck to you.” Debbie turned back to her machine and continued playing. After half an hour, her credit total was down to one hundred and four. Debbie stretched and twiddled with her hair. The man next to her had been right. She just couldn’t get any60

ChapterSix

where playing quarters. She still had her four hundred in quarters, plus twenty-one dollars of credits in the machine. Money ahead. Time to cash out and switch, while she still had her VISA money. Time to get serious. “I’d like to trade these quarters for four hundred in dollars, please.” She smiled at the change clerk. The dollar slot machines were near the lounge. From there, Debbie could hear the 50s music of the live band playing for guests who were taking a break. Which one, which one? She chose a machine in the middle of a row of seven, with the band at her back. She touched the screen, wondering how the machine would feel. Warm to the touch. This is the one. And stools with backs on them – especially lucky! Debbie settled in on the stool, looked over the instructions, and poured her first roll of dollars into the coin tray, giving them the good luck swirl. The heavy “clank, clank, clank” noise of the dollars dropping into the machine pleased her. She loved the firm feel of the lever as she pulled it toward herself, the smooth, round ball at the top of the lever that fit nicely into the palm of her hand. No winner. “Clank, clank, clank.” No winner. An hour later, Debbie stretched and looked around her. Paper wrappers from the dollar rolls littered the counter next to her machine; her coin tray held no coins, her screen total read “nine credits,” and her bucket held only a few quarters from her earlier play. I have enough for three pulls, something is bound to happen in these three pulls. The band behind her was singing “Wake up, little Suzie”: Wake up, little Suuuzie, wake up, Wake up, little Suuuzie, wake up, Debbie pulled the lever. No winner. The movie wasn’t so hot, it didn’t have much of a plot, Debbie pulled the lever. No winner. We fell asleep, our goose is cooked, our reputation is shot, Wake up, a little Suuuzie, wake up, a little Suuuzie, We gotta go home. Debbie pulled the lever. No winner. She turned to look at the band for the first time. Three men and a woman, all in black jeans and red shirts, strumming their best. “Anything to drink, ma’am?” Debbie noticed servers came around to the dollar machines more often than in the quarter area. “Yes, please, a gin and tonic.” Debbie replied numbly as she swirled 61

GAME OVER

her leftover quarters in the plastic bucket, wishing they were dollars. Her practical mind had already started taking over. A tip for the drink, lunch money for the boys for the rest of the week, two dollars to get her car from the valet . . . “That’ll be three dollars and fifty cents.” The waitress held out her drink. “I thought drinks were free.” “Not alcoholic beverages, ma’am.” “Look here, I just lost a lot of money on this dollar machine, and earlier I lost a lot of money on the quarter machines, and the damn drink should be free in the dollar section.” “Sorry, ma’am, it’s not. But listen, this one is on the house.” The waitress turned and walked away, shaking her head and mumbling about the rudeness of some customers. Debbie didn’t care. She drank with determined gulps as the band played. Whatt’a we gonna tell your mama, whatt’a we gonna tell your pop, Whatt’a we gonna tell our friends when they say ’oooh, la, la, Wake up, a little Suuuzie, wake up, a little Suuuzie, We gotta go home. Debbie looked at her watch: 3:20 am. She picked up and shook her crumpled coat, which had fallen on the floor beneath her stool. The five hundred dollars of stolen money was gone, except for twenty-one dollars in quarters and a pair of hockey skates. That old woman could win more. She probably wins all the time anyway. The four hundred dollars of VISA money was gone. But she had paid some bills from that VISA raise. She slowly put on her coat and gloves, gathered up her purse and bucket of quarters, and walked past the guards without nodding good night. I’ve got to stop this. I just can’t play these machines anymore. The house got it all. She took her gloves off and dug for her valet tab, finally finding it in the bottom of her purse. “Careful, ma’am, your hands are going to get cold,” he teased as Debbie handed him the ticket. She looked down at her exposed hands, and turned them over. She thought it strange that she didn’t feel the cold. She didn’t feel anything. I’m smarter than this. I’m wasting my time, my money, my very life. She choked back tears of remorse. Next time, though. She could feel it pulling at her already. Next time she would show them. As someone opened the casino door behind her, she could just barely 62

ChapterSix

hear the band: We gotta go home.

63

GAME OVER

64

Chapter Seven Craig Two Horses sat on one of the metal folding chairs set up for the audience of the Pine Bend tribal meeting. He took notes from time to time, his turquoise rings flashing, writing down the main themes for his boss Jack Winger, tribal member of Pine Bend. The debates reminded Craig of his cousin Jean. His thoughts turned to her, and he had a hard time concentrating. The four district council members and the council chairman sat in the five plush chairs that arched around the council table at the far end of the small room. Craig watched as Ben Peacock hollered his next point. “I don’t care if it will increase our profit margin, we should not have child care facilities and a teen center at the casino!” Peacock folded his arms over his chest and paused, then spread his arms wide for his next appeal. “It sends the wrong message to our young mothers and fathers raising small children. We could spend that money so much more wisely.” Cousin Jean would have agreed with that. But nobody seemed to like Peacock, with his churchy attitudes. “Oh, don’t give me that shit!” John Longie lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. He stared out of the smoke curling up from his mouth. The ashtray in front of him overflowed with three hours’ worth of cigarette butts. “Howaaah,” he said, as he blew out more smoke. “We decided years ago that running a casino could improve the economic lives of our people. Why are you now arguing that the influence of gambling is bad? Most of our customers are not our own people anyway, and tourists expect facilities like these. We should make our casino the best damn casino it can be!” Craig thought that his cousin Jean would probably agree with that, too. If she could hear this debate, she could help him figure out where he should stand on this. It was Peacock’s turn to speak. “I say it is no longer an economic is65

GAME OVER

sue. These facilities will make it too easy for our young parents to spend time in the casino. Let them get a babysitter and leave the little ones and the teens at home where they belong. Gambling should not be seen as family recreation!” He pounded his right fist on the table, and the solid table shook despite its thick, wooden legs. He tossed his head and his long, black hair swung back. Craig decided that even though Peacock was the youngest member of the tribal council, he made a passionate speaker. Admirable, but aggressive. “Excuse me,” a tribal woman elder whispered to Craig, stepping over his feet as she moved toward the coffee pot. She progressed down the row of chairs and some people slid their chairs back to accommodate her. The echoes of metal on the concrete floor drowned out the last part of Peacock’s speech. Longie ground his teeth. A small vein in his neck bulged out slightly when he argued, and Craig noticed it had been bulging for the last hour. Longie had the floor. “We have an opportunity to become a destination for a family on vacation. They’ll come here, knowing that we have activities for everybody. A whole new market! Other casinos are building facilities to cater to the young. If we don’t do it too, we’ll be seen as an old people’s casino.” He took another long drag on his cigarette and sat down. He glanced around the table and shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t forget, these facilities will add at least thirty new jobs. Our people need those jobs to provide for their families. Remember them, council members.” Craig thought Longie made a good point, and he couldn’t help but think of Cousin Jean. One of her favorite topics was creating good jobs and economic development on the reservations. He suddenly felt lonesome and frightened for her. Since she went to Washington, he’d only seen her a few times. He needed to get back to their Bad River reservation, to connect with family and very good friends – what he called a ‘rez fix.’ He missed his Great Uncle George, especially in the winter. George loved to go ice fishing, and he’d tell off-colored jokes as Craig dug out the hole and prepared their tip-up lines, complete with small flags that popped up when a fish pulled on the line. The colder the weather, the worse the jokes. They’d net plenty of fish in the spring and summer, but Craig always loved ice fishing and seeing the red flags pop up when a fish took the bait. He sketched a tip-up flag right next to his words, ‘over thirty new jobs.’ Yeah, right, for Longie’s relations. The woman elder came back down the row, muttering, “Sorry, excuse me.” She spilled some coffee on Craig’s boots as she went by. “Oh, pardon me.” More chairs scraped the floor. 66

ChapterSeven

Peacock rattled the papers in front of him, and as he slammed them down, his silver bear claw bracelet clanked on the table. Craig had read an article about the huge conference table in the tribal newsletter, and he knew that the oak leaf pattern honored majestic beauty, the footrest carved with fruits and berries represented the bounty of nature, and the turtle-back pattern carved along the entire edge of the table symbolized strength and endurance. “But what about the problem gamblers?” Peacock continued. “These are real people, and some are members of our own tribe – not just statistics! We should use some of our profits to help them.” Craig raised his hand, and Longie pointed at him. Might as well get as much helpful information as possible, as long as he had to sit here all night. Craig asked, “Do you have any data on the number of your tribal members who gamble, and of those how many might have problems?” Longie nodded. “Last year’s survey showed that about a third of our members gamble here, but we don’t have any data about the problems. Probably just a few. Nothing major.” “Nothing major?” Peacock leapt out of his chair and looked directly at Craig. “Ron Printon, one of our much respected elders, committed suicide last month.” He looked over at Longie. “And you can’t tell me that his mounting gambling debt had nothing to do with it!” He turned back to Craig, as though making an appeal. “And Florence Carlson turned to prostitution because her gambling bills got too high.” He glared at Longie. That might be just a few to you, but to me, that’s a few too many.” “Oh come on, not every problem is related to gambling.” Longie threw his head back and smiled. “I know Florence owes a lot of money to the casino, but maybe she just likes her work.” Craig heard a few snickers coming from the audience behind him as he wrote: 1/3 use casino, Florence Carlson, Ron Printon. Peacock sat down. For the first time all evening, Craig thought Peacock looked defeated when he said, “Think of our ancestor Boganigishi, and his wife, Small Dove, who gave us this old table. Small Dove insisted that we must use this table for tribal meetings, so that all opinions around the table could be heard with equal respect. And not just those of our band of Chippewa, but all opinions. In Minnesota, over five percent of gamblers end up having problems controlling themselves.” He turned and stared at Craig. “Five percent. I respectfully ask that we use some of our money for treatment programs.” “Oh right, that makes sense.” Longie sneered. It’s like the tobacco companies placing ads that say it’s dangerous to smoke. Ridiculous! This meeting isn’t about programs anyway. I call for a vote.” “But wait . . .” Peacock stuttered, “Can’t we just discuss this a little 67

GAME OVER

longer? There are still unresolved issues here. Children are left in these centers for hours on end, day after day! What are we going to do if some kids are still there at closing time? We have to close the center by midnight, and what happens when kids get left there all night? Gamblers lose track of time. We need to think about those kids!” “You know that our agenda only listed the child care and teen arcade facilities. There’ll be time for making policies later. I again call for a vote.” “NO!” Peacock shouted. “We must. . . ” “Mr. Peacock, stop now!” Norman White, a ninth-term tribal council member, raised his hand slightly. Norman looked to be in his early eighties, though he often said he didn’t know the year of his birth. Didn’t matter. People from his district kept reelecting ‘Honest Norman.’ Norman’s lower jaw moved slowly from side to side, almost like a cow chewing his cud. “You know the rules. The Chairman allowed for three hours of discussion, and now he asked for a vote. Please be still, and we will vote.” As the one responsible for taking the vote, Longie looked around the table at the council members. “All those in favor of building child care and teen arcade facilities at the casino, at a cost of one point six million dollars, raise your hands.” He patted the turtles absentmindedly. He loudly counted. “One, two, members White and Walters. All those against, raise your hands. One, two, members Peacock and Griggs. I break the tie by voting ‘yes.’ The motion passes. We’ll get the bids out right away. Meeting adjourned.” Craig turned a page in his notebook. ‘Motion passed. 1.6 mil.’ Peacock stood up, eyes welling up with tears. “You’re a son-of-abitch, Longie. We need sustainable development! Anyone who can’t see it is a fool.” He tripped over three chairs while lunging for his jacket from the coat rack on his way out. Craig took the notebook and followed him out to the lobby. He wanted to talk to him. “Mr. Peacock, do you have a minute?” Ben Peacock stopped just inside the door. “I saw you scribbling in your notebook. Who are you writing for? The tribal newsletter?” “No, just taking notes for Jack Winger, so my question is personal. Why are you so against expansion? Shouldn’t the casino expand while we have the chance? If the Feds ever give the states controlling rights over us, expansion might be regulated.” Peacock slouched against the wall and exhaled. “You have to know something. I originally voted for gaming.” “That’s a surprise.” Craig motioned toward the hallway bench. “Can we sit down? I want to find out why you are so against it now. After all, 68

ChapterSeven

the profits helped fund the new elementary school building last year, and the new health clinic. . . . “We’re off the record, right?” “Yeah, of course.“ Peacock sat down on the arm of the bench. “You’ve misread me. I’m not at all against gambling, but the services you mentioned are all services that the Federal government promised to provide in our treaties in exchange for our land. Promises that are miserably kept. Now suddenly we have some money, and we need to use our profits for sustainable business start-ups.” Craig nodded. “The Wisconsin wild rice project has been very successful. It took in over a million last year from selling rice.” “Wild rice isn’t going to do enough for us, and that’s only one success out of 13 failures. But we could do tourism, I don’t know, environmental projects, things that meet our cultural goals, maybe growing more pine forests for sustainable logging. Eventually the BIA might be tempted to cut our funding even more, and then we could become totally dependent on gambling. Isn’t the Bad River rez concerned?” Peacock relaxed a little, and tossed his jacket down on the bench. “How’d you know I’m not from here? I’ve worked at Pine Bend for three years now.” “Every council member knows who you are and where you’re from. It isn’t every day that a cousin of an Indian Senator comes to work for us. So I figured you must be a Bad River Ojibwe, like your cousin. I met her once, you know.” Peacock smiled, and chuckled softly. “She came to Minnesota for our conference on bio fuels. She spoke on ‘leveraging community resources’ as I recall, and she was a very good speaker.” Craig could imagine cousin Jean, emphasizing her speaking points, pounding the podium in her careful and deliberate way, her fist pointed toward the audience, her thumb pointed toward the sky. “What about kids getting left at the centers? Does that really happen? That sounds pretty sick.” “Gamblers often lose track of time. Walk the aisles and take a good, long look in their eyes. We can page the parents and hope they’re paying attention, but if not, then what? I’m just saying we might be in for trouble.” Longie walked by and stopped just short of the bench. “Hey. I just wanted you to know . . .” He placed his hand lightly on Peacock’s arm. “We’ll all prosper from this addition. We’ll get more business, and that’s always good for the tribe. You’ll see.” “Not everybody is getting as wealthy as you and your family.” Peacock shook free and headed for the door, throwing on his jacket as he 69

GAME OVER

ran. “I live for the day when we care about future generations. In the meantime, stay away from me.” He hastened out the back of the building and across the parking lot. Longie muttered something and hurried out the door. Craig walked to his truck. Those two men just couldn’t talk to each other. He held his jacket closed against the wind and the first snow flakes of the oncoming storm. He turned to unlock his truck door and saw it – a plain white envelope on the driver’s seat. How could I have forgotten to lock my truck? He pressed the button on the door knob. No response. The truck was locked. He looked over his shoulder and scanned the parking lot for anyone lurking nearby. No one. “Anybody here?” All he heard was the wind whipping across the lot, carrying a small amount of snow with the gusts. Craig unlocked the door and reached uneasily for the envelope. The large capital letters scribbled on the page read: “YOU MUST FIGHT HER BATTLE NOW”

70

Chapter Eight “Aaaahhhhhggg,” Debbie groaned aloud. When a library attendant walked by and said, “Shhhhhh,” she glanced up with a guilty look on her face. Craig stopped reading his Arizona Republic newspaper. He had noticed Debbie earlier and he enjoyed watching her read. She ran her fingers along the sides of her head, starting at the temples and taking about thirty seconds to reach the end of her long hair, her curls resting gently on her shoulders. He especially liked watching her play with the ends. When she turned pages, she stroked her hair one-handed. He thought of his Great Aunt Sarah who played with her hair in much the same way. Thinking about Sarah made him long to go home, to hug Sarah and Great Uncle George, and to wait with them for Jean to wake up out of her coma. As he walked over to Debbie’s table, he decided to use the casual approach. “Hey. How are you doing?” “Hi. It’s Craig, isn’t it?” Craig nodded. “Having trouble with that three-day cancellation rule?” he whispered as he sat down in the chair next to hers. “I’ve been scanning ‘The Laws of Contracts and Sales’ and getting nowhere. I’m afraid Tarpen’s going to be disappointed.” She gave a tired shrug. “Where’ve you looked so far?” She waved one hand over the stack of books on the table, all lying open, some pages marked with slips of paper. “I’ve even checked the extra readings list. None of them seems to apply. What are you doing here, anyway? It‘s a fine Saturday night.” “Law student, remember? I spend almost all of my free time here.” He folded his paper and tucked it under his arm, the front-page picture of Senator Jean Buffalo disappearing in the crease. “Just a little reading. I try to stay on top of current events. Probably more of a bad habit 71

GAME OVER

than anything. My Great Uncle George says it’s like spending time in a rocking chair. Gives me something to do but doesn’t get me anywhere.” Debbie smiled. “My Dad used phrases like that all the time.” She took a deep breath and lowered her chin, rubbing the back of her neck as her head flopped forward. She shook her head a little and smoothed her hair away from her face. He noticed the arch in her neck, the smoothness of her skin, and the thickness of the hair that fell down the middle of her back. The way her hair formed small curves and curled around her shoulders and made perfect upside-down question marks. “Good God, what time is it?” “Ssshhhhh,” The library attendant scolded. Debbie leaned forward and mouthed, “What time?” and rolled her eyes at the passing attendant. Craig glanced at his watch. “Almost ten o’clock,” he answered quietly. She leaned toward him and kept her voice low. “Have any ideas? I can’t find anything interesting or unusual that’s not in the textbook.” The panicked look on her face showed a bit of desperation. “Actually I do, but we can’t talk here. Wanna go for coffee?” “I can’t, I’ve got to keep searching for an answer. I wanted to catch up on my other class tonight, but with Tarpen’s challenge, well, it’s impossible! What was it about her that he found so attractive? Maybe the intensity of her eyes, the slight red color to her hair, the way she titled her head slightly to the side. Craig rose to leave, then turned and smiled. “I’d buy, which doesn’t happen very often.” Debbie looked over the disarray of books. “Okay, wait up.” She stacked the books quickly in a neat pile, threw her book bag over her shoulder and caught up to Craig as he neared the elevator. They squeezed in with several other students. Her hair smelled of lavender, maybe from one of those herbal shampoos. He saw their reflection on the black mirrored doors as she stuffed her gloves in her tattered book bag and stood with her black leather boots pointed toward each other, weight on one hip. She wasn’t exactly the feminine type, probably a bit more rugged, maybe with a practical streak. He had to admit that he liked her looks. Why did he wear that faded plaid shirt, today of all days? And his jeans had a rip in the knee. He noticed that his braid hung outside his shirt collar, and he tucked it in. Hmm. We look like a couple on our way to something important. She startled him by turning her face up to his. “So, what’s your idea?” “Let’s get coffee first.” Craig held out his arm as the elevator doors opened, and they stepped into the large, open cafeteria area. He led the way through the service line and ordered black coffee and a muffin. She 72

ChapterEight

had the same. They sat at a small corner table, one of only three with a window and a view of the snow-covered sidewalks outside the library. Students hurried past the window, all in different stages of dress against the cold. “Tell me,” he asked, after he watched out the window for a moment, “what have you found so far?” “Nothing. I must have looked in about a dozen contract books. They all summarize the law the same way – the three-day cancellation period is for the benefit of the buyer, who can change their mind and negate the contract. It protects from coercion, blah, blah, boring blah.” She blew on her coffee, and he could smell her breath on the air, a combination of sweetness, maybe a mint, and rich coffee. “What do you know that can help me?” He unwrapped his muffin. “Is there anyone else that might care about land, other than the buyer and the seller?” “What do you mean?” She tucked her hair behind her ears, and her small ears stuck out forward from the bulk of it all. She absentmindedly fingered the curls that fell on her right shoulder. “Well, do you own a home, or do you rent?” “Hmm, the place called home. My ex-husband and I bought our house three years after we were married. Boy did it seem small at the time – only one bedroom. We set up a small space for our baby in a corner of the living room. I thought we had arrived!” She tossed her head back and laughed. “Nothing could have been more perfect!” She smiled sadly. “It’s in South St. Paul.” Craig’d had a rough time lately, knowing that his cousin was in a coma, that his family needed him and he couldn’t go home. He watched her smile, the slightly overlapping two front teeth, the way she rested her tongue behind them in a slight arch – it reminded him of Cher – her ears sticking out from the pushed-back hair, and he felt his mood lighten. He could watch her for hours. “Then who, besides you, would be interested in any real estate transactions involving your home in South St. Paul?” Debbie seemed lost in her thoughts. She looked off in the distance and stirred her coffee absentmindedly. Craig stared at the delicate bone in her wrist as she stirred. “Are you stalling on purpose?” he asked. “Oh, sorry.” She laid down the spoon. “I was just thinking about that house; you know, it’s easy to feel connected to a place. It’s where your life happens, where your family grows up. Picking the right house is as important as . . .I don’t know, maybe even picking the right spouse.” She chuckled. “Ah, a poet, even at this time of night. You should be properly impressed.” 73

GAME OVER

Craig laughed with her. “So, anyone else interested in your hypothetical real estate transaction?” “I suppose my neighbors would want to know who might be living next to them and for what purpose the future buyers or renters were intending to use the house.” Talking legalese obviously pleased her. Even her hands moved more quickly. “Good thinking! You’re on the right track. Who else? Keep going,” Craig urged. She cleared her throat. “In my case, my banker would be interested. She’d have a right to know of the sale, since the house is collateral for a mortgage that I’ll probably never get paid off. And the insurance company would want to know about continued coverage, and the real estate agents in town, who track the real estate market, and appraisers looking for comparable sales. . .” Craig noticed that her whole presence seemed to light up when she got excited. He thought she’d make a great lawyer. “Curtain and drapery companies . . . ,” “Whoa, I think you’ve got the idea. Now, who would be interested before the sale was completed, instead of only after the fact?” “That’s it, you’re right – the three-day cancellation clause gives other interested parties a chance to influence the sale!” She smiled and patted his arm. “Thanks.” Craig’s heart jumped at her touch. How could a simple touch jolt him like that? This woman might hold some power over him, if he let her. He needed to be careful. How long had it been since a woman reached out and touched him? Let’s see, he and Denise, his significant none-otherthan, as she called herself, split up over a year ago. And then there was Holly. Did she ever reach out for him? No, she was cold as ice. Bitch with a capital B. What did he ever see in her? Debbie’s smile turned to a look of concern. “But people aren’t notified of real estate sales in their area. And notification could perpetuate discrimination. The neighbors could keep out people they didn’t approve of – definitely illegal.” Yep, she’s going to make a great lawyer. “Tarpen didn’t ask you what was legal or moral or right. He asked you what you thought of the threeday rule. Decide if you think other parties or interests should be safeguarded and make an argument. That’s what Tarpen wants.” Debbie let out a sigh of relief. “I got so busy searching that I forgot his actual instructions!” Craig knocked off the poppy seeds from the top of his muffin and piled them up. He noticed the calluses on his fingers and wondered if Debbie noticed them. “What’s your opinion? The subject seems kind of personal to you. 74

ChapterEight

Who do you think should be involved or protected during the three days?” Debbie asked. He tilted his chair on its back legs and stared at her. He wondered if he should share much of himself with this woman. “Debbie, what do you know about me?” She looked at him playfully. “I know you’re a law student in my night class. Let’s see, what else?” She clasped her hands together and then opened them. “I know you took the time to help me with my problem so you must be a nice guy.” She looked down at the pile of seeds on the table. “And I know you play with your food.” She smiled. He sighed, then relaxed a little. “You’re omitting the obvious. Why?” She picked at a string hanging from her book bag. “I’m sorry, I, I don’t know what to say.” “It embarrasses you to say that I’m Indian?” “Indian? Hell no, that’s not it, I just . . . Indian?” She flushed, “It’s just that I remember our conversation at Magic Days Casino.” She glanced sideways. “It’s nothing.” She looked down at her lap and clenched her fists. Craig waited quietly a moment before he spoke. “I usually wouldn’t bring this up with a new friend, but your question about real estate leaves me no choice. I’m Chippewa, born and raised on the Bad River reservation in Wisconsin. At least, until my teenage years. And my opinion is that a lot of people need to know about land sales, especially if government agencies are involved.” He glanced up from his crumbs, searching for signals. Debbie looked at him quietly, her large, hazel eyes steady with his, and he almost forgot the point that he was about to make. “We Indians came a little slowly to this concept of land ownership and contracts. Did you know that some laws allow tribal nations to buy land in cities and then turn that land into official reservation land trusts? The tribes can open casinos on that land. If we had more discussions about this happening, people might hesitate before approving the arrangement. That very thing happened in Duluth some years ago.” He had a small scar on his chin and he rubbed it thoughtfully. “But you gamble, Craig,” she said softly. “I’m not saying there shouldn’t be gambling. I’m no purist. You gamble too,” he said, and wondered why she clenched her fists. “This is about where Indian gaming should be allowed. If we move our revenue streams away from our reservations, how will we control our land and our money? At Magic Days Casino, a white management company, Grand Management, Inc., gets thirty percent of the profits from that casino alone. And they manage four others in the state.” He smashed his 75

GAME OVER

poppy seed pile into a flat pancake. “So why don’t you run it yourselves?” “Because when we first started, we didn’t have many business graduates or people experienced in operating casinos. Now we are stuck with long-term management contracts. Besides, they promised us forty percent Native American employment, but we’re now down to nine percent. Basically waitress jobs, some dealer jobs, change clerks – definitely not management. How will we ever take over the running of our own casinos if we’re kept out of management?” Damn, Cousin Jean could explain this so much better than he could. Somehow it was important that Debbie understand the issue. He shook his head and his braid fell over his right shoulder. “When we do land trust deeds, we can end up losing even more control. And control is everything.” “Why can’t they employ more Ind . . . more people?” Debbie squirmed in her chair. Craig smiled inwardly at her awkwardness. Why did people worry so much about political correctness? He appreciated that she was aware of such things because many people wouldn’t even know to be concerned. He winked at her. “You can say Indian. It’s coming back into vogue.” She took a deep breath and looked a little relieved. “Good, that’s good to know.” “Grand Management says that Indians, and I quote, ‘tend to not show up on time,’ unquote. Racist, pure and simple. They don’t know anything about Indian time, or Indian ways, or Indian futures. We need jobs that provide skills to last long after gaming is gone. Then to make matters worse, some tribal council members only want profits for themselves and their families. They could care less . . .” He paused and looked at Debbie’s startled expression. “Sorry. My ranting is far off the track. I get carried away sometimes.” He patted his newspaper. “Runs in the family.” Debbie spun her empty coffee cup and wrapped her hands around it. Her face flushed during the silence that fell between them. “Well, I don’t know much about tribal nations and the concepts are foreign to me. Sorry.” She stood up suddenly, rocking the table and spilling a little of the coffee still left in his cup. “Listen, thanks for your help, but I have to get home. Maybe you should bring the reservation issue up in class – I’d be glad to let you take my turn. Tarpen would love the discussion.” She smiled brightly, but the smile looked fake. Damn. He must have said too much. “That’s okay. I’ll leave the debate to you.” She started gathering her things. 76

ChapterEight

“Did my ramblings bore you?” “Oh no, it’s not that, I just remembered I, I have something I promised to do.” She looked down at her book bag and fiddled with the zipper. “And I really do appreciate all your help.” This time her smile seemed genuine. He couldn’t take his eyes off that slightly overlapped tooth. No harm in seeing if she’d meet him again. “Do you want to meet before class and review what you’re going to argue?” His wanted his voice to sound friendly. “I’d be glad to listen.” Debbie looked away and paused. “Yeah, good idea. How’s 5:30 outside the classroom?” “Sounds good. See you then.” She zipped her jacket, pulled on her gloves, and waved goodbye as she went out the door. He stared at her from inside the cafeteria window and watched her hair sway side to side as she walked away. *

*

*

Debbie drove home, thinking about the conversation with Craig. She hadn’t let herself relive the early days with Charlie for a long time. She had blocked out those memories, but now they came flooding back. How happy she felt back in the days of the one-bedroom house, barbecuing in the back yard, listening to the neighborhood commotions, the remodeling projects she and Charlie did together – adding a second story, a twostall garage, a back-yard deck and larger mortgage payments. She pulled into her driveway. A large, two-story house stood off to the right. Ever since Debbie had discovered that one of Charlie’s longest affairs happened in that house, she could hardly look at it without feeling disgust. After the divorce, the boys desperately wanted to stay in the only home they knew. With the child support payments and the income from her job, she thought maybe she could pull it off. She had told her attorney, “All I want is my boys and some money for them. I don’t care about the rest.” Now that Charlie had been made partner at his firm, she wished she had held out for alimony. Tonight she forced herself to look at her neighbor’s large, well-lit home, curtains open to the living room, floor-to-ceiling book shelves against the living room wall, and the soft light of a television screen glowing through the windows. Damn you, Charlie. You screwed everything up. Debbie struggled to analyze what Craig had said about casinos. What the hell was his point? His discussion seemed so personal, frightening and foreign. Okay, so he knew she gambled. He didn’t know how much, 77

GAME OVER

he didn’t know about her debts, and he didn’t know about the old lady’s money. Thinking of the night of her thievery and her last huge gambling loss made her heart pound. She tried to calm herself by taking deep breaths, but it didn’t help. She had enjoyed chatting with him, and he did help her with the assignment. She smiled and remembered being referred to as ‘a new friend.’ Better stay away from him, though. No time for new friends. She’ll meet with him once more, just for review, and then that’s it. *

*

*

The wind howled across the lake and rattled Craig’s living room window, waking him earlier than usual. He’d installed plastic over the window in October in preparation for the storms to come. It helped block the most threatening of gusts but made crackling, slapping sounds as blasts of wind came and went, as though there were a giant outside the window, breathing in and out. The rhythm of the wind served as a reminder of last night’s storm. Craig decided he may as well get up, even though his alarm wouldn’t go off for another hour. His coffeemaker broke last month, so he now boiled grounds in a saucepan to make the rich brew he had come to prefer. “Strain out the grounds, throw in a little fresh egg shell, and you’ve got the best coffee anywhere,” he told anxious visitors who were skeptical of the results. The aroma permeated the entire cabin. He leaned over the sink to check the all-weather thermometer mounted outside the kitchen window. Ten degrees above zero – warming up! He pulled on his boots, coat, and hat and sat on the front porch, drinking his coffee in the predawn darkness. He could see the entire lake from his porch. The sun would soon begin to rise, and then the lake would look less ominous than at night, when the ice became a void of black in the dark, a huge pit in the ground surrounded by the outline of trees. Now light began to streak across the sky, the red winter sun peeking over the trees. Craig watched the outlines of two cabins appear at the edge of the lake, both to his right, one about a mile away, the other a little farther. No one lived in them except for a few weekends during the summer. Winter brought isolation along with the snow. He had to remember to get the fish house off the lake earlier this year. Craig had built the ice fishing house after the lake froze. It bravely stood, a little crooked, on the ice in a small cove at the southwest corner of the lake. The chimney was barely visible, poking up from the snow that had piled on the roof from last night’s storm. Snow flew in graceful swirls 78

ChapterEight

off the top layer with each blast of wind, and the roof snow would eventually disappear into the snow carpet that covered the ice on the lake. The morning after a storm had come to be his favorite time. Maybe because there were no signs of disturbance on the land – just clean snow, some smooth and flat, some blown into large drifts, but no tracks or marks of any kind. He’d always wait for signs of animal life on the lake before he broke the snow with his own footprints. When he was a child, his parents would load up the car with camping gear, food and children and head for the lakes and streams of Minnesota. Not that they were much different from what you could find in Wisconsin, but somehow it seemed a grand adventure to camp in their neighboring state. They spent several days walking trails and in the winter they’d go ice fishing. Craig’s father particularly loved snow, and he’d get excited as he held it in his bare hands, exclaiming, “This is the world’s renewal, children, a substance of renewal!” Renewal. Craig sipped his coffee and nodded in silent affirmation. Whether snow came down in slow, gentle motions or came smashing and driving into the ground by blizzard winds, Craig adjusted easily. But the cold . . . he never liked the cold. Putting up with it was the price he paid for being outside, and like his dad, he forced himself to spend at least half an hour outside every day. “Good for the soul,” his dad would say. “Besides, how will you appreciate the warmth if you never experience cold?” Craig shivered a little, even after sipping more of his coffee. The first year back from Oklahoma bothered him the most. He had shivered constantly from November through March. April, although warmer, felt uncomfortable because of the damp snowstorms, accompanied by winds that could find their way through any brand of long underwear. That first year back, he lived on the sixth floor of a very old, drafty apartment building, and the wind hurled itself directly through Craig’s bedroom window. May arrived and he found the weather bearable again. The following year he found the cabin. He remembered chiding Jack into renting it with him. “Come on, Jack, take a risk, you play it too safe!” Craig had said. Jack finally agreed and they moved in. A month later Jack got promoted at the casino. Two months went by before Jack announced that he should probably get a place of his own, closer to the casino in case he needed to go to work in an emergency. “What emergencies? How many times have they called you in so far? None!” Craig laughed, trying to convince his friend to stay put. “I think it would be best that I don’t live with you now that I’m your supervisor,” Jack finally admitted as he packed his two duffel bags, one with his new business shirts that he had been taking to the laundry since 79

GAME OVER

neither one of them knew how to iron. “Come on, Jack. You’re changing tax brackets, changing your wardrobe, but there’s no need to change your friends. When we went to Oklahoma you said, ‘I’m staying off the rez forever, or I’ll die trying.’ I think that’s what you said. And now you want to live at Pine Bend. Makes no sense, man.” Jack wouldn’t discuss it. He moved into a two-bedroom apartment on the reservation. Shortly thereafter Jack’s boyfriend moved in with him, and he seemed to want to sever all past relationships. Craig had the cabin to himself for another brutal winter. The cabin and his small, one-stall garage were surrounded by large Norway pines, some over seventy-feet tall, that blocked the sharpest of the storm blasts. Craig had installed a wood-burning stove and the cabin became a warm home. Every evening he’d start a small fire to take the chill out of the air. The fire made the cabin feel instantly warm. Maybe the crackling did it, or perhaps the smell of wood beginning to char around the edges. He’d also turn up the thermostat on his oil burner, but it never charmed the room into warmth like the fire could. Craig finished his coffee as the sun rose over the lake. Those species of birds hardy enough to survive the cold started to make some noise. Blue jays, with their sky-blue bodies, dark blue, light blue, and white wing feathers, and large beaks ready to crack the toughest seeds; chickadees, small darting song birds that made a call similar to their name; and large black ravens that made a squawking sound, as though they were constantly insulted with the world and the way they were being treated. May as well get going. Craig squinted and scanned the edges of the lake one last time then stood up to get ready for work. He noticed movement to his right at the east side of the lake. A creature of some kind darted in a zigzag pattern, either thrilled that the storm was over, rejoicing in the new snow, or it was running for its life. The movement stopped, then started again as Craig got a glimpse of the jackrabbit that leapt in the air and continued its frenzied dash. A few moments later Craig knew the reason for the mad scurry – he could distinguish the outline of three large dog shapes cautiously working their way onto the ice in pursuit of the rabbit. Timber wolves! Craig felt awestruck watching their lumbering, sleek shapes. Timber wolves were placed on the endangered species list but had been resurging in Minnesota, becoming a common sight in the heavily-wooded northeastern part of the state. Craig had never seen them before. Farmers complained that brush wolves and timber wolves had become a problem with livestock, but the closest sighting to the Twin Cities known so far occurred at least forty miles north of the cabin. May80

ChapterEight

be these guys were part of that pack. The three wolves stood tall – at least thirty inches high, with long, full tails dragging behind them. The dark alpha male gleamed reddish black with a white chest, and the other two sported motley gray, scruffy coats. Craig watched in amazement as the wolves found their footing, keeping their heads as close to the ice as the snow would allow. They seemed to be in no hurry as they trotted across the ice after the rabbit, acting as though they’d get their prey soon enough. They made their way halfway across the lake before Craig realized where they were headed – to the ice fishing shack! The rabbit must have found an escape into the shelter. Craig moved a few steps away from the porch to get a better view. He watched the wolves surround the shack, clawing and scraping occasionally at the snow by the door. One of the wolves howled a lonesome echoing sound that rang in the air around the lake for several seconds. Soon the others joined in. The three of them moved a few feet away from the shack and stood together as if in conference. They made small yips of conversation and pranced about with short steps, yet they stayed close together and eyed the shack nervously. Craig went to set his cup down but it slipped from his hands. The cup dropped to the ground and he tried to catch it, but he missed and it rolled down the path toward the lake. With the thick new snow on the ground, the cup didn’t make much noise, but the motion itself caught the attention of three pairs of eyes. Those eyes now keenly examined Craig as he stared back. He knew that he was in no danger. Wolves prefer to run away. Besides, he could easily reach the steps to the front door. Yet those eyes, the intensity of the stare, and not one of them moved a muscle. The wind blew their fur slightly and the concentrated energy made Craig feel more alive and aware than ever before. Time stood still as the alpha male tipped his head back and howled. Magnificent. The wolves turned and sauntered around the shack one last time, then finished their lake walk and disappeared into the woods to the west. He quickly showered and dressed, then realized he might be able to save evidence of the event. He grabbed his camera and headed for the ice fishing shack. He found the wolf tracks difficult to photograph in the unending field of white. Some clear and crisp prints showed up against the darker ice close to the shack door where the wolves had scraped some of the snow away. Gottcha! Craig snapped away. He could think of nothing but wolves all the way to work. “Jack, you’ll never guess what showed up at the cabin on this fine morning,” Craig announced as he burst into Jack’s office. “What, Craigie? Aliens perhaps, and they abducted you and that’s why you were almost late for work. They just now dropped you off in the 81

GAME OVER

parking lot.” “Come on, man. I’m serious.” Jack laid down his file folder and looked at Craig. “Okay, Craig, but I’m not going to guess. What showed up? Really, tell me. Not your exwife, I hope.” “Nope. Not quite as dangerous. Guess again.” “A moose? You said you wanted to see a moose,” Jack sneered a little. Craig smiled, fingering the camera in his jacket pocket. “Nope. But you’re getting close.” “I give. What was the surprise that showed up?” “Timber wolves, Jack, three timber wolves chased a rabbit across the lake and into the ice fishing shack. Man, what a scene. You should have seen the alpha wolf. They scratched outside the shack door for a minute and then gave me a good once-over before they trotted off. They are so huge. They are incredible. Their howl sounds like nothing else! And even walking slowly they cover ground fast. I took a picture to make sure you’d believe me!” He grinned as he pulled his camera from his pocket. “Wait ’till you see these.” “Weren’t you a little nervous following them out onto the lake?” “No, they’d gone on their way. Besides, there have only been four or five timber wolf attacks on humans in the last one hundred years!” Craig used nature to stay in good physical condition – cutting and splitting firewood, snowshoeing around the eighty or so wooded acres which surrounded the cabin, clearing brush. “It was an inspiring scene, Jack. Wish you could have been there.” Craig looked up to see Jack’s back stiffening. Jack poked his chin out straight, making his jaw line look menacing, and he frowned ever so slightly. “Anyway,” Craig sighed, “I’ll print out a couple of them.” Jack tapped his fountain pen on his desk calendar, making measles marks with each tap. “Craig, did you get those December figures done? We need to wrap up December’s year-end numbers before the next tribal council meeting. I wanted them last week, you know.” “Okay, Jack, you got it.” Craig said in a low, monotone voice. Craig felt lonesome for his old friend, the reckless, fun buddy of his teenage years, but he knew the friendship he had with Jack was definitely over. Better off this way anyway. Less hassle – just do the job and shut up. He went to his office and turned on his computer, which buzzed to life, and he mindlessly put in his responses. He entered in his ID and his password, 1950, the year of his mother’s birth. He had already spent an afternoon last week searching for the December spreadsheet that seemed to have disappeared. He chose December’s files and went to get a cup of coffee, knowing 82

ChapterEight

the system took a few minutes of searching, even if any file could be found. By the time he got back to his machine, his screen was flashing: SYSTEM ERROR -AUTOMATIC RESTART IN PROGRESS Third time this month. Maybe his computer had a virus. He started again, this time going through a file search. ORIGINAL FILE DESTROYED JANUARY 21. DO YOU WISH ACCESS TO BACKUP FILE? Destroyed? How could his file have been destroyed? Definitely a virus. He might as well find the backup file. BACKUP FILE DESTROYED JANUARY 21. Shit, now he’d have to work from his draft. He found that file and printed it out. Craig rebooted the computer, this time asking for security systems. His access was cleared, and he asked for the password reports for December. Maybe he could find out if someone else used his computer on January 21. The printer began spewing out the eighteen-page report while Craig closed and locked his office door.

83

GAME OVER

84

Chapter Nine Craig gave Debbie a high five when they met in the hallway outside their classroom. “I have to say, you were brilliant, just brilliant,” Craig laughed. “It’s true, isn’t it? I handled it okay. And thanks so much for your help. He almost stumped me on that point about advanced publication of the three-day rule. Shit, I’ll always remember his exact words, won’t you?” Debbie felt so happy and relieved that Tarpen’s class had gone well. “Sorry, no. I wasn’t the one in the hot seat. I’ll remember that look on your face, though.” Craig smiled at her. “Your face looked like you had seen a ghost. Tarpen just quietly pacing in the front of the room, debating with himself about the public’s right to know. Nobody knew what the hell he was talking about, and you with your eyes staring straight ahead. What a sight!” Debbie nodded. “If you hadn’t interjected that comment about tribal land, I think he might have given me another special assignment. I wouldn’t have had the strength for it, frankly.” Debbie’s voice fell to a whisper. She nearly hadn’t gone to class that night. The pressure of knowing that Professor Tarpen would interrogate her about the threeday real estate rule felt like more than she could bear, even though she had thoroughly researched the question. She began to doubt whether school was worth the continued effort and money. The material seemed to grow more boring every semester and midterms were coming up fast. Registration for summer session would start in a few months, and how would she afford the tuition, not to mention books? “Can I pay you back for your help, maybe buy you a cup of coffee this time?” She had won ten dollars on a one-dollar scratch-off ticket she bought at the Holiday gas station that morning. Debbie didn’t spend much money on them, but she bought a few each time she filled her gas tank. Every month a new game appeared with a catchy title: Fishing for Big Ones; Three Big 85

GAME OVER

Bucks; Spinners; Here, Kitty, Kitty; Wildlife Madness; Moose on the Loose; Catch a Walleye. She loved the lively and fun state-sponsored television commercials urging people to play the latest game. “I have an idea,” Craig said brightly. “Let’s go to Goodfellows. It’s just a few blocks from campus. They have a country line-dancing band. Have you ever tried it? I could show you a few steps.” “Line dancing! My son taught me a bit of that. It might be fun to see if I can remember what I’ve learned. I should warn you though, my son’s boot toes are definitely and permanently scuffed.” She suddenly lifted her shoulders higher, tossed her hair back, and flashed him a wide smile. “Let’s go!” As they walked the few blocks in the cold, Debbie couldn’t help but think about her son Philip. He had been learning country dances from videotapes. When the first tape arrived in the mail last January, Country Line Dancing with Diane Warner, Philip sheepishly took it up to his room. By the time the second one arrived, More Country Line Dancing, Debbie could tell he took pride in his stomping and sliding skills. He’d repeat the name of the steps along with the teacher as she guided her invisible television audience to dancing perfection. Debbie could hear her son’s confident voice, “vine left, vine right, scuff, step and turn, star and hitch, vine back, quarter turn, vine again.” Her son had begged her to try, taking her hand and pulling her into the living room. He pushed the coffee table into the corner. She reluctantly joined in and did her best to learn the steps by watching her gangly son, who would grin from ear-to-ear. They laughed and rewound the tape over and over, until she could do the Honky Tonk Stomp perfectly. Once they moved on to the next dance, she’d forget all the steps from the first one. Philip roared in laughter when they reviewed. “Mom, you definitely have a memory problem.” He’d patiently go over the dance steps with her again. Eventually she gave up and collapsed on the couch and watched her son dance his way through the tape. He stepped and stomped around the room in the cowboy boots with black stitching and gray leather he’d purchased at a rummage sale. He wore the cowboy hat he’d gotten for Christmas – white felt with a slim, black band around the base. When he’d get warm, he set the hat on the television, perched like a trophy on top of the work of Diane Warner and her line dancers. By the time the third videotape arrived, Country Partner Dancing, she had no choice but to be Philip’s dance partner. He had tried to convince Steven to be his partner – that only lasted for an hour until Steven realized that all the steps he learned were the ladies’ steps and that the move they’d just practiced was called “the cuddle.” “Mom, I really need you,” 86

Chapter Nine

Philip pleaded, so she did her best, and she actually learned the Country Two Step and Cowboy Motion dances fairly well. Craig touched her arm lightly when he and Debbie got to the Goodfellows’ door. “Ready?” Craig’s eye’s sparkled mischievously. “Here goes nothing.” Craig opened the door and said something, but she couldn’t hear him over the blare of the loud music. Goodfellows, built like an old dance hall, had a bar immediately to their right – nearly full with dancers. Several couples were taking lessons on a small dance floor in the back. The main floor, surrounded by a half-wall ledge, featured strutting, stomping, twirling dancers. Some were clad in western finery, and all seemed to enjoy themselves. Customers leaned in and watched the dancers, or set their beer on the ledge while they went out to dance. “This is some place, isn’t it?” Craig shouted in her ear, as she looked around in amazement. “I never knew this was so popular!” She played with the top button of her cardigan sweater as she took in the sights of dancers and spectators. Most of the customers, dancing or not, were dressed in some form of western wear, boots and a cowboy hat, men and women alike. Several women had on short skirts that whirled when their partners twirled them. Debbie spied a man wearing a white shirt with black leather fringe shaped like a “V” on the back and front, black jeans, and gray boots like Philip’s. The dancer’s black leather belt featured silver studs all the way around, and the silver buckle in the front shone with reflected light every time the man turned their way. She thought of Philip and knew he would love this place. “Do you ever dress like that when you come here?” she screamed at Craig as he leaned in to hear her. He nodded. “I have five hats and I don’t know how many pair of boots. Maybe six.” “Five what?” “Five hats!” he shouted, as the music died down and bits of conversation were caught in vibrating midair. They claimed a table near the dance floor, ordered a pitcher of dark beer, and waited for just the right music to start. “I learned line dancing in my favorite bar in Fort Bethel, South Dakota. My Sioux friends helped me out. Took over the dance floor one night.” Craig chuckled. The music started up. “Ah, here’s the perfect song for the Achy Breaky. Let’s try this one.” “But we don’t have on the duds.” Debbie looked down at her jeans, tennis shoes, and old red sweater with one small hole in the sleeve. Craig didn’t look much better, with his black jeans and blue flannel shirt. But at least he had boots on. 87

GAME OVER

“Anything goes in these places,” he answered, “as long as we keep moving around the floor.” They started out clumsily. Debbie tried hard to remember the moves from the video. Vine right, single and double hip bumps, star, three steps, hitch back, hip bumps, back vine, stomp, single and double bumps, scuff, vine and stomp. She could picture it all in her mind, but she was vining when everyone else was bumping. Craig took Debbie’s hand to help her through the steps, and soon they danced in unison with the group. The chemistry and warmth of his touch on her hand sharpened her senses, and she started focusing on his moves. Soon she could tell where he was going to go next. “Let’s keep doing this one so I can remember it,” Debbie suggested when the music stopped, so they moved to the practice dance floor and kept working the steps of the Achy Breaky. Debbie secretly watched Craig’s hips slide slowly to each side during the bumps, and she couldn’t remember anyone on Philip’s tape moving that way. She wondered what his body looked like under his clothes. Was he as muscular as he seemed? She flushed now and then, almost embarrassed to watch his easy, smooth dancing style. Then the music slowed down and they tried the Two Step. Debbie found it difficult to dance backward, but she could feel Craig push her slightly with each step as she faced him and they danced around the floor in a counter-clockwise circle. Slow, slow; quick quick, slow, slow; quick quick, slow, slow. They moved in rhythm around the dance floor. During one turn she became intensely aware of his hands – his left hand held her right hand in the air at shoulder level, his right hand rested lightly on her left shoulder. She could feel the pressure and the weight of his fingers wrapped around her shoulder blade, the heel of his hand pushing on her when she needed reminding to move backwards with her steps. Her left hand rested on his arm just above the elbow, and she could feel his biceps contract and relax as he steered her skillfully around the floor. “Are you ready to twirl?” he asked, eyes shining. “I don’t know how. This is all I know.” She panicked at the thought of trying to twirl and keep the beat at the same time. “Just keep moving your feet in the same pattern and I’ll guide you,” he hollered in her ear. She couldn’t quite hear what he said, but she could tell by his movements that something was about to happen. His right hand slid down her left arm and took her left hand, and without letting go he lifted his left hand high, twirled her around, and they danced forward in the same direction. It happened so suddenly that Debbie wasn’t sure how it worked. She didn’t care. 88

Chapter Nine

“That was great!” Debbie hollered into his ear, but he concentrated on the dance floor in front of him. They danced side by side, facing the same way. Her arms crossed over her chest with his right hand pressing at her waist. Their hips touched as they danced: slow, slow; quick quick, slow, slow; quick quick. She looked at his profile and couldn’t resist a giggle. He moved his chin slowly forward with each step as though he used his chin for momentum to lead the way around the dance floor. His thin, long braid swayed on his back. What else makes that head motion? Pigeons when they coo. When her eyes met Craig’s, her heart quickened, and she realized it had been a long time since she had enjoyed the company of a man. He leaned down and yelled, “Ready to go back again?” He twirled her back to their original position, with Debbie dancing backwards and Craig dancing forward. His right hand rested on her shoulder with her left hand placed on his right biceps. His grip tightened. She looked into his brown eyes, and dancing became easier. His grip became firmer yet ready to change at any moment. She giggled to herself, knowing that he couldn’t hear her over the music. She enjoyed following his lead, not having to be responsible for where they moved on the dance floor. The song was Crying Dry Tears: The day you left me I stopped feeling any pain Now I only cry dry tears and hope for life to come again. His hand moved down her arm and his other hand held high. Two steps later she faced forward again. This time the movement felt more comfortable and they continued dancing side by side through the verse. Slow, slow, quick quick; slow, slow, quick quick. Just as the last strains of music came from the band, he twirled her back to face him and the dance ended. Most couples either broke apart or stood and watched the band regroup. Some held hands, others with distance between them. Craig and Debbie let go of each other and stood still. Debbie’s heart pounded – from the dancing, she told herself. The band played a little slower this time. Debbie became aware of every turn, every twirl, every movement of Craig’s body. They stepped in perfect synchronization, each step a floating exercise. How smooth could they be? How little motion did he have to make to twirl her into the cuddle position? How much pressure would be needed to guide her back again, her dancing backwards, him leading the way with a glance to her eyes every few seconds? Once she resisted the twirl slightly. He moved his right hand down her 89

GAME OVER

arm to take her left hand, and she resisted. He pushed harder and continued the twirl, lifting his left hand and twirling her a little more firmly. But as they danced, he looked down at her, his eyebrows raised, as if to ask, “You okay?” On the next twirl attempt he moved his right hand down her arm only slightly, to see if she was willing. Her left arm moved easily, and gave up the position on his biceps, so his motion continued, and they twirled into the “cuddle position.” She became intensely aware of Craig’s every touch – each action and reaction, each slight push or release, each hip motion as he moved toward her. She wished his hips would move closer. His sense of her rhythm was exacting. He picked up on her slightest hesitation and made it clear that, although he was leading, he asked her permission along the way. It was as if he captured a sense of her tolerance, her limits. About midway through the dance she allowed her mind to wander, imagining him in other settings. Would he be this responsive to her movements in bed? Could such light pressure in lovemaking be as firm, as guiding? Would he capture her in the same way, knowing her rhythms, her timing, her movements? Would he use skin not as a total barrier between them, but as semi-permeable, allowing some feeling to pass through on either side? Would she be able to stop, or would she be helpless in this game of lead and follow? Would he insist on showing strength and dominance, or would he give in to the strength of her mood? While the last chords sounded, she wondered whether he talked while making love. When the music stopped, they faced each other, and Debbie became aware of every body part that touched – his hand cupped around her shoulder blade, her hand on his tensed bicep, their other hands pressed slightly together in the air, except part of her little finger that brushed against his shoulder. He took one step forward after the dance ended. His right hip touched her left. She wondered what he was thinking. Craig moved his hand around to the small of her back as he rested his other hand on the back of her neck. He pulled her upper body toward him. Debbie couldn’t break eye contact and her hands, against her intentions, softly rubbed his chest on her way to caressing his shoulders. You can’t do this. Her hips stayed connected to his. He’s too intense for you. She shuddered with pleasure as he kissed one corner of her mouth, then the other. Her old sense of self had returned. The woman who could feel, could love, could respond and ask for equal response. He tipped her chin up and she stared at him, amazed at herself for refusing to break the spell. Waves of desire rolled over her, causing even 90

Chapter Nine

the nerves in her feet to burn. I can’t have a man in my life now. Too complicated and risky. He smells so earthy. I wonder what I smell like to him. She looked into his eyes. He let out a soft, low sound and leaned down and kissed her neck. His lips brushed her skin lightly as he kissed his way from her neck to her earlobe. “No, I, I can’t do this, this . . .” she stammered and pushed away from him, escaping to the table and the pitcher of dark beer. The band started a new song, “Stand By Your Man.” “I’ve always hated this song!” Debbie poured herself a glass of beer. Why am I sitting down? I should leave right now. She cast a furtive glance at the door, reassuring herself that it was still there. “Why do you hate this song?” Craig asked, a confused, pinched look on his face. “I wouldn’t stand passively by a man and watch him make mistakes that could destroy either him or me, or both of us.” She had to bellow because of the music, and she didn’t want to look at him yet. She could not yet arrange her face in a neutral way, so she turned and watched the dancers. “What a stupid song.” Craig poured himself a glass of beer. “Are you all right?” he shouted, peering at her over the top of his beer mug. His brown, serious eyes held steady. A bit of beer foam stuck on his lip, and Debbie had a hard time not reaching out and wiping it away. “Except for this song, I’m just fine and dandy,” she yelled back. He watched her for a long minute, and then turned his attention to the dancers as they moved around the floor. “Debbie,” he whispered in the relative silence between two songs, “are you all right?” “No, I’m not.” He laid his hands over hers and she pulled them away. “It’s just that, well, first of all, I’ve never had casual sex before, and I don’t intend to start now. I have responsibilities, children, an ex-husband, oh what can you know of this? I mean . . .” She ran her fingers through her hair, beginning at the temples, as if trying to calm her thoughts and control them with one motion. “Where’s all this coming from? We only danced and held each other a little bit. What’s the matter with that? It doesn’t have to be a big deal.” “Who are you kidding?” Craig shrugged his shoulders, looking exasperated. “Maybe myself, but didn’t you want me to hold you just now? I think you gave me those vibes.” “Vibes, what’s with ‘vibes’? I’m too old to use the word ‘vibes’!” She gulped down some beer, fire starting to burn in her eyes. “Imagine that! My boys use that word.” 91

GAME OVER

“Debbie, I’m sorry about kissing you. It won’t happen again. Do you want to leave?” “Let me tell you something else,” she continued, acting as though she hadn’t heard him. “I have two teenage boys. If I act irresponsibly, how can I expect them to be responsible and abstain from sex? Huh? How can I hold them to one expectation and myself to another?” “Sex? I just nuzzled you a little, that’s all. That’s not having sex. You’re taking something out on me that’s not my fault here.” His mouth turned down at the corners, a perfect frown. “You’re overreacting. It won’t happen again. Trust me on this one. I don’t need the lectures.” He stood to go, gathering the jacket he’d carelessly thrown over the chair. He gave it a shake, startling Debbie. She put on her own coat and gloves slowly, feeling a little foolish for getting so angry, but sure that his kisses were more than a casual pass. “Need a lift anywhere? We can still be friends, can’t we? Or are you never going to line dance with me for as long as you live, so help you God?” The music started again and normal conversation became impossible as they made their way to the door. Out in the crisp air the silence of the still night took Debbie by surprise. She felt awkward and wondered how to break the silence. The cold, crisp February air invaded her lungs and made conversation heavy with effort. “Listen, I got carried away with the moment. If I took advantage, I’m sorry. Really.” Craig took her gloved hands in his. “Not that I wouldn’t be interested in seeing you on a more personal level, but if it’s friends you want, it’s a friend you’ve got.” She cooled off and regained control. It had been an unfamiliar struggle. Although she hadn’t dated seriously in the six years since the divorce, her comment about casual sex was untrue. She had an occasional one-night stand, usually a friend of a friend, someone that she probably wouldn’t have to face in her everyday life, someone she could enjoy for the moment and then quickly forget. The types who attracted her most were shorter and thin, no more than a few inches taller than her own five foot four. She loved to rest her chin on their shoulders. Her last one-nighter, which happened over a year ago, was with Al, an associate working at the Eden Prairie branch. He had a nice smile, pleasant manners, and her chin had fit perfectly on his shoulder as they danced at last year’s Christmas party. Desire and loneliness had gotten the better of her that night. She enjoyed the sex, and he’d been responsive to all her suggestions, even getting a little rough. She found it a good distraction and she could easily distance herself. She repeated to herself over and over – it’s only sex, only sex. That’s all it is to him and 92

Chapter Nine

that’s all it is to me. When she had left his one-bedroom bungalow early the next morning, Al still sprawled out on his king-sized bed, unaware of her presence, she had made a vow. No more one nighters. The physical risks – disease, getting beaten up or hurt – were dangerous but in an odd way, exciting. No, those risks were not the worst of the experience. It was the loneliness that would fill her heart afterwards that stopped her. Now Debbie watched Craig’s eyes as he held her gloved hands. She wondered how old he really was, probably no more than thirty-six or so. She analyzed his face. Kind, wide-set eyes, with some small, almost indistinguishable wrinkles at the edges. Maybe he had the habit of squinting into the sun? A smooth, high forehead, the slight start of crow’s feet between the brows, a beginning of a wrinkle in the forehead, just above his right eyebrow when he raised it. The wrinkle followed in a perfect arch. His skin looked slightly pock-marked. She hadn’t noticed that before but as they stood underneath a neon sign, his complexion took on a rough look. His chin showed a small scar, shaped in a half-circle, but well healed. It looked to be only slightly discernible to the touch. Oh, how she’d love to touch his face. As he squeezed her hands gently, she could feel the warmth through her gloves and a jolt ran through her body. She knew the awful truth. She could fall in love with this man if she let herself. Instead, she let go of his hands and left him standing in front of Goodfellows with a casual “Friends it is,” a wave, and a goodbye. How could she ever explain her gambling to him? Maybe he would care for her anyway. Yeah, maybe she could also get a fairy godmother to send him over in a coach. She walked decisively to her car. No, she’d get her finances together first before she got involved with anyone. Besides, she knew nothing about him. He might be married with five kids. Or divorced with child support payments. She had to keep her guard up. They would never work. He’s too calm and in control, and . . . He might find out about her! *

*

*

Craig stood outside Goodfellows and watched Debbie walk away. His first wife, a Cherokee from Oklahoma, had been beautiful in every way except for her tendency to drink too much and fall madly, instantly, and hopelessly in love and in lust with anyone who happened to be with her at the time. On her next sober day, she would be full of remorse, if she could remember what had happened. She’d then lavish her attentions on Craig in a way that he hated admitting he enjoyed – cooking him his favorite meal of meat loaf and baked potatoes, drawing a hot bath for him 93

GAME OVER

and joining him at just the right moment. There were times when he had consoled himself during her binges. She’ll be good to him next week. Very good. He could wait. “I promise on my grandmother’s grave that I will not get drunk again,” Lynn would vow. Her sobriety would last a few weeks, maybe even a month or so, and they would live like normal people until the urge took over. She would forget her grandmother’s grave and she’d be gone. He could have stayed if she had agreed to treatment, or even if her escapades were less insulting. But one night she came home with Craig’s nineteen-year-old brother, and Craig packed up and left. Lynn bawled as he walked out and she seemed to sober up immediately. After an hour or so of driving aimlessly around the reservation, he thought perhaps he had acted in haste. He told himself to give her another chance. Bobby didn’t know any better. He hadn’t gotten enough guidance growing up. He was so young when Dad died. Craig drove back home and walked into their bedroom. Lynn twisted and arched her back as she lay in Bobby’s arms. Red clay table lamps on both sides of the bed jiggled slightly, blankets in a mound on the floor. Lynn licked Bobby’s skin and the saliva on her tongue glistened in the moonlight. Bobby used his hands with an expertise that Craig could hardly believe of his young brother. He told himself to leave. His rage built while he watched his brother’s body in action. Craig had always been the stronger of the two brothers. He imagined attacking from behind and strangling Bobby, who clearly could not have defended himself. It’d be easy. Just a quick snap of the neck. While he stood there in the darkness and watched his wife and brother, Craig remembered his visits to see friends behind bars at the county jail – visits his father had insisted upon – and he turned on his heel and walked away. His father insisted that Craig learn the lesson of what a moment of rage could cost. Taking someone else’s life always ruined many lives, especially your own. He stood again in the shadows, this time under the reflection of the Goodfellows sign, and thought of Debbie. “She’s probably in trouble. And a white woman besides. What in the hell am I getting myself into?” he whispered, as the blue neon letters flashed on-again off-again out into the street.

