Chapter 13
When I woke up, stiff and grouchy, Dr. Rod Buchanan was already back at it. Sunday morning, pushing chips around at the poker table with the sparse early crowd.
Watching him from afar, with his oxford shirt now creased and frumpy, and his hair less tidy, and his skin thicker and more leathery, sipping coffee and offering fewer remarks to his fellows, the picture sharpened.
I didn’t know everything. But my educated guess was, Dr. Buchanan was a man bored with his profession and his doting, clueless wife, and he acted out his gambling addictions on the weekends.
I’d taken this case for Mrs. Buchanan, a woman who loved my son, to make sure she wasn’t being humiliated behind her back, and while I couldn’t rule out past infidelities, the only throes of passion I saw from her husband this weekend were financial.
I hung around until the afternoon, losing a hundred dollars at the blackjack table, earning it back during two hours in the poker room, watching Buchanan’s spirits return as his stack of money swelled.
His small poker fortune repaired, so his posture mounted and his chin rose.
I remained stiff and grouchy, ready to go home, but he beat me to it.
He cashed out his winnings at three in the afternoon.
From a distance, I estimated he offered the cashier six hundred in chips, meaning he was likely up two hundred on the weekend.
He stopped by the gift shop on the way out and bought a bottle of cheap wine and something else I couldn’t see.
I gave him room to get in his car and drive off before I chased.
We motored back to Roanoke at a sober pace and he returned to his home in Wasena and me to mine in Grandin, him none the wiser.
Ronnie asked, “So it’s a gambling addiction? He’s not chasing ass?”
“For such a cutie,” I told her, “you have a filthy mouth.”
“Mackenzie. I could’ve used way worse words.”
Sunday Night Football played on the TV. The crew gathered on the couch to watch the Chiefs play the 49ers, though four-sevenths of us mostly tinkered on cell phones. Manny, Kix, and I, the last remaining American patriots, kept our eyes glued to the game.
Kix fell asleep during the second quarter, his head lolling forward onto Stackhouse’s thigh while she played with his hair and Timothy absently patted his back.
Stackhouse’s itinerary for the coming week overflowed with conferences requested by the city attorney, the city manager, a magistrate, a human resource officer, a fire marshal, a facilities manager, the social services director, someone from the transportation division, a registrar, and an accountant in the Treasurer’s Office.
Lots of hand-wringing over who the mayor would be replacing.
Noelle Beck, in full servitude to cravings, ate pickles and ice cream in the far reading chair, where we banished her when her food hurt our eyes. She propped her feet on the leather ottoman, because they ached, and she drifted off during half time.
Ronnie lasted a little longer, staying awake for a glimpse of Taylor Swift in the celebrity suite. She didn’t consider herself a Swiftie, but, “Royalty is royalty, Mackenzie.”
Tired of emails, Stackhouse washed her wine goblet in the sink and called to Timothy, “Hey handsome. Come tuck me in?”
“With pleasure,” said Timothy, and to maintain sanity I did my best to envision nothing but a friendly end to their day. They walked up the rear staircase, kinda leaning against each other.
Manny stood and stretched and yawned.
“We should put these people to bed,” he said.
“We should.”
“I’ll handle Ronnie,” he offered.
“You are mistaken,” I said, “if you think Ronnie is a woman who can be handled.”
“Maybe because no man strong enough has tried, amigo.”
“Like a praying mantis, you would die in the attempt,” I said.
“Ay, you ever heard of a throuple?”
“Gross.”
“Lots of kids doing it these days, Mack. Poly armoire.”
“You mean,” I said, “Polyamorous.”
He shrugged. “Same thing.”
“What you said means many cabinets, you ding-dong.”
“Ay, Ronnie would be into my cabinets.”
“How would you be polyamorous? You won’t even share Noelle.”
He grinned. “Just making sure you’re still alive. Been thinking about ordering you testosterone shots.”
“More testosterone and I’d show up on Doppler radar.”
“What’s with saying ding-dong?”
“I heard Stackhouse say it once,” I told him. “Kix repeated it. I love it.”
“Ding-dong means great American?”
“Yep.”
“I bet Ronnie says I’m the best ding-dong.”
I nodded. “Got that right.”
“You two,” said Ronnie, her eyes still closed, “are outrageous.”
“Vamos, mamita,” he said. “I’ll take you to bed.”
“Only one man may take me to bed, Manuel. You must wait until he dies.”
“I can take care of that tonight,” said Manny.
“But then I’ll be in mourning for seven years. So please don’t.”
“Please don’t?” I said. “Not in ten lifetimes could he.”
She smiled dreamily, eyes still shut. “Better safe than sorry.”
“Fine, you handle Ronnie. I’ll handle this one,” said Manny.
Ronnie’s eyes snapped open and she swung her feet off the couch. “You’ll handle Noelle? That was your goal all along, to handle her.”
Manny reached down to the cushion and gathered Kix and draped him against his shoulder. “Kix is a man, se?orita.”
Ronnie shot him a riverboat gambler look. “I know you want to take Noelle to bed, Manny.”
“Girl stinks of pickles,” said Manny and he marched up the stairs.