Mother Lode

By Michael Schulkins

Everybody's going nuts over the Biggest Slot Machine in the World. Octogenarian skinflint Elmore Joad thinks it will attract enough "suckers" to put his aging Mother Lode Hotel and Casino back in the black, especially since he's had the giant slot rigged never to hit the $1 million dollar jackpot. Part time guitarist and full time slot cheat Darryl "the Wire" Miller wants to beat the big machine in the worst way, and if he plays his cards right he may get Kitty Carson, Reno's best card mechanic, to help him do it. Then there's Gaming cop Jaime Gabrón, who's stalking the suspicious slot and Elmore Joad like a sun-baked refried Columbo. The only guys in town not interested in the big machine are the two hit men Joad hired to kill his sexy wife Daisy, but then they have some special plans of their own . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Schulkins
• Release date: Mar 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370976843

Michael Schulkins

Michael Schulkins was born and raised in California, and although he has checked out repeatedly, he has of course been unable to leave. He lives with the love of his life in a classic mid-century modern house in Silicon Valley, just an iPhone’s throw from Apple Galactic Headquarters. Michael attended several universities and eventually emerged with two degrees in physics, one in music composition, and minors in math, political science, philosophy, and poker. He subsequently spent twenty years teaching physics, and now writes full time. His novels include the comic crime capers Mother Lode and Sting Suite, and the out-of-this-world political satires Beltway and Up A Tree: A Jobs and Plunkitt Galactic Adventure. All of Michael's books will give you a good laugh, but they'll also make you stop and think.

Book preview

MOTHER LODE

a novel

by

MICHAEL SCHULKINS

Other books by Michael Schulkins

Up A Tree: A Jobs and Plunkitt Galactic Adventure

Beltway

Sting Suite

Mother Lode Copyright © 1993, 2010 by Michael Schulkins

All rights reserved.

Contact the author at [e-mail]

Cover art by Michael Murray [e-mail]

WEDNESDAY

CHAPTER ONE

Elmore Joad spent most all day every day in the Eye-in-the-Sky. He'd pace the catwalk in the dim room full of TV screens and video machines directly above the casino and watch the action through the one-way glass. That is, he'd watch his money. He hunched forward slightly as he paced, his hands stuck in the pants pockets of his black western-style suit. The suit hung on his tall, emaciated frame like it was still on the rack. Elmore would keep moving up and down the length of the catwalk with a permanent scowl on his face and his bald head twitching back and forth like a bird's, until he spotted something down below that wasn't right. Then he'd stop pacing, stand still as a scarecrow, and stare. Right then he was staring at the man in the hat.

Not ten minutes ago he'd told Frank Barbelli to keep an eye on the man, but Barbelli had gone right ahead and let him get out of control. It figured, Elmore thought. One of the things he'd learned early in life was, never trust a man with something that wasn't his own. That, and the Good Lord made suckers enough if you spit you'd hit three.

Elmore pushed his black Stetson back on his head and peered down through the glass. Sweet Jesus, he thought, out of control for sure. The man was pulling in hundred dollar chips like he was grabbing fistfuls of peanuts out of a bowl. He decided he'd best take care of him quick, before he walked. Elmore reached out and grabbed the phone, jabbed a button, and watched a light go on down in the pit. After a moment, Barbelli walked over and picked up.

I told you, watch the man, Elmore said. He's cleaning me out.

Who's that, Mr. Joad?

Table six. The man in the hat. He must have ten, twelve grand in front of him. Elmore watched Barbelli look at the man. How much he start with?

Uhm— Barbelli was looking at the sheet. I show a grand.

Jesus Christ.

I'll tell Tod to shuffle up.

Tell Tod to shuffle up my ass. I want Carson. Tell her to take it all.

◊ ◊ ◊

Kit slid her hole card under the ace, then passed her hand slowly across the felt. Insurance? she said. Smiling oh-so-sweet, like it was a swell idea, but it was a sucker bet. The odds against her having a blackjack were twelve to one, but Mr. Joad only paid two to one, like everybody else in Reno. One of the players took the bet though, a clean-cut college kid.

Kit lifted the corners of her cards a fraction of an inch, bent slightly, and looked at the hole card. The queen of diamonds. She slid a corner of the ace under the queen and flipped it onto its back.

Sorry, folks.

She paid off the college kid. He was sitting there all full of himself like he knew what the hell he was doing. She gave him an extra nice smile, then looked at the rest of the table and put their bets in the rack.