94

Chapter Ten Debbie hadn’t intended to steal the artwork. She hadn’t even wanted to work the art auction. She’d only gone because her boss, Mr. Broxton, had insisted. Evidently Mrs. Olson-Reiner called him at home, encouraging him to be sure and send that nice probate accountant, Ms. Woods, to the auction of her husband’s work. “That’s not necessary,” Broxton said, assuring her that the proper bank staff would be there. “Mr. Broxton, I would like to believe that I am a valued customer at your bank and that you would wish to continue handling my money once the artwork is sold.” With that, he called Debbie and she would be working the Saturday auction. “What’ll I do all day?” Debbie asked, knowing the preparations were already complete. “Just look busy and do whatever Mrs. O-R says to do. And remember, she’s the boss.” Most of the paintings had arrived several days before, and Broxton had displayed them in the main gallery of the auction house, many on easels and some on partitions erected specifically for the auction. Two paintings and a small statue had been in the bank vault. Security guards brought them to the auction in a cardboard box in the trunk of a bank car. They set the box under the main registration table in the lobby where Debbie and Mrs. Olson-Reiner met before the auction began. Mrs. Olson-Reiner devised a strategy for a last-minute inventory, in spite of Mr. Broxton’s insistence that the inventory had already been taken. They started through the inventory list two hours before the auction began. Mrs. Olson-Reiner read the title from each work and Debbie checked it off of the master list. “Lilies of My Valley, 1981.” “Check.” 95

“The Essence and Disassembly of Main Street, 1974.” “Check.” Debbie wore her only conservative suit, navy with a crisp white blouse underneath the fitted jacket. The skirt came down to mid-knee, a little long for the style of the day, but Debbie liked being comfortable when she sat down. “Joan of Art, l977” “Check.” With the checklist completed, Debbie made a copy for Mrs. OlsonReiner and kept her copy for the bank files. Bidders arrived early, and the auction started right on time. It lasted well into the evening, with Mrs. Olson-Reiner growing more radiant with each completed sale. At the end of the auction she rushed up to Debbie, grabbed her hands, and squeezed them. “Didn’t it go remarkably well? Thanks so much for all your help, dear.” “You’re welcome,” Debbie said, but Mrs. Olson-Reiner had already flowed onto the arm of Nate Broxton, thanking him profusely. He told Debbie to finish the clean-up and then patted Mrs. O-R’s hands, smiled, and walked her to her car. Debbie had never been the last bank employee at an auction before, so she looked around and wondered what to clean up. Art dealers still lingered around some of the work, laughing and congratulating one another on their purchases, which would be properly packaged and delivered next week. She gathered the extra auction brochures, took down posters on display at the registration table, and then she saw it – the box left earlier in the morning by the bank guards. She peered in and saw three items: two small paintings, each about twelve by eighteen inches, still wrapped in bubble pack, and a clear plastic box about ten inches high which contained a black statuette. Debbie wondered how she could possibly have missed the box. She pulled the master inventory list from her purse. She searched for anything that was not checked off. Nothing. She and Mrs. Olson-Reiner had checked off all 217 items that morning. She looked up from the list and suddenly realized – miscellaneous. This was some of the work that had not been cataloged individually. She’d better get these back to the bank right now. Maybe Broxton’s there and he can put them in the safe. She bundled up for the cold in her best winter coat, walked to her car, loaded the box into her car’s back seat and drove off. It was as simple as that. No one at the auction house had questioned her as she walked through the massive double doors to the parking ramp. As soon as she hit the freeway, the questions began. 96

ChapterTen

She wondered how much they were worth. Did anybody else know about them besides her? The guards would assume they were auctioned with the other miscellaneous works. She drove past the turn-off to the bank. Broxton wouldn’t be there anyway. The dirty bastard was probably wining and dining Mrs. OlsonReiner, telling her how delighted she should be about the successful auction and how much work he had done to prepare for it. He flirted with any woman who let him, married or single. If charming or even sleeping with the elderly Mrs. Olson-Reiner helped his career, so be it. No, he wouldn’t be at the bank, and it was nearly 7:30 pm. anyway. She wouldn’t be allowed in at this time anyway, even if she had evening clearance. All employees other than the security crew were to be out of the building by 8:05, no exceptions. No sense in even driving there. She pulled off the freeway and drove into a Burger King parking lot. She unwrapped each painting carefully. She looked at the matched set of landscapes – one showed the left side of a beautiful, sunny valley, with abstract trees in the background and boulders in the foreground; the other one showed the right side of the valley, dark, ominous, threatening. The boulders had turned into stones with names scrawled on them. The three trees had become large sticks of wood stuck in the ground, and a bolt of lightning crossed the sky in front of the stones. F. Reiner’s red signature nearly glowed in the lower right corner of each of the works. They may have been connected at one time in landscape diptych fashion. Some weirdo this guy must have been. Probably a manic depressive. She opened the box containing the statue and pulled it out, head first. The smooth, black stone figurine with a portly belly felt heavy in Debbie’s hands. A strange, cone-shaped hat covered part of its face. The one eye showing formed into a closed slit. The naked figurine’s chest had small and misshapen breasts and ended with long toes and fingers swollen and out of proportion to the rest of the body. A brass nameplate on the base said: “MORE.” Debbie found it eerily beautiful but disturbing. She wrapped it up carefully and put it back in the box. “Now what?” she whispered to herself, realizing these could be valuable pieces. Her brother once visited a pawn shop in south Minneapolis to look at guns he wanted to buy and he’d come home all excited and told her of the pawn shop treasures. She got back on the freeway and took 35W south to the Hennepin Avenue exit. She drove around for twenty minutes before she spotted a pawn shop. The gold and brown, plywood-sided building sported a hand-lettered orange sign that said “Karl & Bob’s Pawn.” A smaller, oval flashed in hot pink, Open All Night! She pulled into the parking lot, took a deep breath, and charged for 97

GAME OVER

the entrance. Sleigh bells on a leather strap jangled as she walked in. The place smelled of old newspaper and wood, aged cloth, oil and dust. Copper antique lamps cast a dim light over the merchandise piled up against each wall. Jewelry filled the glass cases on two sides. Another case held knives – ivory handles, switchblades, hunting knives, dinner knives used at banquets once upon a time. Debbie could see her shadow moving with her as she made her way past the knife counter. “Excuse me,” she said, half in question, to the man tending the store. He looked up from his magazine, the brim of his Twins baseball cap nearly covering his bushy white eyebrows and his long, thin white hair hung down from the base of his cap. He chewed a pinch of tobacco. “Yeah?” “Do you ever, um, take artwork?” “Take, you mean on consignment? We don’t do consignments, lady.” He looked back at his National Geographic magazine, turning the page with the work-worn thumb and finger of his left hand. “Well, sorry, I mean, do you buy artwork?” “What kind’a artwork?” “I have two paintings and a statue, and I was wondering how much you’d give for them.” She looked down at the floor, sensing she was going about this all wrong. “Got it with ya?” he asked, without even a glance up from his magazine. He scratched his salty white beard, his eyes darting back and forth from pictures to text. “Yes, I’ll go get them from the car.” “You’re parked close, ain’t ya?” He squinted at her, sizing her up with a quick stare. “Just outside.” “Good.” He looked back down at his pages and spit his tobacco juice in an old tomato soup can on the counter. While Debbie retrieved the artwork from her car, she noticed several people hanging out on the street corner. The street light accentuated their gathering, with most of them bundled in thick jackets, three in ski masks. Their breath made fog in the air as they burst into laughter. She became nervous about the surroundings, never having been the type to spend much time on Hennepin Avenue, which was mostly bars and strip clubs. Rumor had it that Minneapolis gang violence was growing at explosive rates and that soon Minneapolis could overtake Washington D.C. as the country’s murder capitol. Hennepin Avenue played an active part in that gang scene. Debbie quickened her pace and hurried back into the shop. She unwrapped the paintings and lifted the statue out of the box. 98

ChapterTen

“Is this stuff hot?” he asked, first appraising the statue and then the two paintings. “No, I just want some cash.” Who’s this artist anyway? F. Reiner. Never heard of the guy.” “He’s quite well known, and he died recently, which should make these works even more valuable. I . . . I inherited them and I just don’t see the need to keep them.” Lying hardly bothered her anymore. She needed the money. “Right. Okay, I suppose I can go a hundred and fifty bucks.” “Only one hundred and fifty dollars? I know you could sell them for quite a bit more. I don’t think any of his paintings would go for less than a thousand dollars a piece!” Her black leather winter boots were wet now from the snow that she had dragged in with her. It melted all around her feet. She tapped a toe in the puddle and looked at the pawn broker. “You try and sell ’em for that, lady. I gotta make a profit. And they could sit here for months.” He looked back down at his magazine. “Okay, how about six hundred?” she asked, her throat suddenly so dry that her voice changed pitch uncontrollably. Debbie swallowed hard, and her hand started to shake. “Hmm.” He spit more tobacco juice in the can. “I’ll go three hundred and fifty. That’s final.” “All right, I’ll take it.” She whispered to avoid increasing the odd tightening in her throat. She folded the bills carefully and placed them in the zipper pocket of her purse, briefly wondering whether she should buy a knife and then thought better of it. The sleigh bells jangled as she closed the door behind her and hurried to her car. *

*

*

The pawnbroker dialed quickly. “Hey, Karl, this is Bob. I’ve got some artwork you’re going to love. Artist’s name was Reiner. Heard of him? Do you think so? There were two or three auctions today, maybe it came from there. Probably hot, but I asked the lady and she said ‘no,’ so we’re off the hook.” He looked at the information sheet that all customers who received cash were required to sign after showing picture identification. “Debbie Wood. No, she’ll never squeal, she’s as green as can be, no connections. A little nervous though. Yeah, they’re great. We should be able to get a few grand for the statue. Call Max right away, okay? I don’t know, Karl. You told me to keep my eyes open, and this stuff is fencible. Definitely fencible.” 99

GAME OVER

*

*

*

Debbie rested her chin on the steering wheel, waiting for her heater to warm up a bit, then decided against waiting. Better get out of the area. I’ll use it wisely. I’ll make a partial mortgage payment on Monday. Mrs. O-R, forgive me, but you won’t miss it. Besides, I gave up a Saturday for you, a day I could have spent studying or having some fun with the boys. She headed for home, but she could take her time since the boys were spending the weekend with her sister, Liz. Charlie had promised to take them so she could work the auction but he backed out at the last minute. Not that the boys couldn’t spend the day by themselves. Since Steven turned thirteen he was more than capable of occupying himself for the day. She just didn’t like them spending entire days alone. Thank heaven for Liz’s offer to take the boys. Liz would let them drive three wheelers for hours and they’d spend the time exploring the network of trails behind her country house. She only required that they stay within a quarter mile of each other. To be honest, Debbie felt glad that the boys hadn’t gone with Charlie. When they came home from visiting their father, they’d be sporting new clothes and telling stories about Charlie’s latest travel adventures, complete with new promises that they would be included in the travel “next time.” Broken promises that she’d have to clean up. She’d be the one to explain why Charlie wouldn’t be able to take them along to Mexico, Honduras, South Africa, or wherever his next assignment would carry him. Explain why their visits were becoming less frequent, and that Charlie really did want to see them every other weekend. When Debbie told her mother the news about the divorce many years ago, her mother advised her that the least she could do was to make sure that the boys would know and like their father when they were adults. Debbie remembered her mother had been chopping onions at the kitchen table. “If anything happens to you, he’s the only parent they’ll have. Your father, rest his soul, would be coddling you. But Debbie, you must be strong for your children. My life hasn’t always been easy either, but I learned early on to live with the consequences of my actions. If you divorce, you need to cushion the blow for your children. It’s all up to you.” Her mother had tears in her eyes – from the onions, no doubt. Debbie turned into the parking lot of Pine Bend Casino without fully knowing that’s where she’d been headed all along. Huge walls of snow had been plowed up between each row of cars. She’d only spend a hundred dollars. That should bankroll her long enough to win a good jackpot. And she would not play dollars this time. Stick to quarters. They are the best. Good luck machines. And I’ll quit when I’m ahead. Or maybe 100

ChapterTen

I’ll try the poker room this time. A long line of would-be poker players were lined up near an oval stage at the entrance of the poker room. The young, beautiful blond caller spoke into the microphone: “Tim Z, your ten-twenty table is ready. Tim Z, do you still want ten-twenty?” Tim Z waved and nodded from a table in the back, and the caller said, “Table sixteen, Tim. Dealer, hold that seat for Tim.” Debbie watched as people took their turn getting their names on tables set up for different stakes: two-four, six-eight, ten-twenty, and twenty-forty. At the two-four table, the opening bets were two dollars, and then at the turn or river, each bet went to four dollars. The room was separated into two parts – one with about twenty oval green-felted tables and seating for nine players and a dealer; the other, a little smaller, holding just as many tables, but all of them empty. She got in the line to sign up for a table, suddenly feeling inadequate. How would she know which table to join? She tried to remember the rules of Texas Hold ’Em Poker, or at least the ones her family used. She knew there were odds of staying with each hand. Players were each dealt two cards down. Then they had a chance to call the ante (two dollars in the two-four game) or even raise. The dealer placed three cards face-up in the middle of the table – the flop. Her dad used to say, “Flop it or fold it.” If he didn’t get at least one pair on the flop, he folded his hand. Very disciplined. After the flop, players could check or bet their cards, based on either what they had or how good they were at bluffing. Debbie knew she wasn’t good at bluffing. She showed too much emotion in her face, and she had a hard time raising if she had nothing. Seemed like such a waste of money because someone always called her with a better hand! Then the dealer dealt a fourth card face up, called “the turn.” Debbie usually folded if she didn’t have a pair, or at least a darn good draw, by the turn. Players had a chance to check or bet, but this time at double stakes – four dollars at the two-four table. The dealer placed one final card face up, “the river.” “Look out for the bluffers on the river,” her dad used to say. Each hand had different odds of winning. Two aces was the best hand, and seven and deuce of different suits the worst. After a few minutes she found herself at the front of the line. The caller leaned toward Debbie, and for the first time Debbie noticed the noise level in the room. “Do you have any open seats so I could play right away?” The caller turned and checked her lists. “We do, on the ten-twenty table.” Debbie wasn’t comfortable playing at those high stakes. One hand 101

GAME OVER

could end up costing over two hundred dollars! “How long for a seat on the two-four table?” The caller silently counted the names on the board. “Well, there’s about twelve players in front of you, so it could be an hour or so. But we can page you in the casino.” A dealer caught her attention, and the caller nodded, turned back to the board and checked her list. “Billy, your sixeight table is ready. Billy?” She scanned the room and must have seen Billy decline the table; she turned back to her list and crossed Billy’s name off the list. “Sue B, Sue B, your six-eight table is ready. Sue B?” She nodded. “Table one, Sue.” Her attention turned back to Debbie, and she smiled. “What list would you like to be on?” “Two-four, please.” Debbie decided she might as well play in the casino while she waited for her table. She avoided the parts of the casino that looked busy. She wanted to get started right away. She hurried through the aisles, past the nickel machines, past the quarter slots to the quarter poker machines. She found a good row, moved to the middle and stopped short. The lucky middle machine was occupied. The only one open sat at the end of the row. She approached it and stroked it. Seems all right. Maybe she’d just try twenty bucks. She sat down and inserted a twenty dollar bill. A huge red, oval, neon “JACKPOT JUNGLE” sign hung above her machine, with yellow swords cutting behind the words and green grass at the bottom. Matching signs hung on each side, shaped like wings, flashing ‘PLAY MAX COINS’. Green neon leaves sprung out of the arrangement, with a blue neon parrot on the left and a brown neon monkey on the right. Pink “five cents” surrounded by flowers blared from two large neon triangles, one on each side. The blue neon parrot reminded her of a pet bird her family had when she was little. Definitely good luck. The progressive jackpot sign flashed its neon message of hope over her row – seventeen hundred dollars. The amount appeared, as if by magic, from under the jungle grass. I’m in the nickel row. Oh well, I can play here while I wait for my poker table. Maybe this is jackpot time. She looked at the screen and saw she could win the progressive jackpot if she played five credits. I could use seventeen hundred! The machine dealt the first hand, and she won five credits with a pair of jacks. This is a good start; pair of jacks gets me my money back. Her twenty dollars lasted only half an hour. She saw few winning hands. Her machine was cold. Debbie looked at the blinking ‘game over’ sign and pondered her dilemma. She had an investment in this machine now, yet she didn’t find 102

ChapterTen

playing nickels exciting. She might as well try a quarter machine, and she rose to find just the right one. She walked deeper into the casino, past the blackjack tables set up centrally underneath a cathedral ceiling. Passing the palm-leaf pillars around the edge of the blackjack area, she could hear the loudspeaker announcements of winners and events, and an eventual poker announcement. “JC, your two-four table is ready. JC. We have a gaming paradise here in Pine Bend, as SOME LUCKY WINNER will drive off with a NEW Polaris four-wheel-drive all terrain vehicle TONIGHT in HIGHSTAKES BINGO, starting in TEN minutes in the bingo hall. Buy your bingo package NOW! And remember, we are now open TWENTYFOUR HOURS a day for your UNINTERRUPTED gaming pleasure. CONGRATULATIONS to Karen Thomas from Hinckley, a recent jackpot winner on the dollar machines. She won over six thousand, seven hundred dollars. CONGRATULATIONS to all our guests from Hinckley.” The crowd clapped politely for the anonymous Karen Thomas. If she could do it, Debbie could do it. She found an empty machine exactly in the middle of a row – her lucky spot! She played a twenty dollar bill, no luck. Her second twenty went much better. The band started to perform. Good news for her luck. *

*

*

Craig worked the shift as a favor to his friend Paulette, who had taken Craig’s Monday morning shift. Across the hall in the observation room, staff busily watched the monitors for any unusual activity. The monitors showed each blackjack table, several points in each row of gaming machines, the walkways, and all entrances and exits. Any player could be observed with a slight tilt of the camera, operated from the observation room on the second floor of the casino. Each counting room had its specialty. The coin-counting room, nicknamed the “hard money” room, was the noisiest, with coins clanking as employees poured them into the metal counters, then stuffed and rolled them into paper wrappers for the customers downstairs. Even though most machines now gave out printed vouchers instead of coins, some customers still preferred the coin machines, so the casino needed to have stock on hand. The “soft money” room was more pleasant because the employees counted the currency using machines with lower noise levels. The staff never seemed to mind being assigned to the “soft money” room for a shift. “More loot, Craig. You want to log it in?” asked Vince, the other soft 103

GAME OVER

money room attendant for the Saturday night shift. “I can get it started. Twenties?” “Yeah, and hometown packaging.” They packaged money intended for casino use without the shrink-wrap required for currency headed for the bank. Greenbacks were hauled from the change booths downstairs to the counting rooms in metal drawers with locking lids. Only change attendant supervisors and counting room attendants had keys. Craig unlocked the first box, built to hold one hundred thousand dollars in packaged twenties, much less if the greenbacks were loose. He patted the first group of twenties into a tight block. The change attendants downstairs usually had the bills all facing up, with Andrew Jackson facing right. It became automatic to them because they handled so many bills, and keeping them in the same order saved time when counting money out to customers. Craig didn’t need to do that in the money room, though. Just slide the bills through the counter machine. Craig set a stack of twenties down on the counting plate and pressed the “on” button. The counting machine hummed as the bills fell through and reappeared at the bottom, neatly stacked and counted, a hundred at a time. “Got any plans for tomorrow? A calm Sunday off?” Vince asked. “No, no plans. Some studying maybe. How about you? Didn’t Paulette tell me you’re seeing somebody new these days?” Craig smiled as he placed a small wrapper marked two thousand dollars around a pile of bills and set it on the table. He didn’t much like Vince but at least the guy seemed friendly. Vince moved a bin of twenties close to the counting table. “Yeah, nothing serious though. But she’s a great time. Name’s Barbara Reilly. We’re going skiing tomorrow at Lutsens up on the North Shore. Should be fun. Hey, look at the observation crew – something must be happening!” Craig looked through the glass wall and into the observation room where five people sat and watched the camera monitors. Their supervisor stood up and pointed to a monitor, shaking his head adamantly. “Probably another big winner gone berserk,” Vince grinned, sitting on the stool next to Craig. “Remember the man from Little Falls last week who fainted? What a commotion the ambulance caused. The top dogs sure hate that kind of thing. Sirens, township police. Highlight of my day!” Craig chuckled, reaching for his next batch of newly counted twenties to bundle. “There’s nothing like a little excitement to spark up the night!” Craig looked up to see the supervisor bang his fist on the table. It looked as though all the employees in the observation room were 104

ChapterTen

talking at once. Craig watched their lips move, and even though he couldn’t hear anything, he could see them gather around a monitor. One of the women held her hands over her face, and the supervisor began waving his hands in large circles as he ran for the red emergency telephone near the door. Vince got up and walked to the windows. “I’m telling you, Craig, something big is going on.” Craig sprang to the door and checked out the hallway in both directions. “You work here every day. You know the rules in this room better than I do. Aren’t we supposed to call security if anything suspicious happens?” Vince just stared at the door. “Damn it Vince, what are we supposed to do?” Craig turned him around, shaking his shoulders. “What? WHAT?” “We’re supposed to bolt the door and lay on the floor. But we don’t know if there’s a security problem. I think I’ll just go ask what’s happening.” “The hell you will,” Craig hollered as he shoved the door’s steel bolt through the latch. The observation supervisor mouthed something to them, face pressed tightly to the glass. “I think he’s saying ‘right now’.” Vince squinted through the glass at the supervisor, who motioned his hands toward the floor. “Get down, Vince.” Craig got down on the floor and rolled under the counting table. “Get down now, you fool.” “The red security light is on in the hallway. Could be a robbery.” Craig reached out and swatted Vince’s legs. “Are you nuts? The money’s in here. How stupid are you? Get down.” Craig pulled Vince to the floor. “No need to get rough! Let me be. I’ll stay down! Man, you hurt my knee,” Vince grumbled, massaging one knee. The first round of bullets sprayed the glass door. “AAHH,” Vince screamed, as two bullets ripped through his left thigh. Craig reached out and dragged Vince under the counting table. “You stupid bastard! Now be as quiet as you possibly can.” Craig hissed through his teeth, shaking Vince’s shoulders as he looked in his eyes, seeing curiosity change to awareness and then terror. “I don’t want to die, man,” Vince whimpered, and he started crying softly. Craig heard the ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ of gunfire as a gunman fired a round through the windows of the observation room. More gunfire shattered the windows of the counting room. Vince’s blood flowed onto the creamcolored linoleum floor, filling the air with the smell of its red thickness. 105

GAME OVER

Craig moved his face close to Vince’s wound, touching it gingerly. “You’re not going to die. But put your hands here, and press down to stop the blood.” Craig pressed down hard on Vince’s thigh, and Vince groaned. “Come on man, press on that now. They probably just want money without being recognized, and they’re going to be in a big hurry. Be quiet and stay as still as you can.” Craig’s ears rang from the noise of the gunfire and the glass breaking, and the hot smell of gunfire filled the air. He felt panic stricken. Oh shit, I’m going to die next to this idiot! Craig thought of the timber wolves. Funny how most humans don’t know anything about being hunted. If you can’t surprise, outwit, or outfight your opponent, the only thing left to do is play dead. Every form of life in the animal kingdom knows it. Except humans. The shattered glass came right up to the edge of the counting table. The first robber crunched across the glass and came into Craig’s vision dressed in the drab brown uniforms of the local telephone company – red stripes down the side of the pants like high school band uniforms, black leather belt, large key ring hanging from the right side of the belt, brown shoes. The only addition was a black ski mask over his face. Craig told himself to stay calm. It would all be over soon. Keep breathing. “Where are the hundreds?” shouted a second man in the doorway wearing an orange mask. He looked around the room and gave Vince’s leg a kick as he walked past. “Get out from under there and show us where the hundreds are, or I’ll kill you. Get out here!” He fired more shots in the air, and Vince started to whimper. Craig came out from the other side of the counting table. “Take it easy, now. They’re stacked here on these shelves,” he said as calmly as he could, approaching the metal shelving unit on the far wall. The tall one, whose beard was bulging out under his black mask, pushed Craig out of the way, and both robbers went for the shelves. They carried two large telephone company bags each. They shoved the packaged hundreds into one bag, not quite filling it to the top. The eyes of the black mask turned to Craig and stared, then nervously looked around the room. “Where’s the rest?” he screamed. “We don’t stock many hundreds here. When we have a big payout, we write a check. We send the extra hundreds to the bank every day.” The orange mask moved toward him, pressing his gun barrel to Craig’s chin. “He said ‘where’s the rest’?” “Here, there’s fifties on these shelves.” Craig pointed to the middle shelves, hoping they’d run out of time before they ran out of patience. He could feel his knees knocking together, something that hadn’t happened since high school speech class. “We carry a large supply of those. 106

ChapterTen

The twenties are on the bottom shelves.” Vince’s thigh was bleeding on the tile floor, but he was being quiet and Craig was grateful. He silently willed Vince to silence. Whimpering could make these two nervous. They loaded up their bags with bills. The orange masked man kept coughing into his sleeve, and clearing his throat between coughs. “Come on, come on,” the other one said, jamming money into the bags. Craig’s forehead had started to bead up with sweat, some dripping down his temples. He stood with his back to the wall, hands slightly raised, ready to run. For all the good it would do him. The black masked robber checked his watch. “Two minutes – let’s go!” They both ran for the door, each lugging a bag. The one in the orange mask slung his bag over his shoulder, a motion reminiscent of Santa Claus in reverse. He lost his balance and slipped on the sticky mess that was Vince’s blood. He dropped his gun and it slid behind him, towards Craig, who leaned forward instinctively. Craig took two steps but the man in orange didn’t hesitate, and moved to the gun, recovered it, and aimed straight at Craig. For a long second they looked at each other, muscles tense, no one breathing. The airlessness increased the panic in Craig’s mind. “Robert, we gotta go!” The black mask barked and the moment ended. The men ran out the way they came. *

*

*

Debbie patted her machine once more for good luck and she twirled the last ten-dollar roll of quarters of her pawn shop money. She’d slowly lost the first hundred dollars that she pledged was her limit. To change her luck, she went back to playing with coins instead of bills. The next two hundred dollars went quickly in three different cold-as-ice quarter machines. She played five quarters and pushed the “deal” button – ace, king, queen, ten of clubs and the three of diamonds on the first deal. Debbie’s heart pounded fiercely as she realized she was one card away from the greatest thrill of all – a royal straight flush and the progressive jackpot! Debbie looked up at the sign to see how much the progressive jackpot was. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the amount – over twenty-three thousand dollars. This is it, the jackpot’s mine! One card, just one card. All I need is the jack of clubs. She firmly pushed the “hold” button on each of the four clubs and left the diamond card alone. She checked her work. Each club card had the “hold” light shining above it. Did she dare press “deal?” Was she ready to accept the consequences? 107

GAME OVER

Please, God, let this be my jackpot. I’ll buy some clothes for the kids, I’ll get caught up on the house payments, and I won’t gamble any more. Please God. She checked her work again. All four clubs were held. She pushed the “deal” button but she couldn’t watch. She closed her eyes. No bells or sirens or loud music came from her machine. She opened her eyes. The three of diamonds was gone, and in its place was the eight of hearts. No winner. No payoff. No attendant would escort her to the payoff room. The machine flashed “PLAY MAX COINS,” just as it had for each hand. Debbie’s shoulders drooped and she looked forlornly first to her left and then to her right. No one knew how close she had come to glory. No one knew her agony. The other gamblers played their machines, pushed their buttons, inserted their coins or vouchers, happy with their little payoffs. She looked up at the sign. Over twenty-three thousand dollars. That was to be her jackpot. That was to be her salvation. She’d been cheated of it by the eight of hearts. The goddamn stinking eight of hearts. She fought back tears. She still had some quarters. I will not give up. I am not a quitter. Debbie played six more hands, for seven dollars and fifty cents, and no winner came up. Not a single payout. Debbie stared at her last five quarters in the coin tray. Five coins. One last chance at the jackpot. One last chance at redemption. One last chance to make her children happy. One last chance for security. She picked up each quarter and placed it in her left hand. She rubbed her hands together to bring the quarters good luck. Maybe warming them up would help. She inserted each quarter into the coin slot and pushed the “deal” button. Ten and jack of spades, four of hearts, six of diamonds, queen of clubs. Not much of a hand. She saved the jack and queen and pressed “deal.” Three and seven of clubs, king of diamonds. Game over. She started at the sound of her name. “Debbie W, your two-four table is ready, Debbie W.” Debbie had no more money. She couldn’t play Texas Hold ’Em tonight. She walked to the parking lot, oblivious of the flashing lights of the constable police car parked by the side entrance and of the excited talk and whispers of the security staff who listened to coded messages coming from their walkie-talkies. Oblivious of the casino spotlights that shined into the sky each night, beckoning gamblers to come for their jackpots. Oblivious of the cold night air that filled her lungs and stole her breath away. 108

Chapter Eleven George Buffalo had never been to Washington before. He and his wife, Sarah, traveled often on the powwow trail, but George had only made two trips without her – one trip to Canada to visit some distant relatives, and once he went with Jean to St. Paul to see the Winter Ice Carnival. Floats of all shapes and sizes paraded down Summit Avenue on a cold January evening, celebrating the winter with ice sculptures and lighted dances. Jean was only five years old, and she had talked him into going, saying that she wanted to see an animal carved of ice. “Please, please, Uncle George, let’s go see them!” Little Jean begged in baby talk. George’s heart melted, as it always did when she asked for something. Jean saw plenty of carved animals at the ice carnival and she delighted in every float. George thought there was nothing in the world quite as wonderful as delighting a child. And now he sat in the back of a cab headed for her Washington home where investigators said she choked on a piece of candy. He thought of Jean lying in her hospital bed at Washington General, unconscious and alone, surrounded by the mechanical clicking of medical machinery. It had only been a little more than a week since her accident, but to George if felt like an eternity. The Minneapolis/St. Paul airport hadn’t been too bad. George had gone to the ticket counter of Delta Airlines – clearly marked from outside the terminal – and they told him his gate number. He walked past fast-food restaurants, gift shops, even bars, and wondered why all of this was in an airport. In the access area to all of the concourses, which branched out like parts of the letter H, the newest models of Ford cars stood on display – a Taurus, a Bronco, an Escort. He watched as people stepped on the flat “people mover” conveyor belts that took walkers from one area of gates to another without them having to take a step. He chose to walk. 109

GAME OVER

But National Airport in Washington was another story. He felt intimidated by the crowds. All pedestrian traffic was forced to walk together to the baggage claim, first having to travel down a long, one-hundred-yard hallway from their pods of gates. It reminded George of a cave – no natural light, the ceiling and walls rounded, almost oval in shape. Rocks of some kind had been sprayed on the walls and painted a boring cream color. George wanted to examine the tiny rocks, some the size of a small fingernail, but people jostled him if he tried to stop and take a closer look. The hallway reeked with the smell of urine. He kept telling himself that he needed to be there for Jean. All for Jean, all for Jean. “Excuse me, where’s the shuttle?” he asked passersby, but no one answered. He made his way to the doorways leading to the baggage claim area and he could finally see the shuttle bus sign. His original plan had been to take it to the metro stop. Jean once sent him directions in a Christmas card, in case he and Sarah ever came to Washington. Once George saw the people lined up for the shuttle, he decided the cave experience was quite enough of being crowded. He’d take a cab. After finally finding the cab stand, he hoped the mysteries of the city would be over. He arrived at Jean’s house amid reporters taking film cuts for later broadcast on the evening news. The police had wrapped the yard in yellow “no entrance” tape and they’d posted two guards at the house. “The latest on the condition of Senator Buffalo tonight at six,” a reporter said into a microphone as George walked by. “Damn, Todd, cut. We’ll have to retape.” He turned to George and hollered: “Stay out of the damn picture!” George pleaded ignorance with a shrug of his thin shoulders and stepped over the police tape toward Jean’s front door. “Sorry, sir,” a police officer said, approaching with a purposeful gait. “No one’s allowed past the tape.” George wondered if the young man was even old enough to be out of high school. He examined the security badge that hung from his jacket pocket. Detective Emerson. His picture showed a stern expression. In person, a baby faced young man stared back at George. Probably told his friends he wanted to join the force to help people. “I’m her family, her uncle. I’ve come all the way from Wisconsin to visit her in the hospital, and I came to make sure all her family things are here and being treated with respect.” “Can you show me some identification, sir?” “Yeah, here.” George pulled out his cracked leather wallet. He still had on his mittens, because even though the air didn’t feel as cold as in Wisconsin, Washington had its own biting wind. He pulled one off. De110

ChapterEleven

tective Emerson stared at George’s hands – fingernails short and ragged, skin weathered from time in the sun. George’s long hair, black with a few gray hairs mixed in, stuck out from underneath his hat and fell down to the middle of his back. He tugged papers out of his wallet and handed them to the young cop. He told himself to stay calm, that he had to get inside. Detective Emerson scowled at the airline ticket issued in the name of George Buffalo. “Don’t you have a driver’s license?” “Yeah, in here somewhere.” He dug again in his wallet and produced the wrinkled card. Emerson examined the license. “Exactly how are you related?” “I told ya. I’m her uncle. I’m her mother Margaret’s brother.” Emerson glanced from George to the ticket. He turned the airline ticket over a couple of times, then ordered, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He went in the front door. George followed him and waited outside at the top of a small set of stairs. He noticed the door was made of steel and insulated for the cold. Jean had painted it blue. He knew it was her work because she always painted her doors blue, a habit she’d gotten from her mother. The second guard came out of the house. “You say you’re Senator Buffalo’s uncle?” He growled with the tone of a man used to people trying to trick him. “Yes, I am. I came from Wisconsin to check on her and to stay in her home.” “We’ll have no way of verifying who you are until tomorrow. You’ll have to come back then. We’ll run a security check on you in the meantime.” “You could look in her photo album. I’m sure she has some pictures of me.” George suddenly doubted that she did have any. What if she hadn’t saved them? Then he remembered her ice carnival picture, the one she told him was her favorite, and said to the guard, “Look for a picture of the two of us when she was a little girl, at the Ice Carnival in St. Paul. You’ll see me in the picture.” The older policeman sneered. “Right. We’re supposed to find a photo album and then look for a picture of an In. . . a guy taken . . . what would that be . . . Twenty-five, thirty years ago? You move along now. You can come back tomorrow when we can confirm your identity.” When he touched George’s arm, George instantly sat down on the top step, cross legged, arms to his sides. He remembered the move from his protest days. “I will not leave,” he said loudly. A few of the reporters packing up their gear looked his way. “What’s up, guy?” A reporter called. “What’s going on over there?” another one 111

GAME OVER

hollered. George used his most authoritative voice. “This is my niece’s home. I have come to make sure her tribal items are being cared for, and they will not let me in. I will not leave until they let me in. You can put that on the news, if you want.” Cameras started to roll. Tribal items always made for an interesting story. “Oh, shit,” the older policeman muttered to his colleague as he glared at the reporters with disdain. “Come on, old man,” he said loudly. “Get up. Let’s get you inside.” George rose and they ushered him in the front entry, one policeman at each elbow. Once they were out of view of the cameras, the older one pushed George against the entry wall and took hold of his neck. “What the hell’s wrong with you? I should have you arrested for trespassing, you . . .” Emerson held him back. “Sid, I think we should leave him alone. Those reporters aren’t going away, especially now that they smell a story. I’ll help him find the photo album if you want. Come on, Sid. What if he really is her uncle?” The older man grumbled at George, “You make one false move and I’ll arrest you. You got that, you shithead?” Sid released his grip. “Yes,” George replied. He told himself to stay calm. He had to be the one to do this. They started in the living room. George looked through the books Jean had brought with her from Wisconsin. He chuckled when he found a photo documentary on the Green Bay Packers. Jean had been a football fan from the time she could throw a ball. No one else in the family seemed interested in the sport, so no one knew where she’d picked up her love of the game. He held up the book for Emerson. May as well try to get the youngster on his side. “Look here, her Packers book. Do you like football?” “No, I was never very good at it.” Emerson smiled slightly. George found books on vegetarian cooking, cooking with beans, an international chicken recipe collection. He thought she hated cooking. He opened one of the vegetarian books, and the inscription took him by surprise: To Jean, My One True Love. Best of Health. Tommy. George stared at the inscription. Jean and Tommy? George wondered what else he didn’t know about his niece’s life. He felt sad at not being around more to support her in her difficult job. Maybe all he did was make her life harder. He placed the book back on the shelf. “Found any old pictures yet?” Sid asked, the sound of indignation rising in his voice. 112

ChapterEleven

“Not yet, Sid. I thought they might be here on the bookshelf,” Emerson explained. “Well, two more camera crews showed up.” Sid said. “Vultures. They’re probably starved for something to put on the tube. Just when the story was winding down and they were starting to leave us alone.” Sid grabbed George by the collar, and put his face within an inch of George’s. Sid’s breath smelled like stale coffee. His broken front tooth and two chipped incisors showed evidence of many fights during his career. “If you came here just to be on camera, I’m not going to let that happen.” George’s rage grew silently. He thought about punching Sid but looked down at his feet instead. All for Jean, all for Jean. Sid released him. “Just find the damn pictures. ‘Cuz if you’re not her uncle, we’re going to look pretty foolish, now aren’t we? Night captain said to believe you. That is, until we can prove you’re a liar.” Sid walked away, muttering about an Indian incident. George finally found the photo album above Jean’s fireplace. The ice carnival picture was on the first page, and he turned it over to see if anything was written on the back. “Me and Uncle George, Ice Carnival, age five.” He felt tears coming and took deep breaths to stop them. Tears would not do in front of these cops. There’d be time for tears later. He wiped the corners of his eyes on his sleeve and showed his family evidence to Emerson. “There I am, off to the left.” The photograph was discolored and the right corner was bent, but Emerson nodded at the resemblance between the younger man in the picture and the man standing before him. “Okay, so you’re her uncle. Now what exactly did you come here to see?” The young man seemed trustworthy. George wondered if he could share the truth with him. “I will tell you if you do not share what I’m about to say with that Sid guy. Do you agree?” “He’s my partner. We share everything.” George turned his back on Emerson and looked over the items on the bookshelf. He leafed through old newspapers and shook some dog-eared paperbacks. “He’s my partner. I’m telling you that I can’t keep something of importance from him.” Emerson moved his weight from one foot to the other. “Then get yourself another partner, or consider it unimportant.” Emerson thrust his hands into his pockets and fingered his change. “Alright. Whatever you tell me is unimportant, but I want to watch you work. Now, what are you looking for?” “I don’t know.” 113

GAME OVER

“That’s it? You don’t know?” “Nope.” “Well, what about the tribal items? What do they look like?” “There are no tribal items here. Not that I know of, anyway.” George smiled slyly. “Then why are you here?” George turned to him and whispered, “I’m here because the family doesn’t believe that Jean choked on a piece of candy. We will never believe that. I’m here to see what I can see.” Detective Emerson folded his arms over his chest and started pacing, change jingling. The clank of his boots on the hardwood floor echoed through the main floor of the house. He looked out the living room window at the reporters gathered outside. When he spoke next, his voice had taken on a serious, almost grown-up tone. “You’ve got to promise not to mention this to the reporters.” “Why?” asked George, hoping the young man would be of help. “Because,” Emerson hissed into George’s ear, “then my partner will ask if I knew there were no artifacts and I’ll have to tell him the truth. And my ass is grass!” George nodded in agreement and his bangs fell over his eyes. “I won’t tell them without let’n you know. How’s that?” Emerson sighed. “I don’t like the feeling of this. She is a U.S. Senator, for God’s sake. That’s the only reason the house is being protected.” “I don’t like it much either.” George reached out and touched one of her pictures. “She’s our girl.” Emerson asked constant questions as they moved through the house. George answered with grunts, nods, and short sentences when necessary. George told Emerson that he could help George do the search and that Emerson could touch anything except Jean’s clothes. Somehow they were too private. George buried his head in her flannel bathrobe in the bathroom and inhaled deeply, burying himself in the smell of her. Other than that he left her clothes undisturbed. They passed through the dining room where Sid talked on the phone with the night captain. “Yes, Ma’am. I think he’s almost finished. Looks like he’s going to the garage. No, Ma’am. Detective Emerson is with him at all times.” George stepped down the two steps into the garage. “Be still. Here.” Emerson stood in the relative darkness. “And don’t touch anything. I think it happened here.” George touched his hands lightly on Jean’s car. “You think what happened here?” “Her attacker. He may have been here.” George lightened his step as 114

ChapterEleven

they walked between Jean’s car and the garage wall. Nothing. “What makes you so sure there was an attacker?” “We were talking on the phone and she said she heard two noises – first the sound of someone at her door and then the sound of a mouse trap going off in the garage.” He looked behind the car. Nothing. He rounded the car and came to the tool corner. George stopped short. “He may have been here.” “What makes you say that?” Emerson peered into the small cubbyhole and pegboard area. “It’s shelter within a shelter.” “So’s the bathtub, Mr. Buffalo.” “But you can be seen in a bathtub.” They moved slowly along the right side of the car. George saw it first. “There, under the shelf. There’s one.” He got down on his hands and knees and crawled under the bench. “This trap is sprung. No mouse.” “So what? Could have been a misfire.” “Could’a been. Let’s look in the garbage.” They opened the lid to Jean’s garbage can and the odors hit George’s nose like a freight train. He made himself bare the insult and leaned over the mess. “Pheww, this has been here awhile.” Emerson backed up, holding his sleeve to his nose. George looked through the top level. Kitchen scraps, old mail, some pantyhose wrappers. Recyclables sat in their own bins off to the right. Emerson leaned forward on tiptoe. “Anything interesting?” “Yep.” George looked at Emerson. “No mouse.” *

*

*

Debbie played at the Wheel of Fortune game, deciding that she should stay away from the poker machines for awhile. Maybe the odds made it impossible to win. She hit the “Play Three Coins” button mindlessly, hoping to hear those fabulous recorded words, “WHEEL OF FORTUNE” when her machine hit three wheels in a row. She got extra spins to try to win up to five hundred dollars. She’d already hit a spin for two hundred dollars. Usually casinos put the same kind of machines all in one row, but tonight Debbie’s machine sat next to two poker machines. An elderly couple played at those, each of them discussing their hands. Debbie had played a roll of coins in each of those machines earlier but neither one paid off. “Henry, I got another straight!” yelled the old woman in a red sweat115

GAME OVER

shirt, her white, short hair in curls. “Henry, look here, over eight hundred credits!” Henry sat at the machine next to hers. He leaned over her ample lap to look at her screen. Ever since several senior citizens’ centers set up busing programs, the Pine Bend Casino stayed busy on most week nights. Buses began arriving about noon. Most left by 9:00 pm., but a few stayed until midnight. Debbie noticed that the senior citizens usually did pretty well, some carrying their buckets of coins around the casino, moving from machine to machine. Henry peered over his black-framed glasses. “That’s over two hundred dollars. Are you cashing out, Elaine?” “Nope, not when this machine is hot! Never leave a hot machine, Henry. Remember what happened in Vegas, when that man walked by and took my machine. He hit my jackpot, Henry, over seventeen thousand dollars. That was my jackpot. I’m never leaving a hot machine again.” Elaine leaned over to Debbie’s machine. “How are you doing, young lady? Oh, over three hundred dollars. Good for you!” She smiled at Debbie. “My husband says you need to have good chemistry with the machine, but I think they are either hot or cold. What do you think?” Debbie wasn’t sure she wanted to start a distracting conversation. She’d been lucky at the Wheel and she didn’t want the luck to change. But they seemed like such a sweet couple. She hit the “Play Three Coins” button again. “I think the first few plays tells the tale. No winner and you may as well move on.” Elaine nodded, her white curls bouncing. “There’s some truth to that. Look at my husband, Henry. He wears his yellow jacket for good luck. Bought it from the Sears catalog in l982. Can’t get him to take it off when he plays, even though the sleeves have shrunk something terrible. He says it helps with his machine chemistry. Isn’t that silly?” Debbie looked over at Henry and noticed that he exposed long, bony wrists every time he reached out to press buttons. “Oh God, Henry, four of a kind!” Elaine’s screen showed four eights. The machine made pinging sounds, one for each of the two hundred credits she earned as the credits added to her growing tally. Elaine clapped her hands in delight and gave Henry’s jacket collar a little tug. Debbie smiled at Elaine. “You are doing well yourself.” Henry tapped Elaine on the arm. “I think you should check out. Let’s go to the buffet. I see it’s only six bucks tonight, and the bus leaves in about an hour.” He shoved his hands into his pants pockets and jingled a few coins. “Besides, my fifty-dollar limit is almost gone.” Elaine pressed the “Play Five Credits” button and five new cards appeared. Ace, king, queen, ten, and seven of hearts. A flush. If she kept the 116

ChapterEleven

flush, she’d get six dollars and twenty-five cents. Henry looked at the computerized neon sign above Elaine’s machine. Royal Flush, Progressive Jackpot: eighty-three thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars. For each quarter played at any of the fifty machines in that row, one cent was added to the progressive jackpot. Debbie looked up at it as well, and while she did, it increased a dollar. “What do you think I should do, Henry? Take the flush, or dump the seven and go for the jackpot?” Elaine asked, tapping her thick, fake nails on the screen, the red polish reflecting orange neon. “Go for the Royal Flush, Elaine. It only costs five credits, so what the heck?” he answered her, holding up his hands and crossing his fingers, exposing both wrists. Elaine pressed the “hold” button for the ace, king, queen, and ten of hearts. She double-checked her work. Debbie didn’t know if she should hope for the royal or not. The server came up behind them with the Cokes they had asked for earlier. “Two Cokes here,” the server said, and she placed them on a shelf near the machine. Elaine pressed “deal.” Jack of hearts. Royal Flush. Over eighty-three thousand dollars. “Hennnnryyy!” Elaine screamed wildly. She grabbed his jacket collar, and they stood up, bouncing up and down together. “We won, we won, we won!” she screamed, saying the word “won” each time her feet hit the floor. Debbie sat in shock. She looked at Elaine’s screen, which flashed PROGRESSIVE JACKPOT in bright red letters. Henry shook his head. “I can’t believe it, Lainie!” He stood there with a foolish grin on his face and the lights of the casino reflected off his glasses. Red lights flashed on the top of the machine, a siren wailed and the progressive jackpot sign on top of their row blinked wildly. People gathered around and stared at Elaine and Henry and their machine with a mixture of what looked like envy and excitement. Elaine turned to the server who was dripping wet with soda and smiled politely. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Let me help you.” She giggled and grabbed some napkins to help wipe the soda off the server’s wet shirt and skirt. “I must have knocked those over on you.” The server smiled weakly and dabbed at her clothes. Some Coke had also spilled on Debbie and Henry. “We won, we won,” Elaine said again, but this time not so loud. A few people clapped for them, then everyone in the vicinity took up the applause. “Wow!” Debbie said. “Congratulations! That is really something.” 117

GAME OVER

She had left that machine no more than an hour ago. She had played only ten dollars there. Ten dollars. She felt dizzy and sick to her stomach. Two attendants approached. Someone hit a progressive jackpot every week or two, and they seemed calm and casual. “Well, who’s the lucky winner?” one of them asked, looking back and forth between Elaine and Henry, the obvious winning couple. “Here she is!” Henry grinned and pointed to Elaine, who continued bouncing up and down. Debbie moved out of the way as the attendants unlocked the machine with a key and examined its interior. “You folks ever won big before?” asked the attendant who wore a customer service badge printed with: “Mike Anderson, At Your Service.” “No,” said Elaine, “we win a little and lose a little, and just about break even. This is our first big win. Can you believe it, Henry?” She smiled at him and gave his jacket collar another tug. “I’m Henry Madison, and this is my wife, Elaine.” Henry shook hands with the attendant. Elaine rested her head on Henry’s shoulder. She kept repeating, “I just can’t believe it.” Debbie could hardly believe it, either. Over eighty thousand dollars gone, just because she had no patience. When the attendant moved out of the way, she sat back down at her machine and stared at her Wheel screen. The attendant pressed some levers and said, “We’ll wait here a few minutes for another confirmation. He wrote an entry on a note pad kept in the machine, then closed it back up, and locked it with a key. “What do you folks think you might do with the money?” He asked Henry and Elaine. “Maybe we’ll install that new garage door.” Henry said. Debbie couldn’t believe her ears. A garage door. A fucking garage door. Another attendant came by and checked the figures. “It looks good, folks,” he said. He smiled at Henry and Elaine. “We’ll need you to come to the payout office to get some information for your payout. Have to take care of the IRS, you know,” he said with a wink. Henry and Elaine looked at each other and nodded. Henry asked, “How will they pay us?” “The manager upstairs will describe that to you. Some people take a thousand or so in cash and the rest in a check.” “How much tax will we have to pay?” Henry straightened his glasses, looking serious. 118

ChapterEleven

“Depends on your gambling expenses and your losses so far this year. Now if you follow me this way, we’ll handle the paperwork.” He clapped his hands and said loudly, “Let’s give these lucky people another hand.” People clapped wildly, with new fervor for their own good luck. Debbie couldn’t bring herself to clap for them. She just watched them walk away. Elaine glanced back over her shoulder at her winning machine, whispering to Henry: “Do you think we should leave it? Maybe the machine is still hot.” “It’ll be there when we’re finished.” He cradled her elbow in his hand, guiding her by the elbow the way men used to do. People looked on with admiration for the winners as they followed the attendants. Debbie shook her head in astonishment. When will that be me? Will it ever be me? She reached over and touched Elaine’s screen, which now blinked “Play Five Credits.” The metal felt cool to the touch and her hands tingled with numbness. When would her jackpot come? Why didn’t she stay and play at that machine? Is there ever any skill involved, or is it all matter of luck? She felt sick, and she decided she needed to cash out. After all, she was about a hundred dollars ahead. As Debbie left the casino, the voice on the loudspeaker said: “Congratulations to Henry and Elaine Madison from Coon Rapids, Minnesota, who just won a progressive jackpot of over eighty-three thousand dollars. Good luck to them, and to all of our players from Coon Rapids.” People applauded throughout the casino and Debbie felt more depressed than ever.

119

GAME OVER

120

Chapter Twelve Council member White started the specially convened closed meeting of tribal council. “I don’t much care for fussing over small things, but we have to know who robbed us. Let this be our first and last robbery. As you know, my daughter works at Bank One, and she recommends this guy.” White pushed the one-page flyer across the table. Ben Peacock picked up the flyer and read it aloud. “Investigator Dave Duffy, international expert in analysis of bank robbery cases.” Peacock sighed deeply and passed the flyer around. “I can’t say that I want to spend our money for a private investigator when we ought to be relying on our own tribal police and our contacts with the FBI. But from what elder White says, the guy sounds competent. Maybe this time we should get some extra help.” Usually up for any argument, today Peacock felt defeated. The robbery proved that they weren’t properly prepared for all that could happen. Now they’d need to make some drastic changes. “We need to do what we can to protect our employees from this kind of thing ever happening again. I’m not wild about a stranger in our business, but I agree with Elder White.” “Shit,” Chairman Longie groaned, “waste of money and a waste of time. I don’t see why we should drag outsiders in to look at what is only our business. We don’t want the gaming public to even know about this robbery. It’s bad for our image, I’m telling you! Must we fight about everything, Ben?” When Elder White called for the vote, only Peacock hesitated, though he finally said “yes.” The vote was unanimous. Longie could only vote in the case of a tie, so he sat quietly. They hired Mr. Duffy, agreeing on his fee of two thousand dollars per day plus expenses, to begin immediately.

