Page 35

Short of adding spinning saw blades or a cloud of poison gas, it was hard for Charlie to imagine a less appealing environment than the party bus Smithson had commissioned to bring the younger members of the group to Deadwood that evening.

Between the flashing lights and mirrored chrome, a stereo system that vibrated from the carpeted floor up to the base of Charlie’s skull, and the general stickiness of every soft surface, he couldn’t find a safe place for his eyes to land, much less the rest of his body.

Worst of all, Jean wasn’t there, having declined on the grounds that she wasn’t feeling well.

Charlie hated the idea of her alone in her wagon with a headache—or worse!

He’d wanted to call a doctor, but his mom suggested a care package instead, filled with painkillers, dark chocolate, a romance novel, fluffy socks, and several of Mugsy’s teas. He’d have to hope it was enough.

This bus was the last place anyone would want to convalesce, fluffy socks or not, so in that sense Charlie was glad Jean had been spared. And yet he felt every added mile between them as if it were yanking on something tender inside him that would snap if it stretched too far.

“You are sighing,” Emma Koenig observed, peering at him from across the aisle.

She’d had the foresight to bring sunglasses on this after-dark excursion, so maybe this wasn’t her first time riding a party bus.

Beside her, Mugsy was taking the old-school approach, closing her eyes while her lips moved in what was either a prayer for serenity or a curse on Smithson.

Someone turned the music up even louder, eliciting cheers from the front of the bus.

Drinks had been flowing freely all day. Not unexpected with this many liquor distributors gathered in one place, but another source of anxiety for Charlie.

Human behavior was hard enough to predict without throwing the mood-altering volatility of alcohol into the mix.

At least the thundering bass meant no one expected him to make conversation. Even Mugsy and Emma, seated side by side, were reduced to touching each other’s arms and hands when they wanted to point something out.

Only Smithson seemed undeterred by the background noise, yelling at his pack of followers like he was delivering a TED Talk on a dance floor.

Charlie caught snatches of his monologue and was surprised to find that he was discussing business.

Stock options, import taxes, market penetration: all the buzzwords Charlie knew he should care about, that inevitably turned to white noise whenever his father mentioned them.

“Hey, Two Buck,” Smithson shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. Charlie braced for a pop quiz he was bound to fail, about MOQ or ISO or any of the other acronyms he could never keep straight. “How come your girl isn’t riding with us?”

“She has a headache,” Charlie answered without thinking. “Which is none of your business.” He could have kicked himself for revealing anything about Jean to her old enemy.

“I got the deluxe bus for her.” Smithson spread his arms wide, like they should all be grateful to him for sourcing this traveling hellscape. “Hey, maybe she’s coming on horseback. That girl can ride … but I guess you already knew that, eh Chuck?”

There was a round of chortling and hand slapping, in case Charlie had missed the double meaning. Then Smithson grabbed the driver’s microphone and started singing over the PA system.

“Silent storm, you rocked me—”

Mugsy stomped up the aisle and grabbed the handset. “Grow up,” she said to Smithson, her voice echoing through the speakers. “This isn’t your frat house.” After offering what looked like an apology to the driver, she returned to her seat, still muttering.

“If this is the future of the industry, maybe I don’t want to be part of it.”

Charlie reached across the aisle to touch her shoulder. “Don’t let them spoil it for you, Mugsy. You’re worth twenty of them—especially Smithson.”

She blew out a long breath, like there was a cake full of candles in front of her. “You’re right. Screw them. And the horse they rode in on.”

Emma dipped her sunglasses to peer at Mugsy.

“What?” Mugsy fidgeted under her gaze, smoothing her hair.

“I admire your passion.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Emma nodded, sliding her dark glasses back into place.

“Sorry if I offended you ladies,” Smithson bellowed. “That includes you, Chuck.”

Mugsy started to stand, but Charlie shook his head. “He’s not worth it.”

She frowned at him but must have seen that Charlie wasn’t too upset, because she lowered herself back into her seat. Jokes about that song were nothing new. And at least Jean wasn’t here to get the wrong idea.