From the smell Kit knew Frank Barbelli had walked up behind her. It was his cologne, au de Hard-on. He said, Hey, K.O. Why don'tcha take table six? He wasn't asking.

Kit spread the deck, brushed her hands, and told the customers good luck. College Kid tipped her a buck. She tapped the slug on the edge of the tray, put it in her shirt pocket, and walked away, thinking about the Hard-on calling her K.O. It meant Mr. Joad wanted someone busted out, hard.

She walked over to table six and eased a tit into Tod's elbow. He got the message. He put down the deck, dusted off, and slid out in a hurry. The poor kid had to know Frank would try to lay it off on him. It was part of the well-known Hard-on style: When you screw up dump it on the next guy down the line.

There was only one player on six, a big silver-haired guy pushing sixty—blue striped shirt, bad tie, nice hat. If Kit had to put money on him she'd guess he sold cars or manure, somewhere down around San-An-Tone. He had stacks of black hundred dollar chips in front of him tall as corn.

Kit looked at the man and said, How you doing, honey? Smiling nice, but not too nice.

He smiled back, probably thinking, I'm shoveling out the Mother Lode, thank you very much. But he just said, Fine, dear. Let's play cards.

Kit thought, Okay, San-An-Tone. Hold on to your hat.

First hand he bet five hundred and Kit dealt herself a trey showing. He took a hit, drew an eight, and slid his hole cards under his stack, the move telling her he'd had enough. Kit turned up her hole card. It was a nine. She hit and drew paint, the king of clubs, busting her hand. That was all right. Players always loved it when a new dealer busted the first hand.

Kit paid him off and he let it ride. She dealt again and this time drew a ten as her up card. She could tell immediately from the way the man held his hand that he was pat. Kit knew that players watched their cards when they slid them under their chips, so when he put his cards on the table she decided to have a peek at the top card in the deck, pointing the nose of the deck down a bit and lifting the card with the base of her thumb. It was paint, a face card. Then she turned up her hole card, it was a five. Best skip the paint, she thought. She pushed two cards off the top of the deck and dealt the second one to herself, pulling the top one back in place with her thumb. Neat as you please, she had another five.

Twenty, pay twenty-one, she said, turning up his cards. He had eighteen. Too bad, San-An-Tone.

The secret was to start young. Kit's daddy knew all the work, it was how he paid the bills. And, as soon as Kit's hand was big enough to get around a deck, he taught her all he knew—seconds, coming off the bottom, hand-mucking, everything. She'd practice all day and half the night, until she could do it without looking, then without thinking. Before long she put it to work—in the back of the school bus, at the playground behind the swings, wherever there was action. And the best part was, they'd never beef. She found out right away boys would sit still for an awful beating if it was from a pretty girl. Just like San-An-Tone.

He came right back at her, betting a thousand. Kit dealt him a seven-four and he doubled down against her eight. While he was counting out the other stack to double his bet she had a peek. Paint again. She dealt him a second instead of the paint, turned up a deuce in the hole, and gave herself the paint. The second turned out to be a six. She put the two thousand in the rack. Thanks, Daddy.

San-An-Tone looked at her name tag and said, Kitty honey, you're cutting me up.

She said, I know, sugar. Ain't it awful. She kept her voice medium dry, but gave him the sad eyes.

He backed off and bet two hundred. She knew she had to be careful not to spook him. Mr. Joad would be sore as hell if the man walked before he'd got his money back. She played the hand clean and busted. She wasn't going to burn the lot over a guy like San-An-Tone.

It worked, backing off for a hand. He came back with two thousand. She dealt the cards and pulled an ace. San-An-Tone looked at his cards and then stood pat. She asked about insurance and he said no. Kit looked at the two thousand dollar bet and decided it was a good time for a blackjack. Casually, she blocked his view of her cards with her free hand, then turned her deck hand over and raised the corner of her hole card with the deck hanging upside down over the ace. Her hole card was a four. With the deck upside down it was easy to peek the top card. It was a ten, just what the doctor ordered. She slid the ace aside with her thumb, let the ten fall off the deck, and pushed the four on top of the deck with her free hand, all in the blink of an eye—an instant blackjack. Half of Mr. Joad's money was already back in the rack.

How about a drink? she said, thinking she'd chill him out a touch. Frank, send Iris over, will you? The Hard-on watching her and San-An-Tone all this time.