121

GAME OVER

*

*

*

The Pine Bend employee cafeteria would be crowded with employees. Duffy had prepared his presentation of the digital images from the casino’s security cameras and had placed a sheet of paper by each chair. The tribal council wanted to make sure the casino operations were altered as little as possible. “Here Jack, put these pencils by the sheets of paper.” Duffy said. His voice carried the authority of one used to giving orders. Jack placed the pencils neatly by each place, and the employees started to file in and sit down. Their murmured conversations hummed with the excitement of ordinary people as part of an extraordinary event. Dave Duffy stood in the front of the room, smiling and waiting for Jack to make the introductions after everyone was seated. Jack became distracted by a woman in the front row. They laughed loudly, faces huddled together. Wanting to waste no time, Duffy cleared his throat. “Jack, could you do the introduction, please? I believe we are ready to get started.” “Hello, everyone.” Jack moved to the front of the room and spoke tentatively. “Officer Duffy is here to investigate last Saturday’s robbery. He has our security camera coverage to show you, and he’ll want each of you to be available for questioning. You have my permission to put your other work aside when he needs your time. Your full cooperation is expected. Anything else you need to announce, sir?” Jack asked, turning to Investigator Dave Duffy. Duffy squinted his eyes and looked over the crowd of the employees who had been on duty the night of the robbery – security floor and observation room staff, change attendants, blackjack dealers, wait staff, bartenders, kitchen staff, maintenance and housekeeping staff, and money counters. They seemed to be a typical group. The room fell silent as his eyes scanned around, questions already beginning to form in his mind. He did not want them to know he was a private investigator hired by the tribal council. “Officer” was a better word, since most people cooperated more fully with police. Besides, they might even think he was part of the FBI, the agency Duffy knew would be looking into the crime eventually since the crime happened on a reservation. He purposefully dressed the part – dark blue suit, white shirt, boring blue tie, black wing-tipped shoes, nothing too expensive. He kept his sandy-colored hair cropped short. No hair dryer or styling gel necessary to impress a group of hardworking employees. Duffy began with his best authoritative voice. “I know that many of you have already given your statements to the township police about the 122

ChapterTwelve

robbery events, and I have copies of those reports. I want you to take a few moments to recall anything else that has come to you since you spoke with the police. Anything unusual, even if you think it couldn’t possibly be related. We’ll take the next few minutes for you to write on the paper in front of you. Any questions?” He loved giving the writing task because people were reluctant to turn in a blank sheet of paper. Duffy learned that early in his career. They’ll rack their brains in order to come up with something interesting to write. As though they were back in third grade, a blank page meant a failing mark from an all-powerful teacher. He needed to take advantage of this brief window of opportunity to get rich and helpful details, before they had a chance to talk and all the stories blended together. Then he would be left with group memory – never accurate and hardly ever reliable. “Any details at all, anything that comes to mind. Nothing is too trivial. Go ahead and start.” He paced the room, looking over a few shoulders of those whose pens began scratching, increasing the pressure for those who had nothing to say. The kitchen crew sat silently, casting furtive glances at each other. “Even if it seems foolish to you, write anything at all that comes to your mind. Anything,” Duffy instructed. More pens scratched out a few details. He stood over the shoulder of the dishwasher, who wrote, “The man coughed in his sleeve when he was in the hallway.” Duffy smiled at her encouragingly. By the fourth minute, people often started making things up so he glanced at his watch and cleared his throat. “Please collect the papers, Jack,” Duffy commanded. “Now, let’s watch these scenes.” Two large-screen monitors set up in the front of the room showed the cameras’ views. The two men were first seen by the cameras mounted toward the employee exit. The men walked backwards through the door and the cameras could only see the back of their telephone uniforms. They continued walking backwards and reassured each other with slight nods every few steps. They wheeled in a large metal box with the telephone company logo on the front – a brown and red stripe angled down the side with an oval in the middle and the word “Service” in italicized print in the oval. The box’s massive handle came just above the shorter man’s knees. Duffy paused the image for effect. “Look very carefully at all the details. It may jog your memory and give you a clue about who these guys are.” He pressed the ‘play’ button again, and the men continued pulling the box down the hallway. Three employees walked by them, coffee cups in hand, on the way into the staff lounge about twenty feet away. “Look, there I am, they went right by me!” the kitchen helper ex123

GAME OVER

claimed. Duffy glared at the group, and the comments instantly fell to tense whispers. The monitors showed the men stopping once, maintaining their bentover positions while one man pressed the elevator button and the other fumbled with the latches on the tool box. The elevator came and they got in with their cargo. “Does anyone recognize these men?” Duffy paced in front of the room. “Do they look at all familiar?” The elevator’s cameras showed the men opening one drawer of the tool box, pulling out masks and putting them on over their heads. They took out disassembled weapons and put them together in seconds. By the time the elevator door opened, they were armed and standing upright. The one who coughed pulled the tool box into the upstairs hallway. The shooting and robbery appeared to happen in seconds. The crowd gasped when Craig moved toward the gun on the floor. “I know that the action can appear disjointed and unreal, like a bad home movie. But your job is to see if there is something familiar about these men. Maybe their mannerisms, the way they stand?” No one said anything. The presentation ended, and Duffy decided to move to the individual questioning. “Think about what you’ve seen, and if you think of anything later, let me know. I’ll begin my questioning with Mr. Vince MacQuire and then Mr. Craig Two Horses, in that order. When you are told to meet with me, please come to the payout office where I’ve set up temporary headquarters. Mr. MacQuire, if you will, please.” A soft murmur filled the room as the employees stood, moved their chairs back and moved slowly into the hallway, apparently consumed with the excitement of it all. Duffy walked to the payout office and waited for Vince MacQuire. He disliked the decor of the room, which reminded him of an art deco lounge – light gray fabric chairs that sported wild, dark pink and blue triangles, and a carpet with a party theme of confetti patterns of different colors and sizes. Anywhere else the decor would have appeared extremely ugly, but he decided that at least it seemed to fit in with the casino atmosphere. He leaned against a round, gray table. “Come in, Mr. MacQuire,” Duffy said kindly to Vince, who entered on crutches. Duffy motioned to the large, comfortable rocking chair moved in for his use. He knew that people felt comfortable and off-guard in a rocking chair. It was easier to get people to agree with you if they were in a rocker – easier to shake your head “yes” while rocking forward than it is to shake your head “no.” Vince struggled in and sat down. 124

ChapterTwelve

“So, Mr. MacQuire, tell me what you thought of the tapes.” Duffy began. “Did they jar any additional memories of the robbery?” His leg bandaged, Vince had just been released from the hospital. Duffy knew Vince did not require surgery, only thirty-three stitches and pain medication. Duffy glanced at the copy of Vince’s statement given to the constable the night before. He didn’t want him to come in for questioning, but it wouldn’t look good to the other employees if he hadn’t wanted to talk to Vince at all. Besides, the guy might be good for a few more details. Vince chatted away and rubbed his thigh now and then. Duffy tried to keep him focused, always difficult for excitable people. “Before the robbery, did anything unusual happen on your shift?” “No,” Vince wrinkled his forehead, looking as though thinking was difficult for him. “Except I’m sure glad Craig was working instead of Paulette. She would have been a basket case.” Vince laughed. “A basket case. She gets upset when she can’t find her fingernail file. But Craig, he stayed cool. Real cool.” “What do you mean, ‘instead of Paulette’? Isn’t Craig your usual partner?” Duffy stood and walked around the rocker. “No, but people around here can change shifts, you know. Craig only works the money counting rooms every couple of months. Paulette must have asked him to switch. She probably had a date with that new husband of hers.” Vince laughed uncontrollably, rolled his head around and slumped down in his chair, eyes closed. The pain medication was doing its job. His chin landed on his chest and stayed there. He didn’t move for quite some time. Duffy leaned down and shook Vince’s shoulder gently. “Hey, you okay?” Duffy had already crossed him off as a suspect. No guts here, and certainly no hidden agendas. “Yeah, fine, I just . . .” “Anything else you can remember?” “Nope. Nothing really. Mean guys. My leg hurts. Need some sleep.” Vince mumbled a little bit, talking some nonsense. Duffy knew he had gotten all he could from Vince MacQuire. Duffy opened the door and waved at Jack Winger. “Mr. Winger, get him home. I need to see Craig Two Horses now. And let me know when the latte arrives.” “It’s here already.” Jack handed him the coffee with the whipped milk on the top. “Here comes Craig.” “Ah, Mr. Two Horses,” Duffy smiled when Craig entered the room. “Please, sit here.” Craig sat stiffly in the rocker. “Now, Mr. Two Horses,” Duffy began, “I want to know everything 125

GAME OVER

that happened during the robbery, including anything unusual about that night.” “I’ve already given my statement, Mr. Duffy. There’s nothing important to add, except that after seeing the tapes these guys are a little shorter than they seemed on the night of the robbery.” “Now that’s an interesting comment. What do you mean?” Duffy removed the cover and sipped on his Starbucks latte, the white foam tickling a little under his nose. “I suppose it’s because the first time I really looked at them, I was lying on the floor looking up. They seemed pretty damn big at the time.” Craig smiled nervously. “Then I checked their height against the door frame when I stood up.” “And why did you do that?” “So I’d have a more accurate description afterwards.” “Very good. I hear you are the one who called 9-1-1 for Mr. MacQuire. It must have been quite frightening.” “A little. But by the time I called, I knew Vince was going to be all right.” The rocker creaked as Craig set it in motion. Good, he’s relaxing a little, Duffy thought. The more relaxed, the less likely a subject can hide surprise or fear. “Mr. Two Horses, how is it that you came to be working in the counting room? I’ve been told that the counting room is not your normal job assignment.” “That’s right. I work weekdays in the office as a general ledger clerk, but my friend Paulette, who’s assigned as a counter about half the time, needed Saturday night off. She asked me if I’d switch, and I owed her, so I said ‘sure’.” Duffy thought that sounded plausible, but he decided to see what Craig Two Horses was made of. “Your friend Paulette. Have you known her long, and why do you think she needed the night off?” Craig stopped the motion of the rocking chair. “I’ve known her since I started here over three years ago, and I don’t have a clue as to why she needed the night off. I don’t ask questions when a friend needs a favor. I just deliver.” “Where does your friend Paulette live?” “Can’t you look that up in the personnel records?” Craig’s fingers wrapped around the arms of the chair. “Of course, how foolish of me.” Dave Duffy tapped on the table and smiled politely at Craig. Defensive type. Won’t give anything away. That little scar on his chin turning red. “Do you know if Paulette has any financial troubles?” “I know Paulette well enough to know that she is basically a happy, carefree person. She’s married and she had a baby last year. She couldn’t 126

ChapterTwelve

be involved in anything like this. She’s a typical working mom.” “I see.” Duffy walked slowly around the rocking chair, standing in front of Craig when he asked his next question. “Now Mr. Two Horses, I’m hoping you can tell me something. In the police report, you said that one man called the other one ‘Robert.’ How sure are you that ‘Robert’ was the name he used? People get confused during times of stress, you know. Maybe you were confused.” “I’m very sure. He said ‘Robert, we gotta go.’ That’s what he said just as they left.” Craig sneered a little. “I could hear him clearly because no shots were being fired at that time, and Robert was staring right at me at the moment, pointing his gun at my gut.” “Of course, of course. Was there anything familiar about this man called Robert? Have you ever seen him at the casino before?” Duffy set his coffee down close to Craig. He wove his fingers together and then turned them inside out, cracking his knuckles slowly. “I don’t think so. But they never took their masks off. Robert had pale blue eyes, which I remember quite clearly. Otherwise, their faces were pretty well covered.” Craig gripped the rocking chair arms. Duffy caressed his tie. “Right. Are there any employees that remind you in any way of either man? The way they moved, their mannerisms, anything at all?” “Hell no. I would have said so in my report.” Craig rocked the chair a little faster. “True, true. Tell me, Mr. Two Horses. Are you a member of the tribe that runs this casino?” “No, but are you implying tribal members did this?” Craig asked. “As I said in my report, Robert was probably white. And by the way, personnel records would show tribal membership. Did you even read my report?” Duffy noticed that Craig sat up straighter with each question, a sure sign of uneasiness. “Certainly, yes, I did. But I need to investigate all possibilities. I’m repeating questions in case you have new information. Please take no offense, Mr. Two Horses.” Craig wrapped his hands tightly around the arms of the chair and took a deep breath. “Have you ever been arrested for any reason, Mr. Two Horses?” Duffy asked, bending forward and putting his face close to Craig’s. “Yes I have, but it was years ago.” “And if you’d be so kind as to tell me, what was the charge?” Craig closed his eyes tightly as he hissed his answer, “Attempted robbery. I was fourteen years old and my brother and I tried to steal a pack of cigarettes. My dad paid for them, but the store owner insisted on 127

GAME OVER

charging my brother and me.” Duffy picked up the cup of coffee and swirled the liquid before he took a loud slurp. “I see. Well. Why is this not in your personnel record, Mr. Two Horses?” “Oh, so you have looked at my personnel record. I wasn’t convicted, and since I was a juvenile, those records are closed. You know that. It was an adolescent thing. Just a couple of kids.” Craig ran his fingers through his hair, and his face changed to a dark scowl. Duffy smiled kindly. He could see that Craig was close to losing his composure. One more question should do the trick. “Of course, I see what you mean. Tell me, Mr. Two Horses, have you ever stolen anything and gotten away with it?” Craig took two long, deep breaths and relaxed his hands. “Nope. Never.” Interesting reaction. Damn. He pushed too far on a guy who’s not about to be pushed. “I see. Well. I guess that’s it for now. Please stay in town in case we need to question you again.” “Of course, of course.” Craig said mockingly and left the room. Possibly guilty, probably not guilty, definitely hard ass. He might know something. Duffy prepared for his next interview. He looked at the coffee cup and chuckled. Usually drinking coffee in front of nervous people made them talk more. They would get distracted by the universally familiar and comforting smell of the stimulant, even if they didn’t drink the stuff. He picked up the nearly full coffee cup and threw it in the trash. He hated the taste and smell, and it sure hadn’t worked as a distraction for Two Horses. Disappointing. *

*

*

Duffy sat at the tribal council table after his first day on the job, confident in his reputation as the best in the country for solving bank robberies. The members introduced themselves – Chairman Longie, Member White, Member Peacock, Member Walters, and Member Griggs. They each spoke for a few minutes, some about the tribe, others about the casino. No one spoke about the robbery. He patiently waited his turn, as his instincts told him that one did not interrupt a tribal council member. “Why did you decide to hire a private investigator for this case?” Duffy asked when it became clear that he could now speak. Chairman Longie squirmed in his seat. “Not all of us thought an outsider should be hired.” He glanced furtively at the other council members. “But we finally voted to hire you because we want to be reassured that it won’t happen again.” 128

ChapterTwelve

“I see, I see,” nodded Duffy. “Do you wish advice about instituting internal controls you could put in place to discourage inside jobs and to provide more effective security systems?” John Longie looked at Elder White, then at the others. “We didn’t discuss that specifically.” “Why not discuss it now, then?” questioned Walters. “That sounds like a good idea. Preventing crimes would keep our casino honest. We would be known for running a tight ship and a clean operation.” “Do you think this robbery was done by insiders?” asked elder White, raising his thin gray eyebrows nearly to the middle of his forehead. “No, I didn’t mean to imply that,” replied Duffy. “It’s much too soon to tell, but at this point I suspect that whoever did the robbery had extensive knowledge of the layout. They knew exact camera and counting room locations, though you don’t need to be an employee to dig up that information. The original architect’s office and the city hall building permit office would be just two places with that data. Or they could have worked for the firm that installed the security cameras.” Investigator Duffy paused and met the eyes of the tribal members, one at a time. “I’ve ruled out a ‘desperation robbery,’ the kind where people become desperate for money and just snap. Those robberies are unplanned, sloppy, and hasty. This one had been clearly mapped out. The perpetrators went through a great deal of preparation to pull this off. They also paid a few bucks for their uniforms, fake tool box, and the van. They pulled off their operation with precision.” “So you don’t know who was behind this crime?” John Longie leaned forward and stared hard at the investigator. Duffy, no stranger to reporting to a group, looked directly back. He knew the man was about to try to make him look foolish. “Chairman Longie, I can’t say yet because it would only be guesswork at this point. I understood that tonight you wanted my preliminary report. Is that not correct?” “Yeah, but whatever you can give us that’s definite, we want to know.” “Let’s begin by looking at the security camera coverage.” Duffy knew not to reveal everything at a first meeting. He’d been in the business too long for that. He started the images for the board members and they stared at the screen as the robbery progressed: the men coming through the employee entrance, their trip to the second floor, the shooting of Vince MacQuire, the theft of the money, the retreat down the hallway. All of it over in less than four minutes. “Well, council members, let me rewind to this frame.” Duffy found the exact moment the two robbers put on their masks, when both had their backs angled to the camera and they leaned over their toolbox. Only his 129

GAME OVER

bearded chin showed on one man. The other’s chin and part of his left cheek were revealed. “This is the most we have of the blond man. Are either of these men familiar to any of you?” Duffy quickly scanned the faces around the table. Member White’s thin eyebrows knit in concern and concentration as he squinted at the monitor, looking to get a better view. Peacock bit his lower lip and shook his head “no.” Longie said, “We can’t see enough of their faces.” “Sometimes a person’s mannerisms can be familiar – the way they walk, the way they stand . . .” “The way they shoot,” sneered Longie. “How can you expect us to recognize someone from those pictures? Besides, why would we know those criminals? They didn’t ask permission to rob us, you know. They could be anybody.” He chuckled quietly, adding, “You need to get us something better than that.” Other members nodded in agreement. “I have lab personnel back in Boston to thoroughly analyze these images. Sometimes the criminals leave reflections of themselves that can be digitally enhanced. In the meantime, I’ve made these copies to leave with you in case you’d like to view them again over the next few days. Look for anything familiar in these guys.” “What do you mean, ‘reflections’? You mean in case there was a mirror in the hallway or something?” queried White, still staring at the monitor. He peered at the screen with his head tipped to one side, clearly interested in this new twist. The others looked surprised at the question. “The new technologies are quite amazing. It doesn’t even have to be as clear as a mirror. It can be a reflection from a pane of glass, such as a window, a highly polished piece of furniture, even shiny stainless steel.” “Wouldn’t that be something, to catch a crook with a reflection of himself. I’d like to see that,” murmured Peacock, more to himself than to anyone in the room. “And how many times has that happened, Mr. Duffy? Can you tell us what your chances are of identifying the thieves based on some reflection?” Chairman Longie hissed the cigarette smoke out from his teeth as he exhaled the last of his breath. “It’s only happened to us three times, but those three times meant three convictions for armed robbery, Mr. Longie. Three convictions that would have been impossible otherwise. “Three times? In how many cases?” Longie leaned forward. He cupped his cigarette in his right hand in such a way that when he put his hand to his mouth you could not tell if he was biting his thumb nail or taking a drag. Duffy rubbed his smooth hands together slowly before answering, “I’d 130

ChapterTwelve

say in about fifty or so cases since the development of the technology.” “Three out of fifty? And how much extra is this analysis going to cost us?” Longie snarled. “You hired me to investigate the robbery. You agreed to pay my daily rate plus expenses, including lab expenses, with a minimum of fifty thousand if I solve the case. I can’t be worried about keeping you up to date on each and every lab expense. My lab costs are comparable to anyone else’s in the industry. If you want out of our contract, tell me now. Otherwise, I’ll pursue the case to the best of my ability. Don’t expect me to do less.” Longie cleared his throat as he stubbed out his cigarette viciously and repeatedly. “Don’t take offense, now. We certainly want you to do the best job possible. I’m just concerned about the odds of success.” At least Duffy knew now which council member didn’t want him on the job. “A strange concern. You are in the odds business, are you not?” Longie still pounded his cigarette into the dead ashes of the ash tray. “I get your point. Does anyone else have concerns or questions for Mr. Duffy?” Peacock raised his hand. “Can you estimate how long your investigation will take? I know you can’t say for sure, but can you give us some idea?” “I’ll need one more day for questioning employees and examining reports. After that I’ll need another day or two to follow up on leads. Then I’ll return to Boston and keep you informed of my progress by email. I will return whenever necessary until my duties are concluded. That is,” he turned his gaze to John Longie as he spoke, “if the budget allows. Usually, I need about a week to gather information and another week for follow-up. My average is to solve a robbery in ten days, if it’s solvable. I’ll know if there are any firm leads in two or three days. Of course, your casino security isn’t nearly as tight as a bank, or as tight as a Vegas casino. Those places vary greatly, but most have armed guards.” “Armed guards! It would be a shame to do that!” Member White looked truly upset. “There’s no need to decide that now. I’ll include some security ideas in my report and you can choose which ones make sense for you.” He wanted to say, “Like having some armed security, you idiots!” He knew that Indian casinos were soon going to be seen as an easy target for all kinds of criminal activity. Few and sometimes no armed guards, not enough experience with moving mountains of cash, not even proper employee background checks that the Vegas world learned about decades ago. It was only a matter of time before the rest of the criminal world figured it out. But he wanted to stay calm now. His own business expenses had risen at a growing rate, and he needed this job. 131

GAME OVER

“You experienced a well-planned robbery. Second-guessing anything else about the case would be premature. Within a few weeks, I will give you a full report on how to improve internal control and security. Unless, of course, you don’t want to improve internal security,” Duffy said, staring at Longie. “If there are no more questions, I’ll get back to work.” He stood and walked out of the room, not knowing if he’d broken any unspoken rules of conduct. He knew the importance of keeping control by taking command early. Outside the door, he heard John Longie mutter in an angry voice, “Just what we need. A Chimok in our business!”

132

Chapter Thirteen The archival vault felt somewhat damp and chilly, and Debbie shuddered. “Let’s leave the door open. It’s kind of creepy in here.” The old musty papers made the nearly airless vault oppressive. “Sally, I’m not interested in dating. How many times do you need to hear this for it to sink in?” Debbie said, exasperated. Every so often, Sally would meet some single man who would be “just right” for Debbie. She’d pester Debbie until she agreed to go on a date, usually with disastrous results. “So, why aren’t you interested?” Sally suddenly tossed her head back with a knowing look, chin in the air, hand on her hip. “You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?” “Of course not.” Debbie answered, hoping her voice sounded convincing. After all, she decided not to encourage Craig. Even friendship might be too complicated right now. Who had the time? “You are! You are seeing someone! Tell me all about him.” “I am not seeing anyone. Besides, I decided a long time ago not to date anymore. Do you think all women who aren’t seeing someone are desperate? Think about what that says about women, Sally. We’re not all anxiously searching for Mr. Right. Come on, we’ve got to find this bond. Mrs. Olson-Reiner is coming in tomorrow morning.” They’d had the dating conversation before, and ever since Sally got married a few years back, she made it her goal to play matchmaker with every single and available person she knew. Three office romances were in progress because of Sally’s efforts. “How did the auction go, anyway? I heard you had to be there because the old bag insisted.” “Come on. She’s suddenly lonesome, that’s all. She’s our client, remember, so she deserves our respect.” Debbie tried to stifle her smile but couldn’t do it. She buried her face in the paperwork. “Respect. Right. Do you know how many times she called for you 133

GAME OVER

yesterday? Eight times. Eight. Tell me again why she deserves our respect. She’s just a pest.” Debbie looked up from the box of old papers, keeping the concern out of her expression. “What did she want, anyway? Didn’t you tell her I was out working on the Crosby case?” Debbie took a deep breath to calm herself. There was no way Mrs. Olson-Reiner could have discovered the lost artwork. No way. “I told her, but she wants to discuss the auction with you and only you. I sent you an e-mail message about it. Didn’t you check it? I thought we were all supposed to do that first thing.” “We are, but sometimes I like to get one big project finished before checking my messages. Otherwise I get busy with those return calls and never get anything done. Don’t you find that . . . hey, here’s what we’ve been looking for.” Sally looked over at the legal-sized bond with coupons attached. “Dupont Corporation, 1962. That’s the one.” Sally picked up a bright orange Post-it Note and attached it to the coupon bearer bond. “Can you imagine what it would be like to have a few thousand of these? Just rip off the coupon and turn it in for interest. What a life.” Occasionally one of the trust officers went into the archives to file paperwork in an old trust file, to file a document by date that didn’t have any identification, or to search for and retrieve lost paperwork. With computerized asset lists and bearer bonds stored in bank safety deposit boxes, the archival vault might sit for two or three weeks at a time with no visitors. Debbie and Sally had been assigned the task of finding the lost bond for the Olson-Reiner estate. The trust officer told Mrs. O-R that he had all the bonds. When he couldn’t locate one, he asked Debbie and Sally to search the archival vault. Perhaps it got misplaced years ago. “Are we supposed to leave it here or take it with us?” Sally asked, looking out the vault door. “I’ll be glad to get out of here,” she said. The vault was ten feet wide by thirty feet long, with shelves along both sides of the long wall, leaving the center aisle of four feet. Sometimes even that space was blocked by boxes sticking out from underneath the bottom shelf. The shelves went all the way up to the ten-foot ceiling, with old, dusty boxes filling most of the shelf space. Some were marked by date and others by handwritten lists of contents. The oldest ones remained unmarked. “I don’t know,“ Debbie said, “Why don’t we just mark it and if the trust officer wants it he can come and get it. Or I’ll come back and get it myself. It’ll be easy to find now.” They put the bond on the top of the papers in the “1962” box. Debbie wrote “Lewis project” on an orange 134

ChapterThirteen

Post-it Note and stuck it on the front of the box. They walked out the door and into the hallway that adjoined the entrance to the main safe, presently guarded by two security guards. “It’s like being buried alive in that vault!” Sally exclaimed. Debbie handed their pass to the clerk stationed between the two vaults. He signed the pass and noted the time in the registration book. Visitors to the archival safe needed a dated pass signed by someone at the vice president level. Before anyone could enter, the clerk checked the pass signature with the authorized trust officer signature file and the visitor signed in. Visitors had to repeat the process when they signed out. “Bye, ladies, come see us again,” the clerk said cheerfully as he filed the pass. “Debbie, are you sure you don’t want to go out with Matthew? He’s such a nice guy. I’m telling you he’d be a great catch.” “I’m not fishing, Sally. What do you know about him anyway? The last guy you hooked me up with was an undertaker. You told me he was a counselor.” “He was. A grief counselor. Come on, give Matthew a chance.” “No, thanks. Save him for someone who’s interested.” “All right, but when he makes someone a great husband, you’ll be sorry.” “A risk I’ll have to take. I need to check my e-mail messages. Maybe we’ll talk later.” When Debbie got back to her desk and checked her e-mail, there were six messages from Mrs. Olson-Reiner. She decided that she might as well handle Mrs. O-R first and get it over with. “Mrs. Olson-Reiner, how can I help you?” “I wondered if the accounting for the auction has been completed yet, Ms. Woods.” Debbie stiffened at the addition of the “s.” “It’s ‘Wood,’ Mrs. OlsonReiner. And no, the accounting isn’t quite finished. I think the trust officer was close to finishing it yesterday, though. Have you given him a call?” “No, I thought I’d try you first. You seem so knowledgeable, dear.” “Well, he would be the one with the completed list. I can check with him for you and get back to you right away.” “Thank you so much.” “Is there anything else?” “I wondered if the accounting would be in total or if it would list each piece. I would like each piece listed, including the smaller works. Is that possible?” “I’ll check for you.” Debbie feared that the auction list might have 135

GAME OVER

included her statue and paintings. No, Mrs. O-R probably had already asked the officer if the smaller works would be listed individually and he most likely already told Mrs. O-R “no.” No need to worry. She looked at that list herself before the auction ever started. “Thank you. I’ll call you later if I don’t hear from you.” Sally approached Debbie’s desk with two messages. “Your son Philip just called, and so did someone from VISA. Here are the numbers.” Debbie took the message slips with shaking hands. She dialed her home number first. “Wood residence.” Philip had a deep, firm-sounding voice for his age. Debbie thought he sounded more like a full-grown man every day. “Hi, Philip, what’s up?” “I just thought I’d check in. And the VISA guy called, so I gave him your work number. He said he needed to talk to you. I thought it’d be okay. Dad called, and he wants us to go with him to the Beargrease race. I told him I thought it would be all right.” “We can talk about that tonight, Philip.” “Oh, so you’re coming home.” “Of course I’m coming home. I come home every night that I don’t have class, Philip. I can’t help it if I have tons of studying to do and I get home a little late on those nights.” “Right.” “Philip, I’m trying my best, here.” “Then why can’t we go with Dad? The only reason he can even think about taking us is cuz the race was postponed for more snow, and they finally announced it was going to be held. Come on. Why won’t you let us go?” “I didn’t say you couldn’t go. I said we’d talk about it.” “Steven wants to go.” “Philip, please. Can’t we talk about it later? I’ve got to get back to work now, and I don’t want to make this decision quickly. I’d like to talk to your dad first.” Philip did this often, trying to get her caught in exhausting debates at times that she couldn’t fight him off very well. Sometimes he’d win, getting permission for things Debbie would never agree to otherwise. “Why do you need to talk to him? What do you care about it? You could take the weekend and, you know, study.” “That’s enough, Philip. I’ll call your dad tonight.” “Can’t you call him now?” “All right, I’ll call him now. We’ll talk later. I’m hanging up now, Philip. Goodbye.” Sometimes Philip reminded her of Charlie, always ready to argue no matter what the outcome. He would take hold of an is136

ChapterThirteen

sue, sink his teeth in and not let go. Just for the sake of winning, bulldog style. When she called, Charlie was cordial as usual and full of marvelous plans for the boys. “I thought we could go up to Duluth and watch the start of the John Beargrease Dog Sled race. We could stay at the Comfort Inn on the lake. The boys would really enjoy that. I need to get up there anyway to do a little business, and I think it would be a good time for the boys.” “I suppose they can go. A good time would be fine.” Debbie couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice. “When will you be at the house to pick them up? And are you sure you want me to tell them that this is a definite plan?” “Of course you can tell them. I’ll be there at six o’clock, right after work on Friday. And I’ll bring them back Sunday, about three or four. “Don’t disappoint them, Charlie. Not again.” “I told you last time. It couldn’t be helped. My work has to come first sometimes. After all, one of the reasons I work so hard is to put money away for the boys for college. You saw the year-end statements of their accounts. You can’t argue with success.” “Guess not.” Debbie tried to concentrate on the importance of keeping Charlie in contact with the boys. They needed a father. “Anyway, the boys will be pleased. I’ll be sure they’re ready.” The VISA man was polite enough, but Debbie’s heart was still racing. After all, she had lied to them to get her credit limit raised. “Ms. Wood, have you sent in the documentation for your credit limit increase? We raised your limit nearly two weeks ago, but we haven’t received the documentation you promised.” “Oh, I’m sorry. We’ve had a family crisis and I didn’t get to it. It just slipped my mind. I’m glad you called to remind me.” “Well, we see that you’re almost maxed out to your new limit, and you’re at your limit for three other credit cards. We need your documentation as soon as possible.” “Don’t I pay you people on time every month? Don’t you always get your payment?” Debbie asked with annoyance. What money could she possibly send them? “Yes, ma’am, but that isn’t the issue. Card limits are raised based on ability to pay. You promised documentation and we need it for our files. Can you fax it to my attention? I can give you the number.” “Yes, I will. I can get what you need from my boss today.” Debbie took down the fax number. “Have a nice day.” Yeah, right. What was she going to do now? .

137

GAME OVER

Then the idea occurred to her. Who would know? Debbie drafted a memo on her computer: To Whom It May Concern: I supervise Ms. Debbie Wood, and she has asked me to write to you on her behalf regarding her recent pay increase. She received a ten percent raise which took effect on January 15. Her raise is now part of her base salary. Mr. Nate Broxton Vice President, Trust Department Debbie clicked on the SAVE command. Now would be a great time to print this out since Sally wasn’t at her desk and they shared a printer that sat close to Sally’s work station. She clicked her mouse on the PRINT command and the printer hummed. Debbie walked over to pick up the memo. The soft lining of her suit swished and her shoes tapped as they hit the floor with each step. The tapping got louder as she approached the printer. A few steps more to go . . . “Hey, Debbie, what’re you up to?” An innocent question, one asked often by those making conversation. Sally chirped it in her usual, cheerful way. “Just printing out a memo for Mr. Broxton.” “Isn’t he on vacation this week? What’s he doing, working from home? Or didn’t he go to Mexico?” “I don’t know, actually. He just called me with this one.” Debbie picked up her memo and held it to her chest. “Really?” Sally said. Damn. She’s suspicious. “Sally, I’ve been thinking about that Matthew guy. Maybe you should tell me more about him.” “You mean it? Debbie, that’d be great if you’d go out with him. He’s so cute! He works in personnel, you know. Got transferred here from the Bloomington branch . . .” It took Debbie almost ten minutes to get back to her desk but Sally never mentioned the memo again. Debbie pulled an old letter of Broxton’s from her files, and copied his signature. Big loops on the “B,” swirly separated line on the “X.” She felt bad about the necessary lie she created in the memo, but it wasn’t really forgery. More like fixing a problem that needed fixing. Taking necessary action. Besides, the old boy was out of the country. Debbie waited until nearly two o’clock to tell trust officer Lewis about the bond left in the archives. It didn’t help matters that he seemed to be in a foul mood. 138

ChapterThirteen

“What the hell do you mean, you didn’t get the bond? I sent you to the archives specifically to get that bond. How long have you been working here?” “Over eight years, sir. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, but your written instructions said to search for and find the bond. We didn’t know if we were authorized to remove it from the archives. It’s really no problem, Mr. Lewis. I can get it for you this afternoon, if you’d like.” “I suppose you’ll need another pass. Damn stupid you didn’t get it in the first place.” He wrote another pass. As head of the trust department, Gilbert Lewis expected to be treated with special care. He had a reputation for having a temper, particularly with employees he didn’t know well. Everyone knew he worked hard to maintain that reputation. “Sorry. I have a few calls I need to return before three o’clock, but I can do it after three. This bond will be on your desk before four o’clock, I promise.” “Tell me again why you didn’t bring it with you the first time?” “Because the written instructions for removal from the archives usually say ‘retrieve’ or ‘pick up’ or something similar. Your instructions said ‘find.’ We got concerned that we wouldn’t be following your exact instructions if we took the bond out of the archives without permission. Other trust officers have been very specific about that. They demand that their instructions be followed to the letter and that’s what we were doing.” “Just get the bond here, that’s all I ask. Is that too much to ask?” “No, sir, it will be here by four.” “Tell me again the reason you can’t do it right now?” “Two of our clients want their phone calls returned by three o’clock. I know that you like client phone calls returned promptly so I need to get that done first.” “Fine, but be back here by four o’clock so I can call Mrs. B.S. Reiner and tell her I’m staring at her precious bond. Got it?” “Yes, I do.” Debbie hadn’t consciously planned to have extra time in the archives. The idea snuck up on her as she talked to Lewis. Get some extra time. Maybe she could find a bond for herself. And she did have phone calls to return. It would be interesting to go through those old papers, looking for lost treasure. Now she had almost two hours to search. Covering her tracks with Sally had been easy. She told her she needed to retrieve the bond from the archives and that Mr. Lewis wanted some additional documents. She wouldn’t be back at her desk for a while. Simple. Two “employee only” elevators ran through the middle of First Fed139

GAME OVER

eral, operated by employee identification cards. At the beginning of each month every employee stopped by the personnel office to have their card reactivated. It only took a few seconds to use the card, yet often employees dashed for the employee elevators, saying “hold the door.” Once on the elevator, they’d make comments about never being able to get to the personnel office to get their card reactivated. New employees loved to flash their cards into the operation slots and magically open the elevator doors. Each elevator stopped on every floor. They operated Monday through Friday between the hours of 5:30 am. and 8:05 pm., and Saturday between 7:00 am. and 6:00 pm. Debbie inserted her employee card into the elevator’s slot. After a momentary wait, the fast-moving elevator lurched to a stop. Most of the floors had private space non-accessible to the public. On the fifth floor that space surrounded the employee elevators for about sixty square feet. Customers approached desks that bordered the perimeter and then would be routed to appropriate offices. The elevator stop on the first floor opened to the area behind the teller windows, referred to by the tellers as “the pit.” In order for the elevator doors to open on the first floor, a special employee card needed to be inserted into the elevator control panel from inside the elevator. Tellers did not appreciate other employees walking into the pit. The basement level contained the safe deposit box area, the regular vault and the old archival vault that served as the original vault when the bank was built in l905. The public could access the safe deposit box area, separated from the vaults by a two-foot thick concrete wall. The employee elevator came down directly across from the two vaults, whose doors were side by side. No special cards were required for the elevator doors to open on the basement floor, but at least two bank guards and a bank clerk sat at tables outside the vaults. At the end of each business day, the money was loaded from the teller pit onto a flat dolly and wheeled into the employee elevator for transport to the basement vault. No employees other than officers were allowed near the dolly during transport, and even they were not well tolerated by the serious security guards. Anyone who told jokes about robberies or thievery found themselves quickly reprimanded. Debbie got off the elevator in the basement and approached the clerk. He examined her pass carefully, compared the signature on the pass to his file, logged in the time – 2:04 pm. – and handed the pass back to her. Debbie smiled and entered the archival vault for the second time that day. First she went to the 1962 box and found the bond with the orange Post-it Note. She carefully slipped the bond into a large manila enve140

ChapterThirteen

lope, set it aside, and began rifling through old paper. What would she do if she found other bonds? Sally’s words echoed in her ears. “Just rip off the coupon and turn it in for interest. What a life.” Her heart pounded at the thought of it. Debbie flipped through page after page of memorabilia, even Christmas party pictures. Someone packed the boxes without rhyme or reason, as though this part of the bank existed in a separate world from the organized, structured, cross-indexed, computerized banking environment overhead. No order, no filing process, no protocol. No more important than someone’s attic. The only organization was the year written on the outside of some of the boxes, and the occasional list of contents written by some past dedicated employee. As if even a bank needed a junk drawer, where you could just throw something in without worrying about organizing it. Finally she hit the jackpot – a bond! She unfolded the delicate paper and looked it over. Pennsylvania Utilities Company, one thousand dollars, twenty-year, five percent coupon bearer bond issued in 1955. The edges looked worn, but nearly all of the coupons were attached. Let’s see, a thousand dollars of principal, plus interest for each of the sixmonth coupons still attached. She thumbed through the coupons – nearly seventeen-hundred dollars worth. Ah, the beauty of a bearer bond. Whoever had it, owned it, and anyone could clip the coupons and collect the interest, as long as the coupon date had passed. Finders keepers, losers weepers. Debbie gingerly put the fragile bond back in its own envelope and placed it on the shelf. It had taken her over an hour, and she’d only gone through a small portion of the boxes. One hour and seventeen hundred dollars. Not bad. “Hi, Debbie, long time no see.” Debbie nearly fainted from fright. She jerked her head up to see Juan from the photocopy center with a guilty smile on his face. “Juan, you scared me half to death! It’s kind of creepy in here, you know.” “Sorry. What are you looking for?” “A bond for Lewis. Actually I found it already, but some of this old stuff is so interesting I couldn’t resist a peek. How about you?” Debbie stood up and dusted off her skirt. She held her hand to her chest for a moment, trying to steady herself. “Oh, Candy wants the summer retreat pictures from a few years ago. Says there was a rented table that looks like a boat of some kind and she’d like to rent it again. Of all the useless things to spend my time on. I froze my butt off this morning coming to work and she wants to plan the summer retreat. Give me a break.” 141

GAME OVER

“I’ll get out of your way. There’s really only room for one person to work in here anyway. See you later.” Debbie hoped he hadn’t noticed that she had picked up two manila envelopes, not just one. *

*

*

“It’s dusty and dirty down there, Mr. Lewis. It really does need some organization.” “Yes, I suppose that would help matters.” “I’d be happy to organize it for you, sir. Put all the holiday and party memorabilia in one place, newspaper clippings in another, and file documents by year. Juan from photocopying came down to look for old party pictures, and everything is all mixed up.” Mr. Lewis rubbed the dirt smudge on the Dupont bond. “It is difficult to do it in a suit, though. I could come in tomorrow in work clothes and get it all done in one day if you’d like.” “Would you need any help? Perhaps Sally could help you.” “I don’t think so. Our office would be lost without one of us on our floor, especially with Mr. Broxton on vacation. I’m sure it wouldn’t matter if I spent the day in the vault, Mr. Lewis, but with two of us gone, I don’t know.” She hoped he would let her do the cleaning alone. Who knew how many bonds were in those old boxes? The money could help her start a new life that she needed, desperately needed. And it wasn’t the same as stealing. No one claimed those bonds. They just sat there, wasting away. Still, how would she ever explain this to her boys if they found out? She did know better. Stealing is stealing no matter what your needs . . . “Good point, Debbie. You go ahead and do it.” He reached for his pad of passes. Debbie bit her bottom lip as he dated another pass for tomorrow. He scribbled on the bottom – ALL DAY TO ORGANIZE, FEB 28. She was in. *

*

*

Debbie struggled with a box containing all her cleaning paraphernalia – a portable vacuum, furniture polish, dust rags, a feather duster, marker pens and labels. She realized how lucky she was to still have her parking space today of all days. Otherwise she would have needed to park out on the street, perhaps blocks away. Hidden under all of her supplies were four brown envelopes marked BROXTON. If she found any bonds she would put them immediately in the envelopes and stash them in the bottom of the box. That way she wouldn’t need to worry about anyone in142

ChapterThirteen

terrupting her work. She lugged the box to her desk and told Sally where she’d be all day, then trudged down to the archival vault. The vault clerk examined her pass, compared Lewis’s signature with the one on file. He wrote down the time and gestured at her box of cleaning supplies. “Looks like you’ll be in there a while,” he said, smiling cheerfully. One working stiff to another. “Somebody’s got to do it, may as well be me,” she answered, rolling her eyes as if despising the assignment. “Say, if anyone goes for coffee, I sure could use a cup. Do you guys ever get a break?” “One of us usually goes to the cafeteria and gets for the other two. It’s Joe’s turn today, but he’s not in yet. I’ll tell him to grab an extra cup when he goes.” “Thanks a million.” She was glad the guys seemed friendly, since she might be here all day. No one came in during the morning except Joe, who brought her a coffee. “Dirty job, eh?” he asked, handing her a Styrofoam cup. “Is it ever! Wonder when they did this last?” “Let’s see, I’ve been working here as a vault guard since 1985, and I ain’t never seen anybody clean down here. You got your job cut out for you now, miss.” “Thanks for the coffee. What do I owe you?” Debbie asked, digging in her jeans pocket for money. “On the house. It’s nice to have someone else down here besides those two ugly mugs out there! By the way, we got donuts if you want.” “No, thanks. I’d better keep at it.” Debbie wondered if her fear showed. Or her lying and deception. Could a perfect stranger look at her and know that she had stooped to thievery? That she was now a gambler, a liar? A thief? She felt chilled beyond what would be usual, even for the cool temperature of the vault. Joe went out to join the other guards. She heard them chuckling as they drank their coffee and soon fell silent. Only the faint dings of elevators could be heard as customers came and went from the distant safety deposit box area. Debbie’s guilt washed over her like an oily shower, covering every part of her. She put her head in her hands and her body started to shiver. Stop it, stop it. Don’t panic! She had to get a grip on herself. She needed the money. She had to get her life back together for the sake of her boys. And she had to do whatever was necessary to keep the house. Soon the bank would be asking for principal payments, and she had no money to spare. And she despised the creditors’ calls that were starting, asking her when she could mail her next payment, reminding her of her failure to be financially responsible and independent. No, this had to be done. She took a deep breath to collect herself. The coffee, yes, the hot coffee 143

GAME OVER

would be just what she needed. She took a sip and the shivering stopped. Debbie started sorting everything into separate piles: party pictures, party supplies, old trust files, and old documents. Every now and then she’d come across something that didn’t fit into her classification scheme. She decided to set up miscellaneous boxes and label them by type. About noon Mr. Lewis dropped in to see how she was doing. He signed in, noting the time as 11:53 am. “How’s it going, Debbie?” He stepped gingerly around Debbie’s piles of paraphernalia. “What a disaster!” The stirred up dust made him wheeze. “It’s a mess, as you can see, but that’s the way it is with cleaning. It always gets worse before it gets better. Take a look at that shelf though. See how all the party supplies look good?” Lewis waved his hands in front of his face. “How can you stand it in here?” he coughed. “How do you get a breath?” “I’m used to it now. Really, it’s not a problem.” “Next thing I know, you’ll be filing a workers’ compensation claim for damaged lungs. You sure you don’t want some help in here?” “No, thanks. I should be finished by three o’clock or so, even if I take a short lunch break. Come back then and you’ll be surprised.” She blew on a yellowed newspaper clipping, causing dust to dance in graceful swirls toward the ceiling. She put the clipping in one of her piles. “Maybe we should just . . ,” he sneezed, “. . . throw this stuff away, what do you think?” he asked as his eyes filled up with tears. After searching and cleaning all morning without unearthing a single bearer bond, Debbie was not about to give up now. Besides, she didn’t like the arrogance Lewis carried around with him like a chip on his shoulder. Always scowling, always making a person feel like they weren’t worthy of his attention. “It’s important to have a sense of history, Mr. Lewis. And not everything can be put on microfilm. I think you’ll be pleased with how it all turns out by the end of the day.” She shook another newspaper clipping, causing Lewis to go into a coughing fit. “If you think so.” He charged out and headed for the elevator before the vault clerk reminded him that he needed to sign out. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and leaned over the log-in book. He blinked a few times, put his pen down and returned to the vault. “Debbie, tell me why you took almost two hours to come back and deliver that bond to me yesterday.” Perspiration immediately broke out on Debbie’s forehead. She straightened up a little and turned to face Lewis. She mustered up her best patient-parent-trying-to-explain-something-to-a-child voice, and said, “After I left your office yesterday, I decided to come and get the 144

ChapterThirteen

bond directly and return my calls afterward. I’m sort of a cleanliness nut, so I straightened in here a bit. Then I helped Juan look for his party pictures, and then left to return my calls. I got them finished by quitting time, and I realized there was no hurry in getting them done. Is there a problem?” She forced a smile. Some wisps of hair had fallen out of her ponytail and curled around her cheeks. Lewis looked her over and seemed to relax. He turned without comment and walked back to the log-in book. He signed his name, peered at the entries and walked to the elevator. With each step he took, Debbie relaxed a little. Her explanation should satisfy him. Why would he have cared if she spent extra time in the vault yesterday? Certainly he could not have guessed that she searched for bonds of her own. She watched him put his employee card into the elevator operation slot. The floor light turned green and the elevator doors opened. Debbie busied herself with the next box of old trust files, putting papers away with trembling hands. She forced herself not to look up for at least five minutes. When she looked up again, Lewis was gone. What a close call! This is going to be her last chance, that’s for sure. Her stomach churned and she hoped she could stay calm. She could hear her father’s voice saying, “An honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.” Her sense of guilt returned, flooding over her and filling her with despair. *

*

*

Lewis buzzed security from his office. “Do we have a security camera in the archival vault?” he asked Mr. Symington, head of security. “We used to, but when we stopped storing anything valuable in there, we shut it off. Let’s see, oh, maybe fifteen or twenty years ago.” “Are the electronics still installed, or did we rip them out?” “The wiring is there. Whether the camera is there or not, I don’t know. And if it operates or whether it works with our new system, well, those issues we’d need to address. The wiring needs updating to connect it to the main desk. Would you like me to check it out and see what’s possible?” “Are you saying there is no way we could turn on the system and observe the person in the vault right this minute? That’s what I want to know. Can we do that without that person knowing?” Lewis looked at the smudged print on the bond Debbie gave him yesterday. “If it’s an emergency, Mr. Lewis, I can have someone posted in the room within two minutes. I can also try turning on that location from the remote station and see if we can get a picture. But whether the person 145

GAME OVER

would know or not, depends on the noises made by the camera upon reactivation. That is, if there is still a camera installed, sir. I can go there personally and find out if there is one.” “Can you do that casually, so you don’t warn her you’re up to something?” Symington paused. “Sure can. I’ll get back to you within five minutes.” “Do it.” Lewis called personnel next. “This is Lewis. Tell me about an employee we have, Debbie Wood. Works up in fifth floor Trust. I think for Broxton in the probate area.” He could hear computer keys clicking. The voice from personnel came back on the line. “She’s been here for almost nine years. Divorced, two kids, teenage boys. Worked in Trust for the past three years. Anything else?” “Finances. Tell me what you can about her finances.” “She’s classified as C-10, so she makes, let’s see, just a moment . . . twenty bucks an hour. Total W-2 last year, including overtime and merit bonus, a little over forty-one thousand gross. Has her mortgage here also.” “Is that all you can tell me?” “Over the telephone, yes. I can download more of this file to your computer if you have clearance access. Enter your code, along with an e-mail request for additional information, and I can process your request right away.” Lewis e-mailed his access code to personnel. Debbie’s file appeared. He clicked on Debbie’s mortgage information and saw that Debbie had been late sixteen times in the last thirty months. No principal payments for the last four months. Symington walked in and began reading over Lewis’ shoulder. “Tell me again about the possible camera noises,” Lewis demanded as he looked up at the head of security. “The camera I saw was a model E37, installed between 1974 and 1980. Really old stuff! They tend to make noise when you first turn them on and again if you move them too far in certain directions, similar to when you crank on your steering wheel. Unless someone was in there talking, the noise would be noticeable. We also don’t know if the camera will make additional start-up noises. It’s been over twelve years since that camera has been on. And there’s another problem.” “What is it?” “When an E37 has been shut off, it needs to have two switches moved to ‘on’ positions. That can only be done physically from the exterior of the camera.” 146

ChapterThirteen

“You mean someone would have to go in there and do that?” “Exactly.” Lewis loosened his tie a bit. “Would we have to move the camera once it was turned on?” “Only about half the floor space is within camera range at any one time. I noticed that the camera is pointing to the left of the room, and the woman is working on the right side. If you wanted to observe her now, it would have to be moved.” Lewis felt totally frustrated. Cameras played an important role each time he caught an employee stealing from the bank. He couldn’t believe that any part of the bank would not be covered by at least one camera. “But you can move the camera by remote control once it’s turned on?” “Yes. That’s a remote operation.” “She said she might take a short lunch break. Can we turn it on then?” “Sure. I have a security guard who could go down there now under the pretense of searching for something. The guard could operate the manual switches when she leaves for lunch. The vault crew could be instructed to turn on their radio to hide the camera noises.” Lewis thought for a moment. “Are you sure they have a radio?” “All stations wired with intercoms have them. They probably choose to keep their radio channel off.” “Why would they want to do that?” “Perhaps they don’t like the musical selections, sir.” Symington repressed a smirk. Lewis turned back to his computer screen and clicked on Debbie’s credit card information. She owed over one-third of her yearly gross salary on cards, with minimum payments of more than one-third of her take-home pay. She refinanced her home only sixteen months ago. Seriously in trouble. “Let’s do it,” he instructed. Lewis drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk and stared at the screen of his computer. She’s up to something. He could sense it with every bone in his body.

147

GAME OVER

148

Chapter Fourteen Debbie enjoyed cleaning up a dirty space. Although she always remembered her purpose – to find bearer bonds – it wasn’t at all unpleasant to organize and clean up the archives. And she had lots of company. A security guard came to chat with the vault guards. He poked his head in and noticed the mess. “Wow, what are you doing? Archaeological digging? Rediscovering our past?” he joked. He was a tall man who seemed to duck under a nonexistent doorway. “I’m organizing for Mr. Lewis. Very important duty, you can be sure!” she laughed heartily, whisking her feather duster over the files she’d examined. It felt good to be away from her usual routine. The possibility of finding bonds and solving her financial dilemmas left her feeling a little giddy. He glanced at the shelves and said, “Looks better already.” He visited a few minutes with the guards and then left. Debbie paged through old bank invitations. It seemed the bank used to hold parties every January. She loved the twentieth anniversary card of 1925, so formal and official, inviting their most distinguished customers to join in celebration. She organized all of the cards in order of year, and then at the bottom of the box she saw them – the now-familiar official paper and formal borders of bearer bonds. Her heart pounded as she lifted the first one gently – a five thousand dollar General Mills Corporation, ten-year, seven percent bond with about half of the coupons attached. She placed it carefully on her lap and looked at the second one, a one thousand dollar United States Steel Corporation, ten-year, seven percent bond with about half the coupons attached. Under the last of the invitations, she found a third bond, another USS Corporation bond, an exact duplicate of the other one. She tallied the numbers – sixtyseven hundred for the large bond, and sixteen hundred each for the small bonds. Nearly ten thousand for the day. She safely stored them in the 149

GAME OVER

oversize envelopes under her cleaning supplies, putting a black plastic bag over them. She couldn’t stop thinking about all that she could do with the money. Oh, my God. Ten thousand. I can get all caught up on the mortgage. I could take the boys on a nice vacation. Europe, here we come! A secretary for the personnel department came in search of a 1951 personnel file. She asked if Debbie had seen such a file. “Nothing marked specifically ‘personnel’,” Debbie said. “I guess I’ll have to start in the areas you haven’t organized yet.” “Try the boxes marked ‘1950s.’ Might be in there,” Debbie pointed with her Dustbuster. Debbie decided now would be a good time to break for lunch, since she couldn’t pull out any more bonds with a witness in the archives. She returned her cleaning supplies to the box, bonds safely stored under them, and tucked the box under the bottom shelf. She checked out with the vault clerk. By the time she returned, the secretary had gone. The vault clerk once again checked her pass, compared Lewis’ signature with the one on the card, noted the time, and handed back her pass. He was humming to the tune of “Yesterday.” Debbie was up to her elbows in dusty crepe paper decorations when a piercing alarm rang out, nearly splitting her ear drums. She held her hands over her ears and scampered out of the archive vault. “What’s the matter?” Debbie hollered, just as the alarm bell stopped ringing. “Something suspicious in the bank. We shut down the elevators.” The vault guards tipped the tables over for cover, ducked behind one of them and armed their weapons. Debbie and the vault clerk hid behind the other one. “Don’t you have any stairs?” Debbie asked, feeling a little claustrophobic and weak in the knees. “We do, but they’re always locked during the day. They’re open at night so the night guard can come and go.” “What if there was a fire? I thought you couldn’t use elevators during a fire.” Debbie said, her voice rising. “We could open the stairway door if needed. We’ve just never had to. Don’t worry, miss. Happens every few months. It’s never anything serious, just procedure. They’ll buzz us soon and it’ll all be over.” Suddenly Debbie felt sick to her stomach. What if she raised suspicions by spending so much time in the vault yesterday? What if she did something to tip them off? My God, what had she done? Would she have to go to jail? Who would take care of the boys? Her whole body felt numb as she hovered behind the table. 150

ChapterFourteen

The intercom buzzer went off again and the vault guards rose, gave each other “high fives” and started putting the tables back in order. “What is it?” Debbie asked, still crouched on the floor with her eyes clamped shut. The vault guard slapped her on the shoulder. “Suspicion is over. They always buzz us a second time for an all-clear. You can get up now.” The music returned, 96.5 LITE FM, playing “Pretty Woman.” “Are you feeling all right?” one of the guards asked. “Not really. That was not fun, I want you to know.” Debbie shook off the feeling of numbness and rose, dusting off her sweatshirt sleeves and stifling her hiccups. “What do you suppose that was all about? Are there sensors or something in the old vault that I could have tripped by mistake?” “No, that’s the original vault, built before our electronic security systems. No sensors in there, or even around the door.” He patted her arm. “Even at night there are no sensors around that old vault. We’ll know what happened in a minute. The protocol is that they have to tell us about the problem before we reactivate the elevators.” A voice came on the intercom. “Mr. Anderson. Do you copy? Over.” “Yes, sir, I copy. What was the nature of emergency? Over.” “Isolated briefcase in the elevator on third floor. Owner came back and reclaimed it. Over.” “All clear, then? Over.” “All clear. Over.” One of the guards activated the elevators by lifting the emergency shut-off lever. “Imagine that. We’ve scared you for a briefcase! But we can’t be too careful. Could have been a bomb headed our way. We always assume the worst until it’s over. We have actually had three vault robbery attempts in our history.” “You guys have hard jobs,” Debbie commented, heading for the ladies’ room. She closed the door and leaned against it. She felt a chill move down her back, and she shuttered uncontrollably. Isolated briefcase. All that fuss for a stupid isolated briefcase. Debbie looked in the mirror. “Oh God, I look a wreck,” she said to the dusty face reflected back at her. She splashed water on her face and washed off dust tracks that made their way from her temples on down to her collar. That intercom voice seemed familiar. Where had she heard it before? “Since I didn’t have time to sign out, do I need to sign in?” she asked the guard. He shook his head “no” and smiled while he hummed along to “Send in the Clowns.” Debbie’s uneasiness didn’t go away. She kept hearing the intercom 151

GAME OVER

buzz, then that voice. Isolated briefcase. She finished her organizing work quickly without finding any more bonds. The afternoon had been worthless. The only bonds she’d found today were the three she’d found just before lunch, after Lewis left the vault. She carried the box carefully to avoid spilling the cleaning supplies on her envelopes, even though they were covered with a black plastic bag. She should have planned a more secure place for them, maybe put them inside the plastic. “I’m out of here, you guys. I hope to never return, to tell you the truth. I don’t know how you can take the stress of those drills!” The vault clerk took her pass, compared Lewis’ signature with the one in the file, and marked the time in the registration book – 3:18 pm. He looked in her box and moved a few bottles around. “Looks fine.” He had Debbie sign out. “When your life upstairs gets dull, you come back and see us.” He then filed the pass and cuffed her on the arm. “You’re welcome anytime!” Debbie lost her grip on the box and some of her cleaning supplies tipped over, spilling the ammonia bottle. The white liquid formed a pool on top of the black plastic, looking like the swirls on the chocolate cupcakes of her youth. “Oh, so sorry. Let me help you.” The guard grabbed her roll of paper towels out of the box and ripped some off and dabbed at the black plastic. She could see that the plastic was bunching up, revealing the corner of the manila envelope, and she knew that she had to get him to stop. “It’s okay, let me do that.” She leaned forward and placed the box on the table, taking the paper towel from him. “There, all better.” She smiled what she hoped looked like a genuine smile. She threw the wad of paper towel into the corner of the box in an attempt to cover up the envelope. Debbie went to the elevator and fumbled with the box while she put her employee card in the slot, waiting for the alarm to go off again, holding her breath. Please let the elevator come without the alarm going off. Please dear God, I need this money. The elevator opened and Debbie got on. She tried to smile at the guards again. Once the door closed, she nearly collapsed from the stress of it all. *

*

*

Lewis watched her every move as she got in the elevator and leaned against the wall. She got out on the first floor, entered the public elevator, got off on the third floor of the indoor parking ramp station and went directly to her car. He looked at the chief of security incredulously. “Are you sure she didn’t take anything? Yesterday, she told me she had to 152

ChapterFourteen

go back to her office and make phone calls, yet she went straight to the vault once she left me. I’d call that a lie. And she had financial motive. Can’t we search her further, maybe check her car?” “Motive isn’t enough for that, sir,” answered the chief of security. “For employees other than tellers to be searched once outside the building, we need reasonable cause. The guard followed procedure by searching the box she carried out of the vault. I watched her myself all afternoon, until you got here. She never took a thing. Even during the security drill, she took nothing. She would have had a chance in the confusion. No unusual behavior except that the security drill scared her and she looked a little shook up when she went in the bathroom and washed her face. “Whether we have evidence or not, that woman is trouble.” Lewis tapped his fingers on the television monitor. “I’m going to watch her. And I’m going to catch her.” *

