“Did you put this here?” She jingled the necklace toward him.

  “No. It’s not like I been slipping out at night wearing your jewelry.”

  “Don’t bother me if you do,” she said absently. She got up to get dressed, first putting on the necklace. It was gold and silver, an Art Deco-style ornament set with an emerald gemstone in its center.

  Ingram reveled in the vision of her naked body, dark hair framing her composed face, the necklace on her reflecting light. He also began getting dressed. “Don’t you usually keep that one hanging off your mirror?”

  “Yeah,” she agreed.

  “Then you must have moved it.”

  “We didn’t go anywhere lately,” she said.

  Ingram considered this. “Did you wear it when we went grocery shopping?”

  She cut her eyes at him. “Right, along with my stilettos ’cause the man behind the meat counter gives me that prime choice when I wink at him.”

  “Who is he, I’ll kill him.”

  “I’m serious, Harry, I didn’t move it.”

  “I do it all the time, Anita. I pick up a lens figuring I’m going to use it then set it down when it occurs to me to use a different one. Just the other day I looked all over the garage for my wide angle one and only when I came back in the kitchen found it sitting on top of the breadbox.” He gestured. “You could have strapped me to a lie detector and I would have passed with flying colors. I had no memory of putting it there. See, when you start to put on a few years, all that information gets crowed in the brain. There’s only so many thoughts you can keep up in here at any one time,” he said, tapping his forehead with his finger.

  “Zip me up, Rip Van Winkle.”

  Laughing softly, he did so, her back to him, she holding her hair up. Once he was done, she let her hair back down and for a moment, they stood close together, his hands on her shoulders.

  “You two pistol packin’ dames keep your cool tonight,” he said. “The mission is only to observe.”

  “Roger, Wilco.”

  Ingram put an arm around her upper body like a wrestler delivering his signature move. He squeezed and let her go. Turning, she gave him a peck on the cheek. Back at her vanity, she checked her fresh lipstick and dabbed a bit of perfume behind her ears and upper shoulder area. She started to exit.

  “Bye, honey.”

  Wagging a finger at her, he said, “All right now.”

  He watched from the porch as she got in her car and gunned the engine to life. After, he went into the kitchen, got some ice cubes and made a drink. He turned on the television and clicked the channel selector, coming to a show he’d occasionally watched, Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. As this was the tail end of summer, reruns were on until the new season of shows next month. Tonight’s story was already in progress. As far as Ingram could tell, the Seaview, the futuristic-looking submarine the main characters sailed in, had been captured by a flying saucer that crashed in the ocean. Admiral Nelson, commander of the sub, was now confronting the space alien in his saucer.

  The spaceman, it seems, was able to change his appearance and had transformed himself to look like the admiral. Ingram mused this must have been done to make Nelson feel more comfortable? Wouldn’t he worry this meant the alien could kill him and sneak about his ship? Anyway, the alien tells him the Earth is doomed unless the star traveler can leave our planet. Ingram wasn’t quite sure why that would happen, but he kept watching. At the next break in programming, commercials came on. The cowboy tough Marlboro Man moodily smoked his cigarette on the open range. And the animated Charlie Tuna was yet again disappointed when his suicidal desire to be boiled alive, chopped up and canned for StarKist failed. Ingram got up to make himself a sandwich from leftover cold meatloaf.

  He justified his additional intake of food this evening given tonight’s meal with his lady love had been of the vegetarian variety, eggplant instead of meat in the lasagna. He wasn’t, though, going to have a beer with his sandwich.

  “Don’t worry,” Claire had said, “we’re not giving up barb-que pork ribs. But figured we might could use the variety.”

  “Isn’t that what green beans are for?”

  “It’s not bad, right?”

  “Pretty tasty,” he’d said and meant it. But the good Lord in his infinite wisdom made him a carnivore. The sandwich was heavenly. Soon, though, he checked the time on his watch. He hoped the two Bolsheviks were doing all right.

