Chapter 7 #3
The croupier said that Kurtz and two cohorts had approached him with a proposition.
They’d managed to get a magnet under a roulette wheel in the casino and wanted him to slip a special ball in it during a moment when the security cameras were blocked.
In exchange, they offered the croupier a large cut of their winnings.
“How did this ball work?” LaPorta asked.
“A computer chip inside. And magnets, one in the ball, one outside.”
“Where was the outside magnet?”
“Mike wore it.”
“Where?”
The croupier tapped his hip. “Under his pants. If he stands close enough, and the man with the computer programs it right, the magnet pulls the ball to the number they bet.”
LaPorta rubbed his forehead. He had heard of magnet use, but computer chips were a new frontier. This was high--level cheating. He wondered how he was going to stay ahead of it.
“So where does Alfie Logan fit in this?”
“Who?”
LaPorta banged his finger on the iPad photo.
“The guy who placed the bets! The guy who won the money! Him!”
“I told you, I don’t know that man! He comes from nowhere, sits down, and plays the numbers that this Mike guy programmed.”
“But the footage never shows Mike Kurtz betting.”
“He wasn’t supposed to. His partner was. But when this man—-what’s his name?”
“Alfie—-”
“When this Alfie put so many chips on that number, Mike’s man got scared. When he did it again, Mike got scared, too. He called it off. They left.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. You see? Nothing happened. I am innocent.”
“You put a loaded ball into a rigged roulette wheel. That’s not innocent.”
But LaPorta’s mind wasn’t on charging the croupier. He still had no answer for Alfie’s actions.
“What about the third time? When Alfie won the two million?”
“I told you! I don’t know nothing about this Alfie!”
LaPorta rose, yanked open the door, and marched down the hall.
He pushed into another interrogation room, where Mike Kurtz was seated, rapping his knuckles on a table.
He was tall, muscular, and unshaven, with dark, thinning hair and an earring.
His shirt was one of those flower print things tourists buy in overpriced hotel shops.
“Alfie Logan!” LaPorta barked. “What’s your connection with him?”
Kurtz scowled. “Don’t ask me about that prick.”
“Why not? He won the money you were supposed to win. With your magnetized ball.”
Kurtz sneered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We know what you did, Mr. Kurtz.”
“I didn’t do anything, Detective. I didn’t take a dollar out of your casino. Why don’t you chase down Alfie? He’s the one who did the betting.” He turned away, then mumbled, “Stupid kiss--ass.”
“What’s that about?”
“Nothing.”
“You better talk to me, Mr. Kurtz. Or you’re not going back to America anytime soon.”
Kurtz took a deep breath.
“I need a smoke. Is that OK?”
LaPorta nodded. Kurtz pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. LaPorta resisted the urge to ask for one.
“Look, Detective, Alfie thinks he’s my wife’s protector, OK? He’s more like her manservant. He’s always around, always getting her every little thing she needs.” He placed a cigarette between his lips. “Makes me look bad.”
“Don’t you mean your ex--wife?”
Kurtz pulled a lighter from his jacket. “Yeah. My ex--wife. So?”
“You broke up with her in college, right? Where you played soccer? Goalie? Why did you two get back together?”
Kurtz glared. “Where are you getting all this?”
“Oh, I know plenty about you, Mr. Kurtz.”
The truth was, LaPorta only knew what Alfie had written in his notebook. But if it helped solve the case, he planned to use it.
“Now, one last time. How was Alfie Logan part of your scheme?”
Kurtz set his jaw. “I told you. I don’t know what scheme you’re talking about.”
LaPorta rose from the table. “Have it your way. But you’ll be staying here for a while.”
He went to the door, then turned back.
“It must really piss you off though, huh?”
“What?”
“That Alfie won two million bucks betting the numbers you rigged.”
Kurtz’s eyes widened.
“Oh, that’s right. You bolted before his last bet. He put all those chips down a third time, and hit a single play. Two million. Funny thing is, he sent it all to your ex.”
Kurtz threw his head back. His neck muscles bulged.
“You sure you don’t want to tell me how you two were connected?” LaPorta asked.
“For the last freaking time, I don’t have anything to do with Alfie Logan!” Kurtz shouted. “I wish he was dead!”
THE QUEEN’S STAIRCASE
Gianna, wearing an oversized sweatshirt, walked quickly along Elizabeth Avenue, hands in her pockets, a hood pulled over her head.
