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I've never been a gambler -- at least not the bet-on-cards kind. So I hesitated when Tony Blackburn invited me to go to the new Royal Court Casino over in the East Bay. Tony, a friend from my art school days, had started his own advertising firm. The casino was his first big client. "Come on, Jess," he said. "It'll be a lark." "Weather report says a storm's about to hit." "You? Afraid of a little rain? Don't tell me you're just going to put on your bunny slippers and sip tea by the fire." Actually I'd planned to spend the evening in front of my easel, blocking out colors on a new canvas. But I let Tony persuade me to join him on his adventure. A strong gusting wind hit Tony's van broadside as we drove across the San Francisco Bay Bridge. "You're right," he said, fighting to steer. "Gonna be a big one. We better make it an early night." That suited me fine. Perhaps I'd get some painting done after all. The Royal Court was one of those grandiose poker palaces that have sprung up as city officials scramble for new sources of tax revenue. We parked at the far end of a crowded parking lot, beneath a garish neon sign. When we emerged from the van, the wind tossed our hair and yanked at our coats. Rain spattered in our faces as we dashed to the door. The casino tried hard to capture the glitz of Vegas. The card room flashed with lights and mirrors. The red carpeting had a pattern of playing cards woven in. Noise bounced off the walls -- laughter, piped-in music and the slap of cards on the green baize tabletops. We were barely inside when a tall man approached us. He was a cross between a cowboy and a pirate: jeans, leather vest, hand-tooled boots, a black patch over his right eye and a gold ring on his ear. "Hey Tony! The guy who's gonna put this place on the map!" He pumped Tony's hand. "Welcome, welcome! Who's your friend?" "Jess Randolph," Tony said as the cowboy-pirate grabbed my hand too. "A fellow artist." He didn't mention that I was also a private investigator. Just as well; that information sometimes spins a conversation in odd directions. "Jess, this is Vince Belotte, better known as King of the Royal Court." "Quite a kingdom," I said. "It's just the beginning," Belotte said. "First of a whole string of clubs I'm gonna have all up and down the California coast. Soon as I can get my financial act together. Come join us, I'm about to drink a toast with my best customer." He ushered Tony and me to a table in the cocktail lounge and introduced the two people who awaited him. Deuce Canfield was a bony man, quite elderly, dressed foppishly in a blazer and ascot tie. He had a wisp of white hair combed over his bald head, sharp blue eyes, and cheeks flushed with pink. The cause of the flush might have been his companion, Ginni, who looked young enough to be his granddaughter. She was as blond and beautiful as peroxide and makeup and too-tight clothes could make her. A waitress with bee-stung lips and piles of red curls delivered a bottle of champagne and three stemmed glasses. A name badge pinned to her skimpy uniform said "Laverne." Belotte sent her back for two more glasses. Canfield beamed and patted his bulging pocket. "Streak I've been on lately, I'm going to win this club out from under you." Belotte scowled, then forced a smile. "Yeah, you broke the bank again tonight, unfortunately. Thank God the rest of these card sharks aren't as lucky as you." Ginni stroked her companion's arm. "Come on, Belotte," she pouted. "Deuce does you a favor, luring the high rollers in." "Some favor, if I come out losing money." But the cowboy-pirate smiled at her. The waitress returned with two more glasses as Canfield popped the cork. "Lots to celebrate tonight. My winning streak, and better yet, our engagement." The waitress dropped a glass, which bounced on the thick carpet. "Engagement?" she squeaked. "To her?" Ginni gave Laverne a triumphant look. "You bet. See?" She held out her hand, showing off a ring with a diamond as large as her fingernail. Laverne looked like Ginni had slapped her in the face. "But Deuce ... you said it was me you was gonna marry!" "Now, Laverne, I never said that." In a whispered aside to Belotte, he added, "At least, not lately." Laverne burst into tears and ran from the table. Belotte shrugged and picked up the bottle. "How about a toast to the happy couple? I like to see my waitresses get ahead in life, right, Ginni? You've got your chance, Laverne'll get hers." But before he could pour, another woman arrived. In her late 50s, she was gray all over -- hair, eyes, complexion, even the coat that dripped rain onto the floor. "So, Deuce Canfield," she said in a gray voice. "I always know where to find you. You're either gambling or out with some bimbo. Tonight I see it's both." Canfield stood up. "Now Helen, don't make a scene. You aren't my wife anymore. In fact, Ginni and I are celebrating our engagement." "What! You're marrying this ... this ..." The woman turned to Ginni. "Well, girlie, I hope you get as rotten a deal from him as I did. Just wait till I ..." I saw Belotte raise his arm and waggle two fingers -- some sort of signal. "Helen!" Canfield begged. "Just leave quietly. Please." "Not until I get