  IN GARDENA, Claire reached into her purse. She pulled out several twenty dollar bills and counted out a hundred for her friend, who eyed her as she did this. They were in Judy’s parked car.

  “You weren’t kidding about mad money.”

  Claire resisted the impulse to tell her how she’d come by the money, helping her folks rob banks. “We can get change inside at the cage. Unless you’re feeling sporty and plan to go at the big timers.”

  “I’ll stick with the cosmetologists and truck drivers.”

  “As will I,” Claire agreed. They stepped out of the car, Berkson locking it, and walked across the well-lit parking lot. Three armed security guards on bicycles patrolled, weaving between and around the vehicles.

  The Emerald Room itself was a long, low one-story building with an off-center covered entrance. This had a curving green neon snaking around its quadruple support columns leading upward to the name of the place spelled out in gleaming, arching three-dimensional pulsing script bracketed to the roof of the broad portico. Dwarf majesty palm trees bordered the expanse of the asphalt parking lot adjacent to the casino. Entrance to this was accessible from three sides with the main driveway off of Rosecrans, the wide roadway the casino faced.

  Claire opened one of the double doors for her friend and the two women entered the facility. They were greeted with the unmistakable aroma of stale cigarette smoke combined with the desperate sweat of gamblers too long at the tables. The hallway they walked had high wainscotting and was lined in lush green-flocked wallpaper. The wall-to-wall carpeting was a deep red color and the overhead lighting offered muted yellow illumination.

  Claire and Berkson entered the establishment proper. From what she knew of how the place was configured, this was the main room, and there were two more. Where they stood now was for the hoi polloi. They were at a railing bordering the goings on and you had to step down from this rise to where the tables were. The tables weren’t round but octangular, covered in forest green felt with the card club’s name in the center. Padded chairs like what you’d see in a hotel encircled each table. Their covering was the color of the carpeting, though in here the flooring was scuffed hardwood. Should a chip fall on the floor, it would be easily seen.

  A few patrons leaned at the railing, smoking and drinking, eyeing the tables with hopeful intent. On one side of the room was a rectangular chalkboard. If it was a busy night like a Friday or the weekend, your name would be written here, often times your lucky nickname, to wait your turn. But tonight, there was no one at the chalk board as several tables on the floor were not at capacity. Some of them were sans any player at all. Light snacks were laid out on folding tables on the periphery. The second room beyond was for live acts from comedians to singers and bands. These were not headliners who might have a gig at the Cocoanut Grove several miles away, but some of them had a local following.

  The third area was where the serious bettors came to play. This was also where the poker tournaments were held. Several waitresses in starched white shirts and black skirts of demure length brought drinks and took away empty glasses on round silver trays. Also moving around or stationed at specific spots were the security guards in business suits. That they were armed was evident as some let their coats flap open revealing the butts of guns in shoulder holsters. Probably a reminder not to get greedy, Claire reflected. The Morning Bandit, if he already hadn’t been pressing his luck, would be a complete fool to try and take down a score in the club.

  “Synchronize our watches?” Claire said to Berkson.

  “I’m’a try that table over there,” she said, nodding toward one off to the side. There were four people at it, two men and two women. One of them wore cat eyeglasses and had a beehive hairdo. One of the men looked old enough to be a World War I veteran. He had on a canvas fisherman’s cap, and his lean frame was clothed in baggy attire. The muscles in his face were taut and his hands didn’t tremble as he handled his cards.

  “The old fella reminds me of a kindly uncle,” she added. “That’s gotta be a sign.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “Damn right.”

  Berkson gave Claire’s hand a squeeze and went to the cashier cage to pay for some chips. The club charged a small percentage to do the buy-in, and at the end if you had chips to cash in. They also made money on the drinks and that you as a player paid a fee to play per hand, calculated by how long you sat at any given table. Unlike Vegas, you didn’t play against the house but against the other players.