At last, the bus rumbled into Deadwood, circling around Main Street to park behind the casino Smithson had rented out for the evening.

Charlie hadn’t been here for years, though he had fond memories of the history museum and the hilltop cemetery where Calamity Jane was buried.

He wondered if Jean would want to see that, before remembering it was nighttime, and she wasn’t here.

They entered the building through a back door. Even with the lights and sounds from the slot machines, it was a welcome respite from the bus.

“That was like the before part of a migraine commercial,” Mugsy grumbled as she stepped past Charlie. He held the door for Emma, who surveyed the scene with typical detachment. Machines of varying size surrounded them, with a quieter cluster of felt-topped tables at the other end of the room.

“I learned how to play poker,” Charlie said. “When I was in Hawaii. Jean taught me.” If he thought Mugsy would be impressed, her scowl quickly set him straight.

“How much did she take you for?”

“We, uh, didn’t play for money.” Was it warm in here?

Charlie’s face felt flushed. Fortunately, Mugsy didn’t ask for details.

“I’ve been thinking. Maybe I could reach out to her.

Jean.” It was a sideways version of the truth, but Mugsy had never responded well to a frontal assault. “She shouldn’t be that hard to find—”

“Charlie.”

There was a world of no in her voice, mixed with equal parts you can’t be serious and do I really have to tell you why that’s a bad idea?

Emma Koenig had turned her body slightly, as if fascinated by the design of the nearest slot machine, but Charlie could tell she was listening. It didn’t stop him from trying again.

“I’m not sure she did what you think she did. And even if she did, what did she really tell them?”

“Your location,” Mugsy reminded him. “And I’m sure they paid her plenty for it.”

“Allegedly. But she could have given them a lot more than that. If you know what I mean.”

Mugsy made a strange noise.

“Are you grinding your teeth?” Charlie asked. “Remember what Dr. Hall said. There’s no point wearing your mouthguard at night if you’re going to abuse your molars during the day.”

Her nostrils flared, in what he hoped was a calming breath. Maybe she needed time to adjust to the idea. Before he explained that Jean was already here.

“I would like to try this sarsaparilla,” Emma said. Even though it was quieter in the casino, she still touched Mugsy’s arm to get her attention. “Is it like one of your teas?”

Charlie was surprised Emma had tasted Mugsy’s teas. She didn’t share them with just anyone.

“Not quite in that league, but it’s drinkable,” Mugsy replied. She glanced at Charlie. “You’ll be okay?”

“Yes, Mugsy.” He kept the sigh inside. “I’ll manage.” Especially since they’d booked the entire building. Charlie wondered how much that was costing his parents, on top of all the other expenses of the weekend.

After they disappeared up the stairs to the saloon area, Charlie looked for a quiet corner. Not to hide; just to be alone with his thoughts.

“Hey, Two Buck.” Smithson’s wide-legged strut was even more pronounced than usual. Maybe he was feeling the effects of their morning on horseback. “Hope you brought your wallet.”

“Do you need change for the slots?” He reached into his pocket, emerging with a handful of loose coins. It was a sincere question, but Smithson looked annoyed, especially after one of his sidekicks laughed.

“I’m not playing the nickel machines, Chuck. It’s blackjack time. A man’s game.”

In Charlie’s experience, it was much more of a woman’s game, but he didn’t see any point in arguing with Smithson. The two of them were never going to see eye to eye, even if they were seated across a small table from each other. Which did not sound like Charlie’s idea of a good time.

“Actually,” he started to say, looking around for a bathroom or other likely excuse.

Smithson leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Your dad made me promise not to let you be a wallflower.”

And here Charlie had assumed Smithson was torturing him for his own amusement.

“Let’s go, bro.” He draped an arm around Charlie’s shoulders, ignoring his flinch. “It’ll be fun. Smart guy like you, I bet you’ll clean up.” It was clear from his tone that he did not, in fact, believe that Charlie had a prayer of holding his own.

It seemed there was one thing he and Smithson agreed on after all.