*

*

Debbie stared at her textbooks and struggled to read a paragraph of the Uniform Commercial Code. There’s got be something more interesting to do than this. She turned on the television and announcers looked somber as they reported on the continuing story of Senator Buffalo: “Ever since Senator Buffalo’s mysterious choking incident, members of her Wisconsin tribe have been holding vigil. That vigil continues today, in hopes that the Senator will come out of her coma. Events are closed to the public and members of the press, but after interviewing the family members today, we learned more about Senator Buffalo’s upbringing. More on the story from Carol Benson, reporting live from outside the Buffalo home.” Debbie opened her textbooks, flipping randomly through unread chapters. The television provided a pleasant background noise until the noise level increased and Debbie couldn’t help but look up at the screen. Two people in their fifties hung on to each other in the Wisconsin cold as the cameras rolled, capturing their agony. Margaret Buffalo kept repeating, “This couldn’t have happened, this couldn’t have happened.” A tall, thin Indian man stood quietly by her side. He glanced at the cameras and leaned forward slightly, then appeared to change his mind and settled back on his heels. Margaret Buffalo labored to make a point but she couldn’t get through a sentence without breaking down. “Oh, come on,” Debbie said aloud, “leave those people alone.” She hated to watch the media invade a scene that should be private. She 153

GAME OVER

turned a page, trying to remember the last time she cried. Let’s see, when was it? Outside the courtroom, the day the divorce was final, over six years ago? She cried a little then, but Charlie came into the hallway so she stopped. When, since then? She played with the hair at her temples and thought over her life. First the divorce, then her change of jobs at the bank, and starting school. She felt close to tears a few times when discussing the divorce with her sister and her mother, but she’d felt foolish and whiny and she’d controlled herself. She had two good kids, a home of her own, a good job, her health. There should be no cause for sadness. Her family pointed that out from time to time, and they were right. Although the divorce had been mutual, she had suggested it. She knew that if she had just kept her mouth shut and stayed married, Charlie would not have minded the loveless routine. He just needed to find someone else to be silent with, so what was the difference for him? She had a much bigger challenge to find someone new. At first she tried going to a few bars. It seemed too nerve wracking for little chance of meeting someone special. Then she dated a man from work for almost six months, but he had a hard time getting along with Philip. She didn’t want to further complicate the boys’ lives. She didn’t cry when she broke up with him. Good riddance, actually. They went out for six entire months and never did have a decent conversation. How about when the cat died? Steven cried and she felt bad, but no tears came for Debbie. She looked back at the television and watched Margaret Buffalo cry quiet tears for her daughter, face barely visible behind the steam resulting from her sub-zero weeping. The lone man standing behind Margaret Buffalo kicked the ground with the heel of his boot, and stomped on the little mound of ice and snow he had made. All Debbie could see was the movement of his thigh, his breath in the air, and his occasional glances at the camera. The camera focused on the bundled-up news reporter, Carol Benson. “And there you have it. A family in grief over the unexpected coma of their daughter and niece two weeks ago, whom we know as Senator Buffalo. We respect her as a leader not only in issues affecting Native Americans, but also in issues that affect all Wisconsin citizens and the nation at large. From Bad River, back to you, Jedd.” The telephone rang, jarring Debbie back to her messy living room desk. “Hello,” Debbie said distractedly. She mentally marked the page in her Commercial Code book, wishing she was interested in those pages. “Hi, Debbie. This is Craig. Craig Two Horses. Are you studying?” 154

ChapterFourteen

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Excuse me for asking, but how did you get my number?” “You said you lived in St. Paul. You’re in the book, you know.” “Oh, right.” The truth was, since Debbie started law school, she didn’t have time for her usual friends, and they had stopped calling. The phone always rang for the boys, but not for her unless one of her sisters called – almost always on a Saturday, never at night. Her mom lived on Social Security, not one to waste her money on long distance calls, even at five cents a minute. Debbie held the phone with a feeling of disbelief. “Are you studying too?” “I’m trying to work my way through the UCC assignment. I thought maybe we could analyze this together, unless you’re finished already, in which case you have my total admiration.” Craig’s voice sounded friendly, and she imagined his eyes slightly squinting, peering at her through the phone lines. She suddenly could see him sitting in her living room, filling the recliner, jaw set, waiting for her response. “Actually, I just started. But studying together, I don’t know. I don’t think that would be very effective. I generally work alone.” “I figured as much, but just thought I’d check. I’m leaving for the library now. If you change your mind, I’ll be there for a few hours.” Craig said. “You mean now? Tonight? It’s nearly eleven!” Debbie had just gotten home herself. She’d only taken a few minutes to say good night to the boys, and then started her exercise in futility. “My boys are in bed,” Debbie said, feeling foolish and old. “Leave them a note and drive on over. Didn’t you say they were teenagers? Library cafeteria is open all night, you know. We can get almost twice as much done together as we can by ourselves.” “I’ll think about it,” she replied hesitantly, “but it’s pretty late. And I hate to leave the boys now. I’m gone quite a bit, you know.” “Suit yourself. I’m going tomorrow night too, if that works better. In any case, I’ll see you in class.” Debbie hesitated. “You know . . .” They hadn’t spoken alone since their night in the dance club, and once she thought about it, she realized she had overreacted. Even though she wouldn’t see Craig romantically, she was pretty sure he’d make an excellent study partner. Maybe she could get interested in her studies again. At least she’d finally have some help. “You could come over here.” “Will there be coffee?” “Sure.” She gave him the address. “I’ll be right there.” 155

GAME OVER

She scurried around, tidying up the place as best she could. Damn, the place still looked messy. Too bad. Good as it was going to get. Minutes later, Craig knocked on the door. “Come on in,” Debbie called from the hallway. “Hey.” Craig said casually. “Can you believe this snow?” He shook off most of it and came in. “You know what they say about March, ‘In like a lamb, out like a lion,’ and vice versa. Works, I think. Do you think this storm counts as a lion? It would be nice to have good weather by the end of March.” “I think it counts. Let me take your jacket.” Her hands brushed against his soft cotton sweater as he pulled his arms out of his jacket sleeves. “Go ahead and settle in.” She waved at her desk. Now that he was here, she knew studying together would be a big help for her. “What have you been working on? The UCC issues?” “That, and a few other things,” he unloaded some of his books. “Found anything interesting?” she asked, pushing her hair behind her ears and settling it on her back. “Yeah, I found this legislative brief that describes what Tarpen is getting at. Take a look.” He took out a large, red leather volume and set it on the desk, shoving it toward her. “Not this again! I was hoping to forget about real estate law until the bar exam!” Debbie exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “Pretty good acting, but I know you’re almost an expert now.” They studied for nearly two hours, until well after one in the morning. Debbie brought up additional questions and issues to be addressed, and Craig dug through the books. Debbie took notes on each new idea as they decided on their opinion, and Craig copied them for himself. They each had a tall stack of their results. “Getting tired?” Craig asked, stifling a yawn. “A little, but once I get going on something, I can pretty much do without sleep until it’s done.” “Lucky you,” he said. “Not me. I need my sleep or I get ornery. Just like my dad.” “You want one more cup of coffee before you go? I’m ready for a glass of wine.” She opened a bottle of red and poured herself a glass. She raised the bottle in question. “I’ll have a glass of that, thanks.” “Have any plans for the weekend?” she asked. They were chatting like old friends now, comfortable and easy. She smiled, relaxing more all the time in his presence. “I’m going to Wisconsin. Have you been watching the news about Senator Buffalo?” 156

ChapterFourteen

“What a fiasco. I hate it when they have people crying on television.” “Why?” “I don’t know. It just seems so personal. There they are, in need of privacy, and reporters shove cameras in their faces. It seems cruel to me.” Debbie wrapped her hands around her wine glass, locking her fingertips together. “Maybe they have something they need to say, and that just happened to be the time to say it. Besides, Margaret Buffalo could never be coerced into saying anything. If she shed a few tears on television, it’s because she didn’t mind.” “Do you know her?” Debbie asked with surprise, pleased that he might be a man of many surprises. The kind who suddenly says, ‘Back when I served with the Green Beret. . . ,’ or, ‘The last time I was in Tibet . . . ’ But it had to be an honest surprise, not a pompous list of accomplishments that some men were prone to provide on a first date. “Yes, as a matter of fact, she’s my Aunt.” “So then you must be related to Senator Buffalo.” Craig sipped the last of his wine and nodded. “Wow.” Debbie watched Craig’s hands as his sterling silver rings reflected the light from her living room lamp. “It must be something to have someone like that in the family.” Then she noticed the silence. “I’m sorry. Here you are in a family crisis and I’m busy being impressed that you’re related to a senator. Were you . . . are you close to her?” “Fairly close. We played together as children.” Debbie cocked her head to the side and looked at him with true curiosity. “Tell me more.” Now she remembered what this was like. To have time for friends, for casual conversation, to ask a question and listen to the answer. She felt the warmth of the wine radiate through her body. “Her mother Margaret and my dad Florian were brother and sister. Those two and my Uncle George were famous for their pranks when they were young. Jean and I both grew up on the Bad River reservation in kind of a loose family arrangement. She’s quite a few years older, though, so she considered me the pesky little cousin.” Craig smiled. “She left the reservation for college when I was a teenager, and I moved to Oklahoma a few years later after my dad died. So really . . . it’s been awhile.” Debbie nodded in understanding. “Where did you live in Oklahoma?” she asked, remembering her own large family. “No one specific place, although I spent two years in Oklahoma City, of all places. Got married there, had a daughter. But the marriage didn’t last.” “Where’s your daughter?” 157

GAME OVER

“My Uncle George and Aunt Sarah are raising her.” Craig cleared his throat and picked up a framed picture of Debbie’s boys. “I miss her a lot, but I’ll see her this weekend when I go home for the powwow.” “I’ve never been to a powwow. Saw one on public television once.” Debbie twirled her glass absentmindedly. She remembered the sights and sounds of jingle dresses on the dancers, with tobacco tin lids bent in cone shapes and sewed closely together on the dresses. The slightest movement would cause them to clink together and make a lovely, musical sound, like the wind moving through subtle wind chimes. Craig looked at Debbie over the rim of his wine glass, seeming to wait for a return of her attention. “Would you like to come to the powwow with me? The press will be there, so I imagine it will be quite an event.” Debbie sat up straight in surprise. “You mean come with you to Wisconsin? To your reservation?” “Yeah. We could stay at my Uncle George’s place. He’s got plenty of room. Or there’d be hotels nearby, and you could stay in one of those if you’d be more comfortable. We’d probably have to call soon to reserve a room for you because of all the media people there. What do you say?” “I just couldn’t. It’s just too. . . I don’t know . . . weird. I wouldn’t know what to do.” “Hang out with my daughter and me, that’s all. We could drive up Friday night. I can spend Saturday morning with Ruthie, and we can all go to the powwow Saturday afternoon. We can leave whenever you’re ready, or we can stay until Sunday morning and then head back, whichever you’d like. How about it?” “What will your uncle say if you show up with a tag-along friend?” “He’ll smile a little and Aunt Sarah would make you some tea.” The boys would be gone with Charlie if he followed through with his invitation to take them to Duluth. She could use the break. Relax, meet some new people. On the way home from work today, she had imagined every car she met had a criminal inside, and she had guessed what they had done wrong. Ah, the red pickup might be holding a check bouncer, the white Bravada might hold a gas station robber. Debbie forced herself to stop when she wondered if a woman in a blue jaguar was a child molester. Could the guilt she felt be driving her crazy? “Can I let you know tomorrow?” she asked. “Sure. I’ll call you.”

158

Chapter Fifteen Craig scanned Jack’s list of year-end entries. Pine Bend Casino always prepared financial statements, even though they weren’t required by law. Craig examined the draft of the December spreadsheet that he’d managed to find and looked over the several columns of figures and notations. He scanned the password report for January 21, the date his originals had been destroyed. The time had come for a necessary but uncomfortable trip to Jack’s office. He must find out what happened. As he walked the hallway, he thought of the worst that could happen. He might not have a job by the end of the day. He smoothed his blue flannel shirt sleeves and pulled this braid out of his collar, letting it fall straight down his back. It helped him feel more like a warrior going into battle. Strong and prepared. Craig looked into Jack’s office, and there stood Jack, obviously admiring his new oversized, executive desk – maple top with inlaid wood around the edges. His fingers played with the inlay. He didn’t notice Craig at the door. “Hey, Jack, we’ve got to talk. Do you have a minute?” “Sure, come on in.” Jack twirled his new chair around from side to side and sat down. Craig thought Jack’s love of his new position was so obvious that it was almost funny. He didn’t know whether to laugh or to punch Jack square in the jaw and knock some sense into him. Either one would be lost on Jack. “It’s clear these entries are not the same as the ones I completed in December. These new entries reduce our profits by almost a million. The outside investors aren’t going to like this.” “Well, Craigie, the accountant changed his mind about the depreciation methods. He says we need to write things off more quickly. Something about more realistic replacement costs, I don’t know. What does it 159

GAME OVER

matter anyway? We just need to give the Reservation Business Council the numbers for this month’s meeting.” He played with the pen from his new matching set, clicking the end in and out. “But take a look at the December draft I was able to pull from the computer.” Craig sat down in the blue leather chair Jack had put at an angle to allow visitors use of a corner of his desk for taking notes in meetings. “My December data shows the pension benefit entry of around fifty-six thousand, not ten times that much. Maybe you made a mistake on the decimal point.” He knew Jack wouldn’t like being reminded of an error, but he didn’t care about their old friendship now. He had to do his job. “Let me see that.” Jack took Craig’s computer run and stared at the first page. He sneezed, covering the sheet with wet droplets, which immediately smudged the ink-jet printing. “Sorry,” he muttered as he wiped his nose with one of his newly-pressed handkerchiefs. “Hell, Craigie. You must have made a mistake on your data sheets. I don’t remember the number being that low. Besides, I thought you couldn’t retrieve this file.” “I’d saved it under a different name and I found it. Don’t you think we should double-check these numbers? Nearly one million dollars in income, that’s a hell of a lot we won’t be showing. It’s worth concern.” “Okay, I’ll check with the accountant. But I’m sure it’s right. He gave me those numbers himself yesterday.” Maybe Jack would let him deal with the accountant directly. Craig rolled the printout into a tube shape and tucked it under his arm. “I could call him myself, if that would help. What’s his name?” “No, I’ll deal with the guy myself. You may as well get back to work.” Jack busied himself with a letter on the top of his stack of work. Craig made no attempt to leave. He leaned back in the blue leather chair and waited for Jack to look up. “You’re annoying me, Craigie,” Jack finally muttered. “I know you’ve had more accounting training than I have. What I know, I’ve learned from you.” Careful now. If he said too much, Jack might close up. Jack looked up and shook his pen in Craig’s direction. “Your point?” “Let’s talk about the depreciation entries. They’re over triple what they were before. Why the rush to write off the assets?” Jack put down his pen and rubbed the ends of his mustache. “And what, pray tell, makes you an expert in depreciation entries?” Jack sneered, his eyes glaring in the challenging way he’d used since he was a kid. A mixture of dare and annoyance. Craig knew this might be his last chance to get information out of 160

ChapterFifteen

Jack. “I thought we wanted to make these financial statements as close as possible to ones we’d have to make if we were under the rules of Financial Accounting Standards Board. The FASB wouldn’t allow changing the method without letting investors know, I’m pretty sure of it.” “Listen here, Craigie. If the accountant wants to change an accounting method, big deal. We’ll let the RBC decide what they should tell the investors. They should damn well know what the investors need. Better than you, Craigie.” “Hey, man, I asked you not to call me that. I consider it demeaning coming from you.” He stared at Jack now, his annoyance showing. “You never minded it before.” “We were friends before.” “Don’t be an asshole, Craigie. Just get these entries done in the next day or two.” “And if I don’t?” “We’ll have to see. Maybe I’d need to fire you.” Craig jumped out of his chair. “You’d do that to me, Jack? Just because I’m trying to make sure we don’t make obvious mistakes? And . . .” he looked at Jack, deciding he may as well go for broke, “. . . My report was intentionally wiped off of the computer. That leads me to only one conclusion.” “And what is that?” Jack raised his eyebrows, his eyes reflecting a certain nervousness. “You know there are inconsistencies in these books. And you’re the one telling me what the year-end entries are supposed to be now. And if we were ever audited . . .” “We’re not under the same rules as everybody else, so we’ll never be audited. This is so damn typical of you. You’re overreacting when you don’t know the facts. There’s nothing wrong with changing accounting methods. Believe me.” Jack exhaled through closed teeth, making a low, hissing sound. Craig looked out the window at the half-full parking lots. Last night’s snowfall had been plowed in neat rows running perpendicular to the casino, and the shuttle bus stopped to pick up guests behind a distant drift. He had to get Jack to give him more information. “You’re changing that pension entry on purpose.” “Okay. If what you need is reassurance, I’ll get some facts from the accountant. Would that make you feel better?” Craig didn’t know what to say. “Yes. I’m sorry you feel insulted, Neej. I’m just trying to do my job.” “The problem is that you don’t respect me as your boss. I don’t know what we’re going to do about that, Craig.” Jack moved back to his chair 161

GAME OVER

behind the massive desk. “We used to trust each other. It’s getting hard to keep you as a member of my team. You can get the fuck out of my office.” Jack picked up his pen and clicked it repeatedly. If Jack fired him now, Craig would never find out who wiped out his December pension entries. Unless . . . “Listen, Jack. I’m really sorry. Just have the accountant prepare some backup data, that’s all the council will need. In the meantime, I’ll get busy with these entries. Right away. They’ll be done by late today.” Craig cleared his throat. Jack’s pen clicked furiously. “All right, let’s just put this behind us.” Jack started reading the pages at the top of his pile, not waiting for Craig to leave the room. Craig walked back to his office and turned on his computer. He found the password report file that he had locked away in his bottom desk drawer and scanned it again in case he missed something the first time. He turned to page three, the listings for who used the computer on January 21. The list had a total of fourteen entries, but only one accessed his spreadsheet: Password !!!!!. Who the hell uses this password? Could be anybody, he thought dejectedly. Craig turned on his computer and asked once again for security systems. He entered his access code of l950, but couldn’t obtain access to the password codes. He tried several more times. Somebody had taken away his access. Craig walked purposefully to the staff lounge, an area not far off the main kitchen. Paulette should be taking her break soon. Loud but muffled cooking noises came from the other side of the wall – the clanking of large pots, dishes rattling, the sizzling of food and shouting of cooks when the service door opened to let an employee in or out. He waited patiently, knowing she would show up sooner or later. She took her break every day around 10 am. There was no one else in the lounge this morning – an unusual situation for a Thursday morning. Staffers must be working extra hard. Either that or not everyone came to work because of the cold weather and the six inches of new snow. Every now and then even hard-core Minnesotans couldn’t face the ordeal of getting to work, especially if an unbearable cold snap or snow fall lasted more than a few days. St. Paul was now in its eighth day of temperatures registering lower than twenty degrees below zero. By the first of March they usually had temperatures twenty above or more. When Paulette came in, Craig greeted her with as much cheer as he could muster. “Hey, good to see you. How’ve you been?” “Hey, Craig, I’ve been cold. My furnace is giving me trouble.” “Oh, bummer. What’s wrong with it? You got any heat at all?” Craig 162

ChapterFifteen

felt concern for her. A broken furnace in this weather could mean frozen and broken pipes, not to mention frozen plants and food that’s not meant to be frozen. “Yeah, I got some. It’s operating at about fifty percent though, so the hubby, baby and I had to move in with my mom a few days ago. Should be fixed by tonight. The furnace man promised.” She sounded determined, as if saying it would make it so. “Well, then it’s not so bad,” Craig said. She snorted. “How long has it been since you’ve had to live with your mother?” “Good point.” Craig took a sip of his coffee and watched Paulette as she dashed from coffee pot to refrigerator to table, her stout legs carrying her ample frame with ease. She wore sweater sets every day, often with matching headbands of the same color. Today she wore yellow, which blended in with her blond flipped hair. How could he get her to give him the password codes? “Say Paulette, what did you think of that Duffy investigator guy? Did he give you a hard time?” Paulette wrinkled her nose. “He was nice, I thought. He asked me about the baby, real genuine like.” She unwrapped two donuts. “Why? Didn’t you like him?” “Oh, I liked him fine. Quite a robbery, eh?” “What excitement! Course, I’m glad you weren’t hurt, Craig. After all, you were taking my shift. You don’t know how many times I’ve thought of that, and I’m so happy you’re okay.” There would be no easy way to bring up the topic Craig needed to discuss. “Me too.” He shifted in his chair. “Paulette, do you know of anyone who would have tried to set up that robbery?” “Why?” She wrinkled her nose again. “Don’t tell me that you think someone we know did it!” Her eyes grew wide and showed their fine, golden flecks in a background of deep brown. Her face was quite round, making her love of treats and chocolate obvious to the world. When she opened her eyes wide, they looked like two quarters on an oval dinner plate. “No, of course not. I just wondered if you had any suspicions, that’s all. It’s just . . . well. . . I don’t have any theories, I’m just wondering.” Craig waited patiently to see if she’d get caught in the excitement of a mystery. “Let me tell you this.” Paulette whispered, casting furtive glances toward the coffee pot and employee microwave. “When I was on break the other day, I heard one of the personnel guys talking about having to share the files with that investigator. And let me tell you, the guy from 163

GAME OVER

personnel did not sound happy.” She bit into a donut, sending a fine spray of powdered sugar into the air. “Did he say what files the investigator wanted?” “No.” Paulette smacked her lips and licked a little sugar off her plump fingertips. “But he said ‘the investigator was off-track.’ That’s what he said. ‘Off-track’.” She rested her face heavily in the hammock her hands created. “What do you think that means?” “Hmmm . . . could be anything. You have security clearance. Could you access and print the password code report and get me a copy?” “I think I could get it, but there’d be no way you could come into the observation room with me while I printed it out. I’d have to print it out and bring it to you.” Paulette moved into full spy mode now, shoulders hunched. With her chin again resting in her hands, she leaned her face close to Craig’s. Suddenly she sat up straight. “Wait a minute! Just what are you suggesting? I can’t do that. If you’re not supposed to have the password code list, I could get fired! I have a daughter to raise.” She picked up the plastic lunch pail that still contained her lunch. Craig’s cheerfulness vanished. He was running out of options. With Jack uncooperative and Duffy suspicious, it would only be a matter of time and Craig would either be fired or arrested for something he didn’t do. “You’ve got to help me. You may be the only person I can go to.” He held on to her lunch pail. “One of the tribal council members may be in on this. I can’t tell you more, but you won’t be sorry if you help. Please.” Paulette pulled hard on her lunch pail, forcing open the cover. Traces of powdered sugar flew into the air. “You creep. You’re gonna get me fired. And you’d do it without blinking a single one of your beautiful brown eyes.” She picked up the scattered contents of her lunch pail and marched out, lunch pail tucked under her arm. When Craig got back from his afternoon coffee break, he found an envelope on his desk, simply marked ‘Don’t Ever Ask!’ He carefully opened it and read the title, Password Code List. He looked for his name and found it on the second page: Craig2Hses, Password – 1950. He glanced down the password column of the three-page report to find the !!!!! code. Seemed like an odd choice of a password, until he read some of the others. He enjoyed matching people and their passwords, each one a small disclosure about the person who chose it. And he loved Paulette’s – fatmama. He found the exclamation points on page three. “What do you know.” he said aloud. “How are the entries coming along?” Jack barged in, nearly knocking over a plant placed too close to the door. “It’s almost four, and you said 164

ChapterFifteen

you’d have them done by the end of the day.” Craig folded the password code list slowly, without looking at the paper. “Good, actually. For sure by five, no problem.” How could he distract him? “Say, Jack, I’ve been wanting to ask you, how’s it working out in your new apartment? And how’s your new roommate working out?” Craig leaned forward and punched a key on his keyboard, making his screen disappear. “What gives, Craigie? Why are you interested?” Jack twisted on the sparse, thin hairs he called a mustache. Craig swallowed hard. “I know you’re under a huge amount of pressure here, trying to run this office. It must feel like no one is on your side sometimes. I apologize if I’ve added to your problems.” Craig stood up and took a few steps toward Jack, hand extended, but Jack stood up straight and waved him off. “Look, I appreciate it. But we still can’t resume our friendship. There’s the boss issue that’s always going to be there. I have to keep my distance to, you know, stay impartial and professional.” “I agree. That’s better for both of us. But we can still work together for the good of the casino, don’t you agree? We can still make a good team.” “Yes, I suppose we can.” Jack said. “Then let’s shake on it.” Craig thrust out his hand. “No promises here.” “None expected.” They shook hands with a lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll just get back to work. As a matter of fact, I’ll carry those entries personally into your office when they’re finished. It’s a promise.” Craig went back to his computer and entered the accounting entries Jack wanted. Then he went to the photocopy machine and made copies of the password code list. He put the copy in his jeans pocket and went to deliver Jack’s work. When he knocked on Jack’s door, the conversation inside stopped abruptly. “Come in,” Jack said, a bit too loud. “Oh, sorry to interrupt, but here are those entries I promised.” “Craig, you remember Mr. Duffy, the investigator.” Craig felt his face flush. “Yes, hello.” Craig moved his weight from one foot to the other while Duffy looked him over. Craig looked down at his feet, and realized how scuffed his boots looked. He couldn’t help feeling uneasy. He didn’t dislike Dave Duffy. He just didn’t trust him. Sitting there in his perfect navy blue suit, the white pressed shirt with just enough cuff to show a gold cuff link and a crisp maroon-colored tie. All likely purchased with the help of a personal design consultant. He and Jack made matched bookends. “So, this is where you usually work, Mr. Two Horses?” Duffy’s eyes 165

GAME OVER

tilted up at the corners, but when he smiled the corners of his mouth turned down and looked more like a grimace. “Yes, just down the hall. If you’ll excuse me . . .” “Wait. As long as you’re here, could you tell me a little more about what you do?” “I do bookkeeping entries each month and also at the end of the year. And anything else Jack here tells me to do.” He tried to keep the irony out of his voice. “An accountant, then?” Craig shot a look at Jack, wondering if Jack knew where this was going. “The accountant decides what entries to make, and I just enter them. More like a bookkeeper.” “Do you have access, then, to all the books, including the checkbook?” Duffy asked. “Well, I suppose. We call it the cash disbursements journal and the cash receipts journal, but together, yes, they make up the checkbook.” Duffy pushed a chair toward Craig. “Sit down. Let’s talk.” “I don’t want to interrupt. . .” “No problem, Mr. Two Horses.” Duffy nodded at the chair. “Please join us. Maybe you can help.” Craig sat as ordered while Jack cracked his knuckles a few times. “If the books were ever to be . . . changed, let’s say, who would do that?” Duffy’s look seemed charged. His look reminded Craig of a bobcat – sleek, on the hunt but pretending not to be, just a twitch of the tail to give himself away. “What do you mean? I don’t understand what you mean by ‘changed’.” Craig had watched his friends in trouble get in deeper by offering too much information too soon. He never liked to be interrogated, and that’s how every conversation with this guy felt. Craig’s palms started to sweat and his turquoise rings felt uncomfortable. He twirled one around and realized that made him look nervous. The strength from his braid wasn’t helping any. “I mean, if you made a mistake and wanted to go back and fix it. How is that done?” “Well, once entries are posted, they stay as part of the accounting record. If they turn out be wrong, there can be additional entries made later to correct the first ones, but the first ones are never totally erased.” Duffy pulled resolutely on his cuff links. “I see. What about daily transactions? Who enters those?” Craig took a deep breath. “I do. Jack gives me the list of entries and I enter them into the computer. Or if I’m gone, he does it himself.” Jack stretched his hands out in front of himself and gave a good crack166

ChapterFifteen

ing to both hands. “Sometimes we might have a replacement come in if Craig’s on vacation. Last year we had a few substitutes. Good to have backup, you know,” Jack smiled at Duffy. “Of course, of course. So, Jack, where do you get the documentation for the entries?” “From the tally sheets filed by the cashiers at the end of the day. We add them up and fill out a form that shows what we took in and what we paid out.” He leaned forward in his chair. “And trust me. We always pay out less than we take in,” Jack laughed and smacked his hand on his desk. Duffy mirrored the smile. Craig sat and contemplated the men. Could Duffy possibly understand the complexities of working in such a place, with few written rules and the need to please the tribal council? Maybe all of corporate America operated the same way, only with a board of directors. He wished he’d taken a class on the subject. Something like, The Care and Feeding of Board Members and Outsiders 101. Jack’s laugh died down to silence and Duffy finally spoke. “Does anyone else authorize the daily entries besides you, Jack?” “No, no one.” Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What does this have to do with your investigation, anyway?” Duffy leaned across Jack’s desk. “Nothing at all. But the tribal council has asked me to see if their internal control system can be improved. As long as I’m here, I thought you could help me a great deal.” “In what way?” Jack fingered the end of his mustache. “By telling me your procedures. Then I can let you know if they can be improved. Sometimes, in operations that are well run such as yours, I can’t find any way to improve them.” Duffy paused. “Sometimes clients come up with their own improvements, just by talking about what they do. That’s not at all uncommon.” Duffy turned his attention to Craig. “Take Mr. Two Horses here. I bet he could come up with ways to improve the present system.” Craig was not ready to trust Dave Duffy. “I’m not the one to pay attention to details. Jack has more experience than I do. Besides, he’s the boss and he has a wider view of operations. Right, Jack?” Jack cracked his knuckles. “Since my promotion, I oversee a lot. We’re not under any laws to keep formal books, but we like to keep ourselves informed. But no one’s questioned our procedures before. Not even the tribal council.” Duffy nodded. “I see, I see. If you have any suggestions, I’ll be glad to credit them to you.” Craig managed to disguise his urgent laugh with a cough. Maybe the 167

GAME OVER

guy’s okay after all. He thought he saw a glimmer of understanding in Duffy’s eyes. “Now, Mr. Winger, when you cut checks to pay bills, who authorizes those? You?” Duffy asked. “I initial any purchase orders, and then Judy Kantha in our office writes the checks on Mondays and Fridays. The tribal members can also initial purchase orders.” Jack sat back in his chair. He went to put his feet up on the desk, paused, and put them back on the floor. “You wanna see copies of the purchase orders and cash disbursements sheets that Judy fills out?” “That’d be good. I’d appreciate it.” Jack stood up. “Let’s do that. Judy is still at work. You’ll get a chance to meet her.” Jack had his hand on Duffy’s arm and muttered something to him. All Craig could hear was “Judy . . . lives. . .” Duffy interrupted him with a wave of his hand. “Before we go to cash disbursements, I just wanted to ask Mr. Two Horses one more question. He turned to Craig. “Has anyone ever asked you to change entries or falsify the books?” Craig dared not break eye contact with Duffy. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and wondered what he should do. This might be his chance to hint at the real problems to come. He stared quietly into the investigator’s eyes, noticing his cleverness for the first time. “I only get entries from Jack. I don’t even work directly with the accountant. No one else has ever even approached me about making entries. Not even the tribal council.” Craig continued to hold the stare. “I see, I see. Well. Thank you, Mr. Two Horses.” Duffy didn’t quite smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I surely appreciate your cooperation.” “You’re welcome, Mr. Duffy.” Craig turned and walked away from Jack’s chatter about bookkeeping systems. He looked over his shoulder and could see that Duffy only feigned interest.

168

Chapter Sixteen Debbie found the night class as boring as ever. Tarpen had his work cut out for him, trying to interest people in the law when almost everyone in the room had already put in a full day’s work. By the third hour, eyes looked heavy and heads started nodding – not in agreement, but in sleep. That didn’t stop Tarpen. The more exhausted the audience, the more animated he became. He punctuated every point by shaking his flaming red hair. Debbie took notes occasionally, but tonight she let herself daydream about her sons. They were going with Charlie for the weekend, so the following week would be hell. “Dad says” and “Dad thinks” would be the staple of their conversations for days. And what would she do for the weekend? Maybe she’d spend the weekend studying. Maybe she could go to Pine Bend to catch up on her losses. She wouldn’t have to make excuses, no one would be around to bother her. If only she had some money. She got paid every two weeks, but payday wasn’t until next Friday, and she’d spent her last week’s paycheck already. Once she figured out how to turn in the bonds, she could quit gambling. She could also paint the bedroom, something she’d been wanting to do for a few years. Of course with the cold, it’d be impossible to open the windows to get fresh air and relief from the fumes. Okay, bad idea to paint now. Then again . . . she looked over at Craig who sat in a front row seat to her left. She could go with Craig to Bad River. Tonight he looked attentively at Tarpen, taking notes and watching him pace the lecture pit. Tarpen was in one of his exuberant moods where every detail of the law seemed to thrill him. Debbie wondered what kept him from breaking out in song. Craig wrote something in his notebook and Debbie watched the movement of his arm. His turtleneck sweater, ribbed and tight to his body, showed his muscles as they tensed and relaxed when he wrote. The light shone in his black hair as he looked up, then down at 169

GAME OVER

his notes again. Debbie could see his slow breath as his chest expanded and contracted, as he’d write and relax. He reached behind his neck with his left hand and pulled out his thin braid from under his sweater. “Class,” Tarpen said in a high-pitched voice which caught Debbie’s attention, “remember the semester break is only three weeks away. That means one more week of lecture and then midterms. I have your study outlines on the table at the back. Be sure to take a packet on your way out. And hand in your UCC assignments before you go. Class dismissed.” Craig turned to her and waved. He caught up to her at the back table where they picked up their midterm exam packets. Debbie flipped hers over with a gasp. “Look at this! Is he kidding?” “I don’t think so,” Craig scowled at the packet and shoved it inside his bag. “I, for one, am not going to let this assignment spoil my weekend.” “This has to be fifteen pages long. The guy’s a slave driver.” Craig cleared his throat. “Have you thought any more about coming to Wisconsin with me tomorrow? I’ve tried to call you, but the line’s been busy.” “Sorry, that’s the boys. They’re always on the phone. I suppose you need to know.” She thumbed through the exam packet. “I certainly have a lot to do. I just don’t think I can go.” If only she could make it a few more weeks, the semester break would give her time to spend with her boys, clean the house, maybe even gamble and catch up on her losses. “Call me if you change your mind. Here’s my cell number. See you around.” Craig waved as he turned and headed for the exit door. Debbie looked down at the exam packet and felt exhausted. When would she get all of her work done? Didn’t she deserve to have a little fun now and then? “Wait, Craig. Wait.” Debbie followed him, jamming Tarpen’s papers into her book bag. “I think I’d like to go.” Craig laughed. “To what do I owe this change of heart?” “It just seems like a good time for an escape. Besides, my boys will be with their father, and I’m sick and tired of studying. Should be interesting, anyway.” She couldn’t go to the casino until she figured out how to cash in the bonds. May as well do something different. And how often did a person get a chance to go to a powwow? “Great. I think you’ll enjoy it. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night. How’s six o’clock?” Debbie bit her bottom lip. Could she keep her distance and not become too attracted to him? She hoped she wasn’t making a mistake. “Okay. Pick me up at home.” She tried to keep her hands from shaking, but she noticed that her trembling showed, just a little.

170

ChapterSixteen

*

*

*

Craig drove a little over the speed limit, making good time through Wisconsin’s rolling hills. Farm houses dotted the view, all blanketed in the white of winter. Some houses had smoke coming from the chimney of a fireplace or wood-burning stove. Cows huddled by barn doors, waiting for their late-night milking. When Debbie first got in Craig’s old Chevy pickup, she wondered how reliable it could be. He laughed and told her he’d just had it overhauled. “No sense in getting rid of a rig just because it doesn’t look good.” He patted the dashboard. “We’re together to the end. Right, Bessie?” Craig and Debbie drove in uncomfortable silence at first, but Debbie loved the old German influence she saw every few miles – stone barns with wooden roofs, fences made of stones picked from the same fields they now surrounded. As they turned north toward Bad River, the hills gave way to flatter land more suitable for growing crops. By this time of night, lights shone from nearly every farmhouse. She wondered if she should mention the line dancing incident. She decided not to say anything. Why talk about it again? She’d probably just make him uncomfortable. How long ago was that kiss? Only eight days ago, and yet he already felt like such an old friend. They settled into light conversation, sharing the challenges of being students. “What led you to law school, anyway?” Craig asked. “Thought it would give me and my sons a better life. You know, more money, a better job, maybe a bank vice president position.” “Don’t you like your job? Probate work must give you a chance to help families during a tough time. They’re probably all in distress.” “I used to think that too, but at my level I don’t really work with people that often. I work with files and papers, bonds and stock certificates, that sort of thing. It’s sometimes interesting to see a family’s reaction to wealth. They may call me with what they consider a foolish question before they’ll call a probate officer or vice president. But I can’t get promoted until I have a degree in the field.” Craig nodded. “Who’s been your most interesting client so far?” Debbie thought back to her first year of probate work. “No contest. An opera star. If I told you her name, it would be a breach of confidentiality. But I can tell you about her family. Let’s see.” Debbie sorted through her memories of the Cagliani family. “They had two common expressions. ‘How generous of her,’ and ‘Why did she have to leave us so soon?’ They said one of those things every few minutes.” Debbie smiled to herself, thinking about that family. She couldn’t remember any of their names because they never came to the office alone. 171

GAME OVER

When one showed up, four or five more soon appeared. Dark-haired, heavy-set Italians, crying and hugging, males and females blending into one mass of flesh. “That family helped me decide about being a vice president, since I wanted to get to know them. And the vice presidents are the only ones who work closely with the families. Anyway, they’d be crying one minute, laughing the next. I almost wished I was one of them.” Debbie reached over and patted Craig’s arm. “Do you know families like that?” “Sure do. My Uncle George is just about the wisest person I’ve ever met, and folks often come from nearby states to visit with him. You never know who’s going to be at his kitchen table. You have to be ready for anything, too. Crying, laughing, swearing, hollering, sometimes all at the same time.” “Sounds like fun. What makes him so wise?” “He’s a spiritual leader. He has the old stories, passed down through generations.” Craig shifted in the driver’s seat, looking uncomfortable. She wondered if she should ask any more questions. Had she touched a nerve? “If I ask him, will he tell me any?” Craig glanced at her. “You can ask him. You interested in old stories?” “You know what they say. When in Rome . . .” “Ah, a point of curiosity.” Craig smiled and seemed to relax. The brighter moonlight and the new snow reflected their surroundings – corn fields, the remnants of their summer bounty hidden under the snow, other fields with withered, frozen stalks poking through an icy crust. “George will probably have a lot to do. And there’ll be more outsiders than usual, so I doubt he’ll do much storytelling.” Being on the road reminded Debbie of driving the boys to see her grandmother, a difficult and brutally honest woman. She’d once told Charlie he was “. . . a stump of a husband, what with never spending much time at home.” And she told Debbie that she would have been pretty if it hadn’t been for that dishwater blond hair. Whenever she thought of her grandmother, one taste came to her mind – freshly canned peaches. Right up to the year she died, she put up peaches. No storebought peaches ever tasted as good. “My grandmother, who by the way canned the best peaches in the world, once told me that if I was going to divorce Charlie to do it and get on with it, but don’t brood. She said, ‘It reminds me of brood chickens with those sad eyes running around, day after day, knowing you’re going to cook ’em soon. Who can stand it’!” Debbie couldn’t help but smile at the memory. “I always left her house feeling a little better and a little worse.” She looked over at Craig and felt foolish. “I don’t know where that 172

ChapterSixteen

came from.” Craig turned the radio on and found a station with good reception. “Probably something about Uncle George reminded you of chickens.” He hummed along as Mary Chapen Carpenter sang I Feel Lucky. “Craig, why are you in law school?” “It’s a long story.” “We’ve got time.” “Boring, really. I want to practice courtroom law, maybe something in real estate disputes. I just don’t quite know what kind of law I want to practice, or where I want to live.” Debbie nodded in agreement. “I know what you mean. Somehow I’m not sure a trust department VP job is going to come my way, but I just know something exciting is going to happen. An interesting life, a great place to live . . . ” “I’d consider practicing in the south, or who knows, maybe the east.” Craig laughed. “Can you tell I’m a little unsure about what I want to do next? Uncle George says he knows what will happen, but he’s waiting for me to get the picture. I have no idea what he means.” Debbie turned to stare at him in the darkness of the truck interior. “Sometimes I doubt I’ll ever finish, or even if I’m learning anything valuable.” “I’ll bet you’re learning more than you give yourself credit for.” His hand moved toward her but he jerked it back and played with the radio dial. She started combing her fingers through her hair, stretching the clumps of curls as her fingers reached the ends. “Maybe.” She was quiet for awhile and stared at the trees, heavy with snow. As clear as a “do not disturb sign,” it was as if speaking would start an avalanche, and the trees would become unwillingly exposed to the cold. Craig turned his truck down the pot-holed road that led to Uncle George’s driveway. “We’re close now,” Craig announced. The truck bounced along, shaking them both. Large evergreen trees bordered both sides of the road. The overhang of the branches provided a canopy that might be refreshing on a hot summer day, but in the blackness of a winter night it contributed to the sense of darkness that enveloped the truck. After about three miles, Debbie asked, “Does he know we’re coming at this time of night?” She peered into the vast darkness, not seeing a single light. Craig concentrated hard on his driving, trying to avoid potholes though darkness hid most of them. “He knows. I called him yesterday to ask if it was okay to bring a friend. He’ll be up.” 173

GAME OVER

Debbie looked at Craig, whose hair looked pitch black in the darkness. His eyes reflected what little light came from the dashboard. She stared into the dark woods. “Spooky here. I’m beginning to wonder if I should have come.” “Too late. Besides, I think you’re in for a surprise.” Craig turned on to a gravel driveway. “If I know George, he’ll make you feel very welcome. Look there.” Craig directed her gaze with his chin. They entered a clearing, and Debbie could see a one-story ranch home with a covered, open porch running the length of its front. Several chairs sat in a circle on the porch floor, frozen in their places until spring. Lights shone from the windows of the living room, and someone waved frantic arms. Four faces peered out the window at them. Numerous cars were lined up on the left side of the driveway. Craig pulled up behind the last one and shut off his engine. The only light now came from the house. The front door opened and someone stood on the porch. Craig turned to Debbie. “You ready?” “You bet.” She wished she felt as confident as she sounded. She stood on the packed snow and for a few moments watched the smoke rise from the chimney and saw the bundled-up person on the porch waiting with anticipation. Craig gathered their things from the pickup bed. Debbie had entered another world, one with rules she didn’t understand. Her stomach churned and betrayed feelings of excitement mixed with dread. Why did she ever agree to come here? Craig swung his bag over his left shoulder, and grabbed Debbie’s suitcase. He took a few steps forward and held out a hand toward her. She took it thankfully. “It’s Craig, all right!” hollered a voice from the porch. The figure ran toward them and Debbie saw a giggling woman make her way over the frozen ice ruts of the driveway. “Craaiiiiig!” She squealed as she threw her arms around his neck, forcing him to scramble for his footing. “How’ve you been, Carla?” “Good, real good. You look great!” She released him and looked him over. “You been home long?” He asked. “Yeah, I’ve been here for a month now.” “Is Randy with you?” “No.” Carla cast a quick glance at Debbie. “I’ll tell you more about that later. Let me help with those bags.” She lifted Craig’s bag off his shoulder and tried playfully to grab the suitcase, but Craig wouldn’t let go. Once they stepped into the entryway, chaos erupted. Craig was either 174

ChapterSixteen

slapped on the back or hugged by everyone there. Debbie recognized George by Craig’s description. He waited to be the last to give Craig a hug, then whispered something in his ear. Debbie couldn’t help but watch Carla, primarily because of her youthful energy and her obvious excitement at having Craig nearby. Carla couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Her unnatural thinness gave a gaunt, strained look to her beautiful face. Her nearly black hair was cut in a practical manner, full on the top and short on the sides. She was taller than everyone else except George. Everyone made their way to the entry room. “Hey, everybody, this is Debbie.” Craig held her hand high and smiled at her. The older woman left the group and came toward Debbie, extending her hand in greeting. “How do you do. My name is Sarah.” “Hello, Sarah.” “Let me help you with your coat.” Sarah cast a mockingly scornful glance at Craig. Her bangs were cut straight across her forehead and the rest of her long, dark hair clung to her face so wherever she looked her hair framed her face in a square. “You know these men. They’ve forgotten their manners.” Sarah helped Debbie take her coat off. “Come into the living room and I’ll introduce you to the others.” Debbie met George’s brother Gary, a man of medium build and medium everything, and a friendly face; Carla, relationship undefined, obviously some kind of family friend; cousin Johnny, a boisterous charmer whom Debbie immediately disliked. Johnny directed his attentions toward Carla. Debbie watched with interest as he told Carla stories, trying to keep her entertained. He needed to work hard at it. Sarah took Debbie back to the kitchen – a warm, crowded little corner of the house that seemed as if it had been added as an afterthought. A refrigerator was tucked into what looked like an old pantry. The stove and sink were on the outside wall near a window, and cupboards displayed open shelves that left all the dishes and stored goods ready for the fast grab. “Would you like some tea or coffee? I have many choices.” She showed Debbie a shelf filled with boxes, various brands of tea and specialized coffee. Sarah must have been the kind of person that people brought gifts for, a unique blend of Java, perhaps, for each special occasion. Debbie selected rosemary leaf tea. Debbie wished she’d brought a gift. “So, how long have you two known each other?” Sarah asked, as she filled the tea kettle and turned on the coffee. “You mean Craig and me? Oh, a short time, really. We met each other 175

GAME OVER

this winter in a law class, but we’ve really only been friends for a few weeks.” “Hmmmm,” Sarah murmured. Debbie felt compelled to add, “We’re friends from school, you know. That’s all.” Then she blushed. Why did that sound like an idiotic thing to say? Sarah never looked up while setting the kitchen table. Her hands moved with each task a part of a well-known process. Debbie thought the woman could make coffee in her sleep. “Have you ever been to a powwow?” Sarah gave Debbie a direct look. “No, I haven’t. Are there some things I should know?” Debbie liked this calm woman. “Has Craig told you? There’s going to be a giveaway.” Sarah covered Debbie’s hands with her own. “I’m glad you’re here with Craig. It will help him get through this.” “What do you mean? He hasn’t said anything about any hardship. He’s only said that I would be welcome.” Debbie lowered her voice. “I hope he was right.” “He was right. And don’t worry, all you have to do is follow the instructions of the emcee, and don’t join the dance unless you’re asked.” “What dance? I thought it was a powwow.” “The powwow has many dances and each one is for a different purpose. Some are for only veterans to dance. Others have different purposes, like the grass dance or blanket dance. It depends on the song or on the emcee’s wishes. You’ll see once you get there.” A crowd burst into the kitchen with Craig in the lead. Sarah got back to work. The conversation varied from loud to uproarious. Gary teased George about getting too fat. Johnny told yet another tale to Carla, who now only half-listened. Craig sat to Debbie’s right and smiled at her. He pulled his braid out from under the back of his shirt. “I noticed Sarah took you back here to the kitchen. You doing okay?” “Fine. This is quite a group for this time of night.” She leaned close to his ear to whisper, “Are they all staying here?” “Most of them, and I’m surprised there aren’t more. George says there’s three still coming tonight. That will pretty much fill up the house. Carla will probably stay at her mother’s place a few miles away. Otherwise I think everyone else will be overnighters. That’s what Uncle George calls them.” Sarah put the coffee pot and tea kettle on the table. George gave his greeting, “What’s ours is yours, good friends at the table. Be our guests, and leave when you’re able.” With that, chaos broke out as arms reached 176

ChapterSixteen

for the baked goods Sarah had carefully arranged on a platter. With everyone’s attention on the food, the commotion soon died down. Debbie sipped her tea and noticed that all eyes were on her. The time had come. George got it started. “Tell us about yourself, Debbie.” He grinned at Craig. “I’m afraid we were so excited to see Craig that we’ve been neglecting you.” “Well, there’s not much to tell, really. I grew up in Rochester where my dad worked in a grain elevator. Then I went to Minneapolis to the University and studied there for awhile.” A few people blinked. A few took bites of their pastry, but no one else spoke. They obviously were waiting for more. “I got divorced about six years ago and now I’m in law school. Well, night courses.” She paused and gave a little nod, hoping that was enough. No way. Seconds passed as they all looked at her and waited with Native American politeness until they were sure she was finished sharing. Craig told her this later, but at the time she mistook the silence to mean she had to keep talking. “I have two teenage boys, Philip and Steven, who keep me busy, and I work full-time. At a bank in St. Paul. So, that’s it. Sort of suburban, not much excitement.” Except when I gamble. And steal. She looked around the table and noticed that all eyes moved to Craig. They’re assessing our relationship. She thought better of trying to explain they were just friends and going to remain that way. Let Craig dodge the questions. Sarah broke the silence. “George, tell Craig and Debbie about the giveaway.” “It’ll be held tomorrow afternoon, about halfway through the powwow. This honor powwow was scheduled last October, you know. It might be a little strange to have a giveaway for Missy Jean since she’s not out of her coma yet, but the elders met about it last week and decided we should go ahead. Maybe it’ll help snap her out of it, with everybody thinking about her and wishing her good thoughts.” “Who’s sponsoring the giveaway? Are there going to be any surprises?” Craig asked. Sarah and George looked at each other knowingly. “Margaret Buffalo is the sponsor,” George looked nervous. “The only surprise is that, well . . .” “What is it, Uncle George?” Craig asked. “I . . . I heard that Bobby’s in town for the powwow. He arrived this afternoon and there was no way I could contact you.” Now it was Craig’s turn to be in the spotlight. The silence became palpable as he sat still, staring blankly. “We’ll understand if you change your mind about attending the powwow, Craig.” George laid his hand on Craig’s arm. 177

GAME OVER

“I’m fine. Really. It’s what I came all the way up here for.” He pushed his chair back. “I’ll take our things to our room.” “I’ll help,” Debbie followed him to the entryway as he swung the bags fiercely and strode down the hall to the bedroom. “What do you mean, our room?” “I mean, the guest room. It’s a huge guest room. You’ll see, it’ll be fine.” He swung the door open. “Craig Two Horses, if you think I’m sleeping in a bedroom with you, you’re mistaken.” “We won’t be alone. All the guests sleep in this room.” He turned on the lights to reveal a large square room that looked like a bunkhouse, with seven bunk beds built into the walls, two on each end wall and three on the wall facing them. “You told me they had lots of bedrooms!” She nearly shrieked. “I told you they had lots of room. Not bedrooms. They’ve only got this one for guests. My daughter Ruth now uses the other bedroom as her own. Debbie examined the bunk beds. Three of them had been slept in as the blankets were tossed about. The bunks reminded her of a children’s summer camp, except these beds were built from huge timbers and were longer and wider than an ordinary twin bed. Sort of a summer camp for grown-ups. In the middle of the room a small, round table held a deck of cards and a cribbage board. “Debbie, I didn’t mean to mislead you. You can take the bed farthest away from mine if it makes you feel better. Usually guests change in the bathroom and then come in here and either play cards or hop into bed. So.” He put down the bags. “You could sleep in the cabin if you want, but it’s in the woods a ways, and you’d be by yourself. Most people choose to stay together here. You want the bathroom first?” “Well, it’s actually a little charming, once you get used to the idea of bunk beds,” She avoided eye contact while she unpacked her pajamas and robe. “Well, do you want the bathroom first or not?” he asked loudly. Debbie thought he looked a little nervous. “I’ll go first, thank you.” She strode to the door, opened it and looked tentatively down the hallway. “Just tell me where it is.” “Next door to your right.” When she returned in red fuzzy slippers and a plaid terry cloth robe over flannel pajamas, Craig smiled. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your amusement to yourself.” She took off her slippers and set them by the bunk bed. Craig looked them over carefully. “I’m not laughing at you. Just think178

ChapterSixteen

ing that you fit right in.” Debbie relaxed. “Believe it or not, I’m actually starting to enjoy the idea of meeting all kinds of new people.” She hopped into bed, the ankles of her long johns just barely showing from underneath her robe. She took her robe off only after she was safely under the covers. He shrugged. “I guess I’ve just spent so much time here that I think everyone will appreciate the place as much as I do. I suppose that’s what happens when you remember things the way they were when you were a child. Speaking of children, I’m going to go check on mine. I’m sure she’s been sleeping for hours, so I’ll just peek in.” How did this happen? Suddenly Craig felt like an old friend, someone she could talk to. Should she share her financial troubles with him? No. Too complicated. He might think she was asking for money. Besides, as soon as she figured out how to cash those bonds, her financial troubles would be over. “How old is your daughter?” Debbie asked when he returned. By the time Craig explained all about four-year-old Ruth, Debbie felt quite at home in her bunk bed. Craig sat on the edge, rambling on about the wonders of being a father to a four-year-old and the frustration of not being able to raise her himself. Soon the other three overnight guests came wandering in, talking in muffled whispers. Someone started shuffling cards. Craig leaned down and whispered to Debbie, “I’ll tell you more about Ruth and her mother tomorrow.” The others thought it looked like a good night kiss and they began teasing. Debbie fell asleep to the sounds of shuffling cards and quiet laughter.

