Page 27

Thick as Thieves

The days since Hank’s accident had been rough for Padma—it was as though everyone on staff had waited for him to die and then decided they needed something from her.

Now her phone buzzed nonstop with bothersome questions.

How would she know if payroll was approved? She had no idea who managed the dealers’ schedules.

And surely, they have plumbers on staff to handle that sort of thing.

She’d had an intense morning overseeing the setup for the reception that would follow Hank’s funeral service at the nearby church.

Her adult-onset acne was flaring up, her feet were killing her, and she was afraid she smelled.

The nozzle of the ladies’ room hand dryer was blowing hard at Padma’s armpit when a middle-aged customer in a crisp summer dress and flat sandals walked in, paused, and then disappeared into a stall.

Padma’s day had dragged on long enough by then that she didn’t pretend to be drying her hands.

She switched sides and raised her other arm, mildly relieved the woman hadn’t arrived five minutes earlier when her black skirt had been hiked up around her waist.

Pantyhose can be sweaty.

The blower stopped, and Padma tore off sheets of paper towel to blot the back of her neck and between her breasts.

At the sink, she ran cold water on her wrists, then leaned toward the mirror to peer at her face.

This serial dating was tough.

She had bags under her eyes, a pimple that needed popping, and her new smile strained her cheeks.

Padma pulled her black jacket down from the stall door, buttoned it up, and headed to the third-floor reception rooms.

The elevator doors opened, and she felt as though she were being held hostage in the back of a florist delivery van.

The floral arrangements had started to arrive ahead of the mourners who would convene here following the funeral.

The room was set up much as it had been for the slot machine tech’s reception a couple of weeks earlier.

The screens were down for the slideshow; the buffet table ran along one wall with the bar beside it.

The flowers were being arranged at one end of the room, and in front of them were two easels with poster-size photos of Hank’s friends who had been killed alongside him in the boat explosion.

Hank’s photo leaned against the base of the easels.

“No, no, no, no!”

Padma looked around for a waiter, a busboy, anyone to help.

Where were all the staff? She couldn’t leave Hank on the floor.

She had to find him a proper easel.

He deserved to be treated respectfully.

Already her feet were killing her, and she’d resolved to ration her steps to ensure she’d have enough mileage left for her second date with Vikash—they were going dancing tonight.

She sighed.

This had to be done, and she’d have to do it.

Padma headed through the upstairs kitchen to the storage closet.

She opened the door and hit the light switch.

There in the far corner stood the easel, with the video tech’s poster-size photo still resting on it.

Padma paused and studied it.

Dave Brand.

That was his name.

Man, why couldn’t she find a guy like that? Even her mother would have to admit he was a good-looking specimen.

Look at that smile, the hair, those teeth.

The twinkle in those eyes. She would have loved to have had a go at him. But he was ancient. Although his widow was a knockout.

Widows.

Widowhood.

That was a tough state of affairs.

You go through all the work of landing a husband and then he up and dies.

Padma set aside Dave’s photo, folded up the easel and headed back to the reception room, working to get this new set of widows straight in her mind.

Pam—Hank’s wife, whom she had already met.

And Nancy and Shalisa.

Apparently, the men had been fabulous friends, and the three families wanted to commemorate them with a combined triple service.

The arrangements were being managed by one of the sons, Paul.

Padma had perked up when he and his buddy, Estuardo, had come in to discuss the details, and had been crestfallen when the two young men, both tall with good hair and dazzling smiles, had held hands.

Given the number of guests they expected, Padma had to slide open the dividing wall between rooms.

But treating dead employees well was good optics.

She’d figure out how to bill the other two families later.

The easel in place, Padma positioned Hank’s photo in between his friends and headed outside to greet the widows.

As Padma approached the casino’s front doors, they automatically opened, and she stepped out under the glass canopy and into the bright sunshine.

Her mouth dropped.

Where had all these employees come from? Some must be here on their day off.

Padma had thought she alone would meet the widows and walk them inside.

She hadn’t expected the staff to turn out like this.

She pushed her way through the masses and from her perch on the top step, she overlooked a sea of casino uniforms, extending shoulder-to-shoulder down the stairs and lining both sides of the driveway circle at least ten people deep.

A black limousine turned off the street, and the crowd hushed.

Heads bowed and hands covered hearts.

The only sound was the flag, lowered to half-staff, flapping in the wind that blew off the Atlantic.

Then the sharp tones of a lone bagpiper started.

The car pulled to a stop at the base of the steps, and the driver jogged around and opened the car door.

Pam emerged, trailed by her fellow widows.

Dressed in black pumps, straight black dresses, and hats, together they looked like they were the backup singers headed for one of the casino’s high-end stages.

Hank’s daughter joined her mother, and the two of them led the group up the steps.

Pam’s lips trembled as she stooped to hug Padma and whispered over the bagpipes, “This is so thoughtful, Padma.

Hank would have really appreciated this turnout.

Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,”

Padma said.

She turned to lead Pam inside and took a last look, noting waitresses embraced in open sobs and a burly security guard wiping away his tears. Well. Hank may have been a boob, but apparently, he was a well-liked boob.

Once upstairs in the reception room, the widows stationed themselves by the door as a de facto receiving line. The space began to fill, and Padma assumed a post off to the side. She surveyed the room and was mentally weighing the pros and cons of whether she should move into Hank’s office—hers was bigger, but his was better located—when a photo of Hank, when he was probably the age Padma was now, appeared on the screen. Bent over on a sports field, healthy, muscular. Shirt off. Hair. Big smile. Abs. There was so much life in that photo it was hard to fathom the boob was gone.

