Page 27 of Your Every Wish

“It’s freezing in here.” I run back to my bedroom and throw a sweater over my pajamas and turn up the heat.

It’s the first time we’ve had to turn on the thermostat since we got here, and everything smells like charred dust.

When I return to my breakfast, Emma is at the table coughing and holding her nose.

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone has used these electric wall radiators in years. Hey, it’s better than freezing to death.”

“Should I ask Liam to look at it? I hate to take advantage, but it doesn’t seem like it’s working right.”

“It couldn’t hurt. But I really do think it’s just a lack of use. It kicked right on when I flicked the switch.”

Somewhere in another room the William Tell Overture starts playing and Emma races out of the kitchen to get her phone. “Shit, I’m supposed to be working.”

I pour us each a mug of coffee, grab the half-and-half out of the fridge, and deliberate on whether to toast my Pop-Tart or eat it raw.

I opt for cooked, and pop two in the toaster oven.

Pretty soon, it’ll be time to restock. Another trip to the grocery store, the highlight of my week.

Yep, I’m likely to go stir crazy here before too long.

I’d go for a run but don’t want to freeze my ass off. I suppose if I get desperate enough, I could always join the ladies for canasta. I think Monday is their day to play.

Emma is back. “Okay, this is bizarre. That was Mr. Townsend on the phone. Were you aware that Willy’s house was seized by the feds under asset forfeiture law?”

“No. Which house? San Diego or Vegas?”

“San Diego. He leased the one in Vegas. Anyway, they seized the San Diego one years ago when he was first popped for insider trading, and it’s been sitting around ever since.

They’re finally getting around to auctioning it off and Mr. Townsend said we’ve been given permission to take any personal belongings we want. But we only have a week.”

“Really? What kind of personal stuff?”

“I don’t know for sure. But Mr. Townsend said anything that wasn’t purchased in the commission of a crime—in other words, anything the feds haven’t seized. You interested?”

“Hell yes. Aren’t you?”

“I’ll have to see if I can get a couple of days off work, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t wildly curious.” Emma fixes herself a bowl of instant oatmeal and joins me at the table.

“He has a big house in La Jolla.” It was one of the things I’d made note of while keeping tabs on him.

“Had,” Emma says. “He had a big house in La Jolla.”

“I bet there’s still some valuable stuff in there—paintings, sculptures, clothing.”

She stops her spoonful of oatmeal midway to her mouth. “Are you serious right now? You want to sell his clothes? Eww. ”

“I never said anything about selling.” But we both know I was thinking it.

* * *

The next morning, we set off for San Diego. I’ve offered to drive because even with the price of gas, it’s cheaper than a last-minute flight. According to my GPS, it’ll take eight hours and eight minutes if we don’t hit traffic.

That’s a big if.

Already, we’re caught up in a snarl and we’re only as far as Sacramento. That’s what we get for leaving during rush hour.

“Are you curious what it’ll be like?” Emma takes a slug from her coffee thermos.

She insisted we both fill up before we left home to keep us alert on the road, so we can make it in one day.

“I always kind of pictured him living this fast and extravagant lifestyle. A little shady and at the same time a little glamorous.”

“I’d say a lot shady, given how he wound up.”

“So, you never ran into him in Vegas? I would think given what you do, your worlds would inevitably cross.”

“You would think.” I used to hope it would happen.

That he would walk into Caesars and there I’d be, dressed to the nines, doing business with some of the biggest gamblers in the world.

He’d walk up to me and say, “I’m your father,” and I would look him in the eye and walk away.

“But he was famously reclusive, you know? He placed all his bets through anonymous partners, people who didn’t even know one another.

None of the people I truck with had ever met him in the flesh.

But they all knew him by name and spoke of him like he was some kind of god. Disgusting, if you ask me.”

“I read a story once that he won four million in Atlantic City at a roulette wheel. Before he went, he researched the hell out of the place and learned that one of the casinos used an older model roulette wheel that was prone to favoring certain numbers. That’s the wheel he played.”

“He’s legendary for his research,” I say. “It’s what made him the most successful gambler of all time.”

I veer into the next lane as my GPS barks at me to exit onto Interstate 5.

As soon as we get out of the Sacramento suburbs, it’s smooth sailing.

Nothing but open space, green farms, and fruit and nut orchards.

Emma informs me that we’re in the San Joaquin Valley, one of the most productive agricultural regions in the country.

It makes me miss the bright lights of Vegas.