179

GAME OVER

180

Chapter Seventeen Debbie slept better than she had in a long time, dreaming of brood hens and ham and eggs. Then she realized the aroma of sizzling ham filled the air. Craig stuck his head in the door. “Hey, sleepy, Sarah’s cooking breakfast. Better hurry or there won’t be any left.” She woke up determined to enjoy her new surroundings. People were busy getting ready for the powwow. All except Ruth, who clung to her daddy and chatted tirelessly. “Morning, Debbie. Here’s your plate.” Sarah handed her what looked like a platter heaped with eggs and ham, something she hardly ever cooked because of her concern for the boys’ cholesterol. George devoured his and Debbie dug in. When she came up for air about ten minutes later, she couldn’t help exclaiming, “This is the best breakfast I’ve ever had!” Powwow time came early as Uncle George had to be there for set up. It seemed when one person left the house, no one wanted to be left out, so off they all went. Debbie found the tribal center complex impressive. She loved the round, expansive building and the glass doors halfway around the gymnasium. Excitement hummed in the air as the crowd arrived. Personal invitations were sent to several reporters about the special event to be held in honor of Senator Jean Anderson Buffalo. Two major TV networks set up cameras by noon. Debbie walked through the main entrance area, amazed by the colors of the dancers’ regalia. The main part of the gathering building reminded Debbie of a hockey rink except it was round instead of oval. The center of the complex held a large area about fifty yards in diameter. Deep bleachers surrounded most of the circle. “What’s that, Craig?” Debbie pointed to the large video screen on the 181

GAME OVER

north end of the complex. “Oh, we cable in a national Mega-Bingo game for the last game on bingo night. Costs five dollars a card, but you can win a five hundred thousand dollar jackpot. See those wires?” “Uh huh.” Debbie could see a long rope of wires coming from the screen. “As soon as they get the electricians in, the whole contraption will be moved. We only use this building as a gathering place now. Last year we used it as a temporary bingo hall because the main casino was under construction. See Uncle George? He’s still busy with reporters. We have time for a quick look around.” He led the way down a long corridor to the History Building. The walls and many glass cases displayed tribal artifacts. “This room is where we have our tribal meetings.” He tried to open it but the door was locked. They continued down the corridor. Craig grew more animated with the explanation of each new object. “Look – an eagle feather headdress. And here’s my favorite.” He touched the case that held a collection of pipes. “We use these in ceremonies. Aunt Sarah started all of this.” He waved his hands wide. “She once gave a speech about the importance of preserving tribal history. The council put her in charge and you should have seen how fast this collection came together.” A white, hand-lettered card under each item described it and identified the donor. Debbie fingered the hand-stitched leather baby wrappings mounted above one of the cases. Then she dropped her hand quickly. “Sorry, I don’t suppose I should touch anything.” “It’s okay. Just not the pipes, which is why they are stored in the cases.” Debbie reached out, enjoying the soft feel of the leather. “They’re incredible. And look at this bead work.” She touched a small pair of moccasins stitched in red and yellow beads. Her fingers rested on a necklace featuring long gray spikes about three inches long with white tips. “What are these?” “Porcupine quills. We used to make a lot of jewelry with them. Course, it’s not fun collecting them, especially if you do it by accident.” Craig chuckled, and Debbie laughed with him. “Well, at least here’s something I recognize.” Debbie touched brown feathers on the end of a dreamcatcher. “Some people still make dreamcatchers. Now we use leather or string for the webbing. But no one, at least in our tribe, makes wooden bowls like this anymore.” He pointed to a hand-carved bowl with black patterned faces. “The tribal council originally said the collection could only 182

ChapterSeventeen

be open to tribal members. But if we had a meeting here and wanted to include guests, it got to be a hassle.” “So I wouldn’t have even been allowed in this hallway.” Debbie felt a little insulted. “Nope. But Aunt Sarah said she didn’t go through all that work of collecting to keep the beauty of our traditions from the world. She won. The rule lasted two months.” “Good for her.” Debbie touched a white leather cape decorated with deep blue beads. “I like Sarah more all the time.” “That’s nothing. She got the tribal council to agree to keep two-thirds of the gambling profits for further economic development and reservation improvements. The remaining one-third is split among the rest of the tribe. You should have heard the arguments.” Craig tapped his fingers on the glass case. “She didn’t want gaming if people got greedy, and she said that some money in our pockets should keep that from happening. For the most part, she was right.” “Is it a lot of money?” “Not really. Helps me with my tuition though. Every now and then somebody grumbles about getting more, and she scorns them into compliance at meetings. There’s something powerful about a woman scorning. . . ” Debbie heard the sound of drum beats. “Oh damn, we gotta go.” Craig grabbed her hand and they took off running. They hurried through the entrance and took their places on the bleachers, surrounded by chatter and commotion. Debbie realized she was in a foreign country here. “Sovereign nation” described them well. Craig pointed to George, still talking with reporters. “We’re okay. Must have been some warning beats. See George over there, looking innocent? He’s putting those reporters in the best spot possible for filming later on. They were asked not to film until the giveaway begins.” “What exactly is a giveaway?” “It’s when someone buys gifts and gives them away to honor a particular person, which is why it makes sense to have one at this honor powwow. But they can be held at any powwow. Sometimes people hold them to celebrate an event of good fortune in their lives. This one is in honor of Jean Anderson Buffalo, and her mother bought the gifts. See that blanket over there?” He motioned to a huge blanket covering a mound of some kind. People walking past the pile were careful not to disturb it. “Yeah.” Debbie answered. She leaned forward to get a better look at the mysterious mound. “What’s under it?” 183

GAME OVER

“No one knows except the sponsor. She’s purchased gifts for everyone here in honor of her daughter, and the gifts are stacked under that blanket.” “Will you tell me why Sarah thought it might be hard for you to be here?” “Oh, that.” Craig squinted his eyes, scanning the faces around the room. “It’s just that my brother Bobby is seeing my ex-wife. Actually they’re living together in Oklahoma. They must be up here for a visit. Sarah’s overly concerned, that’s all. I’m over that woman. I just don‘t want Ruth to get confused.” He continued to scan the crowd. So he was still in love with an ex-wife. And he didn’t really hide his feelings very well, scanning the crowd for her. Debbie decided to change the subject. “And there are gifts for everyone? There must be over two hundred people here already.” “Everyone. Including you. The emcee will name individuals who receive particular gifts, then groups of people. Members of each group go into the powwow circle, get their gift, and dance in the honor dance.” “You mean I’ve got to dance?” Actually she didn’t mind at all, and she didn’t even try to hide her excitement. Craig chuckled. “You’ll get a chance to watch other dances before the giveaway begins.” She thought about Philip and the fun they would have when she told him all the dancing details. “Is there something I should know about what I’m supposed to do?” “Only one thing is important. The dancers always move clockwise in the circle, never counterclockwise. No matter what happens, always move with the crowd and you won’t offend anyone.” The emcee pinned on his microphone and welcomed the crowd. “A pot-luck dinner will be served after the powwow. If you brought food, please make sure it’s in the kitchen by four o’clock. We also ask that visitors here take no pictures, except the reporters who are free to film during the giveaway. And a special welcome to the Fond-du-Lac band of Ojibwe who sent many people here today to be our special guests.” “Drummers, please come forward.” It took about twenty minutes for the drummers to settled into their places around a large, red leather drum almost four feet in diameter. It took a place of prominence in the center of the floor. The red leather on the drum’s side was carved and burned with eagle feather patterns, curving one into another as they circled the drum. Eight drummers sat on chairs around the drum and engaged in small talk. They picked up their drumming wands but waited for an announcement, talking quietly. Two smaller drums sat on either side of the big 184

ChapterSeventeen

drum, each with two empty stools. “We’ll begin with the Grand Entry,” boomed he emcee’s voice. The drummers began their beats, and flag-bearing honor guards from the Bad River Reservation came in first. Three flag bearers from other reservations followed, and one flag bearer carried the American flag. They carried the eagle staffs high and paraded around the dance circle and then planted them in front of the emcee. “We’ll begin with a dance in honor of veterans. Will all veterans of any age please come forward.” With that the crowd came alive. Young men and old men moved toward the powwow circle, intermingling with a few women veterans as the drummers began their song in earnest. Craig patted her knee. “Gotta go. I’ll be back.” Had he kept his hand on her knee for a moment longer, she would have grabbed him and not let go. What happened to her resolve they would only stay friends? It was only a friendly pat. No squeezing, no stroking, just a pat. She touched the place where his hand had been and knew that she wanted more of his touch. Craig joined the dancers as they moved around the circle clockwise, dancing in four/four time with the beat of the drummers. Right toe touched the ground first, then the weight shifted to the right foot. Left toe touched the ground, then the left foot took the weight. The beat propelled them forward, toe foot, toe foot. The veterans danced with serious intent, all in unison as they circled the powwow drum. Some were in native regalia, but most wore blue jeans. Their dark hair bounced in unison, with an occasional blond or brown head mixed in. Debbie noticed lots of brunettes among the children. A few older men wore Albuquerque type black felt hats. Or were they still made of felt? They looked like it from where Debbie sat. Of those in formal dance wear, a young man’s beaded regalia with three parts caught Debbie’s attention. The top’s short sleeves ended with bunches of feathers. Blue beads decorated the bottom section, which was tied to the waist with separate front and back panels. A beaded piece covered the front and the back, put over the head and tied at both sides of the waist. The last piece hung well into the bottom section, coordinating the beaded look. Blue-beaded arm covers adorned the area from the wrist nearly to the elbow. White fringe hung down, jiggling with each step. Leggings with white fringe and blue beads hung from the base of each knee, providing color all the way down to his blue moccasins. The knees remained unadorned and kept open for maximum movement. Underneath it all, Debbie could see white shorts if the dancer moved wildly. Debbie couldn’t recognize the feathers adorning his head; they appeared fine and separated, like a feather duster. 185

GAME OVER

More dancers moved in. Debbie heard the jingling of bells and clattering of beads over the loud drum beats. Like watching a great and mysterious festival. Sarah walked in, regal as a queen in a Women’s Traditional Dancer outfit. She sat next to Debbie, careful to tuck her leather fringe neatly under herself. “Sarah, you look beautiful!” Debbie reached out and lightly fingered the floor-length white leather fringe hanging from the magnificent red and white cape. Sarah’s two thick braids attached to her chest with large silver medallions pinned to the front of the cape. They served as two badges of pride, almost making her braids part of the cape. The cape covered a white felt dress trimmed with small red, yellow, and green stripes. Two panels of bead work cascaded from the silver medallions on the cape. Sarah wore red pants under the white dress, visible only in the last twelve inches from the floor. Embroidered triangles of yellow, black, green, and white showed on the red fabric on her leg. It looked more like boots than pants. “Do you like my moccasins?” Sarah asked, tipping her feet at an angle showing off the beads that sparkled in yellow, green and black patterns. They blended into the red pants and added to Sarah’s booted look. “I love them.” Debbie looked at Sarah’s glowing face. A single eagle feather with red leather trim at its base rose straight up from the back of her head. The feather’s gray tip pointed to the sky. “Do you wear this often?” “No, usually only at dancing competitions. Seven, maybe eight times a year.” “This isn’t a dance competition?” Sarah chuckled as she straightened her fringe, one strand at a time. “Oh, heavens, no. Competitions are huge powwows. This is more of a, what would you call it, community event, I suppose. We hold this one for ourselves every year about this time. We invite a few of our neighboring tribes, but it’s small compared to a competition, where people dance for prize money. George has an announcement to make to the press, so he asked those of us with formal dress to please wear it.” Sarah leaned toward Debbie and whispered, “I won prize money at a competition last year.” “No kidding! Where was that one held?” “It was the Schemitzun, held in Mashantucket, Connecticut. George and I drove over there for the first time. We’d never met the Pequots before. Very friendly.” Debbie couldn’t stop herself from touching a piece of Sarah’s fringe. 186

ChapterSeventeen

“Connecticut? You drove all the way there for a dance competition?” Sarah nodded. “Do a lot of people do that?” “Many people. There were over five thousand dancers last year. Theirs is the biggest competition, I think. Since there are less than four hundred Pequots, almost everyone there is a visitor. It’s a good time. Some people travel the powwow trail all summer, moving from one powwow to the next. We try to go on as much of the powwow trail each summer as we can.” “Do all the powwows have dance contests?” Debbie asked. Giveaways. Powwow trail. How could she have not heard anything about this before? “I see that you’re not familiar with Indian people, are you?” “No, not really. My son Philip has a friend who’s Indian. But I don’t know what tribe he’s from or anything. I don’t know if they even go to powwows.” “Well, Craig can teach you a great many things. He’s familiar with the customs of several tribes. Sometimes the tribe hosting the powwow gives away prize money, and then it’s a competition. Otherwise the dances are for celebrating harvest, or nature, or people, depending on the purpose of the gathering.” The announcer called a dance to honor mothers and grandmothers. Sarah sat still while other women made their way to the powwow circle. Debbie looked down at Sarah’s moccasins and watched the beads sparkle. “Don’t you have any children, Sarah?” she asked before she realized her rudeness. “Oh, I’m sorry. I ask too many questions. This whole event has my head spinning. ” “It’s all right, dear. I’ve never been blessed with children, but thank heavens for Ruth. She keeps me busy. And George and I always have guests. Sometimes I have so many young people at the house that it’s a relief when they’re gone.” Sarah looked down at her wiggling toes. “Craig has been like a son to us, so it’s only natural that we care for Ruth. And there are others too, like Carla, and Jean, of course.” Sarah looked Debbie in the eye and took her hands, just as she had the day before. “People to care for come in many forms, you know. How about your children? Did you say you have two boys?” “Yes, Philip is seventeen now, a senior in high school, which is hard for me to believe. And Steven just turned thirteen last month.” “Will your Philip leave home after he graduates from high school?” Debbie felt a tightening in her chest. “He wants to. Very badly. I’m not ready for that, though.” The announcer called a dance to honor elders. Then came the an187

GAME OVER

nouncement many had been waiting for. “It’s time for the giveaway. George Buffalo has an announcement to make to the press, which he will do at the conclusion of the giveaway. This giveaway is in honor of our Senator and leader, Jean Anderson Buffalo, who served us well, and will again. I will assist her mother, Margaret Buffalo, in passing out the gifts.” Margaret walked to the blanketed pile and reached under the blanket. “Jean’s sister, please come up.” Margaret handed her a clock. The sister nodded thanks and stood just inside the dance circle. She gave a picture album to George, who took his place sheepishly in the circle, clutching the picture album. Calling other individuals by name, Margaret Buffalo gave each one their correct gift. The emcee could choose how to call people forward once the specific gift list was handled. “All elders please come forward,” the emcee ordered. The older people received their gifts from Margaret, handing out gifts at random now, one to each person. Sarah received a plastic juice pitcher. “All members of the tribe over the age of twenty-five, please come forward.” Margaret obviously enjoyed her task, smiling as each person took their gift from her. “All those above the age of twelve come forward.” Debbie sat on the bleachers, wondering what she should do. The only ones not yet called were children and a few scattered visitors in the stands, and the reporters who had started their filming. “All the children come forward.” The children ran to the announcer. Margaret handed them plastic glasses, pencils and pens, and they took their gifts and joined the dance circle. “All remaining visitors, except those filming, please come forward.” Debbie walked to the announcer. By now she knew what to do. Take the gift from Margaret, stand inside the dance circle, and wait patiently. Margaret Buffalo handed her a Native Peoples Calendar. She took it and joined the circle. The emcee finished the calling and new action began. People walked around the dance circle, shaking hands, showing their gifts. Suddenly the drummers started their pounding, and all moved forward in unison with a four/four beat that by now sounded familiar to Debbie. After a few moments they broke their tempo by hitting three loud, honor beats, taking her by surprise. At that, the dancers held up their gifts during the three singular beats. Debbie timidly held up her calendar. Debbie felt the floor vibrate with the drum beats and joined in the dance. Children to her left giggled while they held up their gifts. She thought the dance would be a solemn occasion since it was in honor of someone who was ill, but she could not have been more wrong. The cir188

ChapterSeventeen

cle of dancers moved slowly forward in one mass, enjoying each other’s company and conversation. She held her calendar high each time the honor beats sounded. Suddenly Craig was at her right side, Ruth in tow. He showed her his gift, a yellow plastic cup, and Ruth showed her a green one. “Just like Daddy’s,” she squealed. Her silver tobacco lid bells jingled as she moved. “What’d you get?” Craig asked as quietly as he could over the drum beats. There were many conversations going on around the powwow circle. “This calendar. Look,” Debbie said with pride as she turned it over to the back cover, filled with small pictures of the larger ones inside. She took his arm. “Thank you for bringing me here. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.” “You’re welcome.” His reply was almost drowned out by the honor beats. George took the microphone at the end of the dance. Dancers talked behind him in the powwow circle, comparing gifts, some even trading. Once George began speaking, the crowd fell silent. “I have invited the reporters to join us today to hear an announcement and to have a press conference. I would first of all like to tell the world that we care very much for Jean Anderson Buffalo, our leader in Washington. Her mother wanted to make this announcement, but she isn’t up to it today. So I tell you now, for all to hear, that we know our Jean was attacked.” The crowd gasped and the reporters’ cameras whirled away. George continued, “We are sure of it, for several reasons. First, we were told she choked on a candy. Jean always chewed her candies the moment they hit her tongue. It was her habit. Always. Second, I was talkin’ to her on the telephone the night she was attacked. She said she heard a mousetrap go off in her garage. I went to Washington to see for myself. There was no mouse in a mousetrap. You can get confirmation on that with the Washington police. She was hearin’ other noises. Intruder noises. I have other proof too, but it can wait. Do you have questions?” It took a moment for the press to respond. When they did, they clamored all at once. Debbie heard one question above the others, “Do you think this had anything to do with the legislation she was working on?” Debbie wondered what Craig would think of that question. She wished she had met his cousin Jean before now. “Of course it had somethin’ to do with it. How could it not? There’d be no other reason for anybody to harm Jean. You all know about the legis189

GAME OVER

lation she was workin’ on. She was tryin’ to stop the regulation of Indian gaming. We don’t know who could have done such a terrible thing, but it was definitely foul play.” “How do you know she wouldn’t choke on her candies? Pretty weak premise on which to base an accusation of foul play,” a reporter commented. George was ready for the question: “Her mother, Margaret, tells of the time when ten-year-old Jean almost choked on a butterscotch candy. Jean had darn near turned blue by the time the candy was loosened. Ever since then, she’s been afraid of puttin’ hard candies in her mouth. Her mother told Jean to give them a quick bite in half and then she wouldn’t choke. Jean always did that, sometimes hittin’ a candy with a hammer before puttin’ it in her mouth. She would never have choked on a candy. Never.” “Tell us more about the mouse. You say she heard a mousetrap go off?” “Yup. That’s what she said on the telephone. She said she heard a noise in the garage. She said a trap must have gone off. There was no dead mouse in her garage when I checked it over. Nothin’ to ever show she found a dead mouse.” “Couldn’t the mouse have been thrown away? Maybe put in the garbage and hauled off?” “I’m tellin’ you, there was no mouse. They had the house all roped off after they took her to the hospital. No one had thrown away any garbage. I searched through the garbage in the house and in the garage, with the help of the police. It had been over a week since the garbage company had been through there. But there was no mouse to be found.” “Has a police report been filed?” “No. They didn’t want to listen to me, which is why I asked you to come here. They didn’t even want me in the house. They saw it as an accidental chokin’, plain and simple. They didn’t even treat her house like a crime scene, didn’t dust for fingerprints. Nothin’.” “Then the police don’t agree with your findings?” “Not at all. So the elders decided to ask for a Senate investigation even though it’s against our traditional ideas of heading up our own justice inquiries. “What are you expecting to find in a government inquiry?” “Proof.” The party at George’s house started right away. “I swear, Uncle George, they took you seriously. You were great!” Craig smiled and gave his uncle a congratulatory pound on the back. “Way to go!” The crowd offered “cheers” and everyone talked at once. 190

ChapterSeventeen

“Congratulations!” Debbie shook George’s hand firmly. “The press responded well. You’ll make the national news.” She almost felt like a part of the family now. Everyone included her in hugs, patting her as they walked by, sometimes stopping for a kiss on the cheek. As Sarah walked past her, she stroked Debbie’s hair in a motherly way. At first Debbie felt uncomfortable with the demonstrativeness of the group, but soon she found herself reciprocating. What would it be like to come from a family like this? She watched them all closely, and knew George and Sarah were the quiet ones. Craig and the younger cousins could carry on conversations non-stop. She watched Craig’s turquoise rings flash as he described his classes, his work, and his cabin to the many guests. Every now and then someone would mention Jean and the party conversation would drag, but not for long. “Hey, I have something to show you,” Craig whispered in her ear. “Let’s take a walk.” The night air felt a little warmer than it had been, although Debbie could see their breath in the air. Craig led the way on a winding path through the woods until they came to a moonlit clearing about the size of a football field. She saw the outline of a small building to her left, and he quickly headed toward it. The length of his strides increased until she called, “Hey, Craig, slow down.” Why was he in such a hurry? He turned and watched her catch up. “Sorry. I can’t wait to show you this.” “Is this the cabin you mentioned?” Debbie asked, looking at the shuttered windows of a tiny house. “Yep. My dad built it and left it to me. Come on, take a look.” He bounded to the top stair and unlocked the padlock. He swung the door open wide, and Debbie stepped in. “Let me light the lamps.” Craig moved to the wood stove and fumbled for a box of matches, finding a match and striking it on the burner surface. The spark seemed to fill the darkened room with light, and when he touched the flame to two kerosene lamps the kitchen glowed with soft warmth. “I’ll start a fire. It’ll only take a minute to warm up.” He crumpled newspaper and lit it from one of the lamps, then put it in the stove. “Kindling next,” he smiled at her, and put several pieces of small wood on top of the paper, teepee style, and added a dry log. “That should do it.” With pride he looked around the kitchen. “Here it is. My home away from home.” Debbie saw the small kitchen was about ten feet square and the sitting area next to it held a comfortable-looking couch and some overstuffed chairs. Two doors led off the main room. 191

GAME OVER

“How about a tour?” He moved to a door and opened it wide. “Bedroom, or should I say, cot room?” He took a step and opened the second door with a flourish, exposing small shelves. “Pantry. I love this place.” He closed the door. “The end of the official Craig Two Horses tour.” Debbie examined the rest of the walls for another door. “No bathroom?” “Of course, just outside and to the left.” He grinned at her. “Outhouse. Means outside.” “Ah, well, very primitive, but very, um, cozy.” She held her hands up to the stove. The fire filled the room with remarkable warmth. “Your dad built this? Did you ever live here?” “Yep, for the summer when I was, let’s see, eight years old. Mostly I slept outside though, since my folks and my baby sister stayed in the bedroom. Dad built a big tent enclosure for the rest of us out in the back. He always meant to add another bedroom.” He looked around the room. “A perfect adventure for a child, I must say.” Craig smiled a little. “I always loved this special place. This kitchen seemed big then. I guess everybody reminisces about their good old days. What about your family? What do you remember as special?” He pulled up a chair for her by the fire, then moved to one opposite hers and sat down. The chair legs scraped against the floor and the room filled with the echo of it. She loved the smell and sound and feel of that moment – the wood starting to crackle, the smoke scent filling the air, Craig sitting and waiting in anticipation of her answer. As she realized she would never have such rich memories of childhood, never feel as cared for as Craig probably felt in this old, slightly damp, unpainted wreck of a kitchen, a sense of emptiness replaced her good feelings. Why did she suddenly feel like a victim? Her parents loved her in their way. They did the best job they could. She had her boys and a good job. She started going through the list of all the things she knew she should be grateful for. A tear escaped down her cheek. She didn’t think Craig noticed and she wiped it away. She knew then that she could love him if she let herself go. She had to protect herself and she knew she didn’t know how to feel anymore. Would she ever get back the ability to be in love, to feel the world around her? “You okay?” he asked, his hand touching her shoulder. He had noticed. She saw the fire reflected in his dark eyes and she could see the outline of his lips. She wanted him, maybe even needed him, with an intensity startling to her. Would he accept her? She decided to take the chance. 192

ChapterSeventeen

She leaned into him and held his face with her hands, then kissed him softly. He backed up a little and caught his breath. “Debbie, this is not why I brought you here.” “But I think it’s why I followed you.” She kissed him again, parting her lips. This time he kissed her back in a gentle way at first, then more demanding. “I want you,” she breathed, more to herself than to Craig. He breathed with her and his tongue found hers, exploring with a firmness that took her by surprise. She unbuttoned his shirt and her hands moved instinctively to his shoulders, touching and caressing him gently. She felt warm and moist deep within her, and she felt a shudder begin. “You said ‘friends,’ remember? Are you sure you want to do this?” His hands didn’t stop as he questioned. His tongue moved down her neck and he fingered her shirt, pulling it out of her belted jeans. As he lifted his hands to her breasts she could feel the blast of cool cabin air on her skin. She felt more alive than she had in months. “You have to be sure,” he groaned, as one hand moved between her thighs, rubbing the fabric of her jeans and fingering the zipper. She took in his intoxicating male smell and felt her pulse quicken. They kissed again. This time their tongues moving in circles, over and under in a rhythm she knew was right. Consequences be damned. “I’m sure.” Debbie stood and held out her hand. They moved the few steps to the bed. Debbie was surprised at her own lack of modesty as they both took off their clothes quickly and hurried under the warmth of the blankets. “Nice quilt,” she giggled. She touched the smooth cotton, well worn with the years, and the nubs of the yarn ties rubbed against her skin. Craig’s eye’s sparkled. “It’s got a story behind it. I’ll tell you later.” He caressed her hair with gentle strokes and laid her head back on the pillow. “Does everything have a story? Can’t you just buy a blanket at KMart?” She reached out and stroked his chest, enjoying the feel of his muscles. He cupped her breasts and looked into her eyes. “Now we’ll have a story of our own.” He kissed her. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his tongue moving down her body and stopping briefly to circle her navel. He moved downward, exploring her with a passion that made Debbie feel as though every nerve ending was at his command. His turn to lead now, much like their first dance, where she followed clumsily at first, but she picked up on his signals and she grew more confident with each step. Debbie’s desire overcame any embarrassment. She yearned to be 193

GAME OVER

joined with him and she could think of nothing else. It was her turn to lead. She moved her hips away from him and sat up, reaching for him and caressing him until he moaned. She guided him into her and their hips moved to their own beat. She moved with his movements, felt the pulse of his passion, and answered him as the heat rose between them. When she at last could feel his explosion within her, she gasped and let go. She released all her pent-up tension, let go of all her inhibitions, let go of control, and felt the release of a fully satisfied woman.

194

Chapter Eighteen Craig got up first. By the time Debbie made it to the kitchen, everyone was up. Uncle George’s kitchen buzzed with early morning activity as people got ready for the second day of the powwow. “Morning, Debbie,” Craig smiled at her, handing her a cup of coffee with just the right amount of cream. All the talk and bustle and knowing looks made Debbie feel uncomfortable, sure that people guessed why she and Craig stayed a long time at the cabin last night. Why was it right last night, and so damn complicated this morning? As a friend, she knew she’d be accepted in this home forever. As a member of a couple, she might have ruined her chance to be an unwavering part of this family. Why in the world did she give in to her needy feelings? Damn. Debbie knew Craig wanted to attend the second day of the powwow, but she needed to get out of there and clear her head. “As much as I’d like to stay, I really want to get home before the boys get back. Are you okay with that?” “Sure thing.” Craig said his goodbyes when the others left the house. Ruthie hugged him hard. “Bye, Daddy, come back soon.” “Bye, sweetheart.” He lifted her up and hugged her, and whirled her around before setting her back down. He patted her black hair and she dashed off to Uncle George’s waiting pickup. Debbie and Craig went outside to the porch and waved goodbye as the pickup pulled away. They made themselves a late breakfast in the solitude of Sarah’s kitchen and started their journey back to St. Paul. The main roads were clear of ice and snow, and Craig chatted away. “So what did you think of your rez experience?” Craig reached for her hand and kissed it. “I’m telling you, I have never seen anything like it. Never. It’s going to take me a while to digest it all.” Debbie realized she couldn’t tell him 195

GAME OVER

it felt thrilling to be a part of the event, and yet she’d never felt as alone in her life. She was going home to face her boys, face her job, and face her debts. And if he knew she was a thief . . . “Sometimes I don’t think Ruthie knows me very well. She’s happy with George and Sarah and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to take her from them now. It would be unfair of me to try to raise her. Working full-time all day, going to school three nights a week. And with study time, she’d be with strangers most of her waking hours.” He let out a deep sigh. Debbie nodded in sympathy. “I’m sure glad Steven is thirteen. Still it’s hard for him when I’m gone a lot. But things are looking up. Light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak.” Craig told her of his great respect for his father and his cousin Jean. Debbie talked about her divorce and raising the boys alone, the sports they played, the girlfriend challenges, and Philip’s minor troubles in school. When they reached Debbie’s house by early afternoon, she invited him to stay a while and meet the boys. “Remember, they’re teenagers. Be prepared.” She smiled her reassurance. “I’m sure they’ll be curious about who I escaped with over the weekend. But don’t show them we’re, well, don’t kiss me or anything in front of them, okay? I’m not ready to explain.” “What are you saying?” Craig gave her a sullen look. “Does this mean we’re not going to see each other?” “Just give me some time to get the boys ready for the idea.” By the time the boys arrived, Craig and Debbie were cooking a pizza, giggling over the gifts at the giveaway and the expressions on people’s faces when they received their honor gifts. As soon as Debbie made the introductions and told the boys she had gone to a powwow, Philip glared at Craig. “Where’d you go?” “To the Bad River Indian Reservation, where I’m from,” Craig answered. “Where did you stay?” Philip asked in what seemed like a proprietary voice. “With my Uncle, George Buffalo. He has bunk beds up there for tons of company.” “Go upstairs and put your things away,” Debbie ordered. “The rest of your questions can wait, Philip.” She shot him a look, hoping Philip got the idea to lighten up. Steven asked many questions about the powwow. He looked back as he climbed the stairs, “If you go to another one, can I go? Please, Mom?” he begged. “We’ll see.” The house became quiet again with the boys upstairs. Craig grabbed 196

ChapterEighteen

his jacket and put it on, then pulled on his boots. “You’ll have your hands full now. I’d best be on my way. You know what we didn’t do? We never talked about our midterm exam.” Debbie nodded. “You’re right.” She laughed heartily, throwing her head back. “Imagine that.” Something about looking at him made her feel better. “Want to start sometime this week? Maybe after work on Wednesday?” “Yes, I think that will work just fine.” She moved with him to the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned and pulled her to him and kissed her lightly. “Debbie, what can I say about the weekend? Thanks for coming with me. And thanks for . . . everything.” She leaned against him. “I had a nice time, too. Thanks for the invitation.” She looked into his eyes. What did she see? Confusion, hesitation? “Wednesday, then.” He let her go. She watched Craig walk down the sidewalk. He got in his truck and drove off without looking back. The boys made a commotion upstairs. “It’s mine! You got to keep the last one,” Philip hollered, pulling the Minnesota Timberwolves program out of Steven’s hands as they came thundering down the stairs. “Mom. Tell him that’s not fair. It’s mine. Dad gave the program to me. And besides, he got to drink a beer at the game and I didn’t,” Steven said accusingly. Debbie forced herself to listen. “Okay. Who did you say got the last one?” Both the boys stopped and stared at her. Philip looked sheepishly at her. “I got the last one. I guess this one should be his.” He tapped Steven’s cap with the rolled-up program, and they grinned at each other. “Hey, Mom, did you hear Dad’s going to Japan this summer on a job? He’s supposed to see if he can scrounge around and find any remnants of the furniture from the original Imperial Hotel. He said maybe we could come along.” Steven picked at the leftover pizza. “The Imperial Hotel? Wasn’t that torn down ages ago, in the 60s or something?” Debbie knew she was in for a late evening of hearing about Charlie’s planned adventures. “Yeah. But the Frank Lloyd Wright Society of Wisconsin wants to see if there are pieces of furniture that are hangin’ out somewhere. Some kind of peacock chairs or something. Dad says maybe we can go along,” Steven said in a firm voice, sounding like he believed in the promise. Philip chimed in. “You know he won’t take us. He’ll be too busy when the time comes. If he takes anybody, it’ll be Rachel. That’s who’ll get to go. Just forget it, Stevie.” 197

GAME OVER

“What do you know about it?” Steve muttered as he went upstairs to stow his basketball program away. Great. Now she had to help them deal with their jealousies about Rachel. At least Philip had figured it out. “And anyway, Mom, who exactly is this Craig guy? Are you going to date him or something?” Philip peeled an orange and placed bits of peel on a paper towel. Debbie smiled at Philip’s neatness. Always the one to put things in their proper place, unlike most teenagers. She never needed to ask him to clean his room. “He’s a friend I met in school.” “How old is he anyway? He seems kinda young for you.” Philip put all the peels in a pile, with the large ones at the bottom, small pieces balanced at the top. “Maybe by a few years. But at this point he’s just a friend, Philip. How many friends have I brought home lately? How many?” The recognition of a dare flashed in Philip’s eyes. He gave a marvelous, teenage, could-care-less shrug. “So is he full-blooded Indian, or what?” He had slowed down the peeling, picking at small bits of white fibers from the orange and piled them at the top of his peel mountain. He separated the orange into segments and lined them up. “I think so. Didn’t say if he was. Do people ask you if you’re fullblooded Norwegian?” Philip ignored the question. “Does Dad know you went away with this guy for the weekend?” He raised his chin defiantly. “I didn’t really go away with him for the weekend. I went with him to a powwow and to meet his family. He’s in my law class. And I have the right to make friends, you know. Even if I decided to date him, that’s my business. Isn’t it?” “You did go away with him. Who are you kidding? You got in his truck and took off.” Philip hit his mountain of peels, scattering them across the counter. He glanced up at her. His thin, angular cheek bones showed early signs of beard fuzz. “Who I date seems to be your business. And you never like who I date.” “You’re the child here. I’m the mom. I can make it my business whom you date. Besides, I have liked some of the girls you’ve dated. And yes, I might go out with him.” “Well, I don’t like him.” He smashed two of the slices. Juice spilled over the counter and onto the floor. “I don’t like anything about him.” “You’re making me angry, Philip.” She threw their plates in the sink. “I’ve been working really hard and I’ve been under a lot of pressure. Craig’s been my only new friend for years. I never have time for friends. Give me a break.” 198

ChapterEighteen

Philip snorted. “Yeah, right. Looks like you’ll be making time to date. I suppose I’ll have to watch Steven even more.” He picked up some orange, threw it on the floor and stomped out. “Philip, get back here and clean this up!” He trudged back in and wiped up the mess in silence. The evening didn’t get better. The boys alternately picked on each other and bragged about their dad. Debbie tried to get some studying done but she couldn’t concentrate. Visions of Craig interrupted her thoughts. His body, his shoulders, and the way she felt in his arms kept coming back to her. But he wouldn’t love her if he knew about her gambling and her thievery. Never. She may as well give up on the idea. She tried to put him out of her mind. Back to the real world, she had problems to solve. She had to figure out how to turn in those bonds. After the boys went to bed, she took her cleaning box out of the car trunk. Her trunk seemed the safest hiding place for the bonds. If she carried both sets of keys with her, the boys wouldn’t be able to open the trunk. She spread the bonds on the kitchen table and wrote information on a piece of yellow legal paper, summarizing the total principal of eight thousand dollars. The money would get her out of debt and she could catch up on the mortgage. She deserved these bonds. And after all, they were left to molder away, not doing anyone any good. And the rich clients certainly didn’t need them. Debbie counted the actual coupons remaining and calculated the exact total, three thousand six hundred and fifty dollars of interest. No one would know. She could pay off most of her credit cards. Maybe even have some left over for fun gambling, the way it used to be. Something she and Craig could do together. Maybe they could have a future after all. How long had it been since she’d gone gambling with a friend? Probably over a year. Debbie found it hard to concentrate with someone else along. They’d want to talk or take frequent breaks to eat or listen to the band. The last time she went with her sister, Liz irritated her the entire evening. And Debbie didn’t dare tell Liz how much she’d lost. Liz kept going on and on about the fact that she’d won thirteen dollars in the nickel machine. Big deal. Debbie folded up the yellow paper and slipped it in her purse. She could hear Philip’s music when she went upstairs to bed at 2 am. She walked quietly past his door and crept into her warm bed, filled with a mixture of relief for money to be obtained and dread of needing to scheme to collect it. Her sleep was disturbed with thoughts of bonds and Craig’s lean body 199

GAME OVER

and powwow giveaways and drum beats. Her father’s image came to her, telling her that stealing is stealing, no matter how you sliced it. He waggled a finger at her in reproach, and she told him she didn’t want to be a thief. “Then don’t be,” he said. She tried to explain that it wasn’t so simple. He spat on the ground and said, “Anything is as simple as you make it.” She cried and threw herself at his feet but he wouldn’t look at her. Morning came and Debbie awoke tired. She had to drag herself out of bed to get ready for work. The boys stayed cheerful at breakfast. The day as a whole went smoothly. Even dealing with Mrs. Olson-Reiner, who left three messages on Debbie’s voice mail over the weekend, seemed bearable. Sally asked her to go to lunch but Debbie bowed out of it by pleading personal business. Things I’ve gotta do. At lunchtime she went to the corporate library on the sixth floor, using her employee card for entrance. Since her building served as national headquarters for First Federal, an extensive research section, complete with a half-time research librarian and online expert, was available. Debbie had been in the library a few times when some trust officer asked her to fetch a magazine or book. She didn’t know the setup but thought it must be similar to the university’s library. Debbie approached the front desk, knowing she was going to have to ask for help if she wanted to finish quickly. “Excuse me. Can you tell me where I could find the Standard & Poor’s Corporate Records books?” “Yes,” the librarian said, fingering the buttons on his sweater. “Right over here.” He walked to the second shelf of books and pointed to the bottom row. “Is there anything in particular I can help you find?” “No, thank you. I can find it now.” Debbie took several volumes to the work table. She started with Pennsylvania Utilities Company and found the listing of the Chief Executive Officer, address, and telephone number. She continued her search for the other telephone numbers. The General Mills page flopped shut repeatedly and she marked it with a scrap of paper. Easy. She’d give the company headquarters a call, ask them how to redeem the bonds and send them in according to instructions. She found everything she needed, including the USS Corporation information, and placed the books back on the shelf. *

*

*

Monday morning felt like a fresh start for Craig. Even the giveaway hadn’t been depressing. Seeing Ruthie was always wonderful. Great weekend. He never had to speak to his ex-wife, although he saw her in the buffet line after the honor dance. He nearly missed Ruth’s plate 200

ChapterEighteen

with the meatball he was dishing up at the time. Ruth hadn’t noticed her mother, and Lynn would never ask to see her. George reminded Craig of his own father, and he felt encouraged and strengthened. And Debbie. The night in the cabin. He originally asked her along hoping for a pleasant diversion. She turned out to be so much more. Damn, now what? The first time he noticed her last fall, sitting in the law library looking over her schedule, he had almost spoken with her. The first time he touched her, going around the dance floor at Goodfellows, he knew that she had a power for giving. And the sex. Her body moving against his, the intensity of her kiss. God, how could he be patient enough for a courting process? Dating, phone calls, all that shit. He just wanted to be with her. Still she held back a little, and he couldn’t quite figure out why. And he’d have to be patient with Philip. He walked into his office at the Pine Bend Casino with a renewed sense of what he needed to do. George helped him formulate a plan to catch whoever had changed his computer files. Craig closed and locked his office door to make the phone call and hesitated as he dialed the number. The voice on the other end of the line sounded insistent. “It has to be Wednesday. What about after you put in your shift? I’m willing to meet you anywhere you like.” “Fine.” Craig decided neutral territory would be a good idea. “Meet me at the law school library, third floor. I’ll be at one of the round study tables in the philosophy section.” *

*

*

Trust Officer Lewis returned to his office, well-fed from his customary Monday luncheon with the Lions Club. His computer screen flashed: HAVE SOME ACTIVITY. CALL ME ASAP. Lyle Symington, head of security, promised Lewis he’d keep a close eye on Ms. Wood if she ventured out of her normal work space. Lewis called him right away. “I’ve had one of the trust department cameras focused on her, and I have a little something.” “Tell me what you’ve got,” barked Lewis into the phone. “Not a lot yet, sir, but she spent most of her lunch hour in the library which is not usual for trust department employees. I’m blowing up the images now, in case there’s something you’d like to see. They should be ready in five or six minutes.” Lewis hurried to the security office. He stared at Debbie’s fuzzy image 201

GAME OVER

walking away from her desk. “We picked her up on camera twenty-five going into the elevator. And then again with camera twenty-eight in the library,” Symington explained. Lewis watched as the camera coverage shifted from the trust department to the elevator. He could see her clearly once she sat down in the library. “Why is her image so clouded when she’s walking?” “Because of the compression ratio of our cameras. It looks fuzzy when you view it like a video because the compression means less space. It can be decompressed or enlarged, it just takes some time. When her image is steady, the coarse-grained redundant data is compressed, making her image appear with more clarity that when she’s moving. “Ummm.” Lewis watched the recording of Debbie sitting at the work table, looking through some books, making notes on a yellow piece of legal paper. He watched her get up and reshelve the books, wave to the librarian, and get back in the elevator. “I wonder what she wanted,” Lewis said as he watched the recording again. “How much longer on the enlargements?” “They’re coming up on your screen now, sir.” Symington pressed some option commands. Lewis could hardly believe the photographic quality of the image. He could see the left side of Debbie’s face as clearly as if she were sitting four feet in front of him. He could see the wisps of curly hair at her left temple that had pulled away from the rest of her hair. He could see two small freckles on her cheek. He hadn’t noticed her freckles before. But what was she reading? What was she writing? Lewis squinted hard at the images. He could see her left hand resting on the left page of a book. None of the words on the typewritten page were readable. Lewis tapped the screen. “Can we blow these up even more, especially the ones where she’s looking in a book?” “Yes, sir. It’ll take another ten minutes.” “Fine. Get that done. I’m going to talk to the librarian.” Two minutes later Lewis dashed into the library and questioned the librarian, a man whose definition of an interesting day was when more than two books arrived in the UPS delivery. “No, Mr. Lewis,” the librarian shook his head, “she didn’t tell me anything, except she asked for the Standard & Poor’s books. That’s all.” “Has she ever been in here before?” “Not that I recall, sir.” “Did she ask for specific volumes, or did you notice if she used particular volumes?” “Sorry, I didn’t notice. Is there a problem?” the librarian pushed his 202

ChapterEighteen

glasses higher up on his nose. “No problem. And if she comes back, you are not to mention my questions to her. Under any circumstances. Just pay attention and see what books she uses. Okay?” “Yes, Mr. Lewis. I’ll watch her.” Lewis returned to the security office, not sure what to do next. “Got those images ready, Symington?” “Yes, sir, right here.” He spread the photographs on the table. In each one, the print was illegible. “She’s looking up corporate names and addresses. Look, she’s writing something down in her notebook, and that’s the only thing she took with her.” Lewis stared hard at each photograph. “Isn’t there any way to make the image clearer so we can read either her writing or the page that she’s copying from?” “Sorry. We only have this one camera in the library, so you’re looking at the only angle. You can see that the book type doesn’t show from here. The only reason there’s any camera in there at all was because we insisted on blanketing the entire building with surveillance. We never expected a robbery in the library, sir.” Lewis scanned the photographs again. Various poses of Debbie opening books, writing, closing books. “What do you suppose she’s doing here?” Lewis mused, looking at a photograph where Debbie’s hand is in midair, holding a scrap of paper. “Hmmm. Don’t know.” Lewis thought that Symington made a good security officer and a great observer, but not a great investigator. “I can’t imagine either. But she’s obviously doing something, and I have a hunch it has to do with bonds. She lied to me about her time in the archival vault. And a liar can never be trusted.” He looked at the next blow up, which showed Debbie writing again. “Let’s view the action again. There’s got to be something there.” “Like what?” “I’m not sure, Symington. Maybe a marker, a smudge, a dog-eared page.” Lewis watched the recording from the beginning, and after about ten minutes, there was Debbie, putting a slip in the Standard & Poor’s book. “That’s it!” “That’s what, sir?” “A clue! I bet she’s left us a clue. Maybe she’s marking her place. Let’s see if that scrap of paper is still in that book.” Lewis practically ran for the elevator.

203

GAME OVER

204

Chapter Nineteen Debbie told the boys she’d be home late because she needed to go to the library after her Legal Ethics class. Being a student provided her with a perfect excuse. She needed one more night at Pine Bend to make up for her losses, and she only lied to protect the boys. If they knew how frequently she gambled, they might worry even more than they already did about the money situation. Or they might tell Charlie, and he’d make all kinds of trouble. After all, he paid child support. But what did Charlie know about support, anyway? She carried most of the burden, and he had no idea how much it cost her to raise the boys. Charlie wrote only one check a month, but Debbie’s entire wages went to support the house, car, kids, and lifestyle for the three of them. Charlie’s contribution was limited, while hers seemed never ending. When the irony of her gambling so much money hit her about six months ago, she decided it was better that Charlie didn’t know. He might accuse her of gambling away the money meant for his children. “Hot diggedy,” she’d said to herself when she opened yesterday’s mail. Two surprises came her way – first, a one hundred dollar check from her mother, meant to be a birthday gift for her and the boys. Debbie could use the entire check right now and make up the boy’s money by the time their birthdays rolled around this summer. The second surprise came in the form of a new credit card with a one thousand dollar limit. She’d received one of many VISA card applications a few weeks ago, and she had filled it out without much hope for extra money. What a relief. She thought maybe she’d put it away for an emergency since it carried an interest rate of over eighteen percent, but she tucked it in her purse before she left the house. Why not use it tonight? She’d soon have the bond money to cover whatever she charged on the card. Maybe just knowing the bond money was coming would change her luck. After all, the bond money was more than she really needed. 205

GAME OVER

She’d figured it all out. About five thousand would bring her up to date on the house payments, although since she’d made arrangements to pay only the interest on her mortgage for the last few months, no one at the bank would even be expecting her to pay on the principal. Or she could use the bond money to pay off most of her credit card debt. She wanted to put some away for new tires, and maybe she could start making regular mortgage payments again instead of just paying interest. Perhaps she’d even start making the sixty dollars per month payments for Steven’s braces. The orthodontist had been patient when she’d told him about her family emergencies, but how long would his patience last? Her car insurance bill would arrive next month, as well as the bill for her life insurance premium. I’m bankrolled well tonight. Tomorrow I can deposit the check from my mom, and I’ll just charge a little on this new card – just enough to put me in the big money. As she parked her car in the Pine Bend parking lot, she felt a little nervous about the evening. Now that she knew Craig worked at Pine Bend, she didn’t want to risk running into him. She needed to be careful about her visits. And she couldn’t go back to Magic Days as the old woman could have described her. Maybe they got her on camera coming out of the restroom. Moonlight glistened off the snow cover in the flat fields surrounding Pine Bend. The weather had turned mild and the snow drifts had all been cleared from the lot. She found the walk easy and decided not to take the shuttle. A little fresh air would do her good. Her boots made solid crunching sounds as she walked along the hardened snow crust covering the pavement. Debbie looked up at the stars, but they were invisible when she faced the bright lights of the casino. The quiet of the huge parking lot stood in stark contrast to the noise inside that she knew would soon hit her. Debbie liked to park far away from the comings and goings of the many vehicles in the main parking lot. Her father told her to always park in the back. “Car is less likely to get hit and scratched that way,” he’d say. “And fewer people walking by means fewer chances for a break in. No place for thieves to duck and hide behind other cars.” What would she do without his rules for living – ways to keep safe, out of harm’s way. Isolated to her sometimes felt as though she’d have a higher chance of break in. But who was she to argue with her dad’s rules. Debbie caught a slight movement to her right. She swung around in surprise, looking into the dark night of the dimly lit parking lot. She hadn’t been aware of anyone else around, only her own footsteps. There sat a rabbit, not more than ten feet from her. The rabbit sat per206

ChapterNineteen

fectly still, not even risking a breath. It stared at Debbie out of one eye, the face turned sideways. “What are you doing here, little rabbit? It’s March.” Debbie said quietly. “It’s still very cold.” The rabbit twitched a whisker, nothing more. He held both front paws in mid-air, poised to charge away. “Don’t you rabbits sleep in winter?” Debbie asked. She could see the rabbit’s sides start moving rapidly in and out with shallow breathing. The reason for the rabbit’s panic became apparent as a huge, yellow dog dashed over the snow bank at the edge of the parking lot, smelling the ground with the single-minded determination of a hunter stalking prey. His head darted from side to side, following the scented trail without looking up. The rabbit dashed away between parked cars. “Hey dog, here boy, come here now,” Debbie called out, determined to stall the dog. She moved to the exact spot where the rabbit had paused. “Good dog, good boy,” she murmured, as the dog approached warily. She was in his path and she knew it. The dog gave a low growl. He darted to the side, but he couldn’t seem to pick up the scent. He barked but came no closer than five or six feet away from Debbie. His bark changed to a howl. “Go home, dog. Go away, now. Rabbit’s gone. Shoo, shoo.” No action. The dog stared at her. “Go on, get outta here!” she hollered, fluttering her gloved hands forward, and the dog ran off. “What do you know,” she said to herself proudly. “Saved a rabbit.” She faced away from the casino, looking out into the darkness of winter fields. She looked up and saw the night stars and smiled. The beauty of the constellations in the winter sky reminded her of childhood days when she lived at the outskirts of Rochester. She and her brothers and sisters camped out in the back yard, mosquitoes and all. They’d face the night together, bundled in sleeping bags, armed with flashlights against unknown monsters that might be lurking on the outskirts of the yard. Loneliness overcame her. Her throat tightened and her eyes stung as if from a blast of cold wind. What nonsense. She struggled to smother her feelings. She needed to stay in control, be restrained. She ordered herself to start walking toward the casino entrance. Get going now. No need to get emotional over memories or a stupid rabbit. Her thoughts turned to her task for the night. To make up for past losses by playing smart. Lights from the machines inside were clearly visible, pulsing neon excitement. She entered the large foyer and stared at the action in the glassedin betting rooms off to the right. Huge television monitors covered the front wall of the room – two rows with twelve monitors in each row, one 207

GAME OVER

on top of the other. The monitors broadcast sporting events – a hockey game, a boxing match, a basketball game, and the game she came for, horse races on the entire bottom row of twelve monitors. She’d found an Internet article on how to play the ponies and she was sure she could make some money if she played smart. Debbie walked through the double glass doors and instantly got caught up in the action. Massive, well-polished wooden tables took up most of the main floor area. Think I’ll sit and watch for awhile. No sense risking money until I know the procedure. She chose the middle table, middle chair. It matched her lucky machine philosophy, although Debbie felt a little exposed without a machine in front of her. Everything about the room exuded the feeling of money – big money. She loved the expensive chairs of dark brown leather decorated with ornate brass tacks that felt cool to the touch, rounded arms that enfolded a person – easy to settle into and feel relaxed. She put one finger on each tack as she curved her hands around the chair arms. Even on carpet, the chairs rolled easily on their sturdy rollers. The carpet had an exotic, middle eastern look to it. Subtle blue and yellow birds adorned the edges of the rug, feathers flying, some with beaks open. Green and yellow leaves and vines decorated the rest of the carpet, making their way to the center of the room where a small sundial pattern anchored the rug to the floor. The sundial could be seen if one moved the chairs out of the center aisle. Debbie noticed that her chair rested on a yellow mark of some kind – probably good luck. The walls, paneled with dark brown walnut, glowed with reflected lights from the television monitors. Cigar smoke permeated the air, settling in on the lungs with a sense of belonging. Debbie knew her dad would have loved this room. “Would madam wish to place a bet?” The attendant asked, leaning toward Debbie. His suit made him look the part of a distinguished gentleman waiting on tables at a French restaurant. Instead he held a tray with a tablet and gold pen. “Not yet. I’d like to watch for a while before I bet. Do you have any handouts about how to place bets?” “No, not about how to place bets, madam.” He leaned closer and cleared his throat, embarrassment showing in his twinkling blue eyes. “Generally, observers watch the betting from outside the glass walls.” “Oh, I’m sorry. But if I can’t hear what’s going on, I don’t think I’ll ever catch on to the betting process, and I’d like to place some bets once I’ve learned how.” “Very well, madam. A short time is no problem. May I pour you a drink while you watch?” 208

ChapterNineteen

“Please. A white wine.” Debbie rarely drank white wine, but it seemed to match the feel and decor of the room. He returned with the wine just as another horse race got underway. Horses paraded around the perimeter of the race track and commentators discussed the prospects and characteristics of each horse as they moved into place. “Can people bet the quinella here?” she asked, remembering the horse term from her one visit to Canterbury Downs. She’d never returned to the track because the seats were uncomfortable – not much better than gymnasium bleachers – and she didn’t like having to stand in long lines to place bets before each race. It also seemed to take forever to get each new race underway, and then the race ended in an instant. “Yes, madam. We take quinella bets. I brought you the list of possible bets on the ponies.” Debbie took the list gratefully. She searched her purse for a dollar bill to give as a tip, but by the time she found it, he was gone, hovering over other clients in the room, most of whom were male. Debbie stared at the top of the list. There in bold letters was the most intimidating of rules: MINIMUM BET – $100. She knew she’d have to work hard at the odds for each race. A person needed a system to have even the slightest chance of determining which horse could win. Many variables came into play – track conditions, racing history of each horse, physical condition of the jockey, even the horse’s mood. Debbie sipped her wine and listened to the announcers. “ . . . youngest horse in the field. Generally doesn’t run well on the wet ground that we have here on this Florida winter day. He’s not much of a mudder. But the jockey has won his last three races so that puts Show-A-Day up in the odds, paying about five to one.” She could win $500 in just one race. She watched other gamblers placing bets. They joked with each other, laughed like old friends, obviously comfortable gambling with each other in this hideaway. . . . “and another fine example, too. Maid Marion is the only filly in the race, and will ya’ look at those long legs. She’s gotten faster with each of her past six races. She’s never won here though, so her odds are now standing at about eight to one.” Maid Marion looked not just edgy but downright nervous. She kept stretching her neck around and baring her bridled teeth, trying to bite the man attempting to lead her in the horse procession. The man was losing the battle. The jockey sat helplessly on the saddle with his legs tucked under himself, able to handle horseflesh only once the race began. “. . . folks, he’s had trouble in his last two races, placing seventh each time. But his trainer says Lucky Star is over his recent infection, and he has high hopes for today’s race. Odds are standing at about twelve to 209

GAME OVER

one. Check the betting board, and place your bets now.” The attendant came toward Debbie’s table. Should she place a bet or not? A hundred dollars could buy a lot of groceries or a new jacket, which she badly needed. Minimum payment on any of her credit cards. The down payment necessary for Philip’s graduation ring, due next month. “Will you be placing a bet on this race, madam?” Debbie hesitated. “Can I use a credit card?” “Of course. I can place your bet and bring you your receipt after the race has begun.” “Okay. Let’s do it.” Debbie grinned with excitement. “I’ll take $100 on Show-A-Day. Here’s my card.” “Will that be to win, place, or show, madam?” “Would you remind me what the difference is? It’s been awhile since I’ve bet on horses.” “Certainly. To win would mean that you get the five to one odds if the horse wins. The horse needs to finish in first place in order for you to get any money back. To place would mean that you would get the horse’s odds if the horse finishes either first or second. The place odds for ShowA-Day are now, let’s see . . ,” he looked at the odds board that showed on a computer screen. “Two to one. For every dollar bet, you would get two in return. To show would mean that you would get the odds, let’s see, 1.5 to 1, if Show-A-Day finishes either first, second, or third.” “To win, then. Let’s bet it to win.” “Very well. More wine for you?” the attendant asked politely. “Yes, please. By the way, is there a charge for wine here?” “Absolutely not. It’s on the house. I’ll be right back with your receipt.” The horses lined up at the starting gate as the attendant walked over to another table. What if he doesn’t get the bet placed in time? Debbie watched the attendant milling about with two more clients before he finally went to the window. No one seemed concerned. He placed the bets, handing over cash and several credit cards, Debbie’s included. The cashier pressed buttons and gave the attendant the receipts before activating the Betting Closed sign above her head. Two minutes later, the announcer screamed: “And they’re off. Ride’Em-High takes the lead. He’s the odds on favorite for this race, and look at him go!” All conversation in the room stopped, and a quiet sense of anticipation filled the air. The attendant returned with Debbie’s wine. He whispered, “Your wine, madam,” and he put the wine, credit card, and receipt on the table. “Thank you,” Debbie said, without taking her eyes off the screen. Show-A-Day was nowhere to be seen in the pack of horses going around 210

ChapterNineteen

the first curve. The announcer’s calls could be clearly heard: “Ride-’Em-High continues to pull away, as Prancing Dancer runs a close second. After that comes Dicey Boy, Show-A-Day, Clear The Decks, Pegasus, Lucky Stars and finally Maid Marion.” By the time the announcer finished the order, the horses were nearly to the middle of the first stretch and the order had changed. Some of the bettors began cheering quietly for their horses. One young man stood up and cheered, “Come on, Maid Marion.” Others joined in. “Go, Prancing Dancer!” “Get up, Lucky Stars!” By the time the horses reached the second turn in the oval race track, the individual voices of the bettors turned into an indistinguishable shout. Debbie could hear the announcer’s calls above the increasing noise. “At the top of the turn, here goes Prancing Dancer, leading by a nose, but around the turn comes Show-A-Day. Ride-’Em-High is falling back to third, then comes Dicey Boy, Pegasus, Lucky Stars, Maid Marion, and Clear The Decks. Oh, Pegasus got bumped on the turn, he’s falling back. At the top of the stretch it’s still Prancing Dancer, followed by Show-A-Day, coming out of the pack is Dicey Boy, Lucky Stars, Maid Marion, Clear The Decks, and Pegasus, who is dropping out. Looks like an injury. Coming to the final turn, it’s Prancing Dancer by a neck, with Show-A-Day coming on strong. Dicey Boy is gaining ground on the outside, Maid Marion is still going strong, and the rest of the field falling back.” The young man in the front of the room with the annoying voice screamed, “Come on, Maid Marion, come on!” Debbie stood up to see the screens better. “Come on, Show-A-Day,” she whispered under her breath, “Win for me now, win for me.” The announcer’s call could no longer be heard. The bettors had to be content to watch the screens, with the camera focused on the finish line. It was Prancing Dancer and Show-A-Day neck and neck, then Maid Marion as they galloped toward the finish line. Debbie pushed her horse forward with all her might. In a few seconds it was over. The small crowd cheered, some dejectedly, some elatedly. Debbie stared at the photo finish, then looked at the odds board, which flashed the unofficial order of finish: 1st Place: Prancing Dancer; 2nd Place: Show-A-Day; 3rd Place: Maid Marion; 4th Place: Dicey Boy; 5th Place: Clear The Decks; 6th Place: Ride-Em-High; 7th Place: Lucky Stars; 8th Place - Pegasus. The young blond man who had been rooting for Maid Marion accepted congratulations. He must have bet on her to show. “Always bet on the ladies, that’s what I say!” He bragged in a high-pitched voice. Damn, she should have bet to place. She’d have won $200. Debbie 211

GAME OVER

looked at her betting sheet. I’ll win the next one. I’ll listen to all the specifics on each horse and make a wiser bet. The attendant had returned to her side. “Would you like a guidebook for this evening’s races? I can get one for you if you’d like.” “Is there a cost?” “No, of course not. We also have a buffet over on the far wall, if you’d like.” “Thank you. Yes.” Debbie took off her jacket. She helped herself to a plate of snacks, loading up on the huge shrimp cocktail. She pored over the guidebook. Why couldn’t he have brought this to her before she placed her first bet? Sure would have helped. Maybe that’s why she didn’t win. The brochure listed each race, along with the horse specifics. She had twenty minutes to decide on her bet for race twelve. May as well try her luck. After all, she could lose a hundred dollars easily on the machines in twenty minutes anyway. And this room felt relaxing. Nice change of pace. Free wine, good food. She could win here. She read the horses’ descriptions for race twelve: Mighty Mite, a newcomer, only eight races in his short past; Shazam, odds-on favorite, won his last five races; Del’s Pearl, an experienced filly who came in second more often than not; Live-A-Little, just back from an injury to his front leg; Tommy Blues, a blue roan Australian horse, racing in the U.S. for the first time; Saturday Night Live, an experienced racer who liked to run in wet sand; Pack-’Em-In, a sturdy horse that once qualified for the Kentucky Derby; and Ventura, a filly with two wins out of her last five races. Debbie read the experts calls: Odds were on Shazam, Del’s Pearl, and Saturday Night Live to place. An annoying voice broke her concentration. “My money goes on Del’s Pearl.” The young man who won money on Maid Marion leaned over Debbie’s shoulder. “She’s got a good history.” The nasal quality of his voice actually sounded worse than the sharpness of tone. “Thanks, I’ll consider that.” “Well, let me share a tip with you,” the young man continued. “I come here three or four nights a week, and I go home a winner almost every night.” “I’ll find my own system,” Debbie said, not wanting anything to do with this obnoxious man. “Fine. But if you change your mind, come sit by me.” He sauntered off, looking sure of himself and his advice. “Another wine, madam?” the attendant asked. Debbie continued to take notes on the eight horses that appeared on the television monitors. “Yes, please.” Debbie glanced up at the odds 212

