Last Call (Last Call 1)

He walked past the grocery store and the bait shop toward the docks, resisting the impulse to hold his arms out from his sides for balance; walking in high heels on pebbly asphalt was as awkward as walking with ice skates on, and he could feel stage fright sweat rolling down his ribs under his cotton dress. Diana and Nardie had also had to buy a linen dress because Diana handled it, but he hadn't been able to wear it because of the black marks where she'd touched it.

The long white houseboat was moored at the same slip it had occupied twenty-one years ago. Crane stood and stared at it, breathing through his open mouth.

Full circle, he thought. Back again, goes around comes around, dog to its vomit, criminal to the scene of the crime.

He flexed his chilly hands and breathed deeply.

Three grizzled old fishermen were carrying rods and tackle boxes up from the docks, and they stared at Crane as they walked past him.

"There's your date, Joey!" one of them muttered.

"What's the matter, Ed," put in another, "don't you say hi to your mom no more?"

Crane could hear them snorting with suppressed laughter behind him, and he started tottering forward on the clumsy shoes, his face burning under the makeup.

A white El Camino was backed up to the slip, and two young men were unloading open-topped boxes of liquor and soft drinks. Crane looked at the pickup's flank as he approached and was not surprised to see that the El and the capital C had been pried off. Looks like the Amino Acids have found a new King to serve, he thought.

One of them looked up and saw Crane. "Jeezzm," he said, almost respectfully. "Can I help you, Sweet-cheeks?"

Crane had always been good at doing a Brooklyn accent, and he put it on now. "I come to play Poker," he said, waving the Caro book.

"That's what this is all about," said the young man, "and you're in plenty of time. There's only six aboard so far. Just step through the detector."

Crane noticed the two upright plastic poles set up on the dock. "Is that a metal detector?" he asked.

"Sho' nuff."

Oh well, Crane thought, I'm not here to make a big bankroll that someone might want to hijack, and I can't let them go through my purse and find the Lombardy Zeroth deck. He reached into his purse and carefully pulled out his .357 by the barrel and held the Pachmayr grips toward the young man. "I suppose this would set it off."

"Goddamn." The Amino Acid took the gun from Crane. "Yeah, that would, sister. What were you planning to do, exactly?"

"Just self-protection," said Crane. "A girl can't be too careful in these parts."

"Well, you can have it back when you disembark. And if you come back again, leave it at home."

Crane stepped through the metal detector and set off no alarms, then crossed slowly to the edge of the dock and took hold of the boat rail—cringing at the sight of his red-painted nails—and managed to step across onto the stern deck.

Footsteps sounded to his right, and he looked up to see his host standing outside the lounge doorway. Both men flinched.

Georges Leon was still in the body Crane had hit this morning. A thick white bandage rode above the left eyebrow, disarranging the perfectly moussed brown hair, and the eye below it was a glittering sliver between swollen, pewter-colored lids. His slim, muscular-looking body was wearing a tailored white suit, and the gold sun disk still hung over his heart, and Crane could only imagine how much the man must resent the gross injury that ruined the elegant effect.

And he could only imagine what the man thought of this newly arrived player. Crane had resolutely looked at himself in the mirror after Diana and Nardie had got through with him, and he knew that the dress and makeup and socks-stuffed bra were an effective disguise but did not make him look much like a woman.

"My name is Art Hanari," said his host. His voice was a rich baritone.

Crane realized that he had not thought of a name for himself. "I'm Dichotomy Jones," he said at random.

Leon was nodding, not happily. "You've come to play?"

"Yessir! Something called Assumption, I heard?"

"Yes." Leon's distaste for the spectacle that was Crane was evident in the curl of his upper lip. "It's sort of Eight-Card Stud—"

"Somebody already explained it to me," interrupted Crane. "I'm ready to play."

"Go on in and sit down. Have a drink, if you like, and there'll be a buffet soon. We should have thirteen players before long, and then we'll get under way."

Crane got a glass of soda water and lime from the young man—no doubt another of the Amino Acids—who was tending the bar, and he took it to a chair in the corner away from the big round table.