Sure, he said, full of sympathy for the man, now he was halfway to busted out.

You'll like Iris, she said, laying it on, but he said, just deal, dear, and Kit thought, To hell with it. He's cool enough.

◊ ◊ ◊

A rare smile crept across Elmore's face. He loved watching Kitty Carson. It was always quick, efficient, and painless, sort of like a Diamondback swallowing a mouse.

After a while he decided he'd seen enough, and he quit the Eye-in-the-Sky, walking out into the bright light of the second floor hallway, then on down the hall past his office. He had some work waiting in the office, but first he wanted to check on the new slot, see if she was finally ready to go. It'd been three days since the machine was delivered and still the mechanic he'd hired couldn't get her spinning right.

That slot was the best idea he'd had in years. Sure, it cost a bundle, but it would be worth every dime once she started eating up those dollar slugs. The suckers would love it. Elmore Joad's Mother Lode Hotel and Casino proudly presents: The Biggest Slot Machine in the World. Let old man Harrah chew on that a while, he thought.

Elmore walked down the set of stairs that led from the second floor offices into the back of the casino, coming out next to the keno lounge. He walked past the keno blower and on through the lounge and there she was, halfway between Keno and the main pit—the Biggest Slot Machine in the World. Sweet Jesus, she was beautiful. Ten feet tall, thirteen feet wide, covered with five hundred and thirty-six square feet of chrome. Why, the handle alone was six feet long, with a black ball on top as big as your head. Elmore was sure the suckers would like to kill themselves trying to beat her, if only he could get the thing to run.

The front of the machine was swung wide open and the slot jackass Elmore had hired to fix her was standing there doing nothing, his hands stuck in his pants.

She ready yet? Elmore snapped, stopping in front of the man.

Nope. Reels still aren't spinning so well. Need a little oil, I 'spect.

Well, don't just stand there, man. Get 'er done.

Whatever you say. He turned around, looked at the machine, and said, It's a good thing it's only got three reels, stickin' like they are. Then he dug some sort of tool out of his pants and started poking it around in the machine.

Elmore had a philosophy about this, which he figured the slot jackass would profit by. He said, Slot machine should never have more'n three reels.

Yeah? How's that? the jackass said. The man's voice sounded hollow, his head being up the guts of Elmore's slot.

Has to do with tradition. Elmore said, staring at the man's backside, his butt crack sticking out.

The jackass came down out of the slot after a moment, put up his tool, and said, That right? You want I should tell that to Mr. Harrah, next time I'm up to his place?

So the jackass was a smart-ass too. Elmore rocked back on his heels, the toes of his lizard-skin boots coming up off the floor. Don't suppose you're a church-going man. Smart mouth on you and all.

Well, I couldn't say.

Couldn't say, hmm? Elmore smacked his lips in disgust, then looked off toward the keno lounge. Then you wouldn't understand, son. Part of God's law, what it is.

What? Slot machine having three reels?

Hell yes.

That's a new one on me. He took up a can of WD-40 and stuck a straw onto the nozzle.

Elmore shook his head. To my mind there's something indecent about a slot with four or five reels on it. Perverted, that's the word.

Uh-huh. The man reached up and stuck the snout of the straw someplace between the second and third reels.

Elmore looked out over the casino, saw a hippie kid staring right at him. He said, You seen these boys wear an earring? I see them every day, right here in my own place. Don't mean they're faggots, least not all of them. The jackass wasn't even listening, too busy spraying grease on the reels. Still makes me sick. If they wasn't paying customers I'd likely pull 'em off.

The hell you talking about?

Ain't you listening? It's the same thing. Your four reel slot is the same damn thing. It's unnatural.

Whatever you say, Mr. Joad.

The man was a jackass and didn't see it, but it was true. Besides, you had more than three reels on a slot the suckers thought it was harder to beat and wouldn't pull her as much. Then where would you be?

CHAPTER TWO

Darryl Miller stood just inside the door of the Fuzzy Dice Bar and Grill, letting his eyes adjust so he could see without taking off his shades. He was dressed for work, pretty much the same way he'd dressed every day for the past five years, ever since he'd come to Reno from Georgia. He had on a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, Mexican sandals with tire-tread on the bottom, and his lucky Atlanta Braves cap. His long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, exposing the earring in his right ear.

He walked up to the bar, sat his favorite stool, and called, Dave, my man. Pop me a cold one.