ChapterNineteen

monitors. She didn’t want to bet on Shazam even though he was expected to win – with an even payoff, what was the point? Saturday Night Live and Del’s Pearl seemed to be good bets, and she could make her original $100 back if she won with Saturday Night Live at 3.5 to 1. Still, Del’s Pearl had a better chance of winning the race at 2.5 to 1. She debated her choices until the attendant arrived. “Are you ready to place a bet on this race?” Suddenly she had it – the perfect, fool-proof plan. She’d wager on Del’s Pearl to show, since that horse loved to come in second, and Saturday Night Live to win. That way, she’d get some money back. She checked the odds board for Del’s Pearl to show: 1.5 to 1. She picked up her credit card and handed it shakily to the attendant. “Ready. $100 on Del’s Pearl to show, and $100 on Saturday Night Live to win.” “Good choices, madam.” He disappeared with her card. The announcers discussed possibilities as the trainers began loading the horses in the starting gate. Del’s Pearl went in quietly. Saturday Night Live balked and went in kicking. The attendant brought back her receipt, and the horses were off. This time Debbie didn’t stand up right away. She knew nothing mattered until after the third turn. Still, she couldn’t help but watch the monitors. “Come on, horses,” she mumbled to herself. The low buzzing in the room started again, and soon the crowd sounded more like fifty people than the twenty or so there. Debbie heard a nasal voice: “Go, Del’s Pearl. Go, Del’s Pearl.” Shazam had been in the lead since the beginning of the race, and by the last turn he lead by a length. Del’s Pearl, Saturday Night Live, and Mighty Mite were neck and neck, heading for the finish line. Each gallop seemed to go on forever. Debbie watched the hooves of Del’s Pearl, and they seemed to move in slow motion. First the left hind foot hit the sand, then left forefoot and right hind foot together, then the right forefoot, all in perfect harmony. Only three beats were made with each stride, yet there were four hooves, four legs. Debbie found her shoulders moving forward slightly with each stride. A sense of light headedness came over her. Standing now, she steadied herself with her hands on the table. “Please, please,” she begged quietly. When it ended, Debbie stared at the stilled monitors. Shazam had won the race. No one looked surprised. The action on the left-most monitors showed the photo finish for second and third place. Debbie couldn’t tell one horse from the next. Brown noses and legs and chests filled the screens. There seemed no visible difference in position between Del’s 213

GAME OVER

Pearl on the inside, Saturday Night Live in the middle, and Mighty Mite on the outside. Debbie looked at the placement board, still flashing UNCONFIRMED. Oh God, Del’s Pearl has to be second or third. Please let Del’s Pearl be second or third. The board flashed new results: 1st Place: Shazam, 2nd Place: Saturday Night Live, 3rd Place: Del’s Pearl. I won! $150. I’m a winner! “Yes!” she said out loud. Debbie felt on top of the world. Her pulse quickened and she saw the looks of admiration from the other gamblers. Now she had a system. The attendant handed out receipts of the last bets and winnings. “Congratulations, madam,” he said as he bowed deeply and handed her a VISA receipt for $200 and her $150 winnings. “It appears you can pick the ponies well.” “Beginner’s luck.” Debbie examined the guidebook for race 13. A horse caught her eye immediately: Antigua. Red roan in color, a new horse, but the guidebook said Antigua loved to run in wet sand. Odds were about six to one. She would bet on Antigua to win, and to cover the bet, she decided to bet on Guided Target who paid two to one to show. A two hundred dollar bet. She lost. Antigua came in second, Guided Target came in fourth. For race 14 she went with Dandy to win and Speed-ORama to place. Dandy came in second and Speed-O-Rama came in a dismal fifth. Race 15 went a little better. She won a hundred and thirty dollars on her choice to place, Best-Of-The-Crowd. The betting for race 16 seemed to go faster than the others. When the attendant came for Debbie’s bet, she just couldn’t decide. Should I go for the sure thing, or try to beat the odds with “Try Again’? He paid eight to one to place. Could be an eight hundred dollar payoff. She’d bet nine hundred so far and won two hundred eighty. She bet on Try Again to show, using her VISA card, and she used a hundred in cash to bet on the odds-on favorite to win. Debbie stayed seated until the last few moments of the race. Everything under control. She stared at her notes over the horses, sipping on her fourth glass of wine. The horses came around the final turn. The favorite had dropped to fifth. Try Again struggled for third. “Go, Try Again. Go. Go.” Debbie moved her shoulders forward in a now-familiar gesture. The horses dashed across the finish line. Try Again came in third. “YES!” Debbie hollered, then hopped around excitedly for a few moments. The crowd quieted and Debbie sat back down. Okay! An eight hundred dollar win. What have I spent? Eleven hundred so far, a thousand on my card, and a hundred in cash. I’ll have nine hundred eighty in cash! She looked at the guidebook for race 17. The 214

ChapterNineteen

words began to blur as she read about the first few horses. Debbie looked up and watched the other gamblers in the room. A few looked at the guidebook. Some visited with each other like old friends, not one bit concerned about the betting process for the next race. The man with the high voice tossed his blond hair and discussed his method of beating the odds with a yawning older gentleman. All was seemingly at peace. Debbie tipped the attendant ten dollars when he returned with her eight hundred dollars. Her luck was turning now, she could feel it. She could now use her system more boldly – bet on two horses at a time, maybe take a risk on horses to show at eight or nine to one. She bet three hundred dollars on race 17, including one bet on a long shot to win named White Parade, who’d never won a single race. Race 17 turned out to be no exception for White Parade. Debbie had no payoffs. She tried the three hundred dollar strategy on Race 18, certain that the horse named Bolder Dash would at least show, even though his odds were eleven to one. Bolder Dash finished seventh. She justified the risk. When they pay off, they’re going to pay off big. She had three hundred and seventy in cash left. I need to make a smart bet this time. She studied the guidebook for race nineteen. The odds board flashed changes every few minutes. “Ready, madam?” A new attendant asked. His voice and manners were identical to the earlier attendant. Debbie hardly noticed the replacement. “Yes, I am. One hundred on Wednesday’s Child to win, one hundred on Wind Rider to place, and one hundred on the long shot, EverReady, to show.” She counted out the three bills and put them on the attendant’s tray. “More wine for you?” “Yes, please.” Debbie seldom drank more than one glass of wine in an evening and she was feeling a strong buzz. She continued to eat heartily from the hors d’oeuvres table, helping herself between every race. Debbie looked at her watch. 12:05 am. She’d been betting for three hours. The announcers once again shared their insights for the last time before the race began. Debbie looked with hope at EverReady, odds twelve to one to show. I’m going to will you to third place, EverReady. You are going to do it. You can do it. You are going to do it for me, if nothing else. I deserve a win. She watched her horses as they were loaded into the starting gate. Wednesday’s Child sported a dapple gray coat with a yellow-white mane and tail, odds to win were 1.2 to 1; Wind Rider, a chestnut with wild eyes, had odds to place at 1.5 to 1; EverReady, a bay with the smallest of white dots on his forehead, held the most promise 215

GAME OVER

for Debbie to get her money back. The announcer blared, “They’re off!” You will do this right, EverReady. You will run faster than you’ve ever run before. Debbie stared at the screen, mesmerized by every hoof beat, every move of EverReady. The small white dot on his forehead made progress around the first turn and moved into sixth place. Debbie willed him forward. After the second turn, he moved to fifth place and ran hard. Debbie dared not take her eyes off EverReady, even to check on her other horses. She drove each hoof forward, each stride longer than the last. After the third and final turn, he moved into fourth place. The stampede of horseflesh made its way to the finish line in one large, pulsating mass. Debbie’s eyes and attentions never strayed from EverReady. Faster, faster, she encouraged silently. Make it to third place. The race ended, and Debbie found it impossible to tell where EverReady placed in the pack until she looked at the photo finish. A brown horse, then a gray horse, then a brown horse, then a white dot. Fourth. She scanned the payoff board, something she could now do automatically. Sure enough. There he was, fourth. Third place. How hard would it have been to get to third place? She picked up her guidebook and glanced at race 20. She had $70 plus her mother’s $100 check. Debbie looked around the room and a sense of desperation and inadequacy overcame her. What was she thinking? She didn’t know anything about horse racing. Her conscience started to plague her, thinking about all the ways she could have spent that money, and how many bills were waiting for her at home. I’ve just spent money I can’t afford. Why can’t I just leave and not come back? She finished her wine and the acidity of it burned her stomach. Okay. I’ll do it right next time, when I have my bond money. She picked up her jacket and purse. “Madam, your gloves,” the attendant pointed out as she stood to leave. “Oh. Thanks,” she mumbled, not wanting to draw his attention. She was not about to leave money for a tip just because the first attendant disappeared and this new one had taken his place. No way. He could get tips from the winners. She went to the change counter and formulated a plan. I’ll put ten dollars away, then I’ll have sixty dollars to spend. Why didn’t I leave when I was ahead? A country western band played on the sound stage near the bar. They played all the way through “Achy Breaky Heart” while Debbie waited in line. Why had she started drinking wine? Maybe that’s why she didn’t make the right bets. How could she expect herself to do well while drinking? Damn, she should have thought of that. Her grandfather died from alcoholism before she was born, and the family 216

ChapterNineteen

stories about Grandpa Fred rambled in her mind. Seizures, losing his job, liver disease, an agonizing death. Debbie shuddered at the thought of her mother’s stories. She better be more careful. No sense in getting addicted to alcohol. “Fifty dollars of quarters please, and twenty of your dollar coins.” Just in case. Rolls of coins in hand, she searched for the right machine. She never should have tried three hundred at a time, that was her mistake. She should have stuck with hundred dollar bets on long shots. As she walked past the dollar slots, a shiny machine caught her eye. “Balloon Bars” blared across the top in red and blue letters. Debbie stopped to check it out. The red payout line flashed across the middle of the computer screen. She bit her bottom lip, touching the payout line lightly with her fingertips. Felt lucky. She read the payout screen and saw that wild balloons substituted for any symbol. She wondered what “Balloon Bar Rises” meant. It didn’t really matter. It’s not like betting the ponies or even playing poker. There was no skill involved whatsoever. Just put in your money and pull the handle. No choices. No decisions. She swirled her dollar coins around in the tray. She dropped two coins into the slot and pulled the lever. She felt dizzy from losing over a thousand dollars – the most she’d ever lost at one time. What was she doing to herself? Three blurred, vertical images went spinning past, finally landing on DOUBLE BAR, empty space, and a picture of a hot air balloon brightly striped in yellow, red, and blue. It landed below the payout line and slowly rose up to the line. The machine clanked a lovely sound as four silver dollar coins dropped into the tray and the machine played a few bars of “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.” The balloon basket carried a cheering, smiling monkey holding onto a small blue balloon. Debbie quickly inserted two more dollar coins and pulled the lever. TRIPLE BAR, 7, TRIPLE BAR. That was close! Three triple bars would have paid eighty bucks. So close to eighty bucks! She tried again. DOUBLE BAR, TRIPLE BAR, DOUBLE BAR. The machine clanked again, depositing ten coins into the tray, pinging out a rhythm heavy and long enough to cause attention. Yankee Doodle Dandy played loudly, and Debbie swayed along to the music. Easy. Her luck held out for about a half hour, which is what it took for her to lose her winnings plus her original twenty dollars. She pressed the change button, and an attendant appeared by her side. “Change?” Debbie asked, “Could you take these quarters and exchange them for dollars?” She handed over her rolls of quarters. “No problem,” the change attendant said cheerfully, handing Debbie the thick, substantial dollar coins. “And good luck to you.” 217

GAME OVER

Debbie lost the fifty dollars, but it took her quite a while. Every now and then she’d hit a small jackpot with balloon bars rising to the payout line at the last second. Once she hit three balloon bars for a fifty dollar jackpot. But an hour later, she had no more dollar coins to swirl in the tray. Let’s see. She still had her mother’s one hundred dollar check. She could write her own check now and deposit Mother’s check tomorrow to cover it. She went to the cashier’s window and wrote a check. She decided to make it for eighty dollars, but when the time came to fill in the amount she wrote one hundred. “I’ll take that in quarters, please.” She walked back to her familiar quarter poker-machine area. This is where she should have stayed tonight. She found the right machine in the middle of a row. The country western band was closer to her now, playing a few rows behind her. Yeah, great. She can hear the music. That’ll be good luck. She opened all her rolls of quarters at one time, dumping them into the tray. That should change my luck. Start out with a big bankroll. She patted the machine. Come on, honey. I need some good luck. Why didn’t I quit while I was ahead? The country band went on break and she was left to the familiar bling bling sounds of her machine adding credits every time she hit on a payoff hand. When the band came back and began to play Please Release Me, she was 125 credits to the good. She lost fifty-five credits during that song. They began a one hour tribute to Dolly Parton, beginning with Coat of Many Colors. Debbie lost another sixty credits during that number. The next time Debbie heard what they were singing, the lead singer belted out lyrics with enough forced vibrato for a decent sized funeral. “I wish you joy oy oy oy oy, and hap-i-ne yey ey ey es.” Debbie looked in her coin tray. Five quarters left. She put them in the machine. She had no credits left. Five quarters. She pressed the “deal” button. The two, three, and four of clubs, the five of hearts and the eight of spades appeared. She pressed the “hold” button for the two, three, four and five. All I need is a six. That would give me a straight. I’d be back in the money. Is that too much to ask? Her inner debate started to rage, like having a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. She had to stop gambling. But other people could do this, other people could leave the casino with money. She just couldn’t seem to do it. Her life was falling apart. What happened to her friends? Why had she distanced herself so much from her family? And Craig . . . She might be able to let herself fall in love with him if she wasn’t so preoccupied with gambling. She had to stop. This would be her last visit to the casino. She could make a life for herself if she tried. 218

ChapterNineteen

But maybe all she needed to be a successful gambler was the right system and she hadn’t found it yet. Or the proper bankroll. Pretty hard to make the right bets if you don’t have the cash. Or maybe she needed to try that online gambling, where she could stay home and gamble from there. Then she wouldn’t have to leave the boys at night. Stop it, stop it! You should just quit! “Hey, lady, look what you’ve got,” a passerby said as he sipped on his drink. “What do I have?” asked Debbie, staring at her cards. She hadn’t seen anything unusual. “You could end up with a Tiger by the Tail.” “What’s that?” “It’s the lowest possible hand in poker. Two, three, four, five, and seven. No straight, no flush, no pairs, nothin’.” “Well, let me tell you, I don’t need it. I want a straight.” “Here’s hoping,” he said, raising his glass. Debbie pressed the “deal” button. Seven of diamonds. Tiger by the Tail. “Too bad, lady.” “Yeah,” Debbie replied. She picked up her jacket and gloves and grabbed her purse from the floor. “Too bad.”

219

Chapter Twenty Even before the day’s session opened, Senator Brandt had to hide himself in his office and tell Ms. Thompson that he could take no calls. He knew she would have a hell of a day, having to make excuses for him. The press started in by 6 am., filling his voice mail with urgent pleas for information. Some of them teased, some of them begged. All sounded desperate. “Fuck ’em,” he muttered as he made his way to the Senate chambers without incident. He knew that by early evening the hint of a cover-up would bring chaos that would follow him no matter where he went. The morning session dealt with a routine bill set up to embarrass the Democratic president into signing a balanced budget before the end of the month. Twice the federal government had needed to shut down nonessential operations because the House and Senate could not agree on a budget package that the President would sign. He’d prepared himself a tuna sandwich for lunch so he could stay in chambers and not have to face the reporters during lunch break. He would never get caught up on his reading anyway. The great majority of bills passed without many legislators reading them. That job went to various aides, who then reported the bill’s contents and meanings. He picked up the budget bill from this morning and wondered how many pages it contained. At least one ream of paper. He thumbed through the pages, realizing that next week he might have to read a different version. In frustration, he flipped it upside down. He turned his attention to the latest article his aide brought to him. WALL STREET JOURNAL: States Are Less Willing to Play with Casino Companies . . . presently there are over twenty states which allow commercial, non-tribal gaming, but legislative efforts to approve such gaming enterprises are pending in four 220

ChapterTwenty

more. The recent growth may be stalled due to a grass-roots backlash against considering casinos as the family entertainment centers they purport to be. Yet the federal government appears anxious to tax the profits of Indian gaming. No one knows if Senator Buffalo will be able to return to the Senate Indian Affairs Committee, or if the lack of her presence will insure federal taxation of casino profits. Brandt glanced at his watch. There was less than an hour left before he had to meet with the Senate majority leader Sam Lyons to plan next week’s press conference about the Senate Indian Affairs Committee. They needed to plot those carefully planned words about how the SIAC would proceed without Jean. Sam Lyons would give him strict instructions on what to say. Brandt felt his power and influence slipping away by the day. His planned speech would have been followed by a half-hour or so of pesky but workable questions – those you could bring around to a nondescript, politically correct answer. But since George Buffalo’s powwow announcement of a suspected attack, everything had changed. Lyons insisted they have “lead time.” Lyons had growled at him during their last phone conversation. “Don’t say a word to the press before we speak. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? You dodge them until next week, at all costs.” “What I understand, Sam, is that something went terribly wrong. Terribly wrong. That’s what I understand.” “Just so you also know what I expect. You’re in this too. And there’s no point in discussing it on the phone.” Click. He now sat in Senate chambers and picked the lettuce off his tuna fish sandwich. Lettuce seemed like such a good idea earlier. What could have gone wrong with Jean? What had happened to her? He ate with a sense of dread. Lyons had campaigned for him in the last election, traveling to Illinois to put in a few good words for him. The race had been close, with the opposition insisting that they needed a “change in Washington.” As if some newcomer could go to Washington and change anything their first term. The entire system had been set up to insure that no such thing was possible. Sometimes the public could be such fools. Freshmen senators were placed on committees where they couldn’t do much harm. And they never chaired committees, unless the committee itself performed some useless function that had nothing to do with money. Even with Brandt’s well-funded campaign and Lyon’s help, the election ended up a close one. Brandt had been off the mark on Social Security problems, unwilling to say the system needed revamping. Instead 221

GAME OVER

he’d talked about maintaining benefits without raising taxes, an approach that made voters more nervous as the election drew near. It had been too late to change his stand and it almost did him in. His opponent made only one mistake, saying Brandt had become brain dead. The good people of Illinois were taken aback by the harshness of his opponent’s rhetoric. Too negative. Brandt won with fifty-two percent of the vote. Now his sense of dread increased with each bite of his sawdust-flavored sandwich. A blob of mayonnaise fell on the sleeve of his brown cashmere jacket – his favorite, just back from the cleaners. “Damn, not again,” he muttered. “So this is where you’re hiding,” Ms. Thompson called from the open doors of the Senate chambers. During sessions there were guards posted there, and only Senators, a few staff members, and pages were allowed on the Senate floor at any time. Even when not in session, guards stood at attention, but they were likely to let in a staffer such as Ms. Thompson. She never made attempts to walk in. She just hollered from the doorway – something easy for her to do. “Can you come out for a moment? Nothing urgent.” “Be right there,” he said through his tuna fish, not at all pleased with the prospect of dealing with Ms. Thompson at the moment. He needed to save all his reserve for his afternoon meeting. He knew her persistence all too well. Not much you can do once she’s found you. By the time he reached her, he’d calmed himself enough to look her in the eye. “Are the reporters driving you crazy?” he asked. There could be no one in Washington as adept at making reporters wait as Ms. Thompson. “Part of my job, you know,” she stated in her matter-of-fact, height-ofefficiency voice. Of course it carried down the corridor, and she caught the attention of some tourists walking the hallways. “Come on in.” He nodded at the guard and led her by the arm. They stood inside the chamber doors. Ms. Thompson looked nervous, with the bright lights of the Senate Chambers shining in her face and her beehive hairdo making a triangle shadow on the light woodwork behind her. “What is it?” he asked. “You’ve gotten two calls now from Majority Leader Lyons to remind you of your meeting with him this afternoon. In his last phone call, he said you were to be in his office by one o‘clock this afternoon, which is only fifteen minutes from now, so I thought I’d come and relay that message personally. I noticed that a two o’clock meeting with him is written on your calendar. Quite a few reporters have called, but I’ve reminded them the press conference is postponed until next week. I hope that’s all 222

ChapterTwenty

right.” “That’s fine.” “One last thing. George Buffalo phoned you this morning, and he wants you to return his call. Here’s his number.” “Is he in Washington?” “No, he’s in Wisconsin. Is there anything I can handle for you?” Ms. Thompson always asked him that, and usually he had many calls that she could make for him, errands to run, and bits of information to dig up. But not this time. She couldn’t help at all. “No, thanks. I better get back and call this Mr. Buffalo before meeting with Sam. Is it safe to return to the office? Who’s camped out there?” She filled him in on the way back to the office. “Only one reporter from the Post. Otherwise, everyone else is off getting quotes from whomever they can. You know the Post gentleman,” she began. By the time they arrived at his office, he remembered Jim Featherman and the few times they had spoken about one Native American issue or another. Featherman paced in the lobby. “Mr. Featherman, good to meet you again. I’m sorry but I can’t talk right now. I’ve a phone call to return and a one o’clock meeting.” “Senator Brandt, could you give me a few minutes tonight? Perhaps I could buy you dinner?” The young reporter pleaded. He leaned forward on tiptoe, hands thrust into his pockets. “Even an after-dinner drink? I could meet you anywhere you like.” “What’s the rush? Why can’t you wait for the press conference? There’ll be time for questions then.” Warren winked knowingly. “I’ll be sure to call on you.” “It’s more urgent than that, sir. I’d prefer not to ask my questions in that forum. I have some family information about Senator Buffalo, and I thought it would be good for us to talk. Privately.” Featherman glanced nervously at Ms. Thompson, who busily transcribed reporter messages that were on voicemail. “And sir, I, I have something else. About campaign contributions.” He looked again at Ms Thompson and lowered his voice. “I don’t think you want me to share this with you in public.” “Very well. Thursday night, seven o’clock at The Hancock Bar, in the back. I can’t promise much time, though.” “Understood. I’ll be there, sir.” “No recordings. I do not give recorded interviews. Never have.” “Yes, sir.” The young man turned and left. Great. Now he had a reporter feeding him information. Things were about to turn ugly. He dialed George Buffalo’s number. A man answered after four rings. 223

GAME OVER

“Hello?” “Is this Mr. Buffalo?” Warren asked, careful to keep his voice calm. “Yes, it is. Is this Senator Brandt?” “Yes. I’m returning your call. My secretary said you needed to talk to me today. Let me first express my sincere regrets for your family trauma. I’m sure this has all been quite a shock.” “Thank you. I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get right to it. We are sure that our Jean was attacked. And we want an investigation. I figured I’d call you, because you and Jean worked some together on that Committee. How do we get an investigation going?” “Investigation? You mean a police investigation? I’d imagine that you’d have to report your suspicions to the police.” Warren pulled on the bushiest hairs of his eyebrows. “No, not a police investigation, a Senate investigation. Jean once said that if you ever want to get to the bottom of things, a Senate investigation should do it. I figured since she was one of your own, you know, well . . .” George’s voice trailed off faintly. “What makes you so sure she was attacked? That’s a serious charge to be making.” “Did you see the coverage of the announcement I made at the powwow last weekend?” George asked. See it? He had recorded it at home, and he’d watched it more times than he’d watched the movie Titanic. “Yes, Mr. Buffalo, I saw it. You did a remarkable job with the press. But you said something in your interview about a mouse?” “Jean said that she trapped a mouse in her garage and that she heard the trap go off. But there was no mouse in the trap, and no dead mouse in the garbage. I think she heard other noises.” “I don’t want to sound skeptical, Mr. Buffalo, but couldn’t it have been some other noise, the wind, the pipes, something like that? Just because she referred to a noise as a mouse . . .” “I’m going by what she said. She has good ears, too. Anyway, what do we have to do to get an investigation going?” “Mr. Buffalo, that’s not a small task. Besides, we usually don’t investigate crimes, even if a Senator or his or her family is involved. Usually we examine senatorial misdeeds that involve behavior or ethics concerns. Otherwise the courts do the investigations.” “Well, she lived in Washington, and you are better suited to look into this than we are here in Wisconsin. But I must tell you, not everyone in the tribe wants to involve you.” Warren’s right eyebrow was minus several hairs by now. He had pulled them out, one at a time, and he could feel a little stinging above his right 224

ChapterTwenty

eye. “What are you looking for? Anything in particular? Do you have any ideas what might have happened?” “Evidence of foul play, that’s all. We won’t know ’til we hear. She’s been in her coma for three weeks now, and we want some answers.” “I’m sorry to tell you that there probably won’t be a Senate investigation. Although if you’d like, I’ll bring your concerns up to Majority Leader Sam Lyons. I have a meeting with him today.” “That’d be fine. Just fine. I’ll be callin’ you back tomorrow.” “Wait, Mr. Buffalo, I . . .” The line went dead. Warren took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes hard. Shit, shit, shit. He looked over his desk and the various stacks of papers facing him. He picked up the stack of article summaries prepared by his aides. It seemed gambling must have coincidentally been the topic for the weekend. NEW YORK TIMES: Legal Beagles are Snarling! Legislators are being pressured to legalize casino gambling in New York. Lobbyists from the thoroughbred racing industry and anti-gambling groups are joining forces to fight the effort. The Governor, who last year attended an industry-sponsored campaign fund raiser in Las Vegas that brought in over $400,000, said that if the legislators send him a bill for approval, he will sign it. He stated his concerns about the social costs, such as the housewife who spends her child’s lunch money at the casino. But he said that compulsive gambling programs could be set up to help such people. When asked about competition from tribal gaming, the Governor said it could be an issue during the legislative session. There are now over two hundred-twenty tribes across the nation with state contracts that allow gambling, out of over five hundred recognized tribes. WASHINGTON POST: All bets are off! A state task force studying the issue of legalizing casino operations in Maryland unanimously voted against such legalization. The state was considering casino operations as a way out of recent budget concerns. In spite of heavy lobbying by the commercial, non-tribal gaming industry, the legislative attempt hit the skids.

225

GAME OVER

“Senator,” Ms. Thompson blared over the intercom, “Senator Lyons insists that he speak with you. I took the liberty of telling him you were on your way.” “Thank you, Ms. Thompson.” *

*

*

Debbie spent her lunch hour trying to call bond companies. It had not gone as smoothly as her early-morning call to the bank of Pennsylvania Utilities. The gentleman there had explained that, when the company issued a bond, they contracted with Eastern Bank & Trust in Harrisburg to pay the interest and eventually the principal. She called Eastern Bank & Trust. Very nice people. All they needed her to do was mail in the bond and interest coupons by certified mail. They asked her to enclose a letter stating where she found the bond and in what name she would like the money remitted. No problem. Her check for principal and interest would be mailed out within a week. She managed to go to the post office during her morning coffee break and mail the certified letter. The lunch hour calls had a different tone. It began with a call to U.S. Steel, now known as U.S.X. They told her that their bank of trust for bonds was First Valley Mutual Bank. She called First Valley and spoke to a trust department employee named Julie Schleyly. “Do you know who the bonds were initially issued to?” Schleyly asked with a voice that sounded bored, tired, and too important to be handling such requests. “No, I have no idea. I found them in my aunt’s attic. She died last year, and I cleaned out her home before it went on the market.” “Were there no records to go along with the bonds?” “Nothing. Just some old papers about the house, and these bonds.” “What was your aunt’s name?” Now what? Don’t panic. “Mabel Olson.” She may as well use Olson’s name for something. Schleyly put her on hold, and Debbie listened to the recorded music for an incredibly long time. Schleyly clicked back on. “Ma’am, did your aunt ever marry? We can’t find a Mabel Olson registered anytime since 1964. We weren’t required to keep records of the first owner of bearer bonds back then, but we were pretty thorough and I find no Mabel Olson.” “No, Mabel never married. She could have gotten these bonds from anybody. She was quite well off, and she knew a lot of wealthy people. She belonged to the Minnetonka Country Club for many years. Could have been a gift.” “Just a moment, please.” The recorded music came back on the line. 226

ChapterTwenty

What’d you say the thing about Minnetonka Country Club for? What if they check? Oh, calm down, they’ll never check such a silly thing. The line clicked. “Ms. Wood, are you still holding?” “Yes, I am. What have you found out?” “Here’s what you have to do. Send us a notarized written statement about how you found the bonds, your aunt’s name and Social Security number, her last address, your name and Social Security number, and a statement that the bonds are legally yours. The funds should arrive four to six weeks after we receive your statement.” “Okay, that sounds fine. Oh, hmm, except her social security number. I don’t think I found anything with her number listed on it.” “Aren’t you the executor of her estate?” “Her executor? No, no. Her brother is. He just told me to keep these bonds and turn them in.” A sigh of annoyance followed. “Certainly you can get the Social Security number from him, then. He’ll have to use it for papers filed during the probate process.” Don’t say any more. Just hang up and figure out what to do. How did I ever get so good at lying? “That makes sense. I’ll talk to him today. Thanks for your help.” She wondered what the penalty was for making up a Social Security number. She used to have a hard time talking to the kids about the Easter bunny and Santa Claus, feeling like she was perpetrating a betrayal by lying to them. And now stories just came out of her as though she had a lifetime of practice. General Mills referred her to the trust department of the Midwestern State Bank. She said she’d found the bonds behind a loose board in the basement. They must have been left there by a previous tenant. No, she didn’t know who had previously owned the house. There were a few of the owners listed on the abstract, she supposed, but she had no idea which ones might have left the bond. Besides, wasn’t it true that only people who borrowed money from a bank would be listed on an abstract? Yes, that might be true. Just mail them the bond and interest coupons by certified mail, write a letter explaining the circumstances of the find, and the bond money should arrive in four weeks or so. Did she know she could get the interest money immediately by redeeming the coupons at any federal bank? Just clip them off the bond and take them in. “I don’t have to bring information about the bond itself?” she’d asked, her stomach churning with a combination of nerves and excitement. They assured her that whoever turns in the coupons gets the interest. The redeemer doesn’t even need to show identification. “Be very care227

GAME OVER

ful not to lose them,” they had warned. “Finders keepers in the coupon game.” By the end of the conversation, Debbie had plans to collect the U.S. Steel and General Mills interest, almost two thousand dollars. She could gather the coupons and stop at another bank on her way to work sometime this week. Better not cash them in here at First Federal. Someone might notice. How did she ever get so conniving? How had her life come to this? She felt quiet regret as she looked around her office. People busy with their everyday responsibilities, going about their lives as if nothing could possibly be more important than the work they had before them. Why couldn’t she make it on her salary, and just be happy raising her boys? They were good kids. They didn’t deserve a criminal for a mom. I need to use the money wisely and make all this stress worthwhile, and then I’ll stop gambling. I promise I’ll stop.

*

*

*

When it came to his fiduciary responsibilities at the bank, Mr. Lewis had a reputation of tenacity, regardless of human feelings. He couldn’t care less if an employee had troubles. He didn’t make it his job to ask if people were okay, if they had personal problems, or if they were under stress. His job was to protect the trust department’s assets. Everything else in his life revolved around that responsibility. His hair turned prematurely gray the year they deregulated the banking industry, and the gray seemed to help his career. He was given more responsibility than any other banker his age. As head of the trust department, he handled over eight hundred million in assets. He fired any employee caught stealing, and he prosecuted them to the full extent of the law. So far in his eighteen years at First Federal, he caught nine employees in some kind of theft or cheating. Someone once asked him why not let people go on their way quietly. Why make such a fuss. It could be bad for publicity. “Publicity be damned!” he had cried, and from then on that saying summed up Trust Officer Lewis. Debbie Wood. He had a gut feeling about her. He examined the Standard & Poor’s books in the library. He began his methodical search with the first volume and continued searching on and off for two days, whenever he had some extra time. He found two pieces of paper in the entire set – one small sheet of paper in the page where General Mills information began, and a larger, pink piece of paper in the Intuit page. 228

ChapterTwenty

He watched the videos again, examining each frame, and he saw Debbie’s hand place the piece of paper in the page he now knew as the General Mills’ page. He was sure of it now. He smelled victory.

229

Chapter Twenty-One Craig loved the philosophy section of the library. Not that he ever read much of it. He started reviewing the philosophies of Socrates, then Plato, and finally Aristotle a few years ago. He thought studying them in a linear, chronological order made the most sense. By the time he got to Aristotle, boredom had set in. It would take too much time to go through them all. But he still loved sitting in the stacks, surrounded by the smell of old, important books. From a distance the books blended into a solid mass of printed knowledge, with an occasional ribbon of color from the spine of a red or yellow book standing out from the others. He’d started reading The Life and Times of St. Thomas Aquinas. Interesting enough to pass the time. Duffy was over an hour late, and Craig was beginning to think the investigator would not show up. Maybe Uncle George’s idea of meeting with Duffy wasn’t the best idea. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Dave Duffy thumped his briefcase down on the table. “Lab work is taking some extra attention, but it had to be done before tomorrow night’s tribal meeting.” He removed his coat, got himself settled, and looked at Craig with questions in his eyes. Craig met his stare but didn’t want to be the first to speak. No sense in appearing too anxious. “I’m a little pressed for time here. What did you want to see me about?” Duffy finally asked. Craig gritted his teeth. His plan seemed foolish, even though he had talked it over in detail with George. Craig had been convinced it was the right thing to do, but now he hesitated. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure where to begin. I need to ask you some questions about the investigation before I share what I have.” “I’ll answer them if I can.” “Have you identified the robbers yet?” Craig asked, deciding to go straight to the issue. 230

ChapterTwentyOne

“No, but I have some strong leads, and the lab work is going well. Let me guess. You have some information. But you don’t know if you can trust me.” Craig played with the corner of the manila envelope in front of him. “What about your internal control investigation? How is that going?” Duffy shrugged his shoulders. “Like most of them. There are weaknesses in asset control and in liability reporting. Otherwise, I’m surprised that things are done so well. I’d heard horror stories about some tribal casinos not even keeping track of profits and losses. Pine Bend is in pretty good shape.” He slid his hand inside his suit coat. “By the way, can I smoke in here?” “Nope. No smoking in any of the campus buildings. The whole place went non-smoking last year. Student government had a fit, but too bad for smokers.” “Listen, I don’t know what you’ve got, but I have to catch a plane tonight. Why don’t we just cut to the chase? Tell me why you needed to see me tonight. Misplaced loyalties don’t do you any good.” Craig turned the envelope over. “Sorry, but this is too serious. I need to ask you a few more questions. Did you find anything unusual in the accounting records investigation?” “No. My investigation is not to find wrongdoing. It’s to find weaknesses in systems –where the controls could be tightened, processes changed. That way wrongful accounting is less likely to happen in the future. That’s what the tribal council wanted me to examine when they asked me to look at internal control.” “So you’re not really looking for the robbers by looking at the books?” “Not at all.” Duffy took out a notebook and a pen. “Usually if someone is falsifying records and stealing from a company, they’re embezzling money – maybe writing checks to themselves or to relatives for false expenses, taking cash out of the cash drawer and making up false receipts, something like that.” Duffy chewed hard on his already flattened pen cap for a moment. “Are you telling me that you’ve found evidence of wrongdoing?” “I haven’t told you anything yet. I’m just asking questions.” Craig disliked the investigator but George said to trust somebody. “All right, here’s my dilemma. I know that there are falsified entries in the books. The tribe doesn’t even have to keep records or report earnings and expenses to anyone. No one. Not the feds, not the state, not the tribe. So Pine Bend is already way ahead of the game.” Craig covered the envelope with both hands, spreading out his fingers to cover his evidence. “I am hoping you will say you uncovered these facts in your investigation and bring them to the attention of the tribal council.” 231

GAME OVER

Duffy nodded. “I see. Then if I’ve discovered these . . . shall we call them inconsistencies . . . you don’t have to risk being the whistle blower. Very clever.” “It’s not as though it couldn’t have something to do with the robbery. You never know. It’s not that farfetched.” Duffy moved his hands closer to the manila envelope, glancing down at it. “And the tribal council would not be happy to get this information from you?” “I’ll be fired by my boss, who used to be a friend of mine and is looking to fire me anyway.” He shrugged. “I’m not a member of this tribe. I’m an outsider, just like you.” He played with the metal clip on the back of the envelope. “No, things would go on as usual. At least if you presented the information, you’d have some credibility with them.” “Why do you care, Mr. Two Horses? If you think you may be fired anyway, and quite frankly I can’t assure you that they won’t find out where I got my information, then why bother?” “I believe tribal casinos should be run properly, including giving the council members accurate data. Council members should not be betrayed. Besides, if tribal gaming isn’t handled carefully, we could lose some degree of sovereignty.” Craig twisted one of his rings. Don’t get upset now, the guy just doesn’t understand. Stay calm. Uncle George thinks the guy is worth educating. “Why do you think that would happen?” Duffy asked. “States have usurped our rights before, such as when Georgia removed five civilized tribes from their own land. Their own land! Of course, that was in 1830. We won’t lose our land now, just our power over it. Or taxing regulations will come our way once our casinos are profitable. Isn’t that ironic? That’s what my cousin Jean was fighting against.” “I’m sorry, Mr. Two Horses. I don’t understand. I . . . I’m somewhat unversed in your issues. I studied America’s Wonderful Indian History to get ready for this job, but some facts might have been questionable. I couldn’t find anything about the Wisconsin Winnebago, or the Chippewa, or even much about the Ojibwe. I do know that tribal governments are vastly different from one tribe to the next. Tell me what you want me to know.” “For years the federal government wanted us to buy into the capitalist way of life, and those on the reservations fought against it. The government sent our children away to white schools. You know, assimilate us into society. It didn’t work. Now that many of us are full-fledged capitalists, we are at risk of being regulated and taxed, and therefore controlled.” Craig could feel his face start to flush. “It’s all about control.” He could never talk about sovereignty or land issues without getting 232

ChapterTwentyOne

furious, a weakness he recognized in himself but felt helpless to prevent. He didn’t even know who he was angry at. The government? His tribe? Himself, for leaving the reservation and trying to hang on to his Indian sense of self in a white world? Maybe all the tribes for fighting among themselves instead of working together and consolidating their power. Duffy glanced at his watch. “But isn’t that only fair? And as I understand, you are also full citizens of the United States. You’re making money after all, and taxes are only a cost of making a profit. Everybody pays them. Why shouldn’t you?” Craig raised his gaze, and stared at and then through Duffy. “Being a sovereign nation gives us dignity and the right to control our own destiny. Any regulation or taxation reduces our sovereignty, and any move toward that is unacceptable.” “Even if the regulation is merely economic?” Craig furiously twisted off the two silver metal wings that made up the clasp on the back of the envelope. “Especially if the regulation is economic. How can we take care of our own destiny without money? You think the BIA is going to hand back those revenues to us once we lose them? Never happen.” “So you’re not just trying to help keep Pine Bend honest. It’s a far bigger issue for you.” “Bingo. Here.” He thrust the envelope into Duffy’s hands. “Take it before I change my mind.” *

*

*

Warren Brandt spent the previous hour working up the nerve to be firm with Sam Lyons. Brandt wanted to meet on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, away from the offices and the commotion of reporters’ preying eyes searching for the latest scoop as they buzzed around the hallways. Weather in early March could be unpredictable, and tonight’s cool crisp air felt invigorating. By the time he snuck out of the Hart Senate Building, no reporters lurked on the sidewalk. He headed west on Constitution Avenue for the two mile walk to the memorial. He used to love walking past the capitol on the left side of the street, then turning south on Third Street. He would stand in the front of the building and dream about how he made a difference through the laws he helped to make. How he helped shape the fabric of the nation. Then he would stroll down the mall, especially in the summer, taking advantage of the shade of the huge elm trees, and head north again at the Washington Monument. He could stare across the Ellipse at the White House and dream of living 233

GAME OVER

there. Tonight he couldn’t bear to recognize the dream he knew was now shattered, no matter what the outcome or discovery of Jean’s attack. He glanced at the north side of the capitol building and took a quick right to Union Station to hail a cab. Warren tried not to look at the White House as the cabdriver sped past the Ellipse on Constitution Avenue. Instead, he stared at the Lincoln Memorial in the distance. “Let me off here, please,” he said to the driver when they neared the Vietnam Veterans Memorial wall. He started down the pathway from the east end, sensing he was falling into the pit of memory. He shivered from the look of the black granite at night. Lights were just coming on, shining down on all the panels, and casting an eerie glow on the carved names he passed. The lighting was redone during the summer of 2004. He preferred the old, subtle lighting. He stopped at the year 1964, as he always did, and took off his glove. “Hey, brother,” he said reverently. He reached down and let his fingers trace the half-inch tall letters, W, I, L, L, I, A, M. “It’s a mess. Nothing but a mess, and getting worse all the time,” he whispered. Some evening tourists walked toward him. He wiped his eyes quickly, put on his glove, and hurried away. He missed his brother more every year. He thought of the easy smile of a young soldier going off to war who looked as if he could conquer the world and there was nothing at all to be concerned about. Warren stayed behind and received a college deferment, an education, a start to a career, and a chance to live. Brandt panted from the long, brisk climb up the three tiers of steps to the Lincoln Memorial. He was startled to find Sam Lyons there already, waiting for him. Sam leaned up against the closed and locked door of the gift shop, the only piece of wood in the otherwise stone and marble structure. Once Brandt realized they were alone, he hollered, “You know you owe me an explanation, Sam. This was not what we planned and you sure as hell know it. I demand to know what happened.” His words echoed around the memorial’s walls. Lyons stood up straight and buttoned his coat, shivering a little, not meeting Brandt’s eyes. “Getting cold already.” He turned toward Brandt, an ominous scowl on his face. “You’ve gotten the wrong idea.” Lyons held his gloved hands out. “No one went there with the intention of permanently harming her.” “I should hope not! The plan was to rough her up just a little, make a small threat, just enough to scare her. She was supposed to come to my morning meeting feeling timid and ready to compromise. What the hell happened?” Brandt realized he’d already lost his nerve. Lyons made him feel like such a fool and he could never figure out why. 234

ChapterTwentyOne

“There’s no point in giving you the details. What’s done is done. Want a cigar?” He held out two hand-rolled, illegal Cuban cigars. Brandt noticed that Lyons often tried to impress those unable to get around the law. “Cigar? For Chrissake. No, I don’t want a cigar. A woman’s been attacked. Foul play, and we’re involved.” “Not as far as you know. And that’s the way it’s going to stay.” He lit his cigar, puffing with difficulty against the wind that kicked up across the mall and blew in around the pillars of the monument. “Oh, so that’s it. I’m supposed to pretend I don’t know that you arranged to have Jean threatened. And what if the police start asking questions?” Brandt stared out across the reflecting pool. Few tourists visited the park at this time of year, but in a few months the place would be full of them. People back home asked him what the weather was like in Washington. He’d say “not bad” but in reality he found the winters cold, damp, and gray. The absolute neutrality of the concrete statues and monuments didn’t help any. “I’ve been giving this some thought. There couldn’t have been a fight, Sam. If she’d had any obvious bruises or there had been any signs of a struggle, the press would have dug that up by now. That tells me you hired a professional. Who’d you hire?” “We need to move on to other topics. We need to plan a strategy for dealing with the press.” “Since you’re so frightened that I’ll say the wrong thing, why don’t you handle the press yourself?” Brandt looked up at the serene face of Lincoln, whose weary eyes stared toward the reflecting pool and beyond, to the Washington Monument and the Capitol. How did Lincoln ever manage the politics of the day, the battles, real and political, and the burden of holding the country together? Lincoln saved the union, and Warren couldn’t even stop Indian tribes from getting taxed. He felt chilled to the bone, in spite of a thick wool coat and the best mink-lined, leather gloves that money could buy. Lyons looked at Brandt with the smiling eyes of false friendship. “Come on. You have to know that I didn’t want this to happen. But once the situation got out of hand, the person we sent there had no other choice. I’m sorry about this, but we’ve got to stick together.” Lyons walked toward the open pillars and flicked his ashes. The wind carried them up and away, settling them at the boot of Lincoln. “Then tell me the details. She’s in a coma, so she didn’t get a threat, didn’t get a small whack in the knee or a twisted arm.” Brandt felt as though his career, and therefore his life, was totally over. He’d invested all his time and energy in his work instead of his family, and now he’d 235

GAME OVER

screwed that up. He’d be left with nothing. He felt the blood draining from his face. “Look at the shape you’re in. If I give you any information, you’d tell the next whore you slept with all the details. For your own protection, you’ll get no more from me. Police start asking questions, you can tell the truth – that you don’t know anything about it. I’m doing you a favor here, Warren baby. Just leave it alone and don’t say shit.” Brandt had a headache, probably from the cigar smoke. “I like her, you know. I respect her. She’s an asset to the Senate. Even in the short term, her lack of contribution will be a great loss.” “Remember, I’m the one who approved her appointment to the Senate Indian Gaming Committee. But this is no time for sentiment.” Lyons blew perfectly formed smoke rings above Brandt s head. “I think you need to know that she pulled a gun on the guy who went to talk to her. She pulled a goddamn gun, so the guy didn’t have a choice.” Brandt couldn’t believe it. A gun? What had he gotten Jean into? She must have had one hell of a night. He wrapped his plaid scarf tighter around his neck. “So, let’s talk about the press conference. Here’s what you say. She is a wonderful SIGC member, and she will be sorely missed.” He pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket. “Here’s the procedure for her replacement to the committee. When you announce it, don’t forget the part about the Senate passing a resolution in her honor. If they ask for details, say you have no other information.” “What do ‘we’ say about the investigation?” Only a half hour after sunset and the temperature had fallen to nearly thirty degrees. The air turned bitter cold as it swept across the Potomac river. Brandt tried to remember the earlier warmth of the sunny day. “What investigation?” “The one George Buffalo requested.” Lyon’s face color came close to matching his white hair that tossed about with the wind. The short ends rose straight up, exposing Lyon’s red ears. Good, at least Brandt could get a fear reaction from a threat of investigation. Serves the asshole right. He probably set up Jean himself, without anybody behind him at all. Sam took several strides toward the south wall of the memorial, and Warren could read the words of the Gettysburg address over his head, . . . that these dead shall not have died in vain . . . Sam’s voice sounded hollow as he continued. “Of course it doesn’t matter, since there were no bruises. An investigation would come up empty. So you say that we don’t take the attack claim seriously, and that’s police business, not ours.” He turned around, color back in his 236

ChapterTwentyOne

face. “But smile knowingly, and tell them your sources assure you we’ll look into it if necessary.” Whatever else Sam Lyons might be, he was a great strategist. Brandt buried his head in his gloved hands for a moment before regaining his composure. “Mr. Buffalo is going to call me tomorrow. What should I tell him?” Lyons threw his head back and roared in laughter. He mouthed a bit on the end of his cigar, lips curled around the end, playing with the cigar between his teeth. “That idiot. It’s very important that we give him no encouragement. You didn’t, did you?” “No. I told him we don’t investigate crimes unless a Senate member or the administration has been accused of a crime, though I did say I’d mention it to you.” “Whatever you do, don’t give him my home number! And make sure you sound neutral. Are we clear on that? When the Senate decides against an investigation, we will look like we considered it.” Lyons marched back to Lincoln’s statue, appearing resolute. He jerked his head toward Lincoln and smirked. “Do you believe this guy? He really didn’t care one way or the other about slavery, he just wanted to keep the union together. And he gets a statue.” “If you read all his writings, you’ll know that’s not true. People who say that have only read some of his speeches. He knew his political limits, but he came to see slavery as barbaric.” Brandt felt the hair rise on his neck in fury. Who was Lyons to criticize someone like Lincoln? He wondered if he could still hold his own in a fist fight, then thought better of it. “If you want me to take care of George Buffalo, you better tell me who you hired and why it went wrong. Otherwise, I could end up saying the wrong thing. You’re right that we need to protect ourselves.” He smiled what he hoped looked like a genuine smile, unclenching his hands from the automatic fists they had formed. Brandt pictured it all clearly then. He had gotten mixed up in the wrong crowd, just like his brother, only with different consequences. Why the hell hadn’t he seen through Lyons years ago? His brother would be ashamed of him. He decided he needed to know more about who was behind Sam Lyons. Because if Senator Brandt was going down, Senator Lyons was coming with him. Lyons seemed to relax a little. “Okay, I’ll tell you only this. Other interests want tightened regulations. I explained that the only way in hell we were going to get any legislation at all would be to get a very small tax, maybe some loose wording passed on increasing the reporting requirements. They disagreed. They were the ones who hired the person to threaten the good Senator. I had no hand in that, Warren. So I can’t 237

GAME OVER

even tell you who the guy was.” Lyons leaned heavily against a pillar, his eyes glazing over. Warren realized that Sam had been drinking – probably sipping scotch most of the day. It never ceased to amaze him that some people could drink all day without losing their ability to speak clearly. Two drinks and he would be slurring. “Well, who are the interests?” Brandt felt an increasing sense of doom. “Oh, let me guess. Vegas casinos feeling the pinch of increased competition. The ones who contributed to your campaign last election. Or, the Indian Mafia connection that is said to be growing among tribes with gambling. You’ve probably made some good friends in that crowd.” “Shut the fuck up. I will never tell you who they are. But they’ve got deep pockets, and they will not want an investigation. So there can’t be one. Warren baby, you just handle the press as best you can. I’ll handle the rest. Now I’m out of here.” He nearly ran down the stairs, coat tails flapping behind him. Brandt slowly stepped over the cord meant to separate the tourists from the ever-present president, stood on the step of the base, reached up and stretched as far as he could, and managed to touch the square-toed boot of Lincoln. *

*

*

Duffy ran his fingers through his short hair. He reviewed his agenda for the tribal council meeting, ticking off the list of handouts sitting on the table. Yep, he had them all. He looked up and saw that the meeting room was empty, just the council members sitting around the table. Peacock, Longie, White, Griggs, and the only woman member, Walters. Duffy sucked on a cough drop, hoping his voice would hold for the meeting. He’d caught a cold during this visit to St. Paul, and the decongestant he’d taken earlier was already wearing off. “I’ve requested this closed meeting of the tribal council to bring you up to date on my investigation. Let’s go over what we’ve discovered thus far.” Duffy handed out five booklets, each bound with a white cover. “If you’ll turn to the end, you’ll find the conclusions to our investigation. You can take these with you and read the entire report at your leisure. I’d like to point out some of the most important conclusions for you. First, you’ll see that the enlargements gave us nothing conclusive. We found a few reflections, but nothing clear enough to be useful. The FBI may be more helpful, since they can use their database and see if they have a match. But 238

ChapterTwentyOne

that is doubtful. If we couldn’t get a clear enough shot for identity purposes, I don’t think they will be able to either.” The members all stared at their papers, except Walters, whose beautiful, middle-aged face turned to him with seeming admiration. How had he not noticed that before? Maybe because she spoke so seldom. Careless! He could have had an advocate all this time and he hadn’t paid her any attention. He smiled at her and straightened his tie. “Second, there was nothing too helpful from the employee interviews. That leads me to believe the robbers were unknown to them. These guys were not ex-employees, nor did they live here. They were strangers with perhaps an extended connection. Third, I do have evidence for you. Please turn to page seventeen.” Everyone turned quickly, except for White. He started at page one and looked like he would be flipping slowly, one page at a time. “The van! You got some data on the van!” Ben Peacock exclaimed, jerking upright. “Yes,” Duffy continued. “The van was our main lead, a welldisguised 2006 Plymouth maintenance van, the type the telephone company uses. They painted it the right color, attached telephone company plastic logos, and even mounted a ladder on the roof. Their only mistake was the single light.” “The light?” White repeated, turning his page seventeen upside down. “Exactly. A real telephone company truck would have two lights mounted on the top of the truck – one directly above the driver’s seat, one above the passenger seat. As you can see from the photograph, this truck had only one. Definitely not a telephone company truck.” “So what?” John Longie sneered. “We located the truck, and we’re probably only a few days away from finding the thieves.” “Where’s the truck?” White asked. “It’s at a used truck dealership in south Minneapolis. Evidently our culprits pulled over to a side road, dumped the ladder and removed the logos. Two days later, the van showed up at a dealership that purchased it outright. When the dealership saw our reward for a 2006 Plymouth maintenance van used in a getaway, they called us.” Usually a bit nervous during a presentation, Duffy felt he could relax now. 239

GAME OVER

“How does this get our guys?” Peacock asked. “It doesn’t. Yet. But we can trace the van’s ownership from the vehicle ID number, and my staff is matching that through the Department of Motor Vehicles. We have the name and address of the man who sold the van to the dealer. Haven’t been able to find him yet, but we will.” Walters raised her hand with a question. “How’d they get the telephone company logos?” “Oh, that was easy. The colors are red and dark brown on a tan van. The logo isn’t that complicated. You can see a blow-up of it on page . . . twenty. Yes, page twenty. One large blue circle on each of the front doors, and two simple strips of color straight across the van body, ending inside the circle. They must have purchased adhesive paper and cut it out themselves. Look at the bottom of the passenger side circle, for example. It doesn’t look cleanly cut. Probably didn’t purchase a metallic one for fear of drawing attention to themselves.” “Man, these guys went through a lot of trouble for this job. Why do you think they turned in the van?” Peacock asked. “I really don’t think they did. I think they gave it to the guy who sold it to the dealer. Maybe he was a relative, or he helped them in some way. Then that guy got nervous or greedy and sold it. Or he just wasn’t very smart. We’d have never found out if he hadn’t sold it to a dealer, saying he lost the title.” Walters raised her hand and waited for Duffy to call on her, then asked, “Can you tell us the name of the person who sold the van to the dealer?” “Yes, he’s on page . . . twenty-six. You’ll see his face in a blown-up security tape the dealership had. Sorry the picture’s not very clear, but his name is Troy Drake. He used his own name – again, not too bright. My guess is that he’s not as experienced in crime as the other two. Lists a Golden Valley address, but so far he hasn’t shown up there. According to his Social Security records, he works at a Pizza Hut not far from his home. Hasn’t shown up there, either.” “He looks Indian,” White observed. Duffy explained, “Yes, he is. Pizza Hut employment records show him to be Sioux.” “Damn Sioux,” John Longie muttered. “We can’t ever trust Sioux. They probably cased the joint for them, too.” Duffy held up his hand. “I doubt that, Mr. Chairman. If he’d had a personal connection with the crime, he probably would not have sold the van the way he did. It would have occurred to him to be more careful. I would say that his involvement did not include visits to the casino. In 240

ChapterTwentyOne

any event, we’ll continue to track him down, unless you want me to turn this over to the FBI now.” Peacock stirred in his chair. “They called yesterday and said they could get here sometime next week.” White slammed his booklet down on the table. “I think we should continue the investigation without them. They won’t help much anyway. Even getting them here won’t be much help. Once they show up, something more important will come along. They’ll be gone in a few days, telling us they’ll be back soon. Just like with the murder four years ago. We’ll never hear from them again.” A heavy silence settled around the table, and Duffy could hear the sound of his own raspy breathing. He needed another cough drop. “I do have other information for you,” he croaked, pulling another set of packets from his briefcase and passing them out. “These are the preliminary results of my internal control investigation. Although there is a conclusion page here as well, I urge you to read this entire report. You’ll want to be informed when you make decisions about what needs to be changed in your systems.” Duffy paused, and looked around the table. Which was the best approach? Accusation of someone in the room was always difficult. And since he was an outsider, this group would be more likely to attack him now and ask questions later. He began by congratulating them on the positive controls already in place: the fact that they used a computer system, the cash receipts controls, the vault, the guards, having two people in the counting room at all times. He had to stretch it a bit to make the list seem long. Duffy took a deep breath and said, “But it’s not good that one person can initialize purchase orders and also write the check to pay for the purchase. Your clerk, Judy, can do just that. In theory, she could authorize the purchase of, oh let’s say, a television for herself, and then write a check to pay for it. You may want to change that.” Council members nodded and murmured their agreement. Duffy felt encouraged. “Then your employee, Craig Two Horses, has access to both the cash receipts and the cash disbursements. Although that’s not as much of a problem as the first one, usually a company your size has two different people doing those two functions. You might want to consider a change.” More agreement. Duffy scanned the group, hoping his timing was right. He smiled at Walters. “Your biggest problem is with your employee Jack Winger. He has access to all the books, he decides on all year-end accounting entries, he has access to cash receipts and cash disbursements, and of course, he can get in the safe. In other words, he can do what he likes. And I need 241

GAME OVER

to tell you, tribal council members, that he does plenty.” “Just what do you mean by that?” demanded Longie. “Jack has worked for us for quite some time now, and I for one think he is honest.” “Yes, indeed. Well. I’m not surprised you would be upset. But I have evidence here that you need to see . . .” “Hold on just one minute. You have evidence against Jack? My cousin Jack? This is quite unfair without him being here to defend himself. I don’t think you should show it to us without asking Jack to be here.” Longie lit up another cigarette and drew in a deep breath of smoke. “Gentlemen . . . and madam, you need to see what I have uncovered. Then decide among yourselves what your next step will be. Perhaps it will be to call Mr. Winger in for a meeting and ask for an explanation. That’s totally up to you, as it should be.” White nodded. “I agree with Mr. Duffy. I think we should see the evidence.” Duffy hurriedly handed out sealed manila envelopes. “When you open these, you will find evidence of falsifying the year-end entries. Evidently Mr. Winger wanted the profits of Pine Bend to appear much smaller than they really were.” “How much smaller?” asked White. “Nearly one million dollars, as far as I can determine. Now keep in mind that I wasn’t even searching for this, so there are probably more discrepancies than the ones you have before you.” Peacock looked curious. “If you weren’t looking for this kind of thing, how’d you find it?” “Good question.” Duffy unwrapped a cough drop and popped it in his mouth. Better that than not being able to speak. “I stumbled upon it while questioning your employees. I asked about their duties, the accounting entry process, things of that nature.” He took a long look around the room, hoping someone would ask a question. He didn’t really want to talk about Craig’s disclosure now. Bad timing. White bailed him out. “What do you think we should do about this?” “As I said earlier, it’s totally up to you. But since you’ve asked, I’d get him in here and ask him about the discrepancies, fire him and bring charges against him. Then institute safeguards so it couldn’t happen again. An honest accounting firm could help you set up the right internal controls.” White asked of no one in particular, “Why would he do such a thing?” Duffy tried to clear his throat but he started coughing. Damn, of all times to lose his voice. He concentrated hard on holding his voice steady. “I have a theory about what he was doing.” All eyes turned toward the investigator. “I think he was doing the bidding of one of you.” 242

ChapterTwentyOne

He broke out in a coughing fit. No one seemed to have noticed, since they immediately began to argue with each other. Fists pounded the table, manila envelopes went flying. “Probably you, you little . . . ” Longie stood and reached across the table for Peacock. They moved together, each throwing an occasional punch, until they moved clear of the table and locked grips in a wrestling hold. Duffy backed away and waited. He knew there was nothing he could do. When White stood, all voices became quiet. White addressed Duffy with a trembling voice. “We must know why you would say such a thing.” Longie and Peacock, who had not done any damage to each other, quit fighting and sulked back to their places. White looked at them with the admonishment expected for young boys, his brows furrowed. “And we will all be still while you tell us, Mr. Duffy.” He sat down with the reluctance of someone in great pain. Duffy knew a rare opportunity when he was given one. He ripped open a sealed envelope. “Thank you, Mr. White.” This presentation could turn out okay. “If you open your sealed envelope, you’ll notice a list of computer passwords – codes used to get into the computer and alter the books. On January twenty-one, the books from December were deliberately altered, as you can see by the entries on pages one through four, by someone using the password with five exclamation points. Jack knew this was going to be done, of course, and probably even gave you the data to use. Right, Mr. Peacock?” Peacock’s face turned scarlet. “Anyone could have used my code, including Jack.” Duffy paced around the table. “Get real. These entries were made on a Sunday. You were the only person registered as working in the office on that day. You signed in from 1:03 pm. to 3:48 pm.” “I don’t have to answer to you!” Peacock screamed. “I don’t have to answer to any of you.” He stood and ran from the room, toppling some folding chairs as he went. Their steel clatter echoed for several moments. Duffy was happy to have the friendly eyes of Walters staring at him.

