Chapter 3

            Blackjack Robinson's “office” was in a rundown brick development, crumbling into disrepair due to the negligence of the overworked and underpaid construction crews tasked with maintaining Carser City. Hanging over the door was a wooden sign reading Missy's. It was a small bar whose floor was mostly occupied by the counter. Jammed in the remaining area were several tables precariously positioned between the back wall and a dart board.

            Herbert entered Missy's to find Blackjack seated at one of the tables with a newspaper spread out before him. He looked around to see that there was no one else in the bar. “Hate to bother you with all these customers here.”

            “Hilarious.” Blackjack looked up and smirked. His face was gaunt and stubbled with gray hair. His nose was crooked to the point of nearly being folded across his face, though his eyes betrayed no pain or bitterness at his circumstance. His silver hair hung shoulder length, spilling out from under the brim of his Panama hat. Even in the dim light, the colors of his Hawaiian shirt were bright to the point of offending.

            “That's some shirt.” Herbert squinted. “What's printed on that? Flamingos?”

            “That's right. It's one of my retirement shirts.”

            “Retirement.” Herbert smiled. “That's funnier than the shirt.”

            Blackjack folded up his newspaper and motioned to an empty chair. Herbert sat down at the table. “It’s good to see you. When was the last time you came down here, Herb?”

            “Oh, it's been a long time...” Herbert felt himself tugged along that winding path of nostalgia, falling backwards in time to a different place where he was a different person.

            “I'd offer you a drink, but it looks like you're still on the wagon.”

            “Yep.” Herbert smiled in spite of himself.

            “Good for you.” Blackjack raised his own glass in a toast. “Means there's more booze for the rest of us.”

            “I'm glad the fact it's just past ten in the morning doesn't stop you from toasting to my health.”

            “I told you, I'm retired. This is the retired life.”

            “Looks like you're living the dream.”

            Laughing, Blackjack set down his glass. “I would say so.” He stared at Herbert, the affability slipping from his face like water down a drain. “I know you didn't come all the way out here to see how good I'm living.”

            “I'm afraid not.”

            Silence filled the empty bar. Herbert stared across the table at his old friend and watched him finish his drink. Blackjack set his glass down and poured himself a refill.

            “What did you get me into?”

            There was a shorter pause as Blackjack swallowed a mouthful of booze. “What do you mean?”

            “Don't bullshit me.” Herbert's voice grew hoarse.

            “Not very professional. Askin' questions like that.”

            “I got pulled over today by a detective.”

            “Maybe you should drive better.”

            “Detectives don't do traffic violations.” Herbert stared across the table and clenched his jaw. It was a time for control. He took a breath. “Who's Gideon Roland?”

            There was a flicker in Blackjack's eyes. He took another sip from his glass. “Where'd you hear that name?”

            “The kid that works for me...Darius...dug it up.”

            Blackjack smirked. “Interesting word choice.”

            “I need to know what I'm up against here.”

            The old barman shook his head, his silver hair bouncing with the motion. “You don't wanna know.” He looked down into his glass.

             Herbert looked down as well, though all he could stare at were his hands. They were callused from years of fist fights and hard labor. “That bad?”

            “It's bigger than both of us, that's all I know for sure.”

            “You don't have anything else you can give me?”

            “There isn't much. These guys weren't fucking around. They wanted this guy wiped off the map.”

            “You must have something. A phone number? An address?”

            “Don't you? What about the invoice?”

            “It's a PO box.” Herbert shook his head and rubbed his chin. “The only other address I have is the townhouse I made the pickup at.”

            Blackjack emptied and refilled his glass.

            Herbert looked at him with disgust. “I had a detective pull me over and ask for a business card as I was leaving that drop off. Think that's a coincidence? I know what's happening here. I'm not an idiot. You tell me who this is. Give me a fighting chance.”

            Blackjack Robinson's eyes moved from his drink to the half-empty bottle of liquor. They traced the lines of text on his folded newspaper. The followed the grains of wood spread on the table sitting between them. They went everywhere except Herbert's gaze. “You didn't get this from me.” He produced a pen and tore a scrap of paper from his newspaper. After scrawling a series of numbers, he slid it across the table.

            Herbert took the paper and nodded down at it. “I appreciate it.”

            After a pause, Blackjack spoke. “You know, with no body there's no case.”

            “Just trying to keep all my bases covered here.”

            Blackjack took a long drink.

            Herbert stood up. “It was good to see you. I'll have to drop by again soon.”

            Blackjack smiled. “I hope you do.”

            The van's engine rattled under the hood sounding like a caged animal raging against its bonds. Herbert gripped the wheel and watched the road unravel in front of him, moving effortlessly with the flow of traffic.  He was surprised at how nice it was to see Blackjack. It had been some time since they've met in person, since they've spoke about anything other than business. Usually their conversations were clipped exchanges of phone numbers and addresses, if they had to speak at all. More often, Blackjack would just leave him a message.

