On my way home, Harris Broadman called.
“I had no real idea how much mischief Dalton has gotten himself into,” he said. “But I watched his press conference on his Facebook. Is there anything I can do?”
I thought it was strange that Dalton’s recent calamities were enough to draw his old war buddy out of sixteen years of silence. But then, I can sometimes be a hard and unseeing man. I reconsidered Broadman in light of the press conference, imagining how it would affect him. I imagined that these last sixteen years could have been as hard on Broadman as on his failed rescuer — not as a man burned by fire but as a man burning with a resentment he wouldn’t admit. And couldn’t put out. Maybe Broadman needed to forgive Dalton for what he had failed to accomplish in Fallujah the day their Humvee hit the bomb. Every bit as much as Dalton needed that forgiveness.
“You two should talk,” I said.
“Yes, I believe we should.”
Twenty-One
That night I drove to the Tourmaline Resort Casino to see Strait Reelection Committee volunteer Brock Weld, who had pricked enough worry in Natalie for her to tell her sister about him. His alibi for missing work on the day Natalie disappeared had left some of the other committee workers, and Burt, unconvinced.
IvarDuggans.com didn’t have much on Weld: thirty-one, a white male, unmarried, a native of Miami. A business degree from San Diego State University. Employment as security in three San Diego hotels, two Norwegian cruise lines, casinos in New Jersey and Las Vegas, and now the Tourmaline Resort Casino. No criminal record. Last known address, Valley Center, California.
On my way to the casino, the radio news was heavy with the story of Natalie Strait. The evening news had showed pictures of her radiantly smiling face, culled from the BMW ads.
The Tourmaline is large and the grounds are lavish — with drought-encouraging fountains, drought-busting Southwest landscaping, and natural stone construction, all dramatically lit at night.
At the entrance I walked past four National Guardsmen in desert camo, field caps low, rifles slung over their shoulders. A bomb dog, alert and panting. Then through a temporary scanning station before I was allowed inside.
The Tourmaline Casino was surprisingly busy, given that a congressman and his assistant — representing some of these people — had been blown to death by a bomb not twenty-four hours ago. Maybe carnage encourages hopes of a miracle, or at least favorable luck. Special Agent Lark had told me the bomb maker had used short galvanized nails, which tore tender human flesh savagely and were difficult to remove without causing more damage, which mattered not to Representative Clark Nisson and his aide-de-camp, Art Arguello. Lark had also told me that the FBI’s search for the type and origin of the package had slowed to a crawl — not enough of it left to work with. At this point, they were subtracting candidates by trying to determine which packages had not blown up. After the explosion, the congressman’s large office suite had been fully engaged in fire.
I’m almost always early for appointments. Makes me feel ahead of the game. I played some blackjack at the $25 table, nursing a mostly ice bourbon to kill the time. Managed to stay close to even, using the Revere blackjack system I’d learned as a high school kid. Revere has hard rules on splitting certain pairs, hitting the sixteens and counting the cards as best you can. Not easy in a chute with four decks. Pepper, the wispy-brown-haired dealer, gave me her I know what you’re up to look.
The other two players at my table were a young couple, mid-twenties, dressed up and having fun. Making bold plays to little avail, much volume when they won.
Pepper got hot as blackjack dealers often do, drawing improbable cards at impossible times, politely annihilating the table as if it was just part of the job. Hit two blackjacks in a row, allowing us to almost break even on the insurance.
The couple gathered what was left of their chips and headed off, leaving us alone at the table.
“I can’t believe how crowded we are after what happened last night,” she said.
“It must have to do with hope.”
“Everything does. Ready?”
I nodded.
“I’m hot, as you know.”
“I can see that.”
Pepper dealt me a king and a six, a perilous hand that Revere says you should hit against any face card unless the deck is rich. She showed a jack of clubs and the chute cards were close to neutral by my less-than-practiced count. Peeked at her hole card for a blackjack ace.
“My son and daughter were watching the TV when it happened,” she said. “I mean the takeover thing of Local Live!”
I scraped the table felt with two fingernails, caught a five. My lucky night. Pepper turned over a ten, paid up on my twenty-one and scooped away her losing cards with a competitive glance my way.
With a terse sweep of hand over the chute, two fresh cards appeared before each of us, her up card a two.
“And I picked up the remote to change the channel, but I couldn’t,” she said. “So the three of us watched the whole thing. The terrifying masks. The horrible things they ordered us to do. The guns on the newspeople’s heads and poor Dwayne Swift fainting and slipping down. They didn’t fall asleep until early morning, my kids.”
“I’m sorry they had to see that.”
“Now I can’t stop seeing the masks. I look at a player and I see the mask that most resembles them. I feel like a terrible person and a terrible mom. Want a card?”
I had a fourteen, remembered my Revere and held against her two. She flipped her hole card ten, drew a jack of clubs for the bust.
“You’ve changed the luck,” she said. “I’d tell you to keep striking while you’re hot, but that would be giving advice, which we cannot do. But…”
We split a few hands. No one joined us at the table. A not-unpleasant hypnotism fell over us, two souls, two roles, the play of rules and luck, the significance of the wager, the subtle indicators of fate. And the dust of a bomb settling down on a land seemingly so far away.
At the agreed time, Brock Weld came down the stairs and into the Cavern wine bar. The bar was dark, built of rough stone into which diamond-shaped bottle racks were fitted. TV turned to the local news.
The security man was straight from central casting — muscled and hard faced, in a black, well-cut suit and a wire mic in one ear. He moved lightly on his feet.
I thanked Brock for agreeing to meet me on short notice and attempted Chargers, Padres, and weather small talk. No takers.
“The bombs have us all on high alert,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“Dalton Strait hired me to find Natalie. You know that she’s been missing for nine days now?”
“I know she hasn’t been at campaign headquarters,” he said. “I saw part of the Dalton press conference.”
We watched in silence as Local Live! aired video of Natalie Strait from the BMW ads. The more I saw of her on TV the more I felt her spell. Or maybe it was the danger I knew she was in.
Brock sent the waitress away without an order. We studied each other’s faces. I saw a young man of sturdy constitution and staunch beliefs. A man absolutely sure of himself. I don’t know what Brock Weld saw in mine.
“As Dalton noted in his press conference today, there’s suspicion of foul play,” I said.
“Can you give me any details?” he asked.
I told him about her breakfast with her sister, her missed lunch with Virgil Strait, her BMW being found out in the ruins of the farmworkers’ camp. And the two men escorting her from her vehicle to another. I left out the lipstick.