243

Chapter Twenty Two As usual Debbie daydreamed during class. Once her bond money came, she’d better pay a few mortgage payments first, before the bank got serious. Then she would take the boys somewhere special. Maybe spend a weekend in a hotel, let them use the pool. She’d let them each bring a friend. She ran through a fantasy scenario, with the boys playing and laughing. They’d thank her when the time came to go home. She’d tousle their hair as she had when they were little. All eyes in the room turned in her direction as Professor Tarpen spoke, including Craig’s. At least his eyes reflected friendly light. “Ms. Wood, since you are our real estate expert, perhaps you can answer this one for us.” Debbie realized Tarpen had spoken to her. When would he leave her alone? “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t hear the question.” And I could care less what it is! Tarpen looked irritated as he continued. “Mr. Jacobs presents us with this situation: A mortgage is taken on real estate which includes some personal property that is not usually severable, such as a building. Then the personal property is moved to some other piece of real estate. If the mortgagor defaults, can the mortgagee go after the original piece of personal property?” Debbie felt a sudden urge to laugh. What did she care about any of this? She looked over at Craig, who nodded in the affirmative. “Yes, sir, I believe the mortgagee could attack the personal property even if it had been moved.” She took in a big breath of courage. “If it was given as collateral for the first mortgage, then the mortgagee can expect that collateral in payment of the default.” How the hell had she come up with that? Some of that studying must be paying off. Tarpen looked at the back of the room. “Do you have your answer, Mr. Jacobs?” “If she’s right,” shot back the young Mr. Jacobs. Tarpen scowled. “She is indeed. And please review the mortgage rules for your midterm exam. You’ll need them for questions three and four. 244

ChapterTwentyTwo

Class dismissed.” Craig caught up to Debbie in the hallway. “You handled that well! Of course it was with a little help from a friend.” He put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “ I couldn’t have done it without you.” She smiled and kissed him. “Are you ready to start our midterm work? We could start on questions three and four, since he basically covered those in class tonight. Might as well do them while they’re fresh, and we’ve only got a week now.” The last thing Debbie wanted to do was schoolwork. She hadn’t been home for two nights – Tuesday’s night class and then gambling, and then studying last night. A cloud of regret came over her. How could she spend time at the casino, or with Craig for that matter, when she needed to concentrate on her studies? “I should probably make it another night.” She pulled away and started walking down the hallway with a wave. “I gotta go. My boys were home alone all day and now all evening, and if I don’t get home soon, I may not recognize the place.” Besides, she wanted to turn in the interest coupons in the morning and she had a strong desire to go home and tuck the boys in. Well, at least tuck Steven in, and give Philip a hug if he allowed it. Craig put his navy blue windbreaker over his wool hunting vest and took a few strides to catch up to her. “How about this idea? We could go to your place and you could get the boys settled. I could get started by myself, and then when you’re ready you could join me.” Debbie hesitated, wondering what kind of shape the house was in. She needed to get motivated with only one week of studying left. “All right. Let’s do that. You gotta know, though, that those two boys can make a big mess.” She turned out to be right. The kitchen sink was piled with dirty dishes and the living room looked like a disaster area. An embarrassed flush came to Debbie’s face as she was sure Craig would guess she hadn’t been home last night. At least it was clear that she hadn’t been taking care of clean-up. Philip was downright nasty to Craig, stomping around in angry silence, not answering questions asked of him. Steven chattered on about powwows and Indians, but eventually Debbie got them both upstairs and settled in. When she came down, Craig had cleaned off the kitchen table, loaded the dishwasher, and spread out their study materials. “Thanks for taking Steven’s questions in stride. He can be a pest sometimes.” “No problem.” Craig took off his hunting vest and folded it, laying it 245

GAME OVER

on the chair next to him. Debbie wondered if he was always so neat and careful. Probably. Even his gray flannel shirt had creases in the sleeves, and she realized he probably took his clothes to the cleaners. “And I’m sorry about Philip. He’s usually not like this. It’s just that, well, he can’t adjust to even the idea of my having men friends. Quite possessive, that one.” Craig smiled. “It’s his age. He’ll get over it as time goes on. I was the same way.” As time goes on. Debbie started to think they might have a future together. “Did your parents divorce?” She didn’t remember him mentioning that. “No, but my dad died when I was fifteen, so I know what Philip is thinking. It’s best just to leave him alone. He’ll snap out of it. Or given enough time, he’ll grow out of it.” They worked until past one o’clock in the morning. Debbie doubted she would have had the concentration to do the midterm work by herself and she felt grateful. “You want some fresh coffee before you go, get you home awake and safe?” Debbie knew he had a long drive ahead – probably over an hour. “That’d be great.” He stretched his legs and packed up his books. “Boy, you guys must play this game a lot,” he remarked, his large, blunt fingers touching the McDonald’s game pieces the boys had stacked on the counter. “The boys are hoping to win an EA Sports trip. Some kind of trip to a major sporting event.” “Win anything yet?” “Oh, you know, the occasional free drink, free fries, just enough to get you back in the door. Nothing major.” “Aren’t you having any?” he asked, stirring in the milk she’d set on the table as a cream substitute. “No, it’s too late. I’d never sleep.” She looked at her own shirt, wrinkled and slightly unkempt, a small stain of some kind on the front, probably tea. Though the stain hardly showed on her dark green shirt, it bothered her. When had she stopped taking care of herself? “So you play the lotto, too?” he stated more than questioned, nodding toward some tickets by the telephone book. “Yeah, sometimes I play the boys’ birth dates. You know, various combinations that are supposed to be meaningful.” “Ever win anything?” “Once. I won $100 on one of the first tickets I bought. Since then, nothing. Absolutely nothing.” She gave a small sigh of disgust. Maybe she should tell him about her gambling. Maybe he could help in some 246

ChapterTwentyTwo

way. If she did tell him about her gambling, then she’d have to stop. If he’d ask her about it, she wouldn’t want to lie to him. Having him as her conscience could help a lot. Right now he was her only friend since she had effectively distanced herself from everyone else. No, he’d probably see her as weak and she’d lose him. Better not say anything. “How about those scratch-off tickets you’ve got there? Ever win anything on those?” “A little. Five dollars here, two dollars there, you know. It dribbles in. I won a fifty dollar prize once.” “Ummm,” he commented, sipping his coffee. “Why are you asking me, anyway?” Debbie questioned, her irritation rising. “Oh, I just notice things like that, that’s all.” He shrugged and smiled a crooked half-smile, looking uncomfortable. “I have a nephew who could have plastered his walls with losing tickets. Didn’t give up. Spent every last dime, and then some, on those things. He ended up owing the bank, losing his car, running away. No one’s seen him since. He disappeared about two years ago.” “Disappeared because of gambling?” “It happens more often than you’d imagine. I guess it’s because people aren’t as accepting of gambling problems as they are of alcohol abuse . . .” he winced, his eyes turning into thin, cold slivers, “. . . or even drug problems. Maybe people look down on gambling because they see it as squandering money, a mortal sin for capitalists.” “Are you implying that’s what I’m doing? Because I can assure you, it is not!” Debbie’s face flushed and she stuffed the scratch-off tickets behind the flour canister. “No, Debbie. I didn’t mean to imply that. I was just telling you about my nephew, that’s all.” “Well, I am lucky!” Debbie choked. She had a hard time catching her breath. “I’m damn lucky. I can double my money in less than an hour in video poker! It doesn’t matter if I play quarters or dollars, either. And I’m not losing my car, like your nephew did!” She had pawned over half her compact disk collection, her wedding rings (she wouldn’t need them anymore) and a string of pearls that her mother had given her as an early inheritance. Finding that pawn shop had been handy. But she had not lost anything. She could do without those things. Better not look him in the eye. He might guess. Besides, she could stop any time she wanted. “Good, that’s good. I’m glad you’re lucky. I wish I could say the same.” He set his coffee cup down and looked at her. “I gamble too, you know. Remember the first time we spoke, at Magic Days? Employees can’t gamble at Pine Bend, so I go to Magic Days. But I’m usually not 247

GAME OVER

lucky. I find it entertaining. Sometimes I meet buddies there and we have a great time. Do you often go with friends?” Debbie pulled at the hair near her temples, running her fingers down to the ends of her curls. “My sister used to go with me, but she hasn’t for a while.” Debbie pulled her hair across to cover her face and her tangled fingers started to tremble. “Is something wrong, Debbie?” Craig asked. The corners of his smile turned down. “No, nothing, just tired,” Debbie answered through her hair. She yawned loudly. “Listen, I’m pretty beat. What do you say we call it a night?” She smiled, hoping it appeared genuine. Craig kissed her at the door. Nothing passionate, just a friendly peck on the cheek. As Debbie watched him walk down the sidewalk and get into his car, she made a decision. She knew just what she needed to do before he found out anything else about her. The time had come to take drastic action. Debbie searched the phone book for a compulsive gambler’s help line. Gambling, gambling. “Let’s see. Gambling Equipment & Supplies.” No help at all. She looked in the white pages’ business section and found Game Daze and Game & Fish Department, no Gambler’s Anonymous. Nothing under compulsive gambling either. Then she found a section on Crisis Intervention. The Comp Care listing looked interesting. If their program wasn’t for compulsive gambling, they’d surely have a number for her. She dialed the number. “Crisis Intervention. This is Barb. How may I help you?” “Do you know, I mean, do you have any help for problem gamblers?” There, she said it out loud. Problem gamblers. Everything would be fine now. “No, I’m sorry, our services are for teenagers in crisis with their families,” the cheerful Barb replied. “But I’m sure there must be a number in the yellow pages of the phone book. I’ll look right now if you’d like.” Debbie’s hands shook with nervousness as she held the receiver, and she wondered if one of the boys might wake up and come downstairs. They might overhear her. She couldn’t do this again, call a perfect stranger and expect them to help. “No, thanks anyway, I’ll be fine.” Debbie hung up, deciding she didn’t need to talk to a stranger after all. She had a better plan. She would quit gambling, return the bonds to the bank, maybe even sell the house if she had to in order to get her finances in line. And I’ll never gamble again. Ever. 248

ChapterTwentyTwo

*

*

*

Warren Brandt arrived at Hancock ten minutes early. The Hancock was his favorite bar, filled with dark, narrow spaces and private booths, perfect for business. He ordered a scotch and thought about Featherman, who probably became a reporter by watching the Watergate hearings. He had a reputation of integrity and intensity. Politicians treated Featherman as though he had an inside line to the National Enquirer and was about to use it at any moment. People broke appointments, clammed up at the slightest hint of a question with meaning, and they hardly ever divulged personal information. Warren felt nervous about what their meeting would bring. In his years of politics, he knew to fear only one thing – surprises. He needed the scotch, and gulped it down as Jim Featherman walked through the main entrance of the Hancock. Featherman strode straight to the back of the dimly-lit bar. “Senator,” Featherman nodded politely as Warren stood and they shook hands. Brandt sat down with a firmness that almost hurt his tail bone, pointing to Featherman’s briefcase. “The first thing I want you to do is empty that thing, and your pockets.” “I assure you, Senator, I do not have any recording devices.” Featherman looked a little hurt. Warren tried to look menacing as he peered over his glasses, but his stomach quaked with nervous energy. “I assure you, Mr. Featherman, that if you don’t begin emptying everything within ten seconds, I am out the door.” “Okay, okay. I’m nothing but professional.” Featherman opened his briefcase and slid it toward the Senator, who sat on one side of the booth, arms folded across his chest. “I said, empty it.” Featherman dumped the briefcase contents on the table and scattered the papers about. He emptied his pockets one by one, piling their contents on top of the papers. “Now open up your shirt,” the Senator commanded. “Senator, don’t you think that’s going a little too . . .” “I said, open it.” The reporter stood and opened his shirt, showing his bare chest to all who cared to look. No one took notice of the two men in the back. “Fine,” Brandt said, not totally satisfied that the reporter wasn’t wired, but he could hardly ask him to do more. “Now let’s go.” Brandt left money for his drink and headed out the door at a brisk pace. He could not risk his conversations being overheard, even by a waiter in a bar. 249

GAME OVER

“What the hell. . .” Featherman fumbled with the contents of his briefcase, shoving everything back in as Warren slammed the door and headed south on 19th Street, toward Constitution Gardens. Warren knew Featherman would catch up to him. Once a reporter caught wind of a story, especially a good reporter like Featherman, they never let go. Brandt knew the perfect place for talking secretively – the World War II Memorial. The columns of the states were perfect, providing a bit of a screen to block you from view, yet they were open enough so you could see anyone coming too close. Featherman caught up to him as they crossed Constitution Avenue. “I don’t appreciate this kind of treatment, Senator Brandt. Let’s get one thing straight . . .” Brandt’s life seemed out of control, but at least he could control where this conversation would take place. Did Featherman know about his involvement with Sam Lyons? He knew he’d soon find out. “I don’t want to be overheard. That’s what we are getting straight. We’ll talk when we get to the columns.” Warren slowed the pace as the two men walked around the top of the Vietnam Memorial and toward the reflecting pool. The lights of the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument reflected off the thin layer of ice, each reflection moving in from the ends toward the middle of the pool, which turned dark and ominous. By next month the water would be turned back on and running freely, and Brandt couldn’t wait. All this cold March weather dampened everyone’s body and soul. They cut through the row of elm trees, approached the Pacific Arch, and took the walkway to curve around the outside of the state columns. “Okay, we can talk now. What did you want to see me about?” “Senator, I have interviewed Senator Buffalo’s mother and father, and her uncle. They are convinced that the Senator was attacked for a specific reason, probably for the work she did on your committee.” “Old news, Jim. Everybody in Washington knows that’s what the family thinks.” “Not everyone in Washington knows this.” He handed Brandt two sheets of paper. Brandt moved back toward the arch, reading from the reflected light. He stumbled at a few of the lines and had to read them over. “ . . . Jean Anderson Buffalo’s affair with Sam Lyons . . . illegal campaign contributions . . .” “Where did they get this information?” Warren asked, his voice faltering. Sam Lyons would be implicated in Jean’s attack, and of course, he himself would be dragged into the whole mess. He hoped he could stall a bit longer and gather more information about Sam’s contacts to get the 250

ChapterTwentyTwo

goods on them. Too much to hope for, and he needed to decide what to do soon. “In a letter Senator Buffalo wrote and mailed to her mother the day she went into a coma,” Featherman said. “Do you have a copy of the letter?” “Yes, here.” He put his briefcase on the ground, opened it, and took the paper and gave it a firm shake. Warren looked it over. Jean Anderson Buffalo’s signature appeared in clear, bold letters, Love, Jean. He couldn’t help but feel disgust at the reporter, always digging for the dirt. “Why didn’t George Buffalo leak this to the press? That seems to be his modus operandi.” “He told me he didn’t want to use all of his information at one time. Besides, Jean’s mother still isn’t sure she wants to release the letter. You can understand why.” Warren nodded slowly. “So, what do you want from me?” Featherman straightened up and looked at Brandt with a determined, confident look. He stuck his chin out. “I want confirmation.” “You should know better.” Brandt laughed and walked through the arch. He looked up at the bronze eagle, appearing ready to swoop down and grab him by the coat collar. His footsteps echoed as he walked the curved path around the state pillars. He walked to the rainbow pool, keeping a distance from a few visitors that were wandering near the Atlantic Pavilion. He sighed and sat on one of the benches surrounding the rainbow pool, with his back to the Washington Monument. The ice on the pool seemed to mock him with frozen darkness. How the hell did it come to this? He looked over at the Field of Stars that represented the war dead. During the day, the wall would shine with bright glory, even in the winter sun, but at night they looked more like a wet quilt of army metals. Brandt made a decision and glared at Featherman. “Here’s what we’re going to do, Mr. Featherman. I’ll give you confirmation and all the facts you’re looking for. But first, you’re going to go to the District Attorney and get me immunity. Anonymously, of course. You can’t implicate me in any way. If you can get me a promise of protection in writing an hour before the press conference tomorrow, I’ll give you an exclusive. You’ll be announcing your news when the press conference starts.” Featherman groaned and sat down beside Brandt. “You know I can’t get you that.” “Well, I can’t go to them, can I? Besides, all you have to do is tell them what you think you’ve got. Figure it out. Shit, this stone gets cold in the winter.” Brandt stood up to leave. “One final bit of advice. For 251

GAME OVER

Chrissake, don’t show them the letter. If you do, the exclusive’s off. No deal.” Brandt dashed toward 17th Street, staying to the north wall. As he passed by the Battle of the Bulge carving, he rubbed the butt of an infantryman’s rifle. “Sorry, buddy,” he whispered. *

*

*

Debbie stood in the customer line at Bank One and fiddled with her purse, waiting to be served. When her turn came, she walked up to the teller window and removed the delicate coupons from their envelope. “Would you like this in a cashier’s check?” the teller asked, remarkably cheerful for eight thirty in the morning. Debbie shook her head. “No, I’d like it in cash, please.” Less traceable. “Are hundreds okay?” “Fine.” Debbie absentmindedly twirled the ends of her hair with her fingers as the teller counted out the bills. Debbie stared as the stack grew. “Nineteen hundred and fifty. Will there be anything else?” the perky teller chirped. “No, thank you.” Debbie could think of nothing else all day. Almost two thousand dollars sat in her purse in the bottom left desk drawer. She could get caught up on her debts or take some money downstairs to a mortgage clerk and make a payment. She could put the rest in her checking account and write some checks for bills, or treat Sally to lunch. She could give the boys a hundred dollars each when she got home. The possibilities seemed endless. She tried to concentrate on her job. Between the cash in her purse and the conversation with Craig last night, productivity suffered. She felt badly about not telling Craig the whole truth, but he couldn’t possibly know about the complexities of gambling. Or how easy it was to get sucked in. She kept thinking of the story of the nephew disappearing. How sad for the family. She took care of some correspondence, called some clients and answered their questions. She called Mrs. Olson-Reiner the requisite three times, but otherwise she got nothing accomplished. Debbie drove home, daydreaming about the money she had. Almost two thousand dollars. She spent it fifty different ways in her mind by the time she pulled in the driveway. The boys seemed pleased to see her, and they hung around the kitchen while she made dinner. Nothing fancy, just sloppy joes on hamburger buns that she’d bought on the way home. “You boys are acting like you never get fed,” she remarked when Ste252

ChapterTwentyTwo

ven paid her compliment after compliment about the sloppy joes. Philip mentioned how long it had been since they’d had dinner together. “Oh, Philip, stop being so dramatic. We had dinner together, let’s see, last Sunday night. Remember?” “Right, so it’s been almost a week,” Philip countered. “Oh, cut it out now. You were both gone all last weekend, or don’t you remember? And anyway, big deal. You boys are getting old enough to fend for yourselves.” “What about next year, if I go away to college? Who’s gonna be at home with Steven? Dad says I should get my applications in soon. And who wants to stay here in the frozen tundra?” He took a huge bite of sloppy joe. “I’ve been thinking about Stanford.” Debbie nearly choked. “Stanford? But Philip, that’s so far away. Besides, your dad won’t agree to any tuition that costs more than the U of M, you know that. Stanford is terribly expensive.” “I could get some student loans.” He took a swig of his milk. “Couldn’t you help some?” “Not much. Maybe a few books or something, but the divorce settlement says your college education is up to your father. I’m sorry, Philip, but you’ll have to stick with a cheaper school than Stanford. God, it’s probably thirty or forty grand a year, maybe more.” Philip looked solemn. “Maybe I should just wait a year before going to college. Then next year you’ll be finished with law school and maybe you’d be making more.” Debbie pressed her fingertips to her temples. “It’s not just my salary, Philip. It’s that your father agreed to pay your in-state tuition and books. You could live at home and save a lot of money. The U is a great school, so there’s no need for you to run off to someplace like Stanford. If your father agrees to pick up the tab, fine. Otherwise, just put it out of your mind.” “You just don’t want to pay my living expenses.” “You’re right, I don’t.” They stared at each other. Philip gulped, then said, “You want enough money for gambling all the time.” “Shut up, Philip,” she growled. Steven sat in shock. Debbie never allowed anyone to say shut up in her house. She always said to use “be quiet” or “that’s enough.” You went to your room if you said “shut up.” Philip started to rant. “You just want everything for yourself. You get to go to law school, and you never take us anywhere or spend any money on us.” “Shut up, Philip.” Debbie spit through clenched teeth. 253

GAME OVER

“Well, I’m sick and tired of living here and having to take care of Steven all the time. I want to move in with dad.” Debbie stood and pointed to the stairs. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you. Shut the fuck up and go to your room! Don’t you ever say that again! Go to your room this instant!” Philip stormed up the stairs and pounded his fist on the wall as he went up. “He didn’t mean it, Mom,” Steven whimpered. “He’s just mad because Marcia wants to date other guys. That’s all. He didn’t mean it.” His crying became louder. Debbie sat down next to Steven and took him in her arms, even though he was nearly her size. He put his head in her lap and she stroked his blond curls. She let him cry for a bit, then patted his back. “It’s okay, sweetie. I know he didn’t mean it. Everyone’s a little stressed out. It’s this long winter, that’s all. You finish your dinner and get ready for hockey practice. It’ll all be okay.” Later, on her way to the casino, she thought of one of Craig’s comments about his nephew running away. She had never run away from her responsibilities. And tonight she could win some money for Philip’s tuition to Stanford. I have to use this interest money to win. I can win! I’ve just needed an adequate bankroll, and now I’ve got it. I can be lucky! Steven had hockey practice and Philip went to Marcia’s. At least that’s where she thought he was going. No point in her sitting home alone. It was after two in morning by the time she’d lost it all. Oh, she’d won at first. At one point, she was over six thousand ahead. She’d played the horses, making quinella one hundred dollar bets on long shots. She’d tipped the attendants, ordered drinks, felt the thrill of winning when her horse came in first or second. In three hours she was over six thousand ahead. It took only one hour to lose all of her winnings, plus her nineteen hundred dollars. She’d put a fifty-dollar bill in her boot, telling herself she would not spend it. May as well try the quarter machines. She went to pull the fifty out of her boot when she heard Craig’s voice: Spent every last dime, and then some. She was going to save that last fifty dollars. Maybe treat the boys to a Hardee’s meal tomorrow night. Or they could go to McDonald’s and get more game pieces. She took her last bill to the line at the change counter. Spent every last dime, and then some. What did Craig know about her life, anyway? She could handle this. Only two people stood in the line in front of her. She looked around at the welcoming lights, the people milling around, the pleasant and exciting sounds of the coins landing in their trays. Why 254

ChapterTwentyTwo

couldn’t she stop once she got started? No one else seemed to have a problem. People seemed to be enjoying themselves, relaxing, laughing together as poker hands came up on a screen or symbols fell across a pay line. An older man sat on the stool nearest her – well dressed, wearing a heavy, wool coat. Debbie thought he must have been chilled. He played two machines at once, plugging one with coins. While the machine drew his first hand, he decided which cards to hold on the second machine. Back and forth he went, sitting in front of one machine and leaning toward the other. Activity everywhere, commotion a natural part of the scene. Two employees walked by the older gentlemen and once past, they giggled to themselves, glancing back at the man. Debbie could hear them saying “. . . will not leave his stool . . . pee . . . ” Debbie wondered why the staff laughed about the customer. Seemed a little crude. She sized up the man sitting on the stool. He must have been about fifty, good looking. He was tall, the way his legs reached the floor easily from his stool in front of his machine. What was he playing? An alphabet game? Debbie could see his screen if she stretched backwards a bit. Video poker, nothing unusual. He shifted his weight on the stool and a faint aroma hit Debbie’s nostrils. Familiar and unpleasant. Urine. My God, he’s peeing in his coat so he doesn’t have to leave his machines! Debbie stared at the coat, which looked like any other winter wool garment, gray-black tweed in color, innocuously protecting its wearer from the cold. What would possess him to do such a thing? What could possibly force him to do it? “Next,” the cashier said. “What would you like?” Debbie stepped forward to the counter, but her hands trembled as she held out her fifty-dollar bill. “What would you like?” the cashier asked again. Spent every last dime, and then some. She looked at her fifty-dollar bill, and Grant’s picture stared back at her in his bow-tied prominence. “What would you like for that, ma’am?” the cashier repeated, as she fiddled with the cash drawer. The line behind Debbie grew with people filled with the excitement of getting their change to play just the right machine. I’d like a life, please. Complete with financial security, but mixed with excitement. A better job please, and perfect children. Oh, and don’t forget true love, please. The smell of the urine died away, but the remembrance burned in her nostrils, dizzying her senses and clarity of purpose. She reeled backwards, clutching the bill, and she stepped on the toes of a young woman behind her. Debbie tried to run toward the door, but her feet seemed made of lead. She lifted each one of the dead weights as best she could, but her progress was slow. The fifty-dollar bill had 255

GAME OVER

become huge and heavy. She maneuvered it in front of her, balancing each step so that she wouldn’t topple over, top heavy as she was carrying the bill-anvil. She couldn’t breathe for the memory of stench of urine in her nostrils. Instead she held her breath. Outside would be clean air. Outside would be her refuge. She bumped into a waitress carrying a drink tray, and Debbie fell. The waitress smiled and helped her up, seeming to know which of them had the greater burden. A doorman opened the door for her. He must have realized her weighted handicap. She took a gulp of the night air. It tasted like the heavy metal of coins, the bitterness of disappointment. Her feet lightened slightly as she made her way to her car. After maneuvering them inside the car, she placed the bill-anvil carefully on the passenger seat. Spent every last dime, and then some. How could her life have come to this foolish waste of time, money, and energy? When was the last day she hadn’t been consumed with thoughts of gambling? She gripped the steering wheel as overwhelming sadness engulfed her. What if I can never stop? What if I am in an endless cycle of winning and losing? She did something she hadn’t done for six years. Debbie wept.

256

ChapterTwentyTwo

257

Chapter Twenty-Three Craig stopped in Paulette’s office on Monday morning, hoping to put her at ease. He hadn’t been fired yet, and each passing day gave him an increased sense of relief. He realized he needn’t have worried about Paulette, though – she was back to her old self, giggling in front of her security monitors. “What are you doing, Paulette?” “I’m checking the suspicion footage from last week. Look at this guy – he’s taking quarters from the woman’s tray next to him. Look how slyly he does it! They came in the casino together, so the guards didn’t say anything to him. They walked out together too. Look at this expression that camera eighteen picked up.” Paulette chuckled. The man had a sheepish look on his plump, reddish face. He’d glance to his right and then lean down slightly to the left and take quarters with his left hand. “What an open relationship they must have, eh?” “Oh, she probably knew about it all along,” Craig remarked. “Say, I just wanted to tell you that I think everything’s going to be fine.” Paulette paid no attention to him. She continued to watch the screen. “Did you hear me, Paulette? I think everything will be fine.” Paulette pressed “pause” on her machine and turned to face him. “I told you not to ever mention this again. Ever. Never.” She hit the “resume” button with such deliberateness that Craig could not mistake her intent. “Okay. You’re right,” Craig apologized. “Did you order the new stools, the ones with washable seats? I can’t believe how many people won’t leave their machines when they think the machines are hot, and now we have to budget to change the covers every year. Too bad we can’t get urine-resistant ones.” Paulette’s screen had started again with a scene of a woman charging toward the door. Craig watched with a sense of disbelief as the woman fell down and nearly toppled a cocktail waitress. The woman continued on her way, undaunted. Craig managed to ask: “Why are you looking at this scene? Did she 258

ChapterTwentyThree

steal anything?” “Well,” Paulette said, pressing the rewind button, “that’s what security asked me to review. They thought maybe she stole something from the waitress’s tray, but the waitress said nothing was missing. They just wanted me to double check.” She froze a frame of the waitress going down. “See? The woman has a bill already in her hand – let’s see what it is.” Paulette pressed more of her computer commands. “There – she had a fifty-dollar bill. But she had it before she bumped into the waitress.” Craig watched the replay of Debbie hitting the floor. The waitress extended her hand to help Debbie up. Debbie grabbed the hand and pulled herself up to a standing position and ran toward the door. Security would have stopped her there, but the waitress signaled an “okay” sign. Craig felt as if someone socked him in the stomach. “Imagine that.” Craig said as he turned and left Paulette’s office. *

*

*

Debbie’s hands moved around the sink as she searched for silverware at the bottom of the dishwater and worked out the details of her plan. “Guess what I just saw?” Craig declared more than asked as he barged into Debbie’s kitchen. His face looked flushed. Debbie threw the washed silverware in the dish drainer. “Don’t you knock? I sleep with you one time and you think you can barge into my home?” She’d seen him walk up the sidewalk, but she wasn’t expecting him to come right in. She wondered why men feel free to come right in once they have any access to your life. “I just saw a security recording, featuring none other than Debbie Wood. You, on camera, falling into a server and her tray. I suppose the good news is that you had some money in your hand and you were leaving the casino. So, why don’t you tell me the bad news yourself?” Craig demanded. “Hey, you burst into my home and raise your voice at me! For what? You saw me on camera at the casino. What are you talking about?” “Is that why you didn’t go to work this morning? Because you’re here at home, handling your responsibilities?” “Damn you, Craig. I can handle my gambling. I can. I can handle all my responsibilities. Who asked you to interfere, anyway? I just thought I’d take the morning off. Got up a little late, that’s all.” Debbie could feel tears well up. Not again! She had cried for over half an hour last night – enough for a year as far as she was concerned. She tried to compose herself. “And what makes you think you have the right to come into my home and harass me? Get the hell out!” 259

GAME OVER

“I’m surprised you’re up now.” “For your information, I had a lovely time with the boys this morning before they went to school. Thought they needed a little of my time.” She thought of the breakfast with the boys. It had gone well. Steven had asked cheerfully, “Why are you making us breakfast?” Usually she woke them up and left for work while they fended for themselves. This morning, she’d apologized and told the boys she wanted to spend more time with them. Craig took off his jacket and hung it in the hallway closet. He untied and removed his boots and strode back into the kitchen. He pulled out a chair from around the table and sat down. “What do you think you’re doing? I told you to get out!” “Debbie Wood, I’m not leaving here until you admit you have a gambling problem.” “You want me to what?” “Admit it. You are a problem gambler. And from what I saw on the footage, maybe even a compulsive one. Here. I brought these brochures from the Pine Bend employee lounge. We’re supposed to be able to recognize a compulsive gambler, even though I don’t think anyone has ever kicked a soul out of our casino. Let’s see, now. Here are some questions to ask yourself to figure out if you have a gambling problem. Question One: Have you ever felt remorse after gambling?” Craig yelled. “You have no right to ask me this! I don’t owe you anything.” She threw the dishtowel at him, but it hung in the air for a moment and fell to the floor a few feet away. He hung his head. “I’m sorry, Debbie. It’s just that this reminds me of dealing with Lynn and her addiction. I don’t mean to take that out on you, but I can’t live through that again.” She felt a little sorry for him, but she didn’t care. He had no right to question her this way, not when she’d spent the pre-dawn hours struggling with what to do about her gambling. She wasn’t ready to share her concerns with him. “I should go. I had no right . . .” Craig got up to leave. “I’ll put these here in case . . .” Debbie watched as Craig reached for his jacket. She felt so tired of people leaving her. Tired of going through life by herself. Exhaustion overcame her and she slumped into a chair as she realized the juggle of lies and deceit that had become her life. She may as well get it over with. “Yes, I feel remorse after I gamble. But that might not be as bad as you think.” She blinked back tears as she looked up at him and tried to smile. “Could be I’m just a remorseful person.” When Craig just stood there, she nodded at the chair. “Sit down and 260

ChapterTwentyThree

read me the next question.” “Are you sure you want to go through these? Could be painful.” He sat across from her and took her hands in his. “It’s already painful. Watching you is painful.” She smiled a thin, crooked smile. “Besides, I decided last night that I have a gambling problem. I’m just not so sure what to do next. But I know one thing. You’re my friend, and I need you.” She gave his hands a squeeze, then took her hands away and covered her face. “I’m ready. Let’s go through those questions.” “Okay. Question Two: Have you ever borrowed money to finance your gambling?” “I suppose if you count charging on a credit card, yes.” “Question Three: Has gambling affected your relationships and home life?” Craig didn’t look at Debbie as he read the questions. “If you count Philip’s anger, I suppose a little.” Debbie cleared her throat and thought of the crying scene with the boys. “Who am I kidding? I said ‘fuck’ and ‘shut up’ to my oldest son in the same sentence yesterday. Both forbidden. The answer is yes.” “Has gambling ever affected your work?” Debbie thought. “My work. I’m not sure.” She looked at Craig, who seemed calm now, but he kept his eyes averted as he continued. “Well, what about this morning? Aren’t you at home now because of your experience at the casino last night?” “Yeah, you’re right. I think about gambling at work, but until today I’ve never missed work because of it. So I think the answer should be ‘maybe.’ ” “Have you ever gambled to get money to pay other bills?” She sighed. “Mostly to make life better for the boys though.” Craig looked at her with questioning eyes. “Okay, yes, but I have my reasons.” “After losing do you feel you should return as soon as possible to win back your losses?” Facing her gambling was not going to be easy. She wondered how many ‘yes’ answers made a problem. “Sometimes. Mostly yes.” “Has gambling affected your ambition or how efficient you are in your day-to-day life?” “If you count not wanting to stay in school, yes.” Craig looked up from the brochure. “Are you seriously thinking about dropping out?” he asked incredulously. “Maybe. Just finish with the goddamn questions.” “Sorry. Okay. Have you often gambled until your last dollar was gone?” 261

GAME OVER

“Until last night, many times,” she answered thoughtfully, twisting her hair into clumps. “Have you ever gambled longer than you had planned?” “How stupid are these questions? Hasn’t everybody?” “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ Have you ever sold anything to finance gambling?” She snorted. “Is pawning the same as selling? Never mind, I know the answer. The worst thing that ever happened to me was finding that pawn shop. Well, maybe not the worst thing.” “What pawn shop?” The look on her face must have warned him not to continue. “Never mind, you can tell me later.” “Has gambling affected your reputation?” Debbie smiled and let out a low chuckle. “My reputation? No, I don’t think so.” Debbie stood and paced in front of the sink. She knew these questions would be difficult, and sharing this information with Craig didn’t come easily. “Has gambling made you careless of the welfare of yourself and your family?” Debbie pressed her hands over her eyes. Should she admit to this? What good would any of these questions do if she didn’t start being honest with herself and with everyone else? “Yes,” she said, feeling weak. “Have you ever committed or thought about committing an illegal act to finance your gambling?” “Yes,” she whispered, and sat back down. Craig seemed to be trying to soften the words of the next question: “Have you ever considered self-destruction as a result of your gambling?” Debbie’s hands started to tremble. “Not really seriously. You know, just a few thoughts . . . the kids wouldn’t get the life insurance money though, so I put it out of my mind.” Craig reached over and put his arm around her. “You considered killing yourself so your kids would get insurance money?” “I didn’t know what else to do!” she said defiantly, accenting each word with a nod of her head. “I think we have the answer to the questions. But there’s lots of help out there, Debbie. You know, groups and counselors. I’m sure Gamblers Anonymous has local groups and one of them can help you. They probably have a number in the telephone book.” “They do not. I looked already.” Craig picked up the yellow pages and started searching. Debbie didn’t move her hands from her face. “Besides, some of those questions are deceptive and unfair. Sometimes you can go back and 262

ChapterTwentyThree

make up your losses.” “That’s true, I’m sure.” “And sometimes if you put money on a credit card to gamble, you end up winning and paying your credit cards off. I’ve seen that happen to jackpot winners who were using their credit cards.” How could she look at him again? “That’s true, too. But I don’t think the questions are referring to what could happen. Besides, compulsive gambling isn’t so much about each trip to the casino. It’s more about . . . I don’t know . . . maybe how you think about gambling and if it has taken over your life. For my nephew, something totally irrational took over, and nothing else mattered. Not friends, not family, not work, nothing. Might even be the agony of defeat was as good for him as the thrill of victory. He thought of nothing else.” “So do you think I’m a compulsive gambler?” Debbie asked in a high voice, hands still firmly pressed over her eyes. Could anyone understand how difficult this was, to admit to such a weakness? And what would her boys think if she had to go to meetings all the time? How could she ever explain this to them? “I’m no expert, Debbie. At our casino every employee takes a twohour session on the subject, so I can’t really say. You’re the one who has to talk to some professionals and then decide.” Debbie straightened up in her chair. “Oh God, I must look a fright.” She took her hands away from her face. “I want you to go home now. You’ve been a big help.” “I’m not leaving until we find a telephone number to call.” Craig fumbled with the phone book again. “Here it is – the gambling hot line. You must have missed it before.” He held the phone book out to her, his eyebrows raised in a look of concern. “I really need to make that call alone, Craig. Besides, you’ve done enough. I’ll be fine. I know what I have to do.” She got up and started for the door. Filled with a feeling of dread, she knew some of the tasks ahead would be difficult, not to mention embarrassing. “Are you sure you’re all right? How about tomorrow? Do you want to meet for lunch or after work? I get off around five.” “No, really. I want to thank you for . . . you know . . . being here for me. Call me on Thursday or Friday. I’ve got a busy few days ahead. Lots to do,” she remarked with a faint smile as she fanned the brochure she clutched. “I promise I’m okay. I went through a lot of this last night by myself, and I came to a good plan for what I need to do next. Really.” “I’m sorry I was so hard on you. It’s just that when I saw you on that recording, I realized how much I care about you, and I went a little 263

GAME OVER

crazy.” Craig hugged her hard and kissed her on top of her head. “You’re very brave, Debbie. It takes courage to admit a problem – any problem. I’ll call you Thursday.” She didn’t want to let him go. She hugged him tight around the waist before he patted her shoulders, walked out the door and drove off. Debbie knew what she had to do. She dialed the number. “Compulsive gambling hot line. What can we do for you?” Do for me? Right. They could pay me my bond money back. “I just wanted to talk to someone to find out if I have a gambling problem, and to see, well, if there was anything I could do about it.” “I’ll be glad to help. Let me ask you a few questions.” Oh shit. More exhausting questions. Debbie answered the polite and calming voice as best she could. By the time an hour had gone by, she had locations of Gamblers Anonymous meetings near her home and near her work. She had numbers to call in case she was in crisis. She had the name of a county attorney who would give her free advice. She had a number for a gambling outpatient clinic. They had offered to send a volunteer to come to her home and talk with her family. As she listened to this stranger talk to her about gambling, she formulated a plan. First, she would return the one bond she still had in her possession. She could do that as soon as she worked a late shift, maybe even today. She couldn’t just leave it on someone’s desk. They’d check the security cameras to see who had left it, and she’d be caught. And she couldn’t just mail it in anonymously, because all the mail was opened and sorted in the mail room. Someone there might keep it for themselves. No, it was her responsibility to get the bond back into the archival vault. Then she would return the Pennsylvania Utilities money when it came in. She’d have to get that back in the archival vault as well, or figure out how to get it into a teller drawer without anyone noticing. That way it wasn’t really like stealing, more like borrowing. As for the money already spent, she’d worry about that later. Maybe sell the house, pay off her credit cards with some of the equity, and get a smaller, more affordable home. No one would ever have to know about her theft. It turned out to be no problem to get Mr. Broxton to agree that Debbie could work a late shift. She called Broxton and explained that she couldn’t get in until two o’clock because her son was ill. Could she work from two o’clock until eight? That would give her undistracted time to catch up on the correspondence he’d been working on since returning from vacation. “No problem,” he said. “See you this afternoon.” She put the General Mills and U.S. Steel Corporation bonds in a folder and placed them in her old, seldom-used briefcase. Then she called 264

ChapterTwentyThree

her mother and talked for a while. Not about much, just ordinary conversation. She discussed Philip’s recent cold that he was getting over, the boys’ weekend with their father, and the house painting project she planned for next summer. “Who’s going to help you with that, dear? You know how dangerous those ladders can be,” her mother warned. “Yes, Mom, I know, but Philip and Steven will help. They’re big boys now, you know. And Liz said she could spend a few days helping. With all of us working, it won’t take long.” “Be sure to scrape the old paint off thoroughly. Remember what happened to your father with our garage. He never could get the paint to stick.” “I’ll be sure to do that.” The conversation lasted nearly an hour. Debbie wanted to tell her mother about her decision to go to Gamblers Anonymous but the timing didn’t feel right. Maybe after she attended a few meetings she’d know enough about what to say and how to best break the news to her mother. Better to leave it alone for a time until she could get all of her problems squared away. And she needed to consider her sister Liz’s feelings. Debbie needed to tell her before breaking the news to her mother, because her mother would be on the telephone within the hour, telling Liz the problem and then describing her view of the best solution. Liz would be insulted if Debbie didn’t warn her first. None of the other family members would feel that way, but everyone knew Liz was the sensitive one. *

*

*

Senator Brandt decided to start the press conference early before Lyons showed up. He called a few select reporters and warned them to arrive outside his office a few minutes before two, and if they did he would give them a scoop. He’d already given Featherman an advance copy of what he planned to say. He hoped he was doing the right thing as he took the podium and looked over the crowd of reporters. He spoke in a caring way about Senator Jean Anderson Buffalo. How he had respected and admired her, and how she had done wonderful work for her constituencies. How saddened he was at her inability to help them with the next legislative challenge. He decided to read his prepared statement, not trusting his ability to get the story out if he didn’t read the entire page. “I have a formal statement to read, and then I will take your questions afterward.” Warren Brandt put on his glasses and began a statement he knew would change his life forever. 265

GAME OVER

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I tell you today Senator Sam Lyons and I agreed to put pressure on Senator Anderson Buffalo in order to get her to change her mind about regulation and taxation. Sam Lyons carried out the hiring of an attacker to scare her into submission. She was purposefully and viciously attacked because of her work on behalf of Native American tribes and her stand on no federal taxation or interference with the profits of sovereign nations.” He looked out over the stunned audience of reporters, hoping this would not be the last time he’d address them as a Senator. “The owners of two casinos in Las Vegas, large contributors to the campaign of Sam Lyons, felt the pressure of unregulated competition and wanted the profits taxed. They worked with Senator Lyons on hiring the attacker. I will personally push for a Senate investigation, and of course there will be a criminal investigation.” He folded his statement with trembling hands and put it inside his jacket pocket. “After all, I feel somewhat responsible, although please believe me when I say that I meant her no harm. I will now take some of your questions.” The reporters fired away: “Senator, could the mob have been behind the attack?” “Which casinos were behind the hiring?” “I haven’t been told the name of the attacker. I met with police just a half hour ago. They’ll follow all leads, and of course the FBI will be involved. According to Senator Anderson Buffalo’s own letter to her mother, the casinos are the Twelve Towers and the Madrid.” The reporters began shouting unrecognizable words in his direction “. . . told George Buffalo . . . kind of pressure . . . other casinos involved . . .” Brandt surveyed his audience with a detachment he had felt only one other time in his life – at his divorce trial. He had not cared one way or another if his wife divorced him as their marriage was over years before. All he’d cared about was making sure the divorce publicity didn’t hurt his political career, and even that had seemed unimportant at the time. He’d watched the judge that day with the same numbness he felt now. The reporters thrust their microphones closer to his face, pushing each other for a better location. Warren removed his reading glasses and put them in his inside jacket pocket, and he fingered the cigar Sam Lyons insisted he take. Lyons strode into the room. A loud ringing began in Warren’s ears as he surveyed the crowd, and a tightening started in the center of his chest. He took a few short breaths and realized he was sweating. “Yes,” he thought to himself, “this is what it is like to not care.” He tried to straighten his papers, but his hands and arms wouldn’t work. A tremendously painful constriction rose in his 266

ChapterTwentyThree

chest. He had trouble taking a breath, the pain was so great. By the time he tried telling the reporters something was wrong, they already knew. He could see his watch, 2:22, as he fell over. He looked up and faces loomed above him in an oval. He could see lips moving, but he couldn’t hear a single noise, not even Ms. Thompson’s voice as she leaned over and pressed on his wrist, obviously shouting to someone. Then darkness, sweet darkness. *

*

*

“Mr. Lewis,” Symington said into the receiver, “I have something for you. Do you want to come up? I leave at five today, but I’ll stay a little longer if you’d like me to.” “Be right there,” Lewis replied, and jumped out of his chair. Nothing like a good chase. He had warned the officials at General Mills to be on the lookout for correspondence from Ms. Debbie Wood. Maybe Symington caught her stealing another bond. “Here, take a look.” Symington played a recording of Debbie coming in to work at two o’clock that afternoon, briefcase in hand. Debbie had leaned the briefcase up against her desk while she removed her coat, then locked the briefcase in her bottom right hand drawer. The office scene looked typical – Debbie and Sally chatting, Sally taking Debbie’s coffee cup to fill it for her, people coming and going at afternoon break time. “Tell me what is different about this,” ordered Lewis. “Sir, she hasn’t carried a briefcase since I started my surveillance. I checked some old footage from six months ago, and she didn’t carry one then either. I’m having staff spot check other times, but it appears to be unusual. Also, why bring in a briefcase if you’re not going to work with any of the contents?” “Good point. Why would she be coming in at this time of day, I wonder?” “That’s another thing, Mr. Lewis. The archived files don’t show her coming in during the afternoon. They all show her on the 8 am. shift.” “Is she still on duty now?” “Yeah, seems like she’s settled in for the night shift.” “Keep watching her, will you? I’m going to check on something.” Lewis called personnel. Debbie had not been scheduled for an afternoon shift and had only worked one other during the last year. “Why did she come in at 2 pm. today?” Lewis asked the personnel clerk. “I have no idea, sir. Why don’t you ask her boss, let’s see, that’s . . . Mr. Broxton in trust.” 267

GAME OVER

Lewis phoned Broxton, who wanted to know the nature of Mr. Lewis’ inquiries. Lewis was not about to divulge anything. “She did some work for me a few weeks ago and I wondered if I could get her to help me again, that’s all. An afternoon shift would be the best for my project.” Broxton told him Debbie had requested the exception today because her son was sick. And no, Lewis could not have her for a special project. Broxton needed her to help him catch up on correspondence. Lewis decided to leave for the day. He gave strict instructions to Cara Pratt, the evening shift screen monitor, to report anything unusual. He called her at 7:50 pm. and asked for a description. “No, Mr. Lewis, nothing unusual. She went to the bathroom about quarter to seven. She’s made phone calls and typed on her computer. She’s getting ready to leave now, just like everybody else.” “What about her briefcase?” “She took it out of her desk and she’s taking it home with her. She put in a few papers from the top of her desk, that’s all. They are getting in the elevator now, a whole group of them . . .” “Don’t lose her!” Lewis could feel it. She was up to something. Maybe he should have stayed at the bank. “They’re all going toward the door to the ramp. They must have all parked there. There are two women in the group. There she is, short woman with long, brownish hair and wearing a dark coat, briefcase. I can’t see her face, but that’s her all right.” “I’m scanning the monitors, and all employees have left. 7:55, right on time. I see Officer Fisk is on monitor three, and he’s beginning his rounds. I’m switching to night security lighting. Offices are dark, sir. Anything else? “Be sure to mark the footage for me to review tomorrow.” Lewis felt dejected. He was so sure she was up to something. “That’ll be all.” *

*

*

Debbie was determined not to be heard as she stood stock-still in the office supply room. After her heart settled down and the knot in her stomach subsided, she opened up her briefcase and took out her flashlight. Jesus, sweet Jesus, I hope this goes all right. She removed the bond folder and hid her briefcase next to the carton of copy toner supplies. She could retrieve the briefcase in a few days. It only contained a few old memos anyway, nothing she couldn’t reclaim from her computer files. She’d thought all afternoon about her plan, wondering if she’d overlooked any safer options. All she could think about were the over268

ChapterTwentyThree

head cameras mounted in the ceilings all over the bank. If she left the bond casually on someone’s desk, there would be questions about how it had arrived there. Tapes would be reviewed and she’d be caught. No, she needed the cover of the nearly dark security lighting in the office spaces. She opened the door as silently as she could and peered into the office space used by Sally, dozens of other bank employees, and herself. It looked odd in the dim light, with the only noticeable sounds emanating from the fax machines, always left on to retrieve faxes coming in from other time zones and employees’ home offices. Debbie knew exactly what she had to do. Only fifteen feet separated her from the stairwell. She planned to go down five flights of stairs to the basement level and push the bond folder under the door of the archival vault. Maybe it wasn’t airtight like the main vault. If the door was too tight, she could leave the folder outside the safe deposit box area. She reasoned that the bonds belonged to customers at one point anyway. She needed to avoid the wandering night watchman, who started on the first floor. She’d better wait until after he visited this floor, then he’d be off to look elsewhere. If she closed the supply room door, would she be able to hear him coming into the office area from the stairwell? Hell yes, those are heavy doors. Try to open one with a cup of coffee in your hands. She closed herself back in the supply closet and waited. She knew Security Officer Fisk, a fixture at First Federal. He patrolled the empty building night after night, greeted bankers when they came and went during the evening until 8 pm. when no one was allowed in the building. He said good morning to the early birds allowed in after 6:30 am. She remembered last year’s incident, when some teenagers waited near the employee parking ramp exit. While the night crowd came through the doors, the teenagers charged and threw four terrified cats through the door. It took over three hours to collect those cats, longer to collect the teenagers, and Sally talked about it for weeks. Debbie could hear Fisk’s progress with the heavy slamming of the stairwell door as he moved from the basement to the first floor. By the time he reached the fourth floor, she could hear the pounding of her own heartbeat over Fisk’s humming as he walked around the open office space. He’d sometimes check a closed office door at the perimeter of the space. He stopped humming when one of the fax machines clicked on and began printing a fax. Soon he was off and she heard the fourth floor stairwell door slam shut. She couldn’t hear his footsteps on the way to the next floor, but she did hear the fifth floor door open and close. It was time to rock and roll. She made no noise as she let herself out of the storage closet and crept across to the stairwell. She pushed on the bar that opened the stairwell door and the large latch clicked open. 269

GAME OVER

How the hell am I going to close this door quietly? She went through the open door and hung onto the doorknob facing the stairwell. She stood on the stair landing and looked up, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. Damn, I let go of this and he’s gonna hear it. Fisk solved her problem by coming out of the doorway on the fifth floor. Debbie recognized her chance and closed her door while Fisk’s was slamming shut. Fisk continued up toward the sixth floor landing. The stairs made a total of three turns, complete with landings, for each flight. He’d made the first landing, directly above Debbie and out of view of where Debbie stood. Debbie could see his hand on the railing above her. Oh shit. Debbie realized he’d soon be making his first turn, and he’d be able to see her if he looked over his left shoulder. Her palms were wet and the folder became slippery. She gripped it tighter. Fisk made the turn and hummed his way up the steps. She held her breath and squinted at Fisk in the dim light. He made his second turn and climbed the nine steps to the last turn to the sixth floor. She pressed her body against the door and decided not to look his way for fear that he’d sense someone there. He made his last turn and walked to the sixth floor landing. Debbie heard the door slam shut and opened her eyes. Her winter boots made little noise as she trotted down the marble stairs. She made it all the way to the basement floor before she heard the door on the sixth floor. Even in the basement stairwell she could hear Fisk’s soft humming, his firm steps, and the seventh floor door opening and closing. Every sound was magnified by the empty chamber of the stairs. She found it harder to control closing the door with the bar than with the doorknob, but she was able to time closing the basement door perfectly with Fisk’s. Debbie couldn’t hear the doors opening and closing once she reached the vault area. The red sensors the bank guards described to her were visible in front of the main vault. The archival vault stood in darkness. She avoided the main vault and gave it a wide berth as she approached the archival vault, almost on tiptoe. She tried to slide the folder under the vault door, but the folder wouldn’t budge. “Damn, it’s airtight!” she muttered under her breath. It probably served as the original vault. She should have known. The movie Mission Impossible came to her, and she realized now how futile and even stupid this idea had been. What was I thinking? How the hell do I pull this off? The only thing to do was to go to Plan B, the backup plan. Slide it under the door of the safe deposit box area. The vault area, unlike the stairwell, had no natural light and Debbie was having a hard time seeing. She pulled the flashlight out of her pocket and turned it on, with no 270

ChapterTwentyThree

results. She shook it a bit, still no luck. She was making her way to the safe deposit box area when the stairwell door opened, letting in some light. Debbie whirled around, and nearly died of fright at the sight of Fisk, who instantly drew his gun and pointed it straight at her. “Drop your weapon,” he hollered, but the door closed behind him and they were back to near darkness. “I said, drop it!” In that instant, Debbie realized that the security guard had headphones on. The bastard was effectively deaf. She held her flashlight out to him, saying, “Wait, you don’t unders . . .” Fisk fired, and Debbie felt a numbing pain move up her body as she crumpled to the floor. She watched her flashlight as it slid across the floor, where it set off sensor lights and alarms. She wondered if the warm bubbling in her throat was blood. She thought she saw the faces of Steven and Phillip, looking at her with confusion as her mind slipped away into nothingness.