In the moonlight, she saw the dark outline of Fort Fincastle, built in the eighteenth century to protect the island from pirates.
She saw its tall, cylindrical water tower nearby.
The landmark staircase Alfie had mentioned was just below, surrounded by high walls.
She glanced at her watch. It was nearly 11:30 p.m.
She had persuaded Detective LaPorta to let her return to her hotel, on the promise that she would remain there until tomorrow for further questioning. But an hour ago, she had slipped through the sliding doors of her room’s private patio and snuck out through the resort’s rear hedges.
She felt bad about lying. LaPorta had driven her back himself, firing endless questions about Alfie’s story.
“He’s suffering from delusions, Detective,” Gianna kept saying. “You can’t make sense of a sick mind.”
Privately, she was less than sure. Yes, this whole invention of magical second chances was crazy. But so many early memories Alfie had written about were accurate. Why was the rest of it fantasy? Especially the parts about the two of them? They were never lovers. Clearly never husband and wife.
The truth was, when they graduated college, Gianna was headed to Patagonia to photograph wildlife, and she figured Alfie would pursue his music in New York.
But, lacking any concrete plans, he asked if he could accompany her.
“One last vacation,” he had called it. He was a big help with the equipment on that trip and provided friendly conversation in the otherwise lonely hours away from home.
When Gianna sold the photos, the magazine that bought them offered her a new assignment in Glacier Bay, Alaska.
She asked Alfie if he wanted to repeat his role.
They continued on from there. The Galápagos.
The archipelagos in Norway. The rain forest in Borneo.
Several years passed. Gianna’s reputation grew.
She shared some of the money she was making with Alfie.
And pretty soon, photography was her full--time job and Alfie was her full--time assistant.
They were good travel companions and enjoyed the easy dialogue of longtime friends.
They laughed constantly. They finished each other’s food.
Over time, Gianna trusted Alfie with everything—-her car, her house, her ATM card.
She kept encouraging him to pursue his music, and he often said he would but never did.
When she met Mike again at her ten--year Boston University reunion, they rekindled their old romance. Alfie had been leery. When they got engaged, Alfie wouldn’t look at her.
“Why do you hate him?” she asked.
“I don’t hate him. I just don’t want him to hurt you.”
“He’s not going to hurt me, Alfie.”
“He did once.”
And, of course, he did it again. Gianna put up with Mike for fourteen years, because she thought a marriage meant enduring, and they’d been pretty good at the beginning and she’d hoped they could start a family.
But it didn’t happen. Mike had a decent job in medical sales, then lost it because of his drinking.
He lost another one when he cursed out his boss in front of a roomful of clients.
He turned to gambling. Casinos. Horse races. Gianna stuck by him. Even tried to find him a new firm. But when she discovered he’d secretly used her money to purchase a speedboat which he’d used to take a waitress on a three--day trip to Key West, she’d had enough.
Their divorce was long and ugly and, as the bread-winner, Gianna had to pay Mike alimony. He used the funds for gambling, while she downsized to a small property by the beach in South Carolina. Alfie moved into a guest house behind it. They’d lived there ever since.
Alfie was a sounding board for Gianna’s gripes about Mike, work, or anything else.
He handled her shooting schedule and her equipment.
He fixed whatever was broken around the property.
And, now that she thought about it, she had rested her head on his shoulder many times and cried on it often.
But she had always taken that as friendship, not intimacy.
Not romantic love. Never that. Or so she told herself.
Now, hurrying to meet a man she thought she knew so well, and realizing she didn’t know him at all, she wasn’t sure where one emotion ended and another began.
?
Alfie Logan sat on the bottom tread of the historic staircase, built by hand out of solid limestone.
It was an astounding construction, the work of many enslaved people.
The surrounding walls were nearly a hundred feet high and draped with vegetation.
While the area was often crowded during tourist hours, it was dark and silent now, with only moonlight as illumination.
Alfie’s heart was racing. Would she come?
Had she read the pages? Although so much of his life was a rewind, this was all--new.
He had no idea how the night would end, only that he would suffer a stroke at six minutes after midnight, according to his calculations.
He hadn’t allowed for much time with Gianna.
That was deliberate. If she was open to hearing his confession, it wouldn’t take long, and he could endure what came next with a certain peace of mind.
And if she didn’t show up? Well, he didn’t want a lot of time brooding while he waited for a blood vessel to burst in his brain.
“Alfie?”