Dave the bartender said, Hey, Darryl. How they hitting?

They're loose, man. Loose as a goose.

Darryl swiveled on his stool, looking to see if anybody was around. It was pretty dead—two tourists sucking long necks, a couple of old broad locals, and this guy he knew, Petey, coming down the bar toward him. Petey said, All right, it's Darryl the Wire. Hey, man. Then he sat down next to him.

Hey, Petey.

You're just the man I was looking for. Petey grinned, looking pretty ripped if Darryl was any judge—which he was.

He was used to this, Petey wanting a pull. It might be worth it, but Darryl didn't like to set up a pull for a guy if he could help it. There was always a chance the dude would fuck up and get popped, then give you up to the suits. But Petey was pretty cool.

He said, I got some primo weed, man. How about for a couple joints you fix me up with one of your friends? And he grinned again, like he thought this was funny.

Dave brought Darryl his beer, a Miller's, of course. Darryl took a hit and right away got beer suds in his mustache. He wiped off the suds with the back of his hand, thinking maybe it was time to trim the 'stache, keep it looking good. Darryl liked to think with his 'stache cut a certain way he looked sort of like the late great Duane Allman.

He dug some coins out of a pocket and put them on the bar. Dave picked them up and started counting, but Darryl told him thanks, he could keep it. Darryl always had plenty of change. He waited for Dave to split before saying anything to Petey. Dave didn't really know about Darryl, and Darryl wanted to keep it that way.

Once Dave was gone he said, We might work something out. How many joints we talking? Darryl figured he could use some weed.

I could let you have maybe five, you show me a really fine pull.

Okay. I expect I could set you one.

Petey got the big dopey smile on his face again, no doubt thinking about hitting on one of Darryl's trained sluts. He said, Let's do it, man.

Okay. Just let me finish this beer.

◊ ◊ ◊

Darryl and Petey were walking down North Virginia, heading south toward the river when Petey said, Where you thinking, man?

Darryl was feeling cocky. He said, I got a little sweetheart down at the Lode I think is gonna treat you just right. After I have a little talk with her, of course.

'Course, Petey said, still grinning, higher than shit. So was Darryl, now they'd shared a joint.

"I call her Betty. Reminds me of a little gal I knew back in Valdosta. She's way in back where it's good and dark, even in the daytime.

What's she give?

Nickels.

"Nickels? Come on, man. Let's do some dollars."

No way. Dollars get too much heat. Trust me, man. This is my business, Darryl thinking, people who weren't pros just didn't know what hustling slots was really like, day-to-day. Most of the time it was a grind. You were mostly going for an edge, popping squeeze plays, gaffing free pulls with a coin on a string or squirting a little Joy in the slot. Guys who didn't know shit thought you could pop a cherry any time you wanted, just because you were a pro. It could be done, sure, but it wasn't easy. Plus using a wire there was a lot bigger chance you'd draw some heat.

Darryl took off his Braves cap, smoothed back his hair, and set the cap back on his head. Don't worry. You'll like old Betty. She'll treat you right.

After another few minutes they came to the Mother Lode. It was the last casino on North Virginia, right next to the Truckee River. The Lode was pretty dumpy compared to, say, Harrah's or the Flamingo Hilton, but Darryl had some of his best slots there. Shit, you couldn't even get near them at the Flamingo. There were no dark spots or blind corners you could hide out in long enough to work a gaff. The Cal-Neva and the Mother Lode were the best.

Darryl and Petey walked out of the sun into the cool air-conditioned gloom of the Mother Lode. That was one of the best things about the Lode, it was so dark. There were the usual flashing lights and other tourist bullshit, but that stuff just made it easier for Darryl to do his job.

He led Petey toward the back of the casino, working his way up and down the rows of slots. A few locals were cranking away on quarter machines, but mostly it was quiet, being early on a weekday. That was not so good as a rule—except you didn't have to worry much about some old broad tourist spotting the gaff and raising hell.

Darryl pointed down a row of slots. There was old Betty, second from the end of the last nickel row. He walked up to her and smiled. Laying a hand on top of the machine, he said, Betty, I want you to meet my friend Petey. He's gonna give you a little pull, compliments of Darryl the Wire. You be good to him, you hear?

Petey said, Cut it out, man. Talking to the thing like it was some babe. We could get busted, you know.

Shit. You're lucky it's not a babe. Sluts are a lot easier to handle than women.

