Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [83]
“I see,” Paul said, studying the list. “I’m on board. But can you do me one favor?”
“What’s that?” Lacey replied.
“Scratch me off the list.”
“Sorry about that,” Lacey said, striking a pen across Paul’s name. “Clerical error.”
The siblings sat in silence until the telephone broke it. Paul picked up on the second ring.
“Hello,” he said. “Hmm. Interesting. Well, I’ll have to discuss it with my sister and get back to you. Good-bye.”
“Who was that?” Lacey asked.
“Jay Babalato.”
“Did you call him like I told you to? I mean, like I casually suggested.”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He just upped the offer to eight hundred thousand dollars.”
NOTES:
Dave,
I hope you don’t mind me fleshing out the criminal activities of your Babalatos. Remember that suspicious interview with Mr. Portis? I thought our readers might like to be clued in about what was going on. I could trust that you would eventually handle the matter, but there’s still an unexplained plane crash haunting Mercer, so my trust is in the wind.
Since you’re committed to seeing this thing through, let’s try to see it through as quickly as possible. Quick refresher on murder mysteries: By the end, we know who killed everyone.
Lisa
Lisa,
Eureka. We’ve finally found our common purpose. Let’s finish this up so I can move on. Only one thing: You never responded to my coin-toss suggestion for who gets the last chapter. Until I hear otherwise, I’ll interpret your silence as assent. You name the time and place; I bring the coin.
Dave
CHAPTER 26
Perched on her stool in Mercer Airport’s radio booth, Wanda slid the little window back. Through the opening, Paul made the usual joke about the booth’s resemblance to a snack bar.
“I’ll have a corndog and a small Mr. Pibb,” he said.
“Good one,” said Wanda. “Haven’t heard it since yesterday.” She had sunken eyes.
He handed her a big cup of Tarpit coffee. The sun was halfway up.
“Rough night?”
“Online poker tournament. Around three a.m. I flopped a set and went all in. Some maniac caught runner-runner for the straight.”
“Bad beat,” said Paul, demonstrating a large percentage of his poker vocabulary.
“You too—I heard about your plants,” said Wanda.
“I didn’t know you played,” said Paul, re-changing the subject. “I should get back into that.”
“Oh yeah. In fact, I host a game every other Saturday night.”
“Every other Saturday?” Paul asked, perking up.
“Yep. Usually we’re done by four, but sometimes we go almost till six. You should join us sometime.”
“Save me a seat,” Paul said. “So do you remember who played last time?”
“The night after the plane crash? Sure. Let’s see. It was mostly ladies’ night. Deena was the first to show up. Then some cute brunette from Tulac, walked with a cane. She really owned it, though. Made it sexy. Who else? Oh yeah, Betty. One brownie too many—she folded a gut flush and then crashed on the couch.”
“My bad,” said Paul, reconsidering the optimal pot/chocolate ratio and feeling a little sad about the craft he might be leaving behind.
“Then a little after two, Tate from the Timberline showed up,” Wanda continued.
“Weird assortment of people,” Paul remarked.
“Weird town.”
“So who won?” he asked.
“Yolanda from Mapleshade. She came with Betty. Her first time. Had quite a few bills on her for a nurse’s aide. All small denominations. If she was built a little different, I’d say she was stripping on the side. Hey, why are you so curious? Sorry I haven’t invited you, but you said you didn’t like to socialize too much with your customers . . . ”
“Just scoping the competition. I should go home and start practicing. You heard about Harry Lakes, right?” he asked as he stood up from the stool.
“Terry’s cousin? I hear he’s just like Terry.”
“Was,” Paul corrected.
“Aw, no way,” she said. “When?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Bullet in the head.”
“Shit,