and ground it to dust under his shoe as he said musingly, “Miley Todd was his name. Never did get what a young pretty girl like that saw in him. The guy cheated and got caught,” he explained to Holt. “Got himself banned from the casinos for life.”
“Billie was clean, though,” Cricket put in.
Jimmy lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, okay, the kid probably was clean. But there’d have been talk. There’s always talk. Rumor and innuendo—you know how it is. Carries a lot of weight in this town.”
“I don’t think that’s why she quit,” the blond dealer said, quick to jump to another woman’s defense. “Billie was tougher than that. Tough as nails. What made her such a good player. If she’d wanted to stay, she would have.”
Jimmy held up a hand. “I’m just sayin’…”
Cricket gave him a dismissive look and focused on Holt. “All I know is, she won pretty big that night—finished in third place—and she took her money and split. That’s the last the poker world saw of her.”
Holt hauled in a breath. “Okay, then, thanks for your time.” He couldn’t turn away fast enough. It was all he could do to keep his disappointment in check, and what he wanted more than anything was to slam his fist into something and cuss until he ran out of words bad enough. To come so close. And now it looked like he was right back at square one. Well, maybe not square one, since at least he had a name and a town.
“Hey,” Cricket called out to him as he was about to open the door of his car, “you asking about Billie, I’m assuming you’re looking to find her, right?”
Holt turned to look back at her. “Yes, I sure am.”
“Well, then, don’t you want to know where she is?”
“Excuse me, miss. Could you help me out here?”
Billie gave the hose nozzle a twist to shut off the water and lifted what she hoped was a helpful smile to the customer who was standing a few feet away with a bedraggled gallon-size Michaelmas daisy in one hand and a fading sedum in the other.
She’d noticed the guy wandering up and down the aisles, first because she’d never seen him before, second because he looked a lot like Clint Eastwood. In his prime. And third, because he didn’t look like the sort of person to be browsing in a nursery on a weekday morning. He was wearing slacks and a sport-type jacket, for one thing, instead of jeans and a T-shirt. He wore a dress shirt with no tie, open at the neck, which gave him a casual, rumpled look in spite of the dressy clothes. Still, he looked out of place, Billie thought. Dirty Harry in a flower shop. And she had a pretty good sense for people who seemed “off” in any way. Her survival, for a good part of her life, had depended on it.
“Sure,” she said, wiping her hands on her blue cotton apron. “What can I do for you?”
He shifted the two pots up and down, like he was trying to gauge their weight.
“I’m looking for something pretty with flowers. These look a little…I don’t know…tired.” He’d put on a smile, but it didn’t look comfortable on him. As if, Billie thought, turning on the charm wasn’t something that came naturally to him.
She studied him covertly from behind her sunglasses. “You’d have better luck with annuals this time of year. We’re starting to get in some cool-weather stuff now. Be more in a week or two.”
“Yeah, but they die, don’t they? I’m looking for something you don’t have to plant new every year.”
Billie shrugged and nodded toward the pots in his hands. “Well, those two you got there are perennials. They’ll come back every year.”
“Yeah…” He said it with a sigh and a disappointed look at the sedum. “I was hoping to find something that looks a little nicer in the pot. Actually, it’s for a gift.” He gave her the smile again, along with an explanation. “My sister’s getting married Saturday. They’ve bought this house here, and it looks pretty bare to me—one of those new subdivisions south of town. I thought maybe I’d get her some plants—pretty it up a bit.”
“Ah, well…fall’s not a good time for perennials. Sorry.” She gave the hose nozzle a twist and turned the spray onto the thirsty crepe myrtles spread out in front of her.
“Look—” The guy set the two pots down next to the crepe myrtles and dusted off his hands. “I hate to be a pain in the ass, but I’m getting kind of desperate here.”
I believe that’s the first truthful thing you’ve said to me. She didn’t say that, of course. She turned off the water and laid the hose carefully aside, out of the pathway, then angled another measuring look upward as she straightened. She could almost feel the guy vibrating, he was so tense. Mister, I hope you’re not planning on playing any poker while you’re in town. You’d lose your shirt.
All her defenses were on red alert. Clearly, the guy wanted something, and she seriously doubted it was potted plants. But if her danger instincts were aroused, so was her natural curiosity—which admittedly had gotten her into trouble more than once in her life.
Who is this guy? What does he want with me?
And most important of all, and the question she really, really needed an answer to: Who is he working for?
Giving the man the smile he seemed to be trying so hard to win, she said, “Well, there’s no need for that. Look, why don’t you go with some kind of shrub? You can get something with some size, so it’ll look impressive up there with all the other wedding presents.”
“Impressive. Okay, I can live with that. So, what’ve you got?”
“Well, let’s narrow it down a bit. First, since you said this house is in a new subdivision, I’m guessing no trees, right? So you’ll need something for full sun. And heat tolerant, obviously—this is Las Vegas.” She turned to walk along the pathway and the man fell in beside her, strolling in a relaxed sort of way, reaching out to touch a leaf as they passed. She gave him a sideways glance. “How do you feel about cactus?”
He winced and laughed, as if she’d made a joke.
“I’m serious. More and more people are going with native plants now to save water. Save the planet—you know, go green.”
“So to speak,” he said dryly, and she found herself smiling and meaning it.
“So to speak.” She nodded, conceding the point. “So, okay, no cactus. Evergreen, or deciduous?”
“Deciduous—uh…that means they lose their leaves, right?”
She looked at him and he grinned to show her he was kidding. This time she tried not to smile back. “You seriously are not a gardener, are you? Where are you from?”
“Nope,” he said amicably, “definitely not a gardener. And I live in L.A., actually.”
“Really. Most people in L.A. have some kind of garden.”
“Not me. Not even a houseplant.” He paused, then added with a shrug, “I’m not home enough to take care of anything living. I’ve got eucalyptus trees and ivy, some bougainvillea—that’s about it. Nature pretty much takes
