Torch Song: A Kickass Heroine, A Post-Apocalyptic World: Book One Of The Blackjack Trilogy Read Free Page B

ones left, and pieces of more little Tahoe shops than the chief could be sure of. Graybel said the matriarch, Judith Coleman, was very smart and very slippery. The cover job involved working in the restaurant but they were also looking for a singer and I might be able to negotiate a show a night in the lounge. Was I interested? That had been message one.
    My answer: “Might? Negotiate? Send more data.” I knew the pay would be good. Graybel was an old friend who never cut corners. But she was being awfully fuzzy about the rest. The answer had come back in a few hours. Blackjack needed a server in the restaurant. They always did. That didn’t sound good. But they were opening a new lounge and were looking for a singer. The chief said she’d pass on the word that I could do both and she was sure I’d get a chance to audition. No promises about the lounge, but she’d gotten me a fake reference, had been willing to wait for me to finish the Iowa job, even spend a couple days in Rocky if that worked out, offered me a bonus on completion, and we’d struck a deal.
    By the time I’d finished the soup, dabbed some salve on my scabby head-bump, laid my stuff out on the dresser and checked the bed— nothing walking or crawling or hopping on the sheets— and opened my can of LaCrosse, the new mail icon was dancing through the air. First in line, the chief was responding.
    “Good that you’re coming, Rica. Go right to the casino and ask to talk to Judith Coleman. Your reference from Riverboat Queen’s already there, waiting for you. It says you worked in the restaurant and sang in their lounge. Once you’re in at Blackjack, the person you need to talk to first is Newt Scorsi. The Scorsis own the other big casino. They’re the accusers. Just keep in mind there’s some kind of feud between the two families, so it’s hard to tell what’s really going on. Don’t contact the local sheriff in Tahoe when you get there. He doesn’t know about you and he may be tight with Coleman.”
    Fine with me. I’d had enough of local sheriffs for a while.
    Sipping at the beer, I scrolled through the rest of the new headers. A couple of notes from friends. As usual, nothing from Sylvia. No answer to my last message. Maybe she never got it. That was always a possibility that kept me wondering. But I guessed she had, and was still hiding silently in her safe little house. Hiding from me down in that rash-spot village on the ass-end of Dixie, a million miles from anything.
    I punched off and found a wall outlet that shot a spark at me but at least worked, plugged in my charger and hooked the lasers up. No telling how much privacy I’d have on the job, and I wouldn’t stay undercover long if someone saw me charging a state-of the art laser.
    I lay back on the lumpy bed. Nothing to do but think about where I was going.
    A casino. Sounded like fun. The atmosphere, the sounds, the excitement. I’d done jobs in Sierra before and spent my share of time in the Tahoe casinos, but I’d never worked in one.
    I finished the LaCrosse, unwrapped the wrist brace and wiggled my hand. Much better. Back in the mildewed bathroom, I took a long cooling shower in rusty water, colder than my tears, singing a few torch songs for Sylvia. Including my own composition, “Every Day.” I sang that one three times. “You’re only memory and grief… I’ll face the West and say goodbye…” But I knew I never really would. I wondered again if there was a difference between love and obsession, and whether it mattered if there was.
    * * *
    The rain stopped completely sometime during the night. I woke up sweating in the silence, shreds of a dream forcing me out of bed to the light and the dresser mirror to make sure it was only sweat and not my life bleeding out of me. It took a while to fall back asleep and if I dreamed again I wasn’t aware of it the next morning.
    The motel offered stale rolls and weak tea, but it was good enough compared to what I had left: