I leaned over and popped the door to the glove compartment and then spent a few minutes sorting through the accumulation of gasoline receipts, outdated registration slips, and an owner's manual. In the side pocket to my left, I found another handful of gasoline receipts.
Most were dated three to four months before Reba went to prison. The single exception was a receipt dated July 27, 1987 – Monday. She'd bought gas at a Chevron station on Main Street in Perdido, twenty miles to the south. I added the receipt to the other one in my pocket. I checked under the front seats, the backseat, the floorboards, and the trunk, but found nothing else of interest. I left the garage and returned the keys to the hook in the mud room, then collected my car. Last I saw of Rags, he was sitting on the porch, calmly grooming himself.
I returned to the 101 and made a speedy round-trip to my apartment, stopping off long enough to pick up the photograph of Reba her father had given me. I folded it and eased it into my shoulder bag before I headed for Perdido. The four-lane highway follows the coastal contours with the foothills on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other. The concrete seawall all but disappears in places, and waves crack up along the rocks in an impressive display of power. Surfers park their cars on the berm and tote their surfboards down to the beach, looking as sleek as seals in their form-fitting black wetsuits. I counted eight of them in the water, straddling their boards, faces turned toward the waves as they waited for the surf to mount the next assault on the shore.
To my left, the steeply rising foothills were bare of trees and thick with chaparral. Paddle-shaped cactus had taken over large patches of eroding soil. The lush green, encouraged by the winter rains, had given way to spring wildflowers, and then died back to this tinderbox of vegetation, ripe for the autumn fires. The railroad tracks ran sometimes on the mountain side of the road and sometimes crossed under the highway and tracked the surf.
On the outskirts of Perdido, I took the first off-ramp and proceeded toward town on Main, checking addresses along the way. I spotted the Chevron station on a narrow spit of land that bordered the Perdido Avenue off-ramp. I pulled in and parked on the side of the station nearest the restrooms. A uniformed attendant was standing at the rear of a station wagon, topping off the tank. He spotted me, eyes lingering briefly before returning to his task. I waited until the customer had signed the credit card slip and the wagon had pulled away before I crossed to the pumps. I pulled out the photograph of Reba, intending to inquire if he'd worked on Monday and if so, if he remembered her. As I approached, however, something else occurred to me. I said, "Hi. I need directions. I'm looking for a poker parlor called the Double Down."
He turned and pointed. "Two blocks down on the right. If you get to the stoplight, you've gone too far."
It was close to two in the afternoon when I pulled into the one remaining space in the parking lot behind a low cinder-block building painted an unprepossessing beige. The sign in front flashed a red neon spade, a heart, a diamond, and a club in succession. The Double Down was written out in blue neon script across the face of the building. In lieu of stairs, a wheelchair ramp angled up to a windowless entrance, approximately four feet above ground. I climbed the ramp to the heavy wooden door with its rustic wrought iron hinges. A sign indicated that the hours ran from 10:00 A.M. until 2:00 A.M. I pushed my way in.
There were four large tables, covered in green felt, each with eight to ten poker players seated in wooden captain's chairs. Many turned and looked at me, though no one questioned my presence. Along the rear wall there was a galley-style kitchen with a menu posted above the service window. The selections were listed in removable black letters mounted in white slots: breakfast dishes, sandwiches, and a few dinner items. I was already partial to the scrambled egg and sausage breakfast burrito. I checked the receipt I'd found in Reba's jacket pocket – cheeseburger, chili fries, and Coke. The same items were listed on the board and all the prices matched.
The walls were paneled in pine. Along the acoustical-tile ceiling, a picture rail was festooned with strands of fake ivy and hung with framed reproductions of sports art, football dominant. The lighting was flat. All the players were men except for a woman at the back who was probably in her sixties. A chalkboard mounted on the side wall bore a list of names, presumably guys waiting for an open seat. To my surprise, there was no cigarette smoke and no alcohol in sight. Two color television sets mounted in opposing corners flickered silently with two different baseball games. There was scarcely any conversation, only the sound of plastic chips clicking together softly as the dealer paid off the winners and pulled in the losing bets. As I looked on, the dealers changed tables and three guys took advantage of the break to order something to eat.
There was a counter to my left and behind it, in a cubbyhole, a fellow was sitting on a stool. "I'm looking for the manager," I said. I was wondering, of course, if poker parlors had managers, but it seemed like a safe bet, so to speak. The guy said, "Yo," raising his hand without lifting his gaze from his book. "What's the book?"
He held it up, turning the cover into view as though wondering himself. "This? Poetry. Kenneth Rexroth. You know his work?"
"I don't."
"The guy's awesome. I'd lend you this, but it's the only copy I have." He put his finger between the pages, marking his place. "You want chips?"
"Sorry, but I'm not here to play." I took Reba's picture from my bag, unfolded it, and held it out to him. "Look familiar?"
"Reba Lafferty," he said, as though the answer was self-evident. "You remember when you saw her last?"
"Sure. Monday. Night before last. She sat at that table. Came in about five and stayed until we closed the place at two. Played Hold 'Em most of the night and then switched to Omaha, for which she has no feel whatever. Had a roll of bills about like this," he said, making a circle of his thumb and middle finger. "Chick's been out of prison a week, or that's the scuttlebutt. You her parole officer?"
I shook my head. "A personal friend. I was the one who went down to Corona and drove her home."
"Should have saved yourself the trip. Before you know it, she'll be on the sheriffs bus, heading the other way. Too bad. She's cute. About the way a raccoon's cute before it bites the shit out of you."
I said, "Yeah, well, there you have it. She took off last night and we're trying to track her down. I don't suppose you know where she went."
"Off the top of my head? I'd say Vegas. She dropped a bundle in here, but you could tell she was on a roll. She had that look in her eye. Bad luck or good, she's the kind who keeps going till all the money's gone."
"I don't get it."
"You don't gamble?"
"Not at all."
"My theory? Chick runs on empty. She gambles for the hype, thinking she can use that to fill herself up. Ain't never gonna happen. She needs help."
"Don't we all," I said. "By the way, why the Double Down? I thought the term was blackjack."
"We used to have blackjack until the owner phased it out. The locals prefer poker – skill over luck, I guess."