Homicide My Own - Anne Argula [7]
A free-standing marquee, large and imposing, in front of a series of three quonset huts bolted together, promised more than the place could possibly deliver. Lavish buffets at giveaway prices, liberal card-operated slots, a rock and roll group from the sixties that I knew for a fact had long ago lost three of its four to the natural failing of internal organs. On either side of the curve in the road, both sides of the casino, was a scattering of crosses marking the demise of drivers who had been in too great a hurry either to get to or to leave the place.
“Here’s where Charlie got busted.”
“We should stop,” said Odd.
“Why?”
“See how it went down.”
“How it went down?”
“Yeah, Charles and Stacey.”
“What do we care how it went down?”
It felt silly, talking like that, how things went down.
Odd said, “Duh? We’re cops.”
“The cop stuff has already been done. We’re pick-up and delivery.”
By that time we had passed the casino.
“We could eat,” he said. “It said buffet.”
That did it, of course. There has never been a cop who could resist a cheap smorgie. I turned around and pulled into the lot, which was near full, out there in the middle of the night, middle of nowhere.
Sometimes you forget you’re in the uniform and you walk around like an ordinary person. We strolled in, and every head turned from the dice or the cards to see us standing at the entrance. It was a small place and shabby, and the people in it looked sad and lost.
A boonda guy with a face like this side of the moon and wearing a powder blue blazer came up to us, walking with a limp. His name tag said KING GEORGE. It might have been last name first. He could have been George King. But I didn’t ask. I didn’t call him anything.
“You from Spokane?”
We said we were.
“We don’t have ‘em here. They’re over at the Tribal Police Station.”
“Yeah, well, we wanted to check out where it went down,” I said.
He looked at me the way I had looked at Odd, who was looking at me that way right now. How it all went down.
“Where they were busted. And, besides, we’re hungry. We’ve been on the road all day and missed supper.”
So the security guy with the moon face led us to the eats and told the cashier we were compted and handed us each a large oval plate, which was a good sign because my theory is that everything tastes better on an oval plate. Short ribs and noodles, fried chicken, taco makings, squares of cake, nothing fancy but plenty of it. We took our chow to one of the small square formica tables. Low rent all the way.
“I was the one busted ‘em,” said the boonda security guy.
“Well…congratulations.” I could care less. He told us all about it anyway.
He had been watching them from the minute they came in the door. Together, they didn’t look right. The legal age was eighteen and it was unlikely the girl was that old. The man was way older.
How the fugitive lovers found their way to Shalish Island and this funky casino was never fully explained, not that I cared. This was only one of many little casinos dotting Northwest Indian Territory and far from the most inviting. Besides, it was difficult to find, considering the ferry ride. I thought they were surely not looking for a casino, but an island, which has universal appeal both to lovers and harried fugitives. Still, it was the casino they found, and in which they themselves were found, by the boonda security guy sitting with us while we chowed.
When Houser and his little biscuit went through the buffet line, King George got a cup of coffee and sat nearby, to eavesdrop on their conversation, but for a long time there was no conversation. They joined hands across the table and, heads bowed, offered a long silent grace. King George said he wondered were they listing the items on their plates in alphabetical order