Inside, I caught up with the dynamic duo at the registration desk where Vic was arguing with the young woman on duty, wearing a name tag that read Brittany, as to whether Dog would be allowed to lodge with us.
“He’s house-trained.” Vic glanced back at me. “Which is more than I can say for this one.”
I put my billfold and my new badge wallet on the wooden surface of the antique counter and had to admit that my badge looked a lot better in the hand-tooled leather holder that Bussell the Elder had made for me, and I liked the fact that it wasn’t flopping around on the Turkish carpet like a dying trout. I thought about the big Colt Walker in the center console but then remembered that I’d locked it and flipped it back so as not to draw attention. “Brittany, I’m Walt Longmire, and I’m working a case and need a room—for the three of us.”
Vic smiled and pulled out her own wallet, multi-badging the young woman. “With a tub, please, and don’t make me get Dog’s badge out, too.”
Brittany blinked once and then took two keys from a drawer and handed them to us as I gave her a credit card. She stood on tiptoe, looking at the beast. “He doesn’t bark, does he?”
“Not unless I sing, and I promise not to sing.” I reached down to ruffle Dog’s ears, letting him know I was abandoning him to Vic. “I’m going to head over to the Buffalo Gold Rush and spot the ATM—can I have one of the photos of Roberta Payne?”
She fished into the folder under her arm and brought out the most recent picture—the one from her employee-of-the-month plaque at the Flying J. “I’m going up and taking a bath. I’d be willing to take a shower if you’d join me, but I know you won’t, so I’m going to sink into nice, warm bubbles and await your return.”
“I won’t be long.”
She pulled at Dog’s ear. “C’mon, Rin Tin Tin, let’s see what we can find in the minibar.”
I watched her lay a hand on the brass railing and flounce up the stairs with Dog in tow and wondered what the heck I was doing staking out ATMs at close to midnight in a blizzard.
Turning and tugging my hat down, I flipped up the collar of my sheepskin coat—the valet opened the door and watched me walk out into the fogged-over blizzard. Fortunately, the casino was only across the street about a block up, but I still had a quarter inch of snow on my shoulders and hat by the time I got there.
I shook off in the entryway and looked at the hello-officer red Corvette that somebody could win if he or she wrestled the one-armed bandits to the ground. Continuing into the din of electronic gambling, I made my way toward the cage that read HOUSE and asked the man sitting on a stool where the nearest cash machines might be.
“Whole bank of ’em behind this wall and around the corner. I can run a debit card from here though, if you need money.”
I shook my head. “That’s okay.”
Walking as he’d directed me, I studied the half-dozen cash machines, then spotted a blackjack table within eyesight and decided to set up camp as long as the eighty-seven dollars and forty-three cents in my pockets held out.
Having returned Roberta’s original bank statement onto the threshold between the storm and regular doors of the Payne home in hopes that Sadie would think she’d dropped it, I pulled the copy and noted the days of the week and the times of the withdrawals. There were a number of transactions in Gillette, but they were within the amounts that Sadie had mentioned, whereas the withdrawals that had been made here in Deadwood were much more substantial and growing more so. I pulled out my pocket watch. The days of the activity were random, but the times were not—all of them pretty much this time of night and within twenty minutes of each other.
Making a quick trip back to the cashier, I watched my real money transform itself into colorful plastic chips, and I strolled across the thick carpet back toward the vantage point I’d assigned myself at the blackjack table.
There was a chubby croupier with a beard, a bowtie, sleeve guards, a brocade vest, and a name tag that read Willie dealing cards to an east-of-the-Missouri-River farmer type, a brassy-looking blonde, and a broad-backed Indian. There were two guys sitting over at the bar, but other than that the place was deserted.
Covertly slipping my holstered sidearm off my belt, I stuffed it into the sleeve of my coat and draped the sheepskin over the back of a stool next to the Indian, took off my hat, tapping it against my leg just to make sure that I didn’t drip onto the elaborate red felt, and took a seat. “Mind if I join you?”
Willie smiled a baby-face smile, probably wishing that we would all go home so that he could follow suit, and announced, “New player.”
I piled my chips in separate stacks and nodded toward the farmer and the blonde, who, I assumed, was his wife, and turned to look at the big Indian, who had the most chips; he in turn looked at the dealer and nodded toward me. “I do not like his looks; he seems like the kind of man who cheats at cards.”
I anted up. “Willie, has this Indian been drinking?”
The chubby man looked a little worried. “Um . . . No, sir.”
“Well, let’s get him started—give him a red wine, he looks like a red wine kind of guy.”
Willie raised his hand, motioning toward a middle-aged woman—her name tag said Star. “What’ll it be, gentlemen?” She was dressed in a kind of French maid outfit and uncomfortable spike heels and didn’t look any happier than Willie at our reluctance to leave the table.
The big Indian spoke to her first. “Cabernet Sauvignon, s’il vous plaît.”
She glanced at me, and I stared back at her. “Um, beer.”
“What kind?”
I took a moment to respond, then straightened my chips and took a calculated guess. “You got Rainier, Star?”
“No.”
I smiled. “Iced tea then.”
The croupier announced the game and began dealing cards. “Blackjack, ladies and gentlemen—five-dollar minimum bet.” He tossed the farmer’s wife a king, the farmer a seven, me a three, a nine for the Indian, and finally a nine for himself, adding to his 25-to-2-percent advantage. “Lady has a king.”
She grinned, her dentures shining. “Hit me.”
He threw her a seven, and she sat pat. The next was an eight for the farmer. He brushed his fingers on the felt and was obliged with another eight, which carried him over the hill.
I stabbed the three, and the dealer laid a jack on it. I tapped again and was rewarded with a six. I looked at his ace, and decided what the hay. I tapped, and he sent me along with the farmer with a seven. “Ah, well . . .”
The dealer pitched an eight to the big Indian, who stared at his cards and then pointed at the dealer with his lips. The croupier paused for a moment and then flipped him another that skimmed along on a carpet of stale air—a deuce.
He looked up at the dealer with a smile as thin as a paper cut.
Willie gave himself a seven. The next card was a ten, and he followed the farmer and me down the road.
I watched as he deposited the chips in front of the Indian’s pile; the farmer and his wife rose, and the older man laid a hand on my shoulder. “You high rollers are too much for us, we’re headed for bed.”
I smiled back at him. “Good night. Be careful out there.”
“Oh, we’re just down the street in a hotel—we’re walking.”
“Still, be careful. You could cut sheep out of the air with a pair of shears.”
“We will.”
I watched the older couple pull on their coats as the waitress arrived with our drinks, and I gave her a chip as a tip. “Keep us topped off, would you?”
“Sure.”
The dealer was getting anxious as he looked at the Indian and then at me. “Another hand, gentlemen?”
I nodded and turned to Henry Standing Bear as we both anted up. “What the hell are you doing in Deadwood?”