that back alimony you owe me. I know you won big tonight. The whole club's buzzing with it." A man appeared, wearing an expensively tailored blue suit over ex-prizefighter's muscles. He clamped his huge hands on the former Mrs. Canfield's shoulders. She twisted in his grip and shouted curses as he marched her away. Belotte rose to his feet. "Sorry about the disturbance, Canfield. Come with me, I'll ..." Before he could finish his sentence a ferret-faced man shoved him aside and pulled Canfield out of his chair. "Damned cheater! I won't let you get away with it." The ferret began pummeling the old man, who fought back with surprising strength. It took the combined efforts of Belotte, Tony and me to pull them apart and make Ginni stop shrieking. "Out of here, McCoy," Belotte ordered as he signaled another bouncer. "Don't ever come back. You're eighty-sixed." McCoy stood his ground, eyes like stone, face flaming with rage. "You owe me big time, Canfield. I'm going to get back every cent I lost tonight, you cheater, you coward, you ..." A second ex-boxer stood in front of him, arms crossed over his massive chest. The ferret fell silent, turned on his heel and walked away. The bouncer followed. Belotte fussed over his star customer almost as much as Ginni did. Canfield was fine, he assured them. To me he looked shaken and pale. "Follow me," the cowboy-pirate said. "We have a room in back for private parties. You can enjoy your celebration without hassle." "Thank you." Canfield made a courtly bow to Tony and me. "Care to join us?" "That's kind," I said, "but I'm sure you'd prefer to be alone." Belotte picked up the champagne bottle and led the lovebirds away. Tony and I wandered into the card room. He tried his luck at a poker table while I watched, trying to figure out the players' strategies. When I decided they didn't have any, I amused myself by people-watching. The crowd was eclectic -- hippies and yuppies, truckers and the Mercedes contingent. I spotted Belotte in a whispered huddle with one of the bouncers; then the ex-boxer walked away. Laverne, looking like a storm cloud, stomped around serving drinks. Belotte came by our table, offered words of encouragement to the players and congratulated Tony as he raked in a modest pot. "How's the happy couple?" I asked him. "Fine, fine. Playing honeymoon bridge and having a high old time. I sent in another bottle of champagne on the house." "I hope you didn't make Laverne deliver it," Tony said. Belotte chuckled. "Hell no. I knew he was dating 'em both, but I never dreamed Laverne would take it so hard once Deuce made his choice. Well, Ginni will be much better for him than that vindictive dragon Helen." He was moving to the next table when the lights went out and the Royal Court plunged into blackness. People screamed. I heard crashes as the patrons knocked over chairs, bumped into tables, tipped over bottles and glasses. A few moments later an emergency generator kicked in. Lights flickered on behind the bar and at the front entrance, creating a shadowy gloom. The gamblers and drinkers slowly made their way out into the storm. Tony put a hand on my elbow. "We might as well take off too. See you, Belotte." "Wait," the cowboy-pirate said. But before he could say more, a waitress -- not Laverne -- came streaking from the back of the casino, looking ghost-white. "Come quick! It's horrible! Oh God, call the police!" I saw the bartender pick up the phone as a group of us surged toward the private room. In the dim light of an emergency bulb, we could see Deuce Canfield, bloody and lifeless, lolling in an armchair beside the table. Ginni's body was sprawled on the plush carpeting, her left hand resting on a woolly Queen of Hearts. The diamond ring was missing from her finger. "Jeez-us," Tony whispered. "They've been shot. Both of them, in the side of the head." "How come we didn't hear it?" someone asked. "Must have happened when the lights went out," a security guard replied. "All that screaming, nobody heard nothing." An empty champagne bottle lay in a pool of wine on the table. Another was still corked. The cards from the honeymoon bridge game were scattered all over. Except one, which was clutched in Canfield's hand. When I saw which card he was holding, I decided to hold my tongue until the police arrived. "Don't touch anything," I warned. Too late. Belotte had patted down Canfield's pocket. "The cash he won is gone." The cowboy-pirate slumped against a wall. "I can't believe it. They looked so happy when I left them -- just a few minutes ago." Tony said, "Plenty of people were angry with them. Or maybe they had a violent quarrel." The bartender poked his head in the room. "Cops are here. And I checked the electrical box. It wasn't the storm that doused the lights. The main circuit breaker was thrown." I never got to paint that night. The police took over Belotte's
office and questioned us all, one by one. It was dawn before they got
to me. I rarely get a chance to work with East Bay cops, so the two
detectives were strangers. At first they were suspicious, discovering
a P.I. on the scene. But they warmed up considerably when I explained
who killed the lovebirds and why.
Mystery
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