271

Chapter Twenty-Four Craig sat next to Jack in one of the folding metal chairs of the tribal council room and paged through his yellow folder. Jack whispered tensely in Craig’s ear. “So, you don’t know what this is about, either? Didn’t Dave say anything to you about why we needed to be here? I mean, a closed tribal council meeting, with only the members present . . . something big must be up.” He pulled on his mustache, mumbling something to himself. Craig watched Duffy set folders around the table, and he thought he saw a glimmer of a smile as Duffy shot him a quick glance. Craig had tried to be reassuring, but he assumed they might both be in trouble, for very different reasons – Craig for turning snitch, and Jack for falsifying books. He wasn’t about to tell Jack any of that. Best to wait and see what Duffy had in store. “I have no idea why we need to be here. Duffy probably wants your advice on some accounting changes.” Jack looked ashen and continued his chain smoking. Craig tried to act calm, but he doubted the evening would go well. He’d come to terms with the idea of getting fired when he handed over his information to Duffy. Still didn’t make it fun, though, especially if the council fired him at a meeting. Two security guards stood at the door, feet slightly apart, hands folded in front of them. Bigger guys than Craig had ever seen at Pine Bend. John Longie stood and began the meeting. “I called for a closed council meeting to wrap up some details about the robbery. Welcome Members White, Griggs, Walters, and our guest, Mr. Duffy, and employees Jack Winger and Craig Two Horses. We posted two security guards at the door, as suggested by Mr. Duffy, so that no one will barge in on us during such a sensitive meeting.” Longie nodded at Duffy. “Ben Peacock has disappeared, and Mr. Duffy has some ideas about why he’s gone.” The announcement took Craig by surprise. Peacock disappeared? He seemed to have such a commitment to reservation politics, and Craig would not have pegged him as the type to run away from anything. 272

ChapterTwentyFour

Longie sat down and Duffy took over the meeting. “Please turn your attention to the folders in front of you. We’ll start with your yellow packets.” Duffy obviously liked to be seen as a man of organization. “I have several items to present to you: an entirely new accounting system, conclusions regarding the irregularities we discussed at our last meeting, and my concluding report on the robbery.” Duffy gave instructions on how to negotiate through the accounting systems report in the yellow folders. The council members didn’t seem to pay much attention. Jack appeared to have a hard time following Duffy’s suggestions. “Do you know what page he’s on?” he murmured to Craig, flipping through the report at random. Duffy looked around the table. “The local accounting firm can help you set this up, as you can see in recommendation eighteen. Any questions?” Tribal council members rummaged through their accounting report in silence. “Okay,” Duffy said, “We’ll move on to the next item, the information I gave you last time we met. I have a final report for you, if you’d be so kind as to look in your blue folders, or follow from Exhibits A and B on the screen,” he flashed through his Power Point presentation on the wall screen. “You can see that the books for last year were altered. Note the original year-end entries, and the income statement and balance sheet as printed after the changed entries.” He paused and glanced knowingly at Craig. Oh shit, here it comes. Craig thought the council would see him as an unfaithful traitor, guilty of airing dirty laundry in public. Probably unforgivable. Duffy continued. “Let’s start with depreciation expenses . . .” “Craig, what’s going on here?” Jack punched Craig’s arm. He put his face a few inches from Craig’s and hissed, “Where’d he get those entries? Damn you!” “Take it easy. You don’t know what they’re going to do with them. Let’s just wait and see how it goes.” Jack stubbed out his cigarette on the floor, crushing it under the toe of his shoe, as Duffy switched the visual on the screen. “Now let’s take a look at cash deposit entries, Exhibit F. You can see the difference between the original accounting sheets and the finalized ones – a difference of nearly a quarter of a million dollars in the fourth quarter alone.” Member White held his report with trembling hands. “Are you saying that someone stole this money?” “No,” Duffy said, “that’s the interesting thing. The cash balance on the 273

GAME OVER

books is considerably lower than the balance you actually have in the bank. In other words, the books were altered to make it look as though your profits were low.” “Why would anyone do such a thing?” Council Member White asked, his eyes pleading with the other council members for an answer. Duffy turned to Jack, who had been chewing his fingernails. “Tell us, Jack, why would someone do such a thing? I have my theories, but that’s all they are.” Jack’s eyes widened. “What are you asking me for? Ask Craig, here!” Jack gripped Craig’s upper arm. “He’s the one who made the entries. Ask Craig!” Craig’s heart pounded as the tribal members looked his way. It’s not that he couldn’t get another job, but he liked Pine Bend and most of the people he worked with. He liked being around other natives. It helped him feel like he belonged, even if he didn’t live on his own reservation. Now he’d have to go elsewhere for that sense of belonging. He brushed Jack’s hand away. Duffy leaned forward across the table. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Jack. You were the one who worked with the accountant and wrote out the entries. Just tell us why you falsified the books. That’s all we want to know.” Craig thought maybe Duffy was enjoying the confrontation. His piercing eyes could hold a stare. His hands jabbed the air when he made a point. Craig liked his style and believed that no matter what happened, the council members would know the truth by the end of the meeting. “I can’t . . . I mean, I don’t . . .” Jack stammered, staring at Longie. His voice got louder with each word, and he looked at Craig with pleading eyes. Craig shrugged in response. He felt sorry for the friend of his youth, but not for the man Jack had become, sniveling in a desperate attempt to be believed. Longie spoke up. “Just tell us why you did it. Did someone put you up to this?” Jack glanced at the doors toward the security guards, and then lost his composure. “Ben Peacock made me do it. He said he’d get me fired if I didn’t make the profits go down.” “Ah,” Duffy said, “that explains this.” He pushed another button and the screen showed Jack’s personal bank statement for January. He had his usual payroll check deposits each week of around nine hundred dollars, and an additional one hundred thousand dollar deposit at the end of the month. “I checked your savings account and your retirement account, and the deposit didn’t come from either one. Did this money 274

ChapterTwentyFour

come from Mr. Peacock?” “How dare you?” Jack shouted with an indignant voice. He stood and shook his fist at Duffy and kicked the chair in front of him. “How did you get my bank statements?” “Let’s just say I have some friends in the banking business. Now, I repeat, did this money come from Ben Peacock?” Jack looked around the room, and his hand settled on Craig’s shoulder. Craig whispered softly, “Give it up, man. It’ll go better for you if you tell the truth. Always does.” Jack looked exasperated. “Yes,” he said as he sat back down, putting his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He looked like a man in total defeat. “Yes, it did.” Duffy’s voice sounded gentle as he asked, “Where did Peacock get the money to pay you?” Jack raised his head slowly, eyes shiny with tears. “I have no idea. He wanted the profits to look low, that’s all.“ Jack’s gaze touched on each of the four council members and after a deep breath, he continued in a weary voice. “He opposed expansion, and he got desperate because the council wouldn’t listen to him. Said that if you thought there wasn’t much profit, maybe you wouldn’t build the child care facility. Said you didn’t care about the lives you were ruining.” Duffy tapped on his computer keyboard. “Then you are verifying this next bit of information. Look at Exhibit J, if you will please.” Duffy displayed another screen, detailing a list of Peacock’s secret meetings over the past six months, the names of the participants and contributors. Two other tribes were listed, as well as a prominent Las Vegas casino and the local horse-racing track. “Ben hangs out with some odd characters,” Craig said softly. “Come on, buddy, it’s gonna be all right.” Craig had no idea if it would be or not. Jack sank further down in his chair. Duffy nodded toward Craig. “You know what they say about politics making strange bedfellows. Anyway, I think you can see why these people would not want expansion of the Pine Bend facility. Ben and his family are now residing with the largest contributor on the list.” “What does this mean for Jack and Ben?” asked Member Griggs, who looked at Jack with angry eyes. “Speaking as an outsider,” Duffy began, “I can only give advice. You’ll need to deal with Mr. Peacock in whatever way your tribal laws allow, such as a voting recall. As far as Jack Winger goes,” he turned to face a crestfallen Jack, “what he did was not necessarily illegal, according to tribal law. If he worked off the reservation, he not only would have failed in his fiduciary duty, the crime itself would allow you to fire 275

GAME OVER

him and prosecute him. As far as your reservation laws are concerned, the crime of bribery doesn’t come under the FBI’s jurisdiction, so your courts can handle him however they see fit. I would at least fire him, myself.” Jack jumped up. “Wait, you can’t do this.” He turned to Longie. “John, you tell them they can’t do this! For God’s sake, we’re family.” Longie rolled his cigarette in his fingers. “We’ll get you some other job,” he finally answered, glaring at Jack. Council member White spoke. “Jack, this is not against you personally, but for now I don’t think we can trust you.” “Trust?” Jack bellowed in Longie’s direction. “Trust? Let me tell you about John Longie, if you want to know who to trust.” Longie lumbered up and pointed a finger at Jack. “Don’t do this. You’re not helping anything.” He motioned to the security guards. “Get him out of here!” he ordered. Duffy waved them off. “No, not yet. There’s still the robbery issue to deal with. Everyone, please, let’s stay calm and sit down. Please.” Craig noticed that the security guards followed Duffy’s instructions and moved back toward the door. “You bet there’s the robbery issue,” Jack said confidently. “What have you found out about the robbery issue, oh great detective?” Duffy appeared to ignore the sarcasm. “If you’ll look in your red packets, I’ve outlined the final details of my investigation. Exhibit A and B show the names, addresses and vital statistics of your two robbers, Nathan and Robert Herzog.” Council members reviewed the two pictures with shell-shocked looks. Duffy related how he had tracked the thieves – not difficult for Duffy after the discovery of the van. “I followed the Minnesota Department of Motor Vehicles trail to one Robert Herzog, entered his photograph in our database, checked for close relatives, and voila, Nathan shows up.” Duffy paused and looked around the room, his eyes resting a moment on Jack. “The only thing I have yet to determine is how these two jokers – not exactly amateurs as you can see from their criminal record shown in Exhibit H, but certainly not ready for a bank heist – knew their way directly to the counting room, a location changed since the original building plans were filed with the city. They also knew the exact location of the security cameras. They’d never worked for the casino, and I’ve been unable to find the link. Except for this.” He flashed Exhibit I on the screen and all eyes turned to see Jack’s February bank statement showing a sixty thousand dollar deposit. “Tell us the connection now, Jack.” Jack covered his eyes. 276

ChapterTwentyFour

Longie came to his defense, “Jack’s my cousin, and you can see he’s distraught. I think we should let him go now and give him a chance to recover before we question him further.” He moved toward Jack. “Come on, cousin, let’s go. You’ve been through enough.” “Get your filthy hands off me!” Jack screamed in a voice an octave higher than usual. “You tell them! You tell them, John! I’m sick of you acting like you’re better than me.” Longie’s face turned red, but he kept moving. “Let’s go, Jack. There’s no need to make a fuss here. We’ll get you another job.” “Another job! You ass . . .” He lunged for his cousin, and chairs flew as the two men rolled to the floor. The protests of concerned council members mixed with punches and grunts. Craig couldn’t help it – he had to try and defend his friend. He pulled at Jack to get the two men apart, though he wasn’t much help. Jack’s fury seemed unstoppable. The security guards moved in quickly, but not before each man got in a good punch: Longie had a bleeding nose and Jack’s right eye started to swell shut. “He arranged it!” Jack blurted out, struggling against the security guard and managing to kick Longie in the shins. “He planned the robbery!” He glared at his cousin with a look of pronounced spite. “You stupid bastard!” “He’s lying, obviously lying.” Longie looked at the council members, one at a time. “He’s just mad at me for agreeing to fire him. He’s always been a liar. You have worked with me for three years now. You know I love my job here.” He pulled free from the security guard and smoothed his shirt. “I don’t blame Jack for being upset. He got caught, and he’s going to get fired. He’s gone a little crazy.” Duffy, quiet during the fight, clicked on his computer keyboard. “That’s very convincing, Mr. Longie. But how do you explain this?” Exhibit J flashed on the screen, with dates and times of two meetings between Longie and the Herzog brothers, and a photograph of Longie leaning on a kitchen counter, Herzog brothers on either side, and all three raising their beer mugs in a toast. “So I know them. There’s no crime in that.” Longie sounded disgusted, and Craig tried to stifle a smile. How many more twists would Duffy discover? He admired him and decided that if he ever needed help solving a puzzle, Duffy would be the guy to call. Duffy folded his arms over his chest. “I have more, Mr. Longie. Wouldn’t you just rather explain why you were involved in the robbery and forget the innocence charade? It’ll save everyone some time and trouble. Besides, the council might want to turn this information over to the FBI. Wouldn’t you rather handle it here?” 277

GAME OVER

All eyes were on Longie. “Well, see . . .” Longie wiped the sweat from his brow. “We thought that . . .” He looked at member White. “Member White, I just thought, well . . .” Arms still held behind his back by the security guard, Jack yelled, “When the council wouldn’t approve raises last year, he said that you were all nuts, and he deserved twice as much as he was making. That’s why he planned the whole thing and cut me in on it. I could get him the updated floor plans and the security camera maps from the safe.” “A damn liar! That’s what you are, Jack!” This time Longie got in the first punch before the security guard overpowered him. The council members remained seated, as though fights were now a usual item – maybe even included in the agenda: First, Discuss robbery; Second, Fist fight; Third, Break for lunch; Fourth, Move your papers out of the way and wait until it’s over. Council member White stood to speak, and out of respect for the elder, the two men settled down enough to be subdued by the guards. “I believe it could be time to invite a visit from the sheriff. Mr. Duffy, don’t you agree?” “Yes, I think it’s probably time.” White thrust out his chin and scratched it furiously, then looked around the table and declared, “All those in favor of calling the sheriff and having John Longie and Jack Winger placed under arrest, raise your hands.” With Peacock missing and Longie being held by the security guards, the supply of tribal council members was now severely depleted. Members Walters, Griggs and White raised their hands. White looked down, as if in shame. “It’s settled then. Deceiving each other . . . this is a tragic day for us all.” Craig felt exhausted, watching Jack being taken away, but he knew he had done the right thing. Still, he went home confused. He needed to talk to Uncle George. *

*

*

Trust Officer Lewis sat at his office desk, feeling smug, knowing he had won. Debbie Wood had been caught robbing the bank and was shot in the process. Ha! He smiled at having been right about the woman. He especially enjoyed the repercussions of the incident. First he questioned Cara Pratt, and then fired her for incompetence. He would have grilled Fisk as well, but the guard took two weeks of vacation time, claiming he needed to get his high blood pressure under control. He looked forward to firing the inept guard, too. 278

ChapterTwentyFour

Lewis noticed the blinking message light on his telephone. He picked up the handset and entered his voicemail code. Symington’s voice said, “Mr. Lewis, I have the enhanced recordings ready for you. Come down any time you’re ready.” Lewis wanted to review the entire episode. A disk of the cameras’ records had been compiled and sent to a specialty lab to add more light into the night scenes, and it had taken several days to get the finished product. Lewis had called the lab a few times each day, berating them for their slowness. It hadn’t done any good, and his impatience was growing. Lewis hurried up to the security office. “Sir, you’ll be interested in these results.” Symington inserted the disk, scrolled to a certain time index and watched the screen come to life. “Here you can only see a shadow when she comes out of the storage closet. See the shape moving to the stairway door?” The blur was unrecognizable until the door opened, and then Lewis could see the distinct shape of a woman against the bright light in the stairwell – short coat, legs and winter boots above the ankles. Symington fast-forwarded to the stairwell camera’s view. “Now look at this.” He slowed the speed. Lewis could clearly see Debbie, cringing against the door as Fisk walked up the stairs, one flight above her. She had her left hand on the door bar, and she clutched a folder in her right hand. “See it?” “See what?” Lewis peered at the screen. “The file folder. It’s the same one that held the documents we found by her side. Wait, you’ll see.” He clicked on fast forward again and they watched Debbie descend to the basement floor. She opened the door and disappeared into the vault area. The view on the screen switched to the vault camera. Lewis could only see Debbie as a dark shadow, first hovering by the door, and then approaching the archival vault door. “Here she bends down and she tries to slide the folder under the door. See? The lab enhanced it somewhat.” Symington stopped the motion, but all Lewis could see was a round shadow on the floor. “She never tried to open the door, although she would not have succeeded had she tried. Look, now she’s standing up, and Fisk enters in about three seconds.” Lewis watched as the light from the stairwell lit up the area in front of the vault. He could see Fisk’s surprised look, Debbie waving her flashlight, and the fireball from the gun lighting the scene with the power of daylight. Then Debbie, folder and all, crumpling to the floor. “Sir, I think she was trying to return those bonds. They were already in the folder when she leaned down in front of the archival vault door.” 279

GAME OVER

“That’s impossible!” Lewis shouted. He leapt from his chair and paced feverishly, circling his chair three times before sitting back down. “With all due respect, sir, how could it be otherwise? If you review the motion she makes with the folder, it’s definitely a shoving motion.” Lewis watched the recording again and again before making his way home. He stayed home the rest of the day, much to the consternation of his wife, who in twenty-two years of marriage had never seen him come home from work early.

280

ChapterTwentyFour

281

Chapter Twenty-Five Craig looked at Debbie lying in the hospital bed. All he could see was her shape rolled into the fetal position with her hair falling over the yellow blanket and down her back. The IV tube was connected to a hand tucked out of sight. He watched the blanket rise and fall with the rhythm of her breathing. It had been a tough decision to come and see her, but even four days without her proved to be agony. He had to know whether or not they had a future together. He could wait no longer. He sat quietly in the chair at the side of the bed. When Debbie rolled over and saw him, she uttered a groan. “So,” he tried to say cheerfully, “I don’t study with you for one night and this is what happens.” He knew his comments fell flat. “Could I just roll back over and make you disappear?” She stared at the ceiling. “Sorry. I thought you might appreciate the humorous approach.” Debbie closed her eyes. “You thought wrong.” Craig hoped the pity and anguish he felt for her didn’t show on his face. He was helpless against it, but he didn’t want to feel pity. She opened her eyes and glanced at him, then quickly looked away. “Oh Christ, I’m not dreaming,” she muttered, and attempted to roll over, but grimaced and massaged her left leg. “Why did you come here if you’re just going to look at me like that?” she asked, staring again at the ceiling. “I came to see how you are.” “Got your answer?” “Yeah, I guess so.” He knew it would be easier to leave, just walk out of the hospital room. Get up, walk out. Go find another woman. A simpler woman. Instead he waited. Finally she spoke. “If there was one thing four days in a hospital bed has taught me, it’s patience. I’ve had social workers in here, police, my idiot public defender asking me about my entire life, not to mention Charlie.” She looked at Craig with knowing eyes. “You and your Indian stillness will be no match for me now. I can be silent for a long time.” 282

ChapterTwentyFive

She looked at the television screen. Craig repressed a smile. He’d wondered how long it would take before she called up his Indian-ness. He liked that it had come as a challenge. “I thought you might be feeling pretty bad. I know Charlie has the boys.” “How do you know that?” Debbie asked, her head spinning toward him as if it had been cranked like a wind-up toy. Craig looked at his knees, not wanting her to see his eyes, not wanting her to see how he felt pleased that Philip had turned to him. “Philip called me. He thought I’d want to know.” “Philip? Philip called you? He hasn’t even called me.” “I’m supposed to tell you that he and Steven are doing fine. And they’re doing their homework. He said I had to be sure and tell you that.” Craig tried to soften his voice for the blow of the next sentence. “Charlie told them that it’s better for you if they don’t bother you for a while.” Craig glanced at the television screen that hung from the ceiling at an angle from the foot of the bed. With no sound, Tom Brokaw’s head swayed slightly as he related the news of the day. He had a cheerful look on his face. Must have been time for the human interest story. Craig wanted to give her at least some hopeful news. “Tarpen says he’ll give you an incomplete for the semester if you need it, so you can finish your class whenever you’re ready. I know you don’t care about that now, but maybe later you will.” He could see pure loss on her face. “You know, if I could feel anything I’d probably feel bad about school, about the boys, about losing my job. If I could feel anything, I’d probably care.” She sighed, and tears came to her eyes. “That’s not true. I do care, but I don’t have the strength to do anything about it.” Craig moved his chair closer to her bed and took her free hand. “You have strength, Debbie. I’ve seen it in class, and I hear it coming from your heart when you talk about your boys.” He kissed her hand and rubbed her wrist. “Oh, your hands are cold.” He picked up her slippers, rolled back her covers at the foot of the bed, and put her slippers on her feet. Then he covered her feet, tucking in the blankets around the edges of her legs. “That should help. Warm feet, warm hands.” “Who asked you to care, anyway? You’re a damn nuisance!” But she curled her body toward him and pulled his hand to her cheek. “Prying your way into my life where you don’t belong.” She rocked herself gently and squeezed his hand as her quiet sobs began. “That’s not true either. I’m glad you’re here.” She opened her arms, and he moved to her as her tears rolled down her cheeks. “Shh, shh,” he whispered, rocking with her. Like it or not, he loved her. And he knew she would never be simple, but he wasn’t looking for simple. He’d never been attracted to simple. 283

GAME OVER

She tried to speak between sobs. “I’m really so sorry for this mess, Craig, and for getting you involved.” She looked at him, her eyes full of remorse. “I’m not angry at you, only at myself, for making such a mess of my life. You had nothing to do with that.” Craig held her tightly and didn’t want to let go. “You have the power of deep love inside you. It’s what I came here to tell you. I’ve been with a woman who couldn’t love and didn’t care for anything but herself. And I know the difference.” He kissed her face softly. “I was putting the bonds back,” she whispered. “Craig, I was putting them back.” *

*

*

Lewis drummed his fingers on the conference table as the meeting with the bank’s attorneys rambled on and on. He tried to make his case one last time. “She was shot with bearer bonds in her possession. She’s confessed to police that she had earlier stolen the bonds and was now trying to return them. How much more evidence do you need to press charges?” Attorney Sandra Hayes stood each time she spoke. Lewis had seen other short people use that tactic, probably trying to make themselves look more important. Sandra Hayes stood again. “We just want you to consider that this is a woman with an admitted gambling problem. She’s already told her defense attorney that her gambling has increased over the past year, particularly over the last six months. You say you knew she was in trouble of some kind and you were watching her. Watching her, not helping her.” Sandra Hayes looked slowly in turn at the four attorneys, the bank president, and Mr. Lewis. “If this ever went to a jury, they’d wonder why we, as her employer, didn’t offer her some help. Why didn’t we suggest counseling? Why don’t we have self-help programs in place for employees with financial difficulties? And let’s not forget the fact that we shot and wounded her.” The bank president moved uneasily in his chair. Sandra Hayes waved her hands dramatically. “Questions will be asked, and Debbie Wood may come out looking more like a victim than a criminal. Our guard made himself effectively deaf by wearing a CD headset. She appears to cry out on the tape, and he couldn’t hear her. So, we shot an unarmed, divorced mother of two teenaged children, struggling to make ends meet, armed with nothing more than a flashlight. And have you seen yesterday’s headline?” She threw copies of yesterday’s front page on the table. 284

ChapterTwentyFive

ST. PAUL PIONEER PRESS – The Friendly Bank not so Friendly! Why didn’t the ‘friendly bank’ offer help when they knew an employee was in trouble? Bank sources say the woman shot last week, Debbie Wood, had been under surveillance by bank authorities for some time before their bank guard shot her, unarmed, in their archival vault area. Other sources claim she was returning a bond to the bank, just moments after her shift ended. The bank president cannot be reached for comment. A website has been set up where you can vote for or against conviction of Ms. Debbie Wood. Lewis stared at the bank president, who appeared to be concentrating on his cuticles. Lewis decided that now was the time he needed to push for a serious response from the bank. “I’m telling you, I think she stole more than ten thousand dollars from the bank, and that would make her guilty of a grand theft felony, which could carry a jail sentence of ten years. What will the other bank employees think? That it’s okay to rob from us as long as they don’t take more than ten thousand dollars or as long as they are sorry and return some of the money? I say we charge her with grand theft, and make her prove that she didn’t take more than the bonds she had in her possession. That’s what I say.” Sarah Hayes sat down with a look of reluctance when Lewis spoke, but now she stood again. “Did you know, Mr. Lewis, that the trust department employees are taking up a collection for Debbie Wood’s medical care? They have already judged us as guilty for shooting her. I’m telling you that we need to recommend leniency, since we are already facing a public relations nightmare!” She slammed her hands on the table, and the echo filled the bank conference room. Lewis mumbled something about incompetence. “There, there, now,” the bank president pushed back his chair, “everyone calm down! I’ve made my decision about what to recommend to the board. We will work with Debbie Wood’s defense attorney and see if we can go easy on her. She must be fired, of course, so your decision about that stands, Mr. Lewis. Otherwise, we want to appear as reasonable as possible to the press. Meeting adjourned.” Lewis felt somewhat relieved. After watching the security footage of that night, he could think of nothing else but Debbie’s body falling to the 285

GAME OVER

floor. Yet his employees would have expected him to fight for justice to the fullest extent of the law and that meant the harshest possible punishment for Debbie Wood. That early retirement program suddenly looked good.

286

ChapterTwentyFive

287

Chapter Twenty-Six They chugged along in Craig’s pickup, and even with the mid-April sun shining through the window, Debbie turned the heater on. “What did your probation officer say?” Craig asked. “You know, I’m getting a kick out of saying those words, ‘probation officer.’ Sounds like I’m an ex-con. Who’d have ever thought I’d have a probation officer?” Debbie giggled in spite of herself. “What did your famed P.O., Ms. Gloria have to say?” “Ms. Gloria says I can go!” “Well then, the Investigative Commission for the Senate Indian Gaming Committee is in for a treat! I’ll make the plane reservations.” “I still don’t quite understand why your Uncle George suggested I be the one to speak to them. I’m not an Indian, I’m not a tribal member. I don’t get it.” “They asked if there would be anyone willing to speak about problem gambling. Uncle George said you’d been through a lot, and you’d be perfect to talk about the issues.” Craig smiled. “The council’s decided to pay our way. To express their gratitude, they say. Uncle George says it’s my chance to represent Jean’s beliefs of tribal sovereignty. He keeps telling me it’ll be good practice. I think he’s scheming to get me involved in something after law school.” “Yeah, well, at least you don’t need permission to leave the state.” Debbie thought about Ms. Gloria, and her many concerns for Debbie’s future. Debbie wondered why the bank recommended leniency on her day in court, but hoped it had helped when she provided a complete list of all her thievery, including the artwork. The judge sentenced Debbie to pay restitution of seventy-five hundred dollars, probation for five years – longer if she needed more time to pay off her restitution – required attendance at Gamblers Anonymous meetings, and four hundred hours of community service. Uncle George went with her to court. He kept saying, “This is good, Debbie. You don’t have to go to jail. This is very good.” “I don’t have a job to pay back the restitution, and I don’t have my 288

ChapterTwentySix

boys,” she had said. “One problem at a time,” Uncle George said. Nothing about it felt good at the time, but now she had to admit she felt a little better every day. Her probation officer gave her three choices for community service: work at a Goodwill store, work at a local nursing home, or sewing Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls for needy children, with each doll counting for three hours of community service and materials to be paid for by Debbie. For lack of money for the doll materials, and after admitting a reluctance to work with the aged, she chose the Goodwill store. “So, Ms. Gloria thinks you’ll willingly return to the great state of Minnesota, does she?” Craig teased. “Ms. Gloria hates my guts. She also thinks I’m a poor choice to testify before a Senate committee when I’ve just started my program. Well, screw Ms. Gloria.” At first Debbie hadn’t wanted to testify, but once she decided it would be important for people to hear her story, she felt eager to go. She had done what was needed to please Ms. Gloria and get permission to go to Washington. Craig turned up the volume of his pickup stereo as they headed toward Debbie’s house. April brought relief from the cold. With several days of temperatures over forty degrees, the heat caused meltdown of snowdrifts and ice packs. Some patches of green grass poked through dirty snow. The suburbs geared up for outdoor activity – storing away snow blowers, and premature servicing of lawn mowers for the summer. The hope of spring was thick in the air. “How’s your class going?” Debbie asked. Craig registered for Environmental Law as an independent study, his last class requirement that he could start early rather than wait for summer session. “It’s interesting, actually. I’ve never had Professor Edwards for any classes before, and she’s pretty good. She’s organized but creative. How about you? How’s your law class coming?” Debbie groaned. “I’m stuck on the details of contracts for deed, but I’m almost caught up. I work a little on it every day. Hey, maybe I could sell my house on contract, if I get the details down pat.” “Speaking of that, did the realtor ever show up?” “No, but we rescheduled our appraisal appointment for tomorrow. The bank says I don’t have to pay anything until the house sells, so I’m okay as far as payments are concerned.” “That’s a help.” “Yeah. I’ll be sad to see the house sell. I know I can’t afford it, but still, it’s where the boys were raised. We have lots of memories. But I’ll 289

GAME OVER

definitely get enough to pay my restitution.” Debbie smiled, the spring weather helping her feel light hearted. How could she explain that even though she felt sadness about the sale, she looked forward to each day in a way she hadn’t for many years. Optimism, acceptance, and a sense of freedom came over her from time to time. There were days she felt giddy with hope. She leaned over and kissed Craig’s cheek and stepped out of the truck, careful to put most of her weight on her right foot. “See you soon,” she said cheerfully, and watched his pickup pull away. She looked around at the front yards in her neighborhood. A neighbor two doors down was spreading snow piles over his blacktopped driveway, where the snow would melt from the heat of the sun-warmed surface. When Debbie watched him, he stopped shoveling and went into his house. So it had gone with most of the neighbors since the shooting. The bank tried to keep the story out of the papers, but once they reported the initial shooting incident, it didn’t take long for the neighborhood to fill in the rest of the story. She surveyed her front yard, with its one large snow drift bordering the driveway, still holding out against the sunshine. An early-returning robin landed in the one patch of green in the middle of the yard and pecked desperately at the frosty ground in the hopes of finding food. Debbie decided to call the boys, and she went into the kitchen. Charlie had finally agreed to phone visits, but only three per week. She’d talked to Steven for over an hour last Sunday, but an hour phone conversation with Philip would have been like an hour at the dentist – each new topic a struggle, each sentence pulled out of him with the effort of every muscle in her body. After ten minutes she’d given up. Maybe next time would be easier – maybe even tonight. She dialed Charlie’s number, getting the answering machine. Now what? Her GA meeting would start in two hours, not enough time to put in a stretch at Goodwill. Her course materials lay scattered over her desk, looking the same as they did when she’d tried to study yesterday. Since she committed a crime of dishonesty, she could take the bar exam only if she obtained the proper permission. Stab someone and you don’t need permission, but watch out if you take anyone’s property! Her heart felt heavy as she looked at the books. No, she couldn’t study tonight. The gambling thoughts started like a slow nag. She’d dismissed the first thought as she set a pot of water on the stove. She warmed up the spaghetti sauce and got the noodles ready for the pan. The debate began to rage in her head. Why not go to Pine Bend Casino and do a little gambling? Craig 290

ChapterTwentySix

wouldn’t be there, he’d never know. It wouldn’t hurt to spend a few dollars. Just keep it controlled, keep it limited. It felt as if she had a devil on her shoulder. Maybe she should try the new online casinos. No need to even leave home. Just go online, use a credit card, or even the checkbook, and presto! She could be playing in an hour. Oh God, would she ever have a day when she didn’t want to gamble? She ate her spaghetti without tasting it. She had forty dollars because Charlie had agreed to give her small amounts of money until she found a new job. And she had three hundred dollars in her checkbook. She rubbed the spaghetti sauce around on her plate. You can’t go. You’ll start the cycle all over again. Thank you, angel on my shoulder. The devil of addiction spoke to her. You have to go. It’s the only way out of this financial dilemma. Debbie turned on her laptop and went to FirePay, a website where she could register her checkbook and make deposits, dollars which could then be spent at online casinos. She worked her way through the process, remembering what Sally had told her about the ease of gambling online. Deposit dollars and play poker with real people from all over the world. She decided to visit a gambling site first to see what they were like. No harm in looking. She did a search on Yahoo for casinos and found UltimateParty, a site with live poker tables. She clicked on their home page. Over forty thousand players on over four thousand tables. Holy shit! She could play for quarters, dollars, ten dollars. She went to the deposit page and saw how to make a FirePay deposit. Very slick. If she registered her checkbook and put money into FirePay, she could spend the dollars at UltimateParty. She watched a table play poker, with the players betting, raising, and folding. She watched them chat with each other as the chat box changed with comments typed in by the real-time players. Cool. She might even get to know some of them, become friends with them. Oh my God, what was she thinking? How stupid! If she started this, she would spend all the money in her checkbook and she couldn’t spare it. She closed up her laptop and resolved not to start gambling online. The telephone rang and the noise startled Debbie. It seldom rang since the boys didn’t live with her anymore. Charlie’s voice surprised her. “Philip and Steven are driving over to John’s house, and I told them it would be fine with me if they stopped over at your place for a few minutes. They’re on their way now. I hope it’s okay. I know it’s the first time you’ve seen them since . . .” 291

GAME OVER

“It’s okay.” She muffled a sob. “And Charlie? Thank you.” “You’re welcome. How’s it goin’ anyway? Have you been gambling?” “No,” she answered, glad that she could say it honestly. She stared at her computer. “Is it hard not to?” “Charlie, I can’t have this conversation with you. We haven’t cared about each other for years, and we need to keep it that way. I know you’re concerned about my influence on the boys, but I just can’t talk to you about it. After all, this is my problem. I need to solve it without you.” “I’ve got a right to know how you’re doing. Because of the boys.” “You’ve got no rights, Charlie. I think part of my problem is that I never divorced you in my heart. Well, I’m divorcing you now. Completely and thoroughly.” She hung up the phone. Debbie didn’t care if she hurt his feelings. Yes, it was good that he had taken on the responsibility of the boys, but it only made Debbie resent him more. She’d taken care of them for their entire lives, and now he could play the part of rescuer. It didn’t seem fair. She opened her laptop again and closed it, furious with herself. Stop this! You can stop this! The familiarity of commotion with the boy’s arrival calmed her inner debate. Philip bolted to his room, saying he needed to get some of his stuff. Debbie put her arms around Steven and he whimpered a little about how much he missed her. She held on tight. But when Philip came back down the stairs carrying a stuffed backpack, Steven stood up straight. “Hey, Mom, you look pretty good.” Philip smiled a crooked, thin smile. “Thanks, honey. I’m taking care of myself. How are you and your dad getting along?” “Okay, mostly.” Steven piped up. “Nu-uh. They argue a lot.” “We do not.” “Do so! Anyway, I’m gettin’ along good. You don’t have to worry about me!” Steven smiled with a look of false bravado. “That’s good to know, Steven.” Debbie smiled at them both. “But if things aren’t so great you can tell me that too, you know. You don’t always have to be brave. It’s okay to be honest.” “I’ve got news that should make you happy.” Philip said with marked sadness. “Marcia and I broke up.” “I’m so sorry, son.” She reached out to take his hand but he pulled away. “Do you miss her?” “Yeah, sort of. She’s going out with Randy Morgan.” 292

ChapterTwentySix

Steven reached for the one piece of fruit in the house. “You gonna eat this apple?” Debbie smiled. Some things never change, such as the appetites of young boys. “No, you can take it.” As quickly as they had come, they were gone, with “goodbyes” and “see ya’s” and “love ya’s” and “take cares.” Debbie got out her spring jacket and pulled on her boots, babying her left side. Favoring her left leg was a habit more than a necessity. She grabbed her purse and got in her car, not sure exactly where she would end up.

293

Chapter Twenty-Seven Debbie fell in love with Washington the moment she and Craig got into the cab and headed toward the hotel. For the past hour she’d been busy absorbing the details of the impressive environment in the Senate hearing room – wainscoting of deeply polished wood, tall white pillars at the door openings, benches for the audience, not unlike a courtroom setting, and the long table across the front. Cameras and microphones were permanently attached for the various news crews in Washington. Debbie sat in awe through testimony from the head of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, whispering questions to Craig when she needed clarification. Senator Cronin, the Senate Investigative Committee Chair, continued her questions. “But Mr. Bowman, aren’t you the head of the BIA?” Mr. Bowman, head of the BIA, squirmed in his chair. “Yes, but just because the records appear to be lost doesn’t mean the transactions didn’t occur and the money wasn’t properly spent. It’s just that we can’t find all of the records.” Mr. Bowman seemed to run out of politically correct ways to say that the agency had screwed up and couldn’t account for anything. Bean counters they were not. “So you are telling the committee that your agency, the one responsible for economic development for the tribes, can’t account for several billion dollars of tribal money? Several billion? Billion? That’s what you’re telling me?” “Yes, I suppose so, Madam Chair.” Mr. Bowman’s agency had been plagued for years with record-keeping problems, but no one seemed to care before. “And did Senator Anderson Buffalo ever concern herself with these issues and speak either directly to you or to others in your office?” “Yes, as my colleague said yesterday, she was in our office about once a week, asking questions and berating the staff.” “Berating? What do you mean by that, Mr. Bowman?” “Madam Chair, she had . . . has . . . quite a strong tongue, you might say. She wanted to know specifically about Wisconsin tribes and how 294

ChapterTwentySeven

much money we could not account for. She’d get pretty upset.” Mr. Bowman glanced at his watch and sipped his glass of water, provided for every witness in their turn. “Would you say that she has made enemies at the BIA?” “Enemy is too strong, Madam Chair. But there were people who, ah, hoped she didn’t get reelected. She brought this whole accounting issue to the press.” Mr. Bowman spat out the word “press.” “Indeed.” Madam Chair turned off her microphone and the senators whispered in discussion. “Is that true, Craig? The BIA just loses money?” Debbie was shocked at what she heard. Craig nodded and stuck out his chin. “Oh yeah, all the time. So much so that we don’t even consider it a story anymore. We don’t complain too loudly for fear of what might happen next. Besides, we get tired of complaining and having nothing change, year after year.” Craig looked uncomfortable in his blue suit and white dress shirt. He pulled on the red tie knotted under his chin, stretching his neck. The chairwoman spoke again. “Mr. Bowman, thank you for your testimony. We may wish to recall you for further clarification. Do you understand you are to stay in Washington and remain at our disposal?” “Yes, I understand.” The head of the BIA wiped his brow and stepped down from the witness chair. “The committee will break for lunch, and afterward we will have testimony from a relative of Senator Anderson Buffalo, Mr. Craig Two Horses. If time allows, we will also hear from a special witness, Ms. Debbie Wood. Remember that tomorrow morning we will hear from Henry and Elaine Madison on the harmlessness of gambling. Committee is dismissed until two o’clock.” “Damn!” Craig muttered. “We break until two o’clock. They’ll probably want to rush our testimony to finish with both of us by five or six.” “What’s wrong with that? I’d say three or four hours of paying attention to every word is enough for me!” Debbie loved everything about being in Washington, and a break for lunch seemed like a perfect excuse to see a few sights. Craig’s shoulders slumped and he looked dejectedly around the room. “Yeah, but they’ll never get started at two o’clock. They’ll all wander in, probably won’t all be here until almost three. They’ll have details of committee work to complete before they resume testimony. Shit. You probably won’t even get a chance to speak until tomorrow.” “Oh, come on, let’s go see some of the sights. After all, we’re in Washington. We may as well enjoy it!” Debbie couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice. She’d read about each monument, seen pictures of the 295

GAME OVER

famous places, and this was her chance to experience Washington in all the glory of the May weather. Craig shook his head but went along anyway. Debbie wanted to see the Lincoln Memorial. She noticed an elderly couple, arm in arm. Her white curly hair caught the sun’s spring rays. His overcoat covered an old yellow jacket with dark stains down the front. Debbie could hear them whispering to each other as they passed by. She grabbed Craig’s arm. “I think I know them! They won a jackpot close to me one night.” A lifetime ago. She glanced back at them walking away and felt a twinge of nostalgia for her old gambling life. “Look at this!” Debbie murmured as they approached the Lincoln Memorial. “Let’s walk up the stairs.” She felt herself go back in time with each step she took up the stairway. “Reminds me of the reason I went to law school.” Craig swept his arms out wide, taking in the entire monument. “Why?” Debbie tilted her head. “I don’t know. Freedom of the masses maybe, justice of a cause.” “Such greatness,” she said directly to Lincoln, who looked back at her with the granite coolness of the burden of historic importance. She loved the low hum of people talking in low whispers, out of respect for the “Quiet, Please” signs. After reading the inscriptions and a visit to the gift shop, Debbie insisted they get some sandwiches and sit in the park to eat. Craig wandered off in search of food. Debbie wanted some time alone at the monument anyway. She found the perfect picnic bench at the bottom of the stairs facing the reflecting pool, and she waited for Craig to return with lunch. A stranger approached her and asked her for a dollar. Debbie said she had to keep her money because she didn’t have a job anymore. Sorry, she couldn’t part with anything. “Not even a spare quarter?” the woman asked. She wore a stocking cap over her long, greasy hair, and she had several layers of sweaters over her flowered dress. “Sorry. I am losing my house because of gambling troubles, as a matter of fact.” Debbie surprised herself with such an honest response. She had yet to discuss her gambling habit with some of her family members, and here was a bag lady getting the scoop. Why did she feel so light and free about it? “You don’t say,” the woman sat on the bench next to Debbie. “You should hear what happened to my ex-husband, Roger.” By the time Craig returned with lunch, the woman and Debbie knew each other’s gambling history very well. “Let’s find a spot, Debbie. I’ve got . . . the . . .” 296

ChapterTwentySeven

“Sandwiches?” Debbie turned to the bag lady. “Grace, are you hungry?” “Yes, I’ll have a little. Too bad we don’t have a proper table setting. I surely do miss a proper table setting.” “Craig, this is Grace.” “How do you . . .” Craig extended his hand. Grace kept on talking. Debbie dug in the lunch bag and tore a sandwich in half, and the two women laughed like old friends. “What kind of concoction is this, young man?” Grace peered into the depths of thick, mushy meat and multiple layers of lettuce. “That one’s Braunschweiger. There’s a tuna on dark, if you’d prefer.” Craig ate in silence as Grace wolfed down her lunch and swigged iced tea. Debbie asked questions and munched away at her share. By the time Craig and Debbie left, Debbie wrote her address down for Grace, dug out four stamps from her purse, and insisted that Grace “keep in touch.” “You could have been mugged, you know!” Craig scolded as they walked back toward the Senate chambers. “By Grace?” Debbie let out a belly laugh and playfully grabbed his hand. “You’re so confident about strangers in St. Paul. Why are you uncomfortable in Washington?” “Because it’s new territory for me. Not to mention the fact that it’s the murder capital of the U.S. I’ll actually be glad to leave.” As they passed the World War II Memorial, Debbie made a silent vow to return with plenty of time to take in the sights. Craig had been right about the delay in the testimony. He didn’t begin until after three o’clock. Madam Chair treated him most graciously. “Please tell us, Mr. Two Horses, about your relationship with Senator Jean Anderson Buffalo and about her stand on tribal sovereignty.” “Our relationship is generally closer than most first cousins, I think. We played together as children, we went to the same school, we spent a lot of time at each other’s homes, and we continue to have mutual friends. Her first boyfriend is a good friend of mine. We haven’t seen much of each other since she came to Washington and I started law school. “Yet you feel comfortable describing her political views?” “Completely. She believes that if the government starts to tax and regulate Native American gambling, it would only be a matter of time before they would want to regulate other things. She is especially fearful of any erosion of hunting and fishing rights.” “Why, Mr. Two Horses, would that be so important for her to safe297

GAME OVER

guard?” Madam Chair smiled. “Thank you for giving me a chance to repeat her views, even though I’m sure you’ve heard them many times before. Those hunting and fishing rights define what it means to be Indian, Madam Chair. If we lose those rights, we lose our connection to the land, one of the only things bargained for successfully after the wars. The land should remain ours to use as originally agreed upon by the U.S. government when we gave up all the rest of the country.” Debbie noticed that Craig’s scar turned a bit red, as it had when the two of them talked about Native American lands. Can’t take the determination out of him just by bringing him to Washington. Can’t take the Indian out of him either. She had an enormous desire to run up and plant a kiss on his cheek. Instead she stared at Madam Chair and tried to make guesses about the woman’s life. Did she ever commit a crime, even unknowingly? By the time Debbie’s attention returned to Craig, he was clenching and unclenching his fists, making pronouncements more than conversation. “You should understand that our ancestors gave up the land in exchange for hunting and fishing rights. To them, if we could hunt and fish and live off the land and have the government provide health care and education, then nothing else mattered because our children would be taken care of.” “And how would Senator Anderson Buffalo have made the connection between tribal sovereignty and Native American gaming, an industry that now is in most of our states and growing by the week?” “I believe the letter written to her mother that I submit to you today helps put the ideas into her own words.” Craig gave copies in advance to Senate pages for distribution. “She believes casinos represent the best chance for economic development. You heard how haphazard the BIA is about their responsibilities in that regard. If you allow me to read her words, Madam Chair . . .” “Please, go ahead.” Madam Chair said. “She states, ‘What a dilemma we face, Mother. If we use all of our profits for our own health care and education, the Federal government might cut aid to us – aid that we gave up our land for. Not only will they tax our casino profits, but we will be sacrificing those benefits agreed upon after a time of war. That should not be forgotten in these times of peace. We must fight taxation, and in the meantime, we must use our casino profits to diversify our economy, not to replace benefits already our due.’ So you see, Madam Chair, she thinks that by . . .” Madam Chair interrupted. “Just a moment, please.” The committee members covered their microphones and whispered to each other. 298

ChapterTwentySeven

“Can you tell us what she thinks of legalized gambling operations and their effects on tribal gaming?” “She once said to her mother that she was feeling enormous pressure from the non-tribal gaming industry to level the playing field by taxing Native American casinos.” The committee members leaned in and whispered to each other once more while Madam Chair covered her microphone. “What would be so wrong with that, Mr. Two Horses?” she finally asked. “The playing field has never been level, Madam Chair. First, Native American casinos usually don’t draw the big investors that other gambling entities can attract. Second, we are just beginning to learn how to operate our own casinos. Some tribes are at the mercy of non-Indian management companies that come in and take the majority of the profits in exchange for management services. No, Madam Chair, the playing field is not level. We want the chance to be left alone. I’m sure that is what my cousin Jean fought for, and that she will fight for. Just as she is fighting now, to regain consciousness and rejoin her family.” Madam Chair looked down at her notes and continued, “Is it your opinion then, Mr. Two Horses, that she could have been attacked for her stand?” Craig cleared his throat loudly into the microphone before answering, “I am absolutely positive of it.” Craig lost his composure only once, when one of the members questioned Senator Anderson Buffalo’s sincerity toward a commitment to compromise. Debbie listened intently, sometimes losing concentration when they repeated questions. She learned a great deal about Craig Two Horses and his upbringing. Craig’s testimony ended at five o’clock, with Madam Chair announcing that Debbie’s testimony would be held over until the next day. That night at dinner, Debbie made the comment that she now knew all about his background and principles, and all he knew about her were the details of her gambling problems. “Don’t be too sure, Debbie. After all, we’ve stepped around the dance floor. You can tell a lot about a woman that way.” “Oh, yeah, like what?” She smiled at the memory of his chin bobbing around the dance floor. “Like your ability to follow and your propensity to lead. Like your sense of giving, to name a few things. Besides, remember Uncle George’s place. Nothing tells more about a woman than her flannel pajamas!” They spent the late hours watching a movie in Craig’s room. In the 299

GAME OVER

middle of the movie, Craig blurted out, “Would you like to spend the night with me? Have a real sleep over?” Nothing coy, no heat of passion. Just a direct question. Almost as if he didn’t expect an affirmative answer. “I don’t think I can.” “Why not, Debbie? You have feelings for me. I know you do.” She tried to find words of comfort. “I need time to heal before I can let myself go. And I don’t want to come to your bed until I am ready to do just that. Sorry if I’m too defensive, too self-protective. You don’t deserve that. But I need to find more of myself before I can love again.” Craig took her hands in his. “You’re right. I know you’re right. There’s a person inside you I can love. I can wait for her to appear again.” She hugged him fiercely and held on for a long time. *

*

*

About halfway through her testimony Debbie realized that her boys might be watching, and her words gained power and clarity. “Why couldn’t you stop gambling, Ms. Wood? What made you willing to risk your way of life to gamble?” Madam Chairwoman asked. Debbie’s probation officer’s words about not being ready for selfdisclosure came back to haunt her. Debbie tried to explain the strange feeling that her gambling couldn’t be helped. It wasn’t a risk to her way of life, but rather a replacement. Something exciting. A diversion from loneliness and her overwhelming sense of responsibility and accompanying depression. They asked her if she thought various forms of gambling should be allowed: state lotteries, pull-tabs, church bingo, Native American gaming operations. “Look at it this way,” she answered seriously. “The more gambling, the more people are going to have problems. Some won’t survive the depression; others will recover completely and stay gambling free. It infuriates me to go to my local McDonald’s restaurant and have gambling thinly disguised as a game, peddled to my children.” “Why would that be gambling, Ms. Wood? Wouldn’t you consider that a contest of some kind?” The committee members smirked at each other. Debbie’s rage boiled inside her and she tried to keep her words steady. Smirking at each other, convinced they could never succumb to such a weakness. The pompousness in their steady gazes, the impatience she could see as they turned pages in front of them. “I’ve learned that gambling is when you pay money for a chance at winning something you otherwise don’t expect. I’m positive that Mc300

ChapterTwentySeven

Donald’s sells more hash browns because of those game pieces. You put your money down for a chance at the prize. Then you eat the hash browns because you’re stuck with them. That’s gambling, even when a child does it.” “Buying a game piece is a far cry from robbing a bank, Ms. Wood,” a committee member interjected. Debbie thought of her boys and how they wanted to win so badly – a camera, a trip, or whatever the latest, greatest prize being given as an offering by corporate America. What could these people possibly know about addiction? How it takes over your brain like a fungus infecting healthy tissue, rewiring the circuitry so you can no longer control your thoughts. How could she make them understand? She sat up straighter and her voice got louder as she let her anger show. “Not for me. Game pieces are part of my problem. Even watching television is now impossible for me if I want to keep my mind off gambling. Lotto numbers are announced on the news and more contests are introduced every day. After hearing Mr. Two Horses speak, you know Indian gaming is an economic necessity for some tribes.” She took a drink, and a little water spilled out of the glass when her hands shook. “That’s why the casinos call it gaming, and I call it gambling. It’s bad for me, and for an increasing number of people like me. I hope that eventually I don’t think about gambling every day, like I . . . still do.” Her heart felt like it would burst with the nervousness and inadequacy she felt, yet she had to keep going. She had to tell them what they needed to hear, no matter how embarrassing, no matter how hurtful. “To be honest, most of us living with addiction want to have an entire day when we don’t think about our haunting need, whatever it is – gambling, alcohol, or drugs. I used to wonder about pregnant women who could possibly smoke that cigarette, drink that coffee, or shoot up their dangerous drugs, knowing that it would hurt their child. Now I might know the twisted logic they must be thinking, such as, ‘Oh, it won’t hurt the baby that much. It’s better for them that I am calm and relaxed.’ Any excuse can be fabricated in the addict mind, any rationale, no matter how twisted or crazy it might sound to you. Every day out of gambling I am more sane than the day before, but I’m not there yet. I am still hoping for an entire day without thinking about gambling.” Silent tears rolled down her cheeks, but she felt cleansed with the purity of telling the truth. “What a relief that would be.” *

*

301

*

GAME OVER

Debbie felt totally exhausted and she slept through most of the flight home. Craig woke her when they neared St. Paul. “Look.” He handed her the paper as they started their descent. An article in the Washington Post revealed that Sam Lyons had been arrested for improper campaign financing. “You knew this would happen, right?” she wondered aloud. Craig nodded. “It seems as though Lyons had been sleeping with Jean. You know. Get close to her and see what he could do about changing her mind on regulations. Jean wouldn’t budge, and she continued to gain influence with the other members of the committee. She held the tie-breaking vote, and she told Lyons their relationship was over. She was going to leak information about his Las Vegas campaign contributions. Evidently Lyons hired a killer who bungled the job. Didn’t give her enough of the injection.” “How did Uncle George know about the affair?” Debbie asked, incredulity in her voice. “Jean wrote about it to her mother. Besides, George smelled a particular aroma of cigar on her bathrobe and he checked with the local tobacco stores. One thing Uncle George knows is tobacco.” “Tobacco? I don’t remember that he smoked.” Debbie wondered why George had expertise in such a thing. “Pipe ceremonies,” he explained. “We use a lot of tobacco. Only one store carried the type he smelled, and they only sold the brand to Lyons and one other person, Press Secretary Jackson. Didn’t take Uncle George long to figure out who the connection was.” “From what you’ve told me about Jean, she doesn’t seem the type to fall for a guy just trying to sway her vote.” Debbie said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Well, Washington can be a pretty lonely place.” Debbie nodded. “Any place can be a lonely place. Whew. It doesn’t take long for the world to change.” “It surely doesn’t,” Craig agreed. “Debbie, I’ve been thinking. What are you going to do when your house sells? Live with family?” “I don’t know. My sister Liz says I could move in with her, but she’s very nervous about my gambling. She glances in my purse, watches me with doubtful eyes. I’m not sure how long I could stand it. But I have made up my mind about one thing.” “What’s that?” “I am going to finish that law degree so I can provide legal advice for women who are in trouble because of gambling. I have to wait until I pay my restitution, and then my charges will be dropped to a misde302

ChapterTwentySeven

meanor. After that, I can sit for the bar exam. That is, if I can get permission from the bar association.” Craig chuckled. “What brought on this serious sense of direction, anyway? Grace?” “Yes. Grace.” Craig took back the newspaper and folded it up. “Debbie, I have, well . . . a suggestion to make.” He sounded like he was having a difficult time finding his voice. Debbie sat quietly, guessing that he was trying to gather his courage. “You could stay with me at the cabin. I have the pull-out couch.” “What about when you finish school at the end of the summer session? Won’t you want to move on?” “Yep. I want to continue Jean’s fight for tribal sovereignty, and I’ll start by going back to the reservation for a few months this fall to campaign with my own people. I have to build consensus around this issue.” Debbie thought hard for a moment. “You’ll be great at it. Somehow, even with all this trouble, I feel better off now than ever before. I have a sense of purpose. And although deep down I resent the hell out of Charlie, I know the boys will be fine.” She looked at him with sudden concern. “If I moved to the cabin, what’ll I do once you go back to the reservation?” “You could stay by yourself for awhile. It’s a great place for healing – peace and quiet, all that getting in touch with nature stuff. You’d be surprised what nature can do for a person, especially in the summer and fall. You wouldn’t have to worry about casinos too close by.” Debbie stiffened. “Craig Two Horses, gambling is my problem, and I have to deal with it. All by myself. Wherever I am, it’s not going to go away. The desire is always with me, and with online gambling who needs a casino? But I can beat it.” She relaxed, sensing Craig didn’t mean anything by his comment. Besides, she knew instantly that the cabin would be perfect for her. “Thanks for the invitation. It’s a little far to drive to class, but it’ll be worth it. I’d love to stay there.” “Then there’s only one other thing you need to understand,” he said hesitantly. “You can only stay as long as you are not gambling. If you start again, I wouldn’t be able to be around you. I watched my ex-wife self-destruct, and I can’t watch it happen again. You’d have to leave.” He watched the flight attendant come down the aisle before turning back to her. “I really mean that.” She turned to him as much as the airplane seat allowed. “I haven’t gambled since March ninth – that’s seventy-one days ago, and I’m trying my best each day not to gamble. That’s all I can promise.” Craig nodded slowly. “That’s enough for me.” He picked up her hand 303

GAME OVER

and kissed it gently. “Of course, you know that when I go to the rez this fall, you could come along too. George and Sarah would be happy to have you . . . us.” Debbie loved the way his eyes shone with hope whenever he asked a question that mattered to him. The best thing that had happened to her was finding this good friend. “Let’s see how we get along this summer. See if we can stand the sight of each other by fall.” Debbie gazed out the airplane window at the lights of the small towns around Minneapolis and St. Paul, dotting the ground like land-locked constellations. The most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. * * * “Hi, cousin. Just wanted to stop in for a visit. I’ll do the talking.” Craig leaned over Jean Anderson Buffalo’s hospital bed and kissed her forehead. She reached up and patted Craig’s cheek, and nodded. “I hate this town, I have to tell you. But I spoke with some more of your colleagues today, and it looks like they are going to drop the legislation to tax our casinos.” Craig shook his head, his braid swinging freely on his back. “That was a close one.” Jean reached for her plastic sketch pad with a plastic pencil. Clearly a toy, it worked well for her to scribble out pieces of conversation. She wrote “good job” with a trembling hand, then lifted the top sheet of the pad to erase her writing. “Thanks. I’m trying to represent you well.” He held her hand. “I have to tell you something else that happened while you were out of it.” He took a deep breath. “I found a woman.” He looked into Jean’s eyes and saw many questions. He smiled. “Oh right, you have a million questions.” “She’s loving and funny and smart. I loved her instantly. Well, after our first dance anyway. She’s got some kids and some stuff going on that I’m not sure we’ll get through, but . . .” Jean scribbled furiously, and Craig read her words. “She strong?” “Oh yes, stronger than I am about most things.” “Have courage?” “Her heart is full of courage. And she has found her way.” Jean’s piercing blue eyes seemed to communicate with the depth of his soul. Then she wrote, “Good job.”

304

ChapterTwentySeven

305

EPILOGUE She sat in the parking lot, hands gripping the wheel, heart pounding with anticipation of her responsibilities. The conference was going to start in twenty minutes and as one of the presenters she needed to make sure the laptop was operating properly and that the flash drive was working, but she couldn’t get herself to go in the building. The last decade had been challenging. No one knew better than she did how to reinvent yourself after a crisis – the topic of her keynote for an expected audience of nearly 200 business executives. Yet she felt fraudulent some days. She never tried to explain how she got her job at the women’s transition center, or how she happened to work with the wife of the president of a speaker’s bureau, who hooked up her first speaking engagement. She wasn’t a natural, and she got nervous every time. She almost always felt a lump in her stomach that mocked the 24hour flu, making her ready to lose her composure at any moment. But she had never lost it. She always plunged right in to her speech: “After an unexplained stint at gambling 5 years ago, I was shot, lost my job, and lost custody of my boys.” Worked well as a speech hook. “Fine and dandy,” she muttered to herself as she turned off the CD player in her new hybrid, with its Bose stereo system. She still treated herself to good music. Today would be a repetition of her best speech with some business references thrown in for her audience. “If your company is changing product lines, or having cash flow issues, you need to redefine what you do . . . rethink your strategy . . . re-engage your work force. You need to get your plan set, and define your action steps . . .” But it would not be business as usual for Deb Wood, as she had taken to calling herself for her speeches. No more Debbie. Even her family switched, and said they liked the change. She looked across the parking lot to the entrance of the Magic Days Convention Center. She had been able to avoid going into a casino all this time, even claiming she was sick when her cousin got married in one, and had her reception there. Why tempt fate when she hadn’t gambled in over five years? Her life 306

had exploded those five years ago. She gripped the wheel. She hadn’t recognized the name ‘Eagle Convention Center, Saint Paul,’ when she booked the speech, and by the time she figured it out, it would have been irresponsible to back out. “Oh well,” she sighed to herself. “It’s about time I put myself to the test.” At her GA meetings she’d heard about the growth of online gambling, with players racking up credit card bills, and she heard about the latest casino games: eBay, with huge video screens mounted above the group of several eBay machines, that come to life when the group of players wins. Everyone who is betting at that bank of machines goes into the eBay bonus. The more you bet, the higher your multiplier and the better your bonus. Or Monopoly, with the Big Event Bonus, where all the players get to participate based on their previous bets. The games they described were intriguing – a man’s voice calling out, “It’s the Big Event Bonus! Once Around the Monopoly Board!” The monopoly man would shake the dice, and the players would cheer for those spaces with the highest bonus – free parking, and of course, Park Place and Boardwalk. Or the Happy Days game, that played the theme song with a winking leather-clad Fonzie. The Fonz. Most of the machines were video screens now, with very few coins played – most just printed receipts. She wondered if the video sounds made up for the seduction of the coins clanking in the coin trays. Her boys were both still more distant than she wished, both physically and emotionally. Since Philip was working as an apprentice for a law company on the East Coast, she didn’t see much of him. “Mom,” he’d begin, and then make excuses for not being able to come her way. But she knew he didn’t much care to see his father, and Philip had never forgiven her the distress and embarrassment she caused him. She thought that he might come around someday. Steven was going to college in California. But they stayed connected with Skyping and texting, and that was all she cared about. That connection was all-important. “Time to go!” She opened up her car door and stepped into the crisp, October air. Her pace quickened as she walked up to the front entrance. “Go straight to the convention floor,” she told herself. She walked through the foyer and was shocked by the lights of the new machines. She heard the sounds of theme songs coming at her from all directions. She hadn’t remembered casinos being this loud. “Excuse me,” she asked a floor clerk, “which way to the Convention Center?” “Oh, go all the way down this middle aisle here, take a left when you get to the end, and go just past the Monopoly machines. You’ll see the 307

entrance to your right.” “Thanks,” Deb smiled, and started her long walk.

308