            He wondered if that was a day in Blackjack's life, or if he was drinking to smooth things out in preparation for his guest. Even under the drinks, Herbert caught whiffs of the bitterness emanating from his old friend. He shook his head. Blackjack was a great businessman, but this necessarily meant that he had a deficiency in compassion- especially for the line of work he had chosen for himself.

            Herbert parked the van in the back of the shop and killed the engine. He remained behind the driver's seat and pulled the scrap of newspaper from his pocket. He exhaled. He knew he was breaking an unspoken law. Asking questions was a quick way to end up in the ground. But not knowing what he was into was just as dangerous, maybe even more. He needed to know who to look out for.

            Herbert got out of the van and entered through the back of the shop.

            “Herbie?” Darius called from the front.

            “Yeah. Just a second.” He answered, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.

            “I need you out here.”

            “Can it wait?” Herbert squinted down at Blackjack's shaky handwriting.

            “Uh...not really.” Darius' voice was taut.

            “What is it?” Herbert growled as he stomped into the front, hot with annoyance. As he entered the front of the shop, Herbert felt as if he was thrown into an ice bath.

            Standing in front of the counter with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops was a tall and sturdy man in casual wear. He had a head of sandy brown hair and watery blue eyes. His lids hung half closed over them, though Herbert saw predatory alertness in them. He had the beginnings of a beard framing his droopy lips.

            “Mornin',” he drawled. “My name is Detective Brett Samson.” The detective pulled a badge from his pocket and flashed it to the two across the counter. “Was wonderin' if you fellas wouldn't mind answerin' a couple'a questions. Nothin' too crazy. Jus' part'a an ongoin' investigation is all.”

            “Right, of course.” Herbert nodded. He glanced at Darius to see that the color drained from his dark complexion. He looked at the detective. “What can we help you with?”

            “Well, ya see, all we've got right now is a missing person. No signs of foul play yet, but we're jus' tryin' to see what we can see.” Samson spoke with a friendly cadence, but Herbert knew the body blow was coming. “You ever hear of someone named Gideon Roland?”

            Herbert suppressed the urge to elbow Darius in the ribs. All he could do was silently hope that he held himself together in the face of Samson's scrutiny. There was a flicker of something in the detective eye's, but it quickly vanished. “I don't know. The name kinda sounds familiar...” Herbert rubbed the back of his head.

            “You ever hear of First Metropolitan Bank?”

            Hebert and Darius nodded.

            “He's a VP there.”

            “Oh, well, maybe that's where I've heard of him.”

             “Yeah, yeah.” Samson nodded and pretended to interest himself with a spot on the floor. Then his head snapped up and he stared at the two across the counter with lightning in his impossibly blue eyes. “So, what were ya doin' at his house earlier?”

            Herbert exhaled. He stared at the detective and held steady. He thought he heard Darius' heart pounding from where he stood, though it could have been his imagination. “We were dropping off a clean carpet.”

            “Mmm.” Samson ran a hand through his stubble. “And that's a service you usually offer?”

            “For an additional fee.”

            “When was this order placed?” The detective's eyes floated to the back room.

            “Two days ago.” Herbert crossed his arms and glanced up at the clock on the wall. “I'm sorry, but that's all the time we have. We've got a pick-up to make and unless you've got any other questions...”

            Samson nodded, his mouth curling into a friendly smile. “Sure, sure. Don't let me hang you up none. I jus' have one more question for you and I'll be outta your hair.”

            Herbert steeled himself. Outwardly, he smiled. “Lay it on me.”

            “Was this order placed in Gideon Roland's name?”

            “Yes.”

            “So, you spoke with him on the phone?”

            “Maybe?” Herbert shrugged. “I've never met him before. If he's as important as you say he is, it could've been a lackey placing the order.”

            “Sure, sure...” Samson nodded and showed his teeth in a neighborly smile. “You've been a big help. You boys have a good day.” And with that, he strut out of the shop.

            Darius exhaled and wiped the sweat from his brow. His face was gray and clammy. “Jesus fuckin' Christ. How the hell did you do that?”

            “I told the truth.” Herbert dropped into the chair at his desk. He rubbed his eyes. The air in the shop was thick and heavy. His stomach turned and his heart rioted. Slowly, he filled his lungs and exhaled. Herbert knew there wasn't a chance that the detective believed him, that in the very near future they would be seeing the inside of an interrogation room.

            “You think he bought it?”

            “Maybe. We'll see.” Herbert shrugged and stood up. “Get in the van. We're going for a ride.”

            “We got another pick-up?”

            “Just get in the goddamn van.”

            Grumbling, Darius started toward the back.