In the Cards(9)

For reasons I can’t pinpoint, I delayed visiting the morgue until this morning. Who on God’s green earth can work there? I can’t fathom the mindset of a person who fancies working with corpses. Even just toiling away in windowless rooms all day seems depressing as hell to me. Of course, casinos don’t have windows, but at least they’re full of hope and activity and good-looking cocktail waitresses.

When I show up, the coroner folds back the body bag to reveal Pop’s face. My stomach lurches at the appearance of his frozen, gray skin. He barely resembles the man I remember. No Cheshire-cat grin, no dimples or pronounced laugh lines. Aside from his pastiness, he’s much older and thinner than I recall, suggesting these past few years weren’t easy ones for him.

We’d lost touch two years ago after I’d caught him using me to perpetuate one of his frauds. Hadn’t heard from him since. Seeing my formerly bombastic pop now lying silent and petrified has me squirming like a worm in hot ashes.

After I identify his body, the cops hand me a plastic shoe box containing his meager personal possessions and walk me toward some private room. How about that? Pop’s whole life reduced to one small box holding a wallet, a watch, a phone, and a gold wedding band. Nothing else left behind to mark his existence—except for me, that is.

I suppose he doesn’t deserve much sympathy, but my chest tightens as I finger the unfamiliar objects in the box. Not much in his wallet. No credit cards. Only a driver’s license, a scrap of paper with my name and address, a folded strip of photos we’d taken at a carnival when I was probably ten or eleven, and some lawyer’s business card.

The photo strip of our chipper faces causes everything, and everyone else, to temporarily disappear.

I don’t have any pictures from my childhood, mostly because there were so few. An outsider looking at these pictures would think Pop was real happy that day. But I know he wore that smile like a costume, so it doesn’t mean anything at all. Seeing myself with a big grin so soon after Mama left—now that surprises me.

Staring at the two of us makes my nose tingle and tears cloud my eyes. I cough and move to conceal my reaction. Pushing the box aside, I squeeze my eyes shut and press my thumb and forefinger against the corners of them to stop the tears. One of the officers clears his throat, so I return my attention to the business at hand.

“Sorry for your loss.” Officer Hopkins taps his finger on the table a few times, then narrows his eyes. “How much do you know about your father’s life, Mr. Hardy?”

Wariness instantly replaces melancholy. Hell if I’ll end up charged as an accessory after the fact to any of his frauds. I may’ve pitted my skills against other card sharks running in Pop’s circle, but I’ve never deceived innocent people. Of course, I never turned Pop in, either. For better or worse, he was my only family and I didn’t want to see him rot in jail.

“Recently? Not much.” I pick at nonexistent lint on my jeans. “We had a falling-out a few years ago.”

“How about historically?” Hopkins leans forward, cocking one brow. “How much did you know about his comings and goings, his occupations?”

I proceed cautiously. “Wanna be more specific?”

“How’d he make money?”

“Here and there.” I pause, considering what to reveal. “He never had a regular job that I can remember.”

“I did a little digging and discovered you’re living quite a high life out there in Malibu.” Before I collect my thoughts, he continues, “Fancy house, fancy vehicles . . . How’d you come by all the money to buy those fancy things?”

The thinly veiled accusation starts a fire in my belly, but I’m not about to let him think he’s intimidating me. Leaning back in my chair, I stretch my legs, cross my ankles, then meet his gaze with a steely one of my own.

“Why don’t you tell me what you suspect?” I link my hands together behind my head.

“I think your father took advantage of people, stole their money, and ruined their lives. I think you know a little something about it, and maybe you were even involved in some of his activities.”

His presumption slashes my pride. I take a deep breath to keep my rage in check.

“Not that it’s your business, but I earned my money working in Vegas nightclubs and winning multiple six-figure poker tournaments.” I lean forward in my chair without breaking eye contact. “Between the two gigs, I was pulling down megabucks for a few years, which I started investing after the markets crashed. The Dow’s nearly doubled since then. Skill, discipline, luck, and timing. That’s how I got the money to pay for my ‘fancy things.’ ” I lift my chin. “I’m no thief.”