  Claire took her time to wander about in another part of the large room. Like a floating lagoon, a pall of cigarette smoke hung over people’s heads, the image reminding her of the smoke that had risen over Watts. Along the walls were several framed reproductions and blown-up photos including a horse racing scene and Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Crows. From out of one of the doorways came a man with a distracted look on his face. He was followed by Gavin Rickler, who was holding a glass of amber liquid and ice cubes. Rickler was a presence as she expected, blond and dark eyed as Harry had described him. A minor plutocrat surveying his domain. He hadn’t said a word, but her impression of him was that of an appliance salesmen. He concentrated on you just long enough to make the sale, then would move on. Claire moved past them without breaking stride, but lingered to try and overhear them.

  “Don’t sweat it, Uke, those psalm singers will cool down.” Rickler put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. He was Japanese American, probably mid-fifties with close-cut, graying hair. “They’re still licking their wounds, but like the kicked dog they are, they like to growl while huddled in a corner.” He leaned toward his ear. “They’ll take the scraps.” His displayed a practiced smile.

  “It’s my nature to worry, Gavin.” The man, Uke, looked around the room. “The holy rollers are still on a tear.”

  “If they got laid more often they’d be so much calmer,” Rickler replied, a serious cast to his face. Then his bemused appearance returned. “But who would go for their sour pusses?”

  Uke allowed a thin smile to come and go on his face. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Yeah, man.” Rickler clapped him again on the shoulder. Uke headed toward the exit.

  As Rickler turned, he glanced at Claire, who pretended to be interested in a round of Texas Hold ’Em being played at a table to her right. He paused for a moment, studying her profile, then, taking a sip of his drink and whistling, continued through the doorway, presumably returning to his office. She had no idea who Uke was, but she did know about Proposition E backed by the state’s attorney general, Stanley Mosk. The measure sought to ban all poker clubs in the county. Gamblers looked up long enough from their cards to vote the attempt down, resoundingly. Claire went to the cashier and purchased forty dollars’ worth of chips. Sitting at the table she’d been hovering around, she realized Rickler’s comment about “scraps” could mean Uke was his bagman. Maybe he was supposed to deliver a bribe to whatever religious group was currently making noise. She made a note to check recent back issues of the Daily Breeze, the local paper that covered this part of what was called the South Bay.

  “Hello,” she said as she began arranging her chips.

  “How you doing?” an older Black woman said. A cigarette bobbled in her mouth as she spoke. She was dressed as if in church and Claire estimated could be here was where she did her most devout praying. “I’m Viola.”

  “Anita. Pleased to meet you. Looking forward to playing.”

  “Guess we’ll see.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” she said.

  “Dealer rotates and calls the game, and three times around for bets and declares. We’ve also all agreed on dollar limit on raises.” The man who delivered these rules flatly was white, long faced and droopy eyed. Effortlessly, he shuffled the cards with his leathery hands. He was dressed in worn workingman’s clothes, including a light windbreaker with an embroidered image of a micrometer over a capital C insignia. “If you want the all ins, there’s a few over there where you can scratch that itch.” He pushed the shuffled stack toward the player on his right so they could cut them.

  “I’m fine,” Claire said. She guessed the man was a machinist, given the symbol on his jacket.

  The dealer grunted as he picked up the cards and said as he did so, “Hold ’em.”

  Claire was dealt her two down cards, both kings. She did her best not to show her excitement. Forty-five minutes later she was up by ten dollars. Given the humble stakes at the table, and that two of the players often folded on their third card, she considered she was in high cotton. She looked forward to bragging to Ingram. Looking across the room again to eyeball Berkson, she saw a familiar face at the railing. It took her a moment to recognize Betty Payton. Instinctively, she started to raise her hand and call out to Payton but stopped herself.

  “Baby, you don’t have to ask for permission to go to the ladies’ room,” Viola joked. “This here ain’t Mississippi. Almost, but still, sheet.”