Darryl dug into a pocket and pulled out some change, handed it to Petey. Here, man. Play this machine next to Betty and keep your eyes open. If the change chick or anybody comes down the row, say something like, 'Hey, let's go shoot craps.' You got it?

I'm cool.

Petey sat down and started playing the other machine. Once he did, Darryl reached around on Betty and began feeling her side. He couldn't remember exactly where the drill hole was—he hadn't done Betty in a while—but, okay, there it was. Then he reached under his shirt to get out the wire. He was wearing one of his coolest shirts today, the green and orange one with the palm trees and coconuts. He found the end of the wire he kept looped around his waist inside his pants. He pulled out the wire, found the spot again, and slid the wire slowly into the hole. He pictured in his mind the insides of old Betty, what he'd learned about her kind in slot school, figuring how far he had to go.

You watching, Petey?

Yeah, it's cool. Nobody's coming.

Darryl sat down on a stool and put his ear onto Betty's side. He moved the wire slightly back and forth until be could tell he was up against the lever. He pushed gently, heard a little click.

Can I help you?

Darryl stood up fast and spun around so he was blocking the machine. A blond gal dressed as a dealer was staring at him. If she knew anything about slots he was screwed. Now that he'd tripped the handle, old Betty's reels would be rolling around like the eyes of a drunk.

Petey looked at Darryl. Hey, man, let's go shoot some craps. Great.

Darryl ignored him, looking at the blond. She was tall, with green eyes, and a great pair of tits. Darryl poured it on, drawling, Yeah, you sure can, sweet thing. I just dropped a bunch of nickels on the floor. Suppose you could hunker down there and git 'em for me? He smiled, giving her a look like he wanted to get down there with her and look for about an hour.

She laughed. Sounds like fun, but it's against house rules. You go on ahead without me. She turned around and walked away.

Darryl turned back to Betty. Sure enough, the reels were drifting all over the place. Shit, Petey. You were supposed to be watching out.

I was, I swear. She come outta nowhere.

Well, watch a little better, okay? I don't wanna have to go running out of here and lose my best wire.

Darryl turned back to the machine, pulled out the wire, wrapped it around his hand, and stuck it in his pocket. Next he took out a pack of Marlboros—only they weren't smokes. The pack had a magnet inside. Betty's reels had stopped spinning, but since he'd released the handle they were still free. There was a bell pretty much dead center on the middle reel and another bell just a little high on the right, that one would pop in by itself. Three bells would be plenty for a handful of doobs.

He put the pack of smokes on the glass over to the side of the left reel, then eased the pack down the glass. The left reel drifted slowly from top to bottom. When a bell came around Darryl moved the pack back up for a fraction of a second. The reel stopped. There it was, three bells.

Okay, man. She's ready to spill. Let's have the joints.

I was gonna give 'em to you after.

You nuts? When Betty comes I'm gonna be nursing a cold one at the Cal-Neva.

Petey handed over the pot. Darryl said, "Now listen. When I'm out the door—I mean when I'm out the fucking door, you push the handle back into place. Do it real easy. Old Betty'll spill all over you."

A'right!

But don't do it 'til I'm gone, okay?

Sure. Thanks, man.

No sweat. See you 'round.

Darryl walked away, heading for the door. About ten seconds later he heard Betty ringing her jackpot bell. Damn, he'd told Petey to wait. Darryl started walking faster, a little freaked, not really looking where he was going. He ducked between two rows of dollar slots, and all of a sudden he was walking right into this dude wearing shades and a Braves cap. Darryl stopped and stared, saw himself reflected in a wall of chrome. He took his cap off, smoothed back his hair, put the cap back on.

It was a slut. He was looking at himself reflected in the side of a giant fucking slut, five times bigger than any slot machine he'd ever seen. For a second he felt like Indiana Jones, running through a patch of jungle one day, chased by a tiger or some shit, and he runs smack into the Lost Temple of Atlantis.

He started circling around the giant slut, lightly touching her side with his fingertips, Petey and Betty and everything else on Earth gone—right out of his head. When he got to the front of the machine he really couldn't believe it. The front of the giant slot was open. A guy was working on her and, damn, there was old man Joad himself, standing there in his undertaker's suit. Dude must be a hundred years old, looking like he was already dead. Old man Joad stopped talking to the slot repairman, and for a second he stared right at Darryl. Darryl ducked away down the nearest aisle, dollar slots. But he didn't go too far. He had