“Excuse me. Padma? Isn’t it?”

Padma turned to find a faintly familiar, tall, slim woman at her elbow, elegantly dressed in a white sleeveless top and a black pencil skirt melded together with a wide patent leather belt. An outfit Padma would never dream of wearing yet which looked perfectly proportionate on this woman.

“I’m Sabrina Cuomo. We met at Dave Brand’s funeral.”

The woman extended her hand, and Padma took her fingers.

“Oh yes. I’m sorry for your loss,”

Padma said.

“Thank you. I’ve known these guys and their wives forever. Our kids went to school together. I’m gutted to lose three more dear, dear friends.”

Sabrina blinked her dry eyes and shook her head. “The four musketeers are gone.”

“Hmm mmm.”

Padma nodded. “Wait. Four? Hank and Andre and Larry. I’m sorry. Who’s the fourth?”

“Why, Dave, of course. Dave Brand. You know him. His was the last funeral we were at. Those four guys were thick as thieves.”

“They were?”

Padma recalled Hank in her office, and remembered asking him, out of curiosity, if he’d known the slot machine tech. She could swear he said he hadn’t. Maybe this woman was mistaken.

“Look at the photos. You can see they go way back.”

Padma turned back to the slideshow and was temporarily blinded by the brightness of a shot of four men. Hank, who Padma knew, of course. Two others Padma recognized from their photos on the easels by the flowers. Even though there must have been at least twenty years between now and when the photograph was taken, she could tell they were the same men. And the fourth. Padma pinned that fourth face as the same one she’d studied earlier in the storage closet—Dave Brand, their handsome slot machine tech.

The slot machine tech Hank said he didn’t know.

The slide changed. The same four men, about fifteen years ago, standing arm in arm on a dock, sun bright on their cheeks, the summer wind tousling their hair—each holding a string of fish.

Padma was confused.

She replayed her conversation with Hank. Hadn’t she commented on the funeral’s large turnout? Didn’t she say that Dave Brand must have been a great guy? And what had Hank said? She couldn’t remember exactly, but he sure hadn’t admitted he knew the man firsthand.

The next photo showed the same foursome in tuxedos, more recently at a wedding. Then in a hot tub smoking cigars. On a soccer field with kids waist high. Another included their wives on a beach. A recent one of Hank, as she knew him—bald and potbellied—arm in arm with Dave in front of a barbecue of grilled hamburgers. Both smiling at the camera. Like they were best buddies. It could have been taken a month ago. How could that be? It didn’t make sense. Why would Hank lie?

“Excuse me, Padma?”

Preoccupied, Padma turned to the staffer who had appeared at her side. “Yes.”

“The vendor is here to switch out the slot machines downstairs. They have the new ones ready, and they’re about to remove the old ones. But they wanted to show you something.”

Padma nodded and turned to Sabrina Cuomo. “Excuse me. I’m needed on the floor. It was nice seeing you again.”

Padma took one last look at the slides as she left the room, seeing Hank sitting in the captain’s seat of a boat, with Dave on his lap, his arms around Hank’s shoulders, their cheeks smushed together, wearing sunburns and smiles.

Padma pondered that photograph all the way down the escalator and across the casino floor, running the photos on a mental loop. As she approached the offending slot machines, she shifted her focus to the spreadsheet and her calculations. She knew she could be wrong; she usually was when it came to accounting. But there was also the slim possibility she was right. From what she could tell, it looked like these machines routinely paid out almost $50,000 a week more than other casinos.

The video reels were inspected by an unbiased panel to be sure they were legitimately random. And the payout percentages were government regulated. Padma couldn’t change either of those things, so she hoped completely changing the machines would bring their payouts more in line. She knew it was a gamble, but she was in the right field of work to place that bet.

The vendor rep was waiting for her, a tall, slim man with cowboy boots and a white hat, wearing dark, pressed jeans and a shirt with pearl buttons. How much hair did he have under that hat, and was he already married? She could live in Texas. She’d look great on a horse. Maybe a light-colored one to contrast with her dark hair. Oh! A pure black stallion would be a perfect fit. The vendor interrupted her thoughts and opened the back of the video slot machine. Padma had no idea what she was looking at.

The man talked with a twang, and his breath smelled like beef jerky. “Our tech was inspecting the machines before we send them back to our warehouse, and this might not be anything, and just doing our due diligence, I wanted to let you know in this one machine, you can see this wire, hanging here.”

He pointed at it with his pen and waited for Padma to nod. “That’s not our wire. We don’t really know what it’s doing there. For all we know it could have been put there to hold a penlight. But the onus is on us to inform the casino.”

She needed Hank. The boob would know how to handle this. He’d know if this was something, or not. Hank would probably say this is an issue for security. Thankfully, that was one of the last things Hank had done before he left for the weekend and never came back. He told her he’d hired the perfect candidate as their new director of security.

Now Padma carefully teetered down the slippery cement basement hallway, past the casino bank and to the security command center. She swiped her key card, pushed open the door, and found the regular detail of people monitoring the multitude of camera feeds from around the premises. The new director stood behind them, arms folded. Padma knocked to announce her arrival.

“Excuse me, Brenda. Do you have a minute?”