room was silent. Ness turned around and groaned. Little Kell just sitting there, eyes filled with tears, lips in that little pout. Just like old times. It was the pout that always got to him. So helpless …
He walked over and kissed her forehead, letting his lips rest on her cool skin. He’d always been envious of her complexion, not a single pimple or blackhead even during her teenage years. He felt Kelley stroke his cheek tenderly.
“You need a shave,” she said.
“Davida likes me like this.” He pulled away and began to massage her shoulders. “She thinks I look sinister. You’re tight, sis.”
“I’m nervous.”
“Relax.”
“Feels good,” Kelley purred.
“Big brother knows what’s best, right?”
She didn’t answer. God, she was just impossible. Ness said, “What’s the problem, Kell?”
“What did the lady detective want?”
“She wants a couple strands of my hair!” Ness shook his head, laughed, then flopped down on the bed and faced her. “Get this: They want to tissue-type it against the semen sample found on Lilah’s bedsheets. Can you believe it?”
Kelley bit her thumbnail. “What are you going to do?”
“What do you think? I’m gonna give her a sample!”
Kelley was quiet.
“Stop biting your nails.” Ness took her hand and patted it. “Everything’s gonna be ducky, I promise.”
Kelley drew him into an embrace. He didn’t react, then felt his hands snake around his sister’s small waist.
“I love you,” she said.
“I know,” Ness responded. “I love you, too.”
He broke away from her and lay back down. Aw, sweet slumber if only a brief catnap. In a half hour, he was scheduled to lead late-afternoon low-impact aerobics. No jogging, jumping, or bouncing, please. Just lots of marching. Hup two three four, hup two three four, all the little soldiers standing at attention. Firm bodies tar-dipped in black leotards and tights—yes, mama, yes!
“Are you all right, Mike?”
Ness reached out and found Kelley’s hand. “Are you all right?”
Kelley said, “I am if you are.”
“I’m fine … just great! And don’t worry, Kell!” He felt himself grinning. “I guarantee you the sample won’t match!”
The Bridge Emporium was located above a supermarket. Decker hunted around the building’s exterior, looking for a stairway, and found the entrance in the back near the garbage—a warped door stenciled with black letters: EMPORIUM. Behind the door was a flight of steps lighted by a lone bare bulb.
The bridge club must have been a warehouse at one time—about three thousand square feet of open space floored with worn, faded tiles. Bright fluorescent fixtures lighted an expanse filled with tables and chairs and people studying the splay of cards before them. It was hot. A few fans twirled phlegmatically, pushing around stale plumes of cigarette smoke.
Decker scanned the room for someone not involved in the play. In the far right corner, two kids were engaged in a game that utilized dice. Decker could hear the muted sound of cubes tumbling over felt. He walked over and saw that the game was backgammon. The younger of the two boys had acne—not a bad-looking kid, but he obviously never bothered putting any work into his physical appearance. The older one was actually an adult, early or even mid-twenties, but the way he presented himself—his gawky face, his skinny frame in clothes a size too big, black-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose—was more reminiscent of an awkward adolescent. He pushed his glasses up and studied the game board.
“You need something?” Glasses said.
Decker said, “I’m looking for Perry Goldin.”
“Still playing.” Glasses rolled a pair of double sixes—one of the best tosses possible in the game. Neither player reacted. Glasses moved his men into strategic positions. “He’s at his usual spot.”
“What’s his usual spot?”
The younger one said, “One. North.”
“Table one, north position?”
“Yep.” The younger one shook the dice in his cup and let them go. His roll left his men open for the pickings. He frowned and looked up. “He doesn’t take appointments until after the game. You’ll have to wait in line just like the rest of them.”
Decker took out his gold shield. “I’m a detective.”
That got their attention, but only minimally. The older one said, “What’s Goldin wanted for?”
“Felonious finessing,” Decker answered.
Glasses rolled the dice and said, “Ask a stupid question …”
Decker smiled and looked at his watch. “When’s the shindig due to end?”
The younger one checked the clock. “Few minutes at most.”
“Have a seat,” Glasses offered. “You play?”
“Enough to know that if I was betting, I’d bet on you.”
Glasses smiled and rolled another double. The younger one pushed the board aside. “If I didn’t know you, Dave, I’d swear you were using loaded dice.”
“It’s your board, Steve,” Dave said, evenly.
“This is true.”
Steve looked at Decker. “You want to go a round?”
Decker shook his head. “I hear Goldin’s a real bridge bum.”
Dave straightened his glasses. “Perry a bum? He must make a hundred gees a year. His wife’s pulling in another seventy, eighty gees. I reserve my tears for the needy.”
“He makes a hundred gees a year playing bridge?”
“Private tournaments, teaching, renting himself for matches …” Steve shrugged. “Renting is where Perry makes most of his bread. I think his going rate’s a grand a day—”
“What?”
“Lot of rich people out there dying to be life masters,” Dave remarked. “Makes them feel real special.”
Decker pulled out his notebook. “Is his wife a professional bridge player, too?”
“Nope, she’s a lawyer,” Steve said. “She also plays, but Wendy’s strictly amateur. She’s got her gold points, though. Perry made sure of that.”
“And
