The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [91]
She featured three decks of gambling, from about five hundred slot machines to blackjack tables, poker, dice … well, just about everything, I guess. Glittery, glitzy interior, complete with chandeliers, a gift shop, and a day-care center for children of gamblers, all surrounded by double-pane glass, attended by about ten crewmen and fifty dealers and assorted casino personnel. They said that if she ever sank, the hardest rescuing would be prying the hands of the sixty-five-year-old ladies from the handles of the slot machines.
The best thing about her was that she provided about three hundred jobs for our area. Not too bad. She was, in fact, the largest single employer in Nation County.
We entered the pavilion, and went directly to the third floor. Iowa DCI maintained an office for the gaming officers up there. One “real” DCI agent, and two “gamers” per shift. Most of what they did was check the electronic gaming machines, and make sure they paid off at the right odds. We could hear Hester as we got close to their office.
“… and the reports on the applicants for dealer will be on this desk no later than ten A.M. Understood?”
DCI had to do background checks on every boat employee. Including deckhands.
Lamar knocked on the door. It opened rather rapidly, revealing Hester and two young gamers. “Hi,” he said. “Is this where we can apply for a job …?”
Hester was glad to see us, and surprised we had George in tow. She also was ready to eat, and took us down to the pavilion buffet. God. About a hundred yards of great food, all hot and steaming, from ham to potatoes to soup, to scrambled eggs and sausage, to glazed chicken … I was in heaven. I only took the low-fat offerings, of course.
“I see,” said George, “you found the low-fat fried shrimp.”
“But I took rice. If I take the rice …”
“Oh, look, Carl. Fat-free chocolate éclairs …” Hester even pointed them out.
Lamar suggested the four-inch-thick Iowa chop. “Low-fat gravy, isn’t it?”
Dine smart. That’s me.
I had a Diet Coke. To prove I was serious.
As we sat down, I gestured about me with my fork. “Must be nice … I mean, so this is where they send you when they’re mad at you … I mean, when Lamar gets mad at me, I end up standing out in the rain, up to my ankles in hog manure.”
We showed her the photos. She looked at George, quizzically. “You’ve seen him?”
“No. But I’ve seen photographs. This looks like the same man, but … but … yes, I think it’s him.”
“So,” asked Hester, “what are you guys going to do about it?”
“I’ve been told to wait,” said George. “At least until we can fix his location in real time.”
“How are you going to do that?” I really wanted to know.
“Beats me.”
Lamar took a deep breath. “I know better than to go rushing in there … maybe better than any of you. But I don’t want this son of a bitch walking away again.” He glared at us. “Not again.” He spoke to George. “You got any guarantee that he won’t just walk away?”
George pursed his lips. “No, Lamar. He won’t walk away this time.”
I wished I knew how he could be so certain about that. Judging from the look on her face, so did Hester.
Nineteen
Friday, January 16, 1998, 1354
When we got back to the office, I’d fully expected to see Volont. Lamar picked up his messages. “Our friend Volont is out tailing Linda Grossman,” he said. “Thinks she’ll lead him to our boy.”
“You’re kidding … he really doesn’t know where Gabriel is, does he?”
“Doesn’t look like it. I hope he’s really good at following somebody in the open country …”
We’d found that the urban folks were pretty funny when it came to tailing people in rural areas. They were used to congested traffic. Out here, when you and your quarry were the only two vehicles on the road, it was a bit tougher to remain inconspicuous. When you were in our hilly country, to boot, you had to be within 200 yards of your subject or you lost sight of them. With