We stop for lunch at a roadside diner in Bakersfield, where a good-looking cowboy holds open the door. His hat reminds me of Bent McCourtney’s, and I lose my appetite but still manage to wolf down a burger, fries, and a milkshake.

“How’s that salad?” Compared to me, Emma is a health-food nut.

“I should’ve got what you had.” She pushes her plate away. “I’m going to treat myself to pumpkin pie for dessert.”

“Knock yourself out.”

She winds up sharing it with me and takes the wheel for the second leg of the trip.

“Just let me know if you get tired of driving and I’ll take over again,” I tell her.

It’s astonishing how well we get along. I’ve always been selective of my friends, probably because I grew up an only child who spent a lot of time alone or with grown-ups.

The few friends I have either work at Caesars, like Lorelie, or are hosts at other casinos.

It’s weird waters we swim in and we prefer to hang out with our own school.

But Emma is different. Perhaps it’s because we share some of the same DNA that we click. I can’t say I one hundred percent trust her—I don’t have it in me to ever trust anyone all the way—but she sure has gone out of her way for me. Like a sister, I suppose.

By the time we roll into San Diego County, it’s dark. Still, the sight of the Pacific Ocean illuminated by the moon and the freeway lights takes my breath away.

“Wow.”

Emma grins. “You’re not in Vegas anymore, Toto. Only a few miles to the motel. You want to eat or go straight there?”

We wind up picking up Mexican food and taking it back to our room at a little motor lodge in a town called Carlsbad. All the hotels in La Jolla are too expensive and I don’t think the FBI would appreciate us bunking at Willy’s tonight.

While not Caesars or even a Courtyard Inn, the Seaside Motel (which isn’t seaside, by the way) is clean, well lit, and just fine for one night. We eat, watch an old Friends episode, and turn in early, exhausted from our long drive.

The next morning, we grab a bite at a nearby café and hit the road again. Thirty minutes later, we’re driving up a winding lane with sheer drops to the ocean below. It’s both gorgeous and death defying.

“Willy must have one hell of a view.” I’m glad Emma is driving. This road is not for the faint of heart and she’s used to the curvy and hilly streets of San Francisco.

“Check the address again.”

I pull up the email Mr. Townsend sent us on my phone and read her the numbers.

“That one is 2050.” Emma gestures at the address tiles of a Spanish-style home that’s located behind a huge iron gate. “Only two blocks to go.”

We’ve passed so many mega mansions I’ve lost count. Most of them are Mediterranean style with a few contemporaries in the vein of Bent’s house. With those views who wouldn’t want all that glass?

“I wonder why he lived here and not San Francisco.” Because as beautiful as this is, San Francisco isn’t exactly lacking in the amazing department. Besides, it’s where Willy got his start.

“Don’t know. But I could certainly live with this. It’s not Cedar Pines but it’s a close runner-up.”

“Please tell me you’re not serious,” I say.

“I mean it’s gorgeous here but so ostentatious.

Every freaking house has one of those ornate gates.

And the garages with their circular driveways .

. . kind of pretentious, don’t you think?

Look at that one.” She points at a Spanish colonial with a vanishing-edge pool that gives the illusion that the water is spilling right into the ocean.

“Really? It’s not enough to have a view of the Pacific.

You have to muck it up with an enormous pool, too? ”

“The shame.” I feign horror. “I’d gladly take any one of these houses.”

“That one?” She motions at a house with so many stories it looks like it’s about to topple over in the first earthquake.

“Yeah, it’s a bit top-heavy and proportionally odd.”

“It was probably a perfectly nice house once. Then someone started adding on to it until it was the Winchester Mystery House.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“It’s a house near San Jose. A mad wealthy woman kept adding rooms to it until it was a crazy maze. Now they sell tours.”

I laugh. “We have that in Vegas, too. People with more money than brains.” I tilt my head skyward. “ ‘Them that’s got are them that gets, and I ain’t got nothing yet.’ ”

“Huh? Where’d you come up with that?” Emma grins.

“It’s an old Ray Charles song my mother used to play. You never heard it before?”

“Nope. But that’s what I’m saying about Cedar Pines and Ghost. No pretention. Just sheer natural beauty.”

It’s true, the area is pretty in a natural way. I like the way it smells, piney and clean. I guess like the mountains. Cedar Pines, not so pretty. It’s more like a train wreck. “You’re weird, anyone ever tell you that?”

“Dex does all the time.” She laughs again. “I think it’s that one.”