Tom’s personal disappointment was tempered immediately by his rapid evaluation of how this desertion would affect the Pinball Kid’s play. His ego might have taken a battering, therefore he might be more cautious at the table. On the other hand, playing with the hand of a beautiful woman on your shoulder might be a distraction. Although it hadn’t proved much of a distraction last time they’d met, thought Tom, with a sour pang.
He didn’t know any of the other players taking their seats at the table. He glanced at them, sizing them up with a single flicker. A Chinese woman, two Latinos in their forties. A girl in her twenties looked up for approval from her boyfriend, who stood behind her, just as excited. Amateurs.
A tall, reed-thin old man, who looked like he’d just walked from Nebraska, slid into his seat and gazed morosely at his two hundred dollars until it disappeared and was replaced with ten stacks of red chips. Then he stared at them as if he couldn’t believe his hard luck already. Tom was wary of him.
The last person to take his seat was Halo Jackson.
*
‘You owe me two hundred dollars.’ Tom walked angrily to his car with Halo a few paces behind him.
‘How come?’
‘My buy-in.’
‘I didn’t ask you to stand up.’
‘I should call the cops.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re stalking me.’
‘I was playing cards in a public place. It’s a free country. How’s that stalking?’
‘What about the phone call? And the photo?’
Halo said nothing. Tom reached his car and opened the door. He turned to Halo.
‘Look, I can’t help you – I really can’t. I wasn’t part of the investigating team, and the report has already been published. To be honest, I’m not part of any investigating team right now. I’m on the outside trying to get back in. Helping you wouldn’t help me to do that, even if I thought I could help you, which I can’t.’
Halo stood resignedly in the humid LA smog. ‘Cos of your trouble?’
‘That’s right.’
Halo gazed off towards where the mountains would be if only the smog would clear. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Me too.’
Tom got into his car. Halo stepped aside so he could pull out of his parking space, but the Buick coughed, caught and then died. He twisted the key again. Same thing. ‘Fuck!’
Halo was hovering, which only made it worse. Tom tried again, feeling the heat rise in his face.
‘Won’t start?’
Tom wanted to punch Halo. Instead, exerting enormous self-control, he got out and flipped up the hood.
‘This is a nice car,’ said Halo, conversationally. He glanced down the battered driver’s side. ‘You should take more care of it.’
Tom ignored him. He knew the Buick was a piece of shit; his father had hated it before him. He slammed the hood down angrily, having barely glanced at the engine, and got out his phone.
‘What you doing?’
‘Calling a cab.’
It was busy. Tom gritted his teeth and hit redial.
‘For a ride?’
‘No. I want it to run me down and put me out of my misery. Or, even better, run you down and put me out of my misery.’
Halo apparently decided to ignore the sarcasm. ‘My car’s right here. I’ll give you a ride. Least I can do.’
The cab number was still busy. Tom snapped his phone shut and glared at Halo. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It is.’
*
Halo’s car was an immaculate pale blue 1977 Mustang. Tom got into the passenger seat, then crossed his arms to show he was in no mood to be grateful.
Halo made a couple of attempts at conversation, which were met with angry silence. They drove to the 710 and headed for Long Beach. Halo sang along to Buddy Holly on the radio, playing with the hiccups and grinning when he got them right. Tom glared at him but without conviction. He couldn’t quite work Halo out and suddenly wondered what kind of poker player he’d have been if they’d stayed. Halo gave the impression of being a flake. His wide, buck-toothed grin and his lazy, hooded eyes made him look like he’d just got high, but Tom knew there must be more to him. Hell, just to qualify for his job he’d have to be a pretty smart guy. Meticulous, organized – and his attention to detail also made him dogged. He’d already shown that in his pursuit of Tom and the rest of the DC Go Team. Right or wrong, Tom admired doggedness like a mall chick admires Miu Miu.
He realized he was veering dangerously close to the rocks of giving Halo an inch, and made up for it by scowling so hard at Halo’s sing-along to ‘Oh Boy’ that Halo gave up and switched to KFI 690. The call-in was ‘My Mother Rules My Life’ and finally Halo and Tom both snorted at the same thing at the same time, and the atmosphere in the car cleared along with the smog, as the Long Beach breeze started to kick in.
‘You mind if I make a call on the way? Something I gotta do.’
Tom shrugged. ‘It’s your car.’
Halo came off the freeway and took a left onto Bellflower. Then he swung a right off the strip onto an immediately residential street, with small but neatly tended front yards behind low chain-links. He pulled half onto the kerb outside one that had blazing flowerbeds but a shaggy lawn. ‘Come in.’
