Read an extract from The Gambler by J.P. Pomare

REID

NOW

DUSK WAS FALLING, that sad grey hour between daylight and streetlight. The blacktop hummed beneath the wheels of the Camry, and with an hour of prairieland still ahead of me, I found myself thinking about the interstate network. Other than twenty-four-hour diners with bottomless black coffee and surly wait staff, the interstate has got to be the best thing about this country. Eisenhower’s project connected up all the states, making it possible to navigate every corner of this great land with ease. The beauty was its simplicity.  Suddenly anyone could get almost anywhere. Many things changed with the advent of the interstate network, but two things stand out. One, there was an explosion in hitchhiker numbers, and two, it ushered in a golden age for serial killers. If you wanted to cross state lines and kill someone, it got a lot easier.

Today, without using a map or GPS, I headed down through Columbus, before passing through Indianapolis on the I-70 where the outlook is rolling green fields dotted with horses, cows and big red barns. I’m on my way to Paris, Illinois, where I’m visiting an old friend, Nick Lark. 

Nick has known me since I was a baby. He worked with my father. He knew my mother. I’ve never had a mentor, but Nick’s about as close as I’ve got to one. Years ago when I finished up as a cop, he reached out, said someone with my skills could land on their feet as a private investigator. Nowadays, Nick is retired, but he told me he’s got a job for me. Something too good to pass up, he said. 

When I arrive, I turn into the long driveway. The headlights wheel out over the expanse of flat pasture , first catching the cows and their shining eyes gathered in the paddocks before passing over the low-forking white oak. The porch light is on, and as I pull up I see the screen door open and Nick steps out onto the deck, with
feet apart and hands on hips.

Nick Lark could have walked straight out of the pages of a Raymond Chandler novel. He is famous for being completely invisible as a tail, could follow you from Seattle to Tampa, know every meal you had, how much you spent on gas and probably what songs were on the radio for the trip. And you? Well, you wouldn’t notice a thing. A real gumshoe. He looks the part too, his face both jaunty and hangdog – a midwestern Churchill minus the bowler hat but partial to a waistcoat in his old age. 

‘Well, who’d have guessed we would have a bonafide celebrity darken our door, but here we are,’ he says, extending his hand. 

I look at him a moment, and the tension from sitting for hours in the car just disappears. When I accept his handshake, he jerks me into a hug, thumps my back. Still strong as an ox.

‘Been a while,’ I say.

‘Sure has. Come on in. May’s got supper on.’

‘You didn’t wait to eat?’ I ask, feeling a sting of guilt. ‘Not for me.’

‘Of course we did. We don’t need to be up early.’

‘But you will be.’

He laughs. ‘Suppose we probably will, yes. You will too if our rooster has his way.’ 

I glance at my phone screen. It’s after nine. ‘You shouldn’t have waited. A bed is good enough for me.’

‘Won’t you zip it? We stayed up to eat with you. And I need to tell you about this job, don’t I?’

The house is expansive, wood-panelled. A throwback to the eighties, but perfectly preserved as if it was built yesterday. He leads me through to the kitchen.

‘May,’ I say. She hugs me. ‘Good to see you, Reid.’

‘Go and sit. I’ll put the steaks on,’ Nick says.

May takes me into the dining room, where on the oak table, placemats match the coasters and tall candles burn. She carries the faint scent of lavender oil, and has that sort of gentleness and a wholesome smile that probably had strangers confessing things in the grocery-store line. The TV is off and I spot a spy novel facedown on the arm of a recliner.

‘He normally up this late?’ I say.

‘Not normally, no,’ she says. ‘But he was excited to see you. Not much happens for us out here these days, Reid.’

‘He miss it,’ I say, ‘being on the job?’

‘He does. I think he’s still learning how to be retired. But he likes the farm enough, and he’s got more time to head up the mountains to go fishing.’

‘He’d never take on another job?’

‘I wouldn’t let him,’ she says. She pulls a seat out for me, and seats herself across the table. I sit too. ‘He’s still got his hobbies, out here. Still got his gadgets.’

I see a desk in the corner with scalpels, needles, small pots of liquid. Nick’s always had a thing for taxidermy, preserving rac coons, opossums, and sometimes larger creatures. 

‘Now tell me about this man,’ she says.

‘What man?’

‘Nick says you got a boyfriend now.’

‘Oh,’ I say, my eyes coming back to her. ‘Yeah, I guess I do. Peyton.’

‘What does this Peyton do?’

‘He’s a student.’

‘A student?’ she says, bringing her hand to her chest in mock outrage.

‘Now, May, I’m not cradle snatching,’ I say with a smile. ‘He’s post-grad, twenty-nine. Met him back in Manson.’

‘How long’s it been?’

‘A year and a half,’ I say, thinking about how quickly the time has passed.

‘It’s going well?’

‘I really like him and for some reason he seems to really like me too.'

I can smell the steak and my stomach tightens. I need some good hearty food. I had three coffees today: two at home, one from the machine at a Sunoco service station. A donut from the same said Sunoco. A shake from Dairy Queen at a strip mall in Martinsville. Peyton would cringe.

Nick comes through carrying three plates. He’s loaded them up with golden roasted potatoes, peas, biscuits and gravy, and, of course, three thick steaks. He places the meals down and takes a seat at the table. Nick tilts his head as he cuts the steak, getting a read on the pink inside. I note the way the march of time has stamped the last of the black out of his hair so only a white-grey remains. 

‘God damn, how are you so lean?’ I say, eyeing Nick.

‘Pilates,’ he says.

May gives a loud hoot of laughter. Nick’s laughing descends into a coughing fit. He covers his mouth with his fist and May stands to move his water glass closer. He recovers, takes a sip.

‘Thanks for this,’ I say, nodding at the plate. ‘And for putting me up.’

‘Bed’s yours until you’ve finished the job.’

‘If I take the job on,’ I say, reaching for my knife and fork.

‘You’ll need to tell me a little more about it.’

‘Well, like I said on the phone, Reid, it’s the easiest ten grand you’ll make in your life.’

‘I’ll believe it when I see it, and I’m more selective now. Peyton doesn’t want me doing anything too dangerous.’ 

He scoffs. ‘Well, he will like this one then.’

I scratch the back of my neck, look down at the plate. The tiny patch of red steak juice that’s stained the mash.
‘Ten thousand bucks for what will likely be a week’s work. The family contacted me directly. There was a shooting at a rally up there in Champaign.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m not touching that.’

‘Let me finish,’ he says.

‘It’s too high profile. I don’t want high profile. I just want something straightforward.’

‘Reid, you could do this with your eyes closed. They just want to know why a sixty-year-old woman got in her car and drove to that rally and started shooting.’ 

‘Simple as that,’ I say, my voice thick with sarcasm.

‘Well, you can lead a horse to water,’ he says.

I’d read about the shooting in the paper a month ago, and after my last big case in Manson, my hometown, I’d sworn off high-profile public cases.

‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I want to do this case myself. I’d give anything to take it on. It’s interesting and it’s safe. That woman, the shooter, she was killed at the scene. It’s just a matter of looking at her life and reporting back to the family of the victim.’

‘It was a shooting at a political rally.’ 

‘Only one person died along with the attacker,’ he said. ‘It was in the news for a day. I’d feel bad you driving all the way out here without even having a look at it. And they’re expecting you tomorrow.’

I place my cutlery on my plate. ‘I’m glad I came, gave me a reason to come visit you both, but I don’t think I can take this one on. I’ll call them in the morning and tell them.’

Nick’s face falls. ‘Sleep on it, Reid. Don’t just say no, alright.’