  “Thought I recognized someone, but I was mistaken,” Claire said. Payton was walking parallel to the railing and hadn’t spotted her. Good. She didn’t want to be singled out in case Rickler saw them together. One of the suited security guards stepped up to the rise and Payton talked to him. He nodded and turned his head and disappeared through an archway. Claire frowned. If he was going to tell Rickler that Payton was here, she assumed he’d come this way. But maybe there was more than one way to reach the boss’s office.

  One of the other players, a Filipina also of a maturing age, laughed heartily as she tossed a chip onto the small pile of them, seeing the raise. “Me and my old man were coming through this town in Texas once and we stopped at a café off the highway to use the facilities and get something to eat,” she said. “We go through the door and them dried up old Confederates didn’t know what to make of us. I was too dark to be Chinese and my boyfriend is all a mix, including Guatemalan and Iranian on his mother’s side.”

  She laughed again, winking at Claire. “They were so confused. They finally settled on us being some kind of Mexicans from deep in the jungle or some damn place. They didn’t mess with us and we ate in peace.”

  “Damn right,” the cussing church woman said. She put in a chip and the play continued.

  The guard came back through the archway. Payton was standing at the railing, a glass of water having been brought to her by one of the waitresses. The guard gave her a high sign and she went through the archway.

  When the final round of betting came, Claire said, “I’m out. Be right back, don’t sell my seat.” She tossed her cards onto the felt and rose, scooting her chair back quietly. Rickler had taken the trouble to have little pieces of cloth glued to the bottoms of the chair legs. Claire went over to Judy Berkson and leaned close to her ear.

  “That was Betty Payton,” she told her. “See if you can do a little eavesdropping. I’m trying to not let her know I’m here. They must have gone back to Rickler’s office.”

  “Okay,” she said. As Claire turned away, Berkson gathered up her chips and put them in her handbag. “Be back in a few, but you don’t have to hold my seat for me.”

  “Whatever you say, sugah,” the woman with the beehive said. The only name she’d given the group was LaRue.

  BERKSON PAUSED once she was back on the rise. She didn’t want any of the guards seeing her go through the archway. When they were looking elsewhere, she ducked through. She found herself in a gloomily lit hallway, the duplicate of the one leading to the main room. Berkson went along, her footfalls absorbed by the carpeting. She arrived at a bend and took the turn. Now she was in yet another hallway that was shorter than the first, and at its end, split two ways. With her eyes now adjusted to the dim lighting, she saw stairs on her right leading down. She went to the left, figuring this was a way to Rickler’s office. Creeping forward, she could hear muffled voices ebbing through a polished wooden door. Berkson concluded the door must be oak. It appeared quite substantial. Having no choice, she put her ear to its surface.

  “. . . the hell, Betty. I don’t know what to tell you. As I’ve assured you, I haven’t touched a hair on Mose’s head and have no idea on anyone else doing him harm. The operation was running smooth. Fact, we had another score lined up when the riots broke out and he went missing.”

  Her response was incoherent to Berkson. She could only hear Rickler because he had a baritone voice and was using volume to make his point.

  “Look, I understand. It’s damn sure in my interest to keep the business running, too. What if I slot a guy to be the figurehead so it’s a white face to calm the accounts. But he’ll report to you, and you keep Chet as the right hand man, since he knows what’s what. Shame a colored man can’t take the reins, but that’s the way it is. We didn’t make the world like this.”

  Betty spoke again. Berkson shifted slightly, setting her hand against the door, and it creaked. That sound in the stillness of the hallway was like an iceberg cracking and splitting in two.

  “Shit,” she breathed. She turned and sprinted down the hall, her back to the door audibly opening behind her.

  “Hey, who the hell are you?” Rickler yelled.

  She kept running and rushed down the stairs another level. Returning to the main room was a sure way to get caught. She reached the bottom and found another hallway, Rickler on the stairs behind her. There were two doors on either side. She tried the nearest one, but it was locked.