“Can’t the customs agents set up roadblocks?”
“There’s a quite profitable casino on the reservation that brings heavy traffic, especially on holidays and weekends. It’s been a bit slow during the winter because the weather can be fierce up there. But now the traffic is increasing again and Wein has been active. The state police and reservation police are ready to make an arrest if he comes across to the American side with drugs in his possession. That’s where you come in.”
Leopold smiled at the thought of it. “I’m a bit old to be a pot customer.”
“On the contrary. Older people with cancer or some other debilitating illness often turn to marijuana for relief. In California it’s even legal with a doctor’s prescription. Besides, I can’t send one of my people up there. As you said, it’s way out of my jurisdiction. And you’d have the additional advantage of using your own name if Wein wants to see identification.”
Leopold picked up the photographs again. “Rosco Wein.” He thought about it and finally agreed. “I’ll take a ride up to their casino. I can’t promise any more than that.”
Molly wasn’t pleased by the idea of Leopold making the four-hour drive to the casino by himself, even as a favor to Fletcher, but she was tied up with a trial and unable to accompany him. He started out early on the day after Easter, sticking with 87 North most of the way, past Albany and Saratoga and the eastern fringe of the Adirondacks. He could have taken it all the way to Montreal, but he left the highway near the Canadian border, heading west a bit to the St. Lawrence Indian Nation and its casino.
While the reservation itself extended into Canada, the casino was very much in New York State, not far from the highway. It was big and gaudy, similar to ones he’d visited in Connecticut and western New York. The slot machines, in all denominations, accepted only paper money, not coins, returning your balance or your winnings on a printed receipt if you chose to stop playing or move to a different machine. Leopold wasn’t one to gamble much, and he moved on to the blackjack tables, where he quickly lost twenty dollars. He went up to one of the security guards and asked, “Is Rosco around today?”
“Who?”
“Rosco Wein.”
“Haven’t seen him. You might try the Homestead Bar. If he’s on the res, that’s where you’ll find him at dinnertime.”
Yes, it was close to dinnertime and Leopold hadn’t even realized it. Casinos had no clocks and he hadn’t bothered to consult his watch. “They have good food there?” he asked.
The guard shrugged. “Good enough, unless you want to spend big bucks and eat here.”
Leopold thanked him and left, asking the doorman for directions to the Homestead. It was about a mile away, and in his younger days he would have walked it with ease. Now he took the car. The Homestead was an old house converted into a restaurant and bar. It had a fair number of diners at six o’clock, and he guessed there was a Monday-night special on the menu. Somewhat surprisingly, a piano sat at one end of the dining area, covered by a clear plastic sheet. Leopold took a stool at the bar and ordered a beer. Presently a sandy-haired young man appeared and removed the cover from the piano. He placed an inverted top hat near his keyboard to accept tips and started playing a medley of old favorites. Occasionally he sang to his own accompaniment. Some of the customers were from the reservation, but most seemed to be casino patrons or drivers passing through on their way to Canada.
“Has Rosco Wein been around?” Leopold asked the bartender, not spotting anyone who resembled the photographs.
“Haven’t seen him today,” the bartender replied. “He travels back and forth a lot. His sister might know if he’s away.”
“Sister?” Leopold glanced around.
“The redhead over by the window. Name’s Karen.”
He ordered a beer, studying the woman who’d been pointed out to him. Wein’s sister was probably in her late thirties and the red hair seemed likely to have been augmented. Still, she was an attractive woman who looked as if she’d be more at home in her shiny blue dress at the casino down the road. The man at the table with her, wearing a baseball cap and a leather jacket, had a flattened nose and Native American features. His brown eyes were deep and sleepy, the kind some women liked. Leopold guessed he was one of the reservation regulars. His left hand was beneath the table, no doubt resting on the woman’s knee.
Finally he decided to give it a try. He wandered across the wooden floor with its squeaky planks and said, “I’m looking for Rosco Wein. The bartender says you’re his sister.”
She focused her blue eyes on Leopold with some difficulty and he had a suspicion she’d had more than the half-glass of beer in front of her. “I don’t keep track of Rosco,” she said. “He may be over on the Canadian side. I haven’t seen him in a couple of days.”
Her companion looked up, studying Leopold, apparently deciding he was too old to be a cop. “What you want him for?”
“Business.”
“I’m Jay Silverspur. Maybe I can help you. Sit down.”
He pulled out a vacant chair, ignoring the woman’s frown. “Thanks. Can I buy you a round?”
“Sure.” He glanced at the woman. “Karen?”
“Yeah. Another beer.”
Silverspur shifted his gaze back to Leopold. “You come for the casino?”
“Among other things. I was up this way and I’ve heard that Rosco is a good man to contact for medication. I’ve got some health problems.” He quickly outlined a manufactured medical history.
“If Rosco’s not around, maybe I can help you.”
“Well...” Leopold said with some hesitation.
“I can supply them at the less expensive Canadian price.”
“That’s what I was hoping for.”
Karen Wein interrupted then. “Rosco can take care of you,” she said. “I’ll ring him on his cell phone.”
The piano player had drifted into a Beatles medley and one middle-aged couple was making a try at dancing. Jay Silverspur frowned at Karen but said nothing as she punched a speed-dial number on her cell phone. “Rosco, this is Karen. I’m at the Homestead with Jay... Yeah, I know. Look, there’s a man here asking about medication. Jay says maybe he can help, but...” She glanced across at Leopold and said, “I don’t think so, Rosco. He’s a senior citizen, you know?”
Leopold tried to ignore both the telephone conversation and Silverspur’s increasing displeasure. It seemed obvious that the two men were rivals in the same line of business. Finally Karen ended the conversation and snapped her cell phone shut. “He’ll be here in an hour,” she said.
Leopold nodded agreeably. “Might as well have something to eat while I’m waiting.” He motioned to a waitress and ordered a strip steak.
After two more songs, the piano player took a break and came over to join them, taking the fourth chair. “You’re good tonight,” Karen told him.
He grinned. “I’m good every night.” Glancing at Leopold, he asked, “Who’s this?”
“He’s waiting for my brother. Leopold, this is Sammy Bryson.”
Bryson shook his hand with a firm grip. “Pleased to meet you.”
“You do well on those Beatles tunes,” Leopold said.
“Yeah, some of these kids have never heard them before.”
“How late are you playing tonight?” Karen asked.
He shrugged. “I’m closing up. The bartender’s new. I’ll probably knock off around twelve-thirty. Not much doing late on Monday nights.”
“Can I buy you a drink?” Leopold asked.