Page 19 of Spade

Selene drained her whiskey, set the glass down so soft it barely kissed the bar. “You said you weren’t here for a drink,” she said. “First weekend—she was on the premises the entire time. Poker Friday. Maintenance on the bikes Saturday, all day. On Sunday, we opened up for a charity event. You can check the logs; we have security sign-in.”

I nodded, made a note I wouldn’t need. “Second weekend?”

“A run out to Laughlin for a meet-up. Back by midnight Saturday. No stops except for fuel. I drove the lead vehicle, and Spade was behind me the whole time.” She rolled a matchstick in her fingers, one end now stained whiskey-amber. “Sunday, again, on the premises. Brunch for the membership. Bloody Marys, eggs Benedict, gossip. Not a single murder the entire time.”

That was bullshit. They were a one-percent club, and murder was their MO. I kept writing, eyes up. “The third weekend?”

Selene’s lip twitched. “Third weekend, Spade had a discipline issue to settle. She and two others went up to Boulder City Saturday afternoon. Stopped at the Pilot Travel Center, then straight to the destination. Back here by six. She never left the others’ sight.”

“Who were the two with her?”

“Joker and Aces. If you want their full names, I can get you the roster.” She didn’t offer to do it now, because she knew I’d have to come back for it.

“Please do,” I said. “I’ll need timestamps from the gas station, too. Can you get those?”

“I can ask.” It was a non-answer, but she delivered it with the confidence of someone who controlled the yes-or-no on the other end.

I leaned in, just enough to break the surface tension. “So, what I’m hearing is, you’re her alibi. That’s pretty fucking convenient.”

She took a beat, then said, “I’m her President. That’s better than an alibi.”

I didn’t smile, but I let my tone soften. “All this is just a formality, you understand.”

“Of course.” She angled her chin, just a fraction, as if making room for the word she wanted to wedge in next. “But you’re not here for the formality, are you? You want to know if she’s your guy.”

I set the pen down. “I want to know what she’s capable of.”

Selene laughed, a bright, almost childlike sound, so out of tune with the room that the card players at the far table looked up. “Everyone in here is capable of something, Detective. Otherwise, what’s the point of a club?” She splayed her hands, inviting me to look around. “None of us are choir girls.”

I let my eyes drift, as instructed. The woman with the cards was watching us over the top of her hand, eyes black as olives and just as unreadable. The mop guy was gone, replaced by a thin, bearded kid wiping down the slots with bored efficiency. In the corner, near the garage door, Spade was standing with her shoulder to the support column, not hiding but holding perfectly still, as if she’d discovered the trick of being invisible by not moving at all. Our eyes met for a split second, and the feeling was electric. Not a spark, but the hum of live wires just under the floor.

I let Selene see me looking, then went back to the notepad. “If I want to talk to her, can I set that up?”

“She’ll come to you when she’s ready. That’s how we do things here. Now, if there’s nothing else.”

I nodded, then closed the pad. “I appreciate the candor.” I started to stand, then paused. “One last thing.” I pointed with my pen, casual as possible. “That jacket, on the back of the stool. SGT AT ARMS. Spade’s?”

Selene didn’t even look at it. “Thirty members. A lot of gear lying around.” But her left hand closed slightly on the edge of the bar.

“Right,” I said. “But hers is the only one with the patch sewn in black thread instead of gold.” I smiled. “Just something I noticed.”

Selene didn’t answer, but the smile she gave me was all teeth now, and none of it friendly.

I left without further word, letting my boots echo across the floor. The moment I was out of line of sight, the card game started up again, like a button had been pushed. I could picture Selene, pouring another drink, maybe making a phone call, or maybe just replaying every word I’d said, looking for the piece she’d missed.

Through the frosted glass of the front door, I caught Spade’s silhouette, sharp as a knife cut. She didn’t follow, didn’t move to intercept, just stood there until the shadow of my own body pulled away from the glass and into the white Nevada glare.

I got in my car and wrote it up from memory, every word, every flicker of gesture, until my hand cramped.

Then I drove out to Boulder City and found the Pilot Travel Center. I bought a black coffee and sat in the parking lot for an hour, waiting for the sun to go down.

The call would come, sooner or later. They always did.

8

Spade

“Someone’s in deep shit,” Marley, one of the prospects, said. “Selene’s got all the officers in church.”