Chava had one very special talent that made her an exceptional poker player. She could count cards. Casino owners frown on card counters—or “advantage players,” as they call them, since it shifts the advantage from the house to the player. A few years ago, I learned Chava had counted cards one too many times at a particular casino, been escorted out by large, intimidating men, and instructed to never darken their doorway again.
“Let me guess: you’ve been eighty-sixed from another casino and it involved large men whose fists made contact with your eye.”
“Not exactly.”
“So, what, exactly?”
Chava had a tell I could read a mile away when she wasn’t being honest with me. I watched as her tongue tapped against the corner of her mouth, the tip flicking against the skin of her lips like a lizard testing the air.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I wasn’t exactly eighty-sixed from a casino,” she said, tucking her tongue back inside her mouth, “I was eighty-sixed from Vegas.”
“The entire town? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“I wish I were.”
“So go to Reno.”
“I think it extends to the entire state of Nevada.”
“The entire state of ….” I sank back on the bench seat and stared at the stack of pancakes growing cold on the plate. As I pondered the enormity of the situation, a little voice spoke up in my head, telling me what Chava was really after.
“You aren’t just here for a visit, are you?”
“I thought I could stay with you until I figure something else out.”
“I don’t want to live with you.”
“What kind of way is that to treat your mother?”
“The kind of way I learned from my mother.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You aren’t exactly the maternal type. You never really took care of me. Why should I take care of you?”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“What, the truth?”
“I did the best I could as—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. I’ve heard the line before. Poor you, struggling along, a single mother, a teenager, with a kid to take care of. Did it ever occur to you a child doesn’t like to hear what a burden they are on their only parent?”
“You know I never meant it that way.”
What other way could she have meant it?
“Why don’t you go somewhere else where there’s gambling? Laughlin? Atlantic City? New Jersey doesn’t allow casino owners to toss card counters; you’d do fine there.”
“Would it really be so bad to have me live with you for a little while? You have the room. I won’t—”
“What? Be a burden?”
Chava had the decency to blanch at my comment. I guess hearing it about herself wasn’t as easy as saying it about me. She did have one thing right, however: I had the room. And she was my mother. I could feel myself beginning to cave.
Chava could feel it too.
“Your pancakes are getting cold. Let’s just finish dinner and we can talk about it again in the morning.”
My stomach growled. I had to admit the pancakes were pretty tasty, and having food made for me was awfully nice. I poured on a little more syrup and took another bite.
Chava saved the pancakes cooking on the griddle. They were a little brown, but not burnt, so she slathered them with butter, poured syrup, and took a bite.
“I’m sorry about your eye. Did it hurt?”
“You should see the other guys,” Chava said as her humor returned.
“I’m being serious. You could really get hurt one day tangling with casino security, more than just a black eye.”
Chava shrugged away my concern and changed the subject.
“So, how was your day?”
I rolled my eyes at the cliché conversation starter, but I had to give her credit for trying.
“Not bad. I finished up a few things.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You wouldn’t be interested,” I said, unwilling to let go of the righteous indignation I’d built up at Chava crashing my home.
“I’ll bet I would. I always wonder exactly what it is you do.”
“You hate that I’m a PI.”
“I hate the thought you could be in danger. The fact you’re a PI just makes me proud.”
I looked hard at the corner of her mouth, but her tongue stayed firmly planted behind her teeth. It never occurred to me Chava might worry about my wellbeing.
“I always figured you’d be the best PI around. You were good at everything you did.”
“That is so not true! I was a total disaster at ballet, piano, roller skating—”
“Yeah, but you never really tried at those. Look how good you were at karate and track and field. Those things mattered to you and you excelled.”
Now I had two pieces of information to puzzle over. Chava worried about me and she noticed what I was good at. It was a day for surprises.
I decided to take a chance and tell her about the death of Deirdre Fox.
“So you were taking pictures of her affair with a married man one minute, and the next minute someone is stuffing her lifeless body into a hole in a wall?” Chava said.
“Pretty much,” I said, feeling even worse about Deirdre’s fate than I had before.
Maybe telling Chava about my case had been a mistake.
I didn’t fill her in concerning my past relationship with Chance Parker. I didn’t even mention his name. Chava had an uncanny ability to discern exactly how you felt about a person by how you said their name. I wasn’t interested in hearing her speculate about my feelings for Chance, especially as I wasn’t sure myself.
“Maybe that girl lived up to her name,” Chava continued, proving my point about her obsession with appellations. “Her mother never should have named her Deirdre.”
“What’s wrong with Deirdre?” I asked, eyeing a mother who had named her child Edwina.
“It means ‘woman of sorrows.’ Who would name her child that?”
“What does Edwina mean?”
“Edwin means ‘wealthy friend.’ ”
“Isn’t Eduardo really Edward in English?”
“Would you have wanted me to name you Edwardina?”
She had a point.
“How do you know what Deirdre means?” I asked.
“It’s from an old Irish legend.”
I sat back in my seat, staring at my mother.
“What? I read,” Chava said.
“It’s not that. You just asked a very good question. Who would name her child Deirdre?”
I didn’t think too much about the meaning of the name. Deirdre’s mother probably didn’t even know about some old Irish legend. What struck me was I knew nothing about Miss Fox. Perhaps her death had nothing to do with the affair or my client. More importantly, maybe there wasn’t something I could have done to prevent it.
Or maybe I could use it to my advantage somehow with Kendra.
“What are you thinking?” Chava asked after I remained quiet for a few moments.
“That I need to do some research into the woman of sorrows.”
“Won’t that interfere with the police investigation?”
“Not at all,” I said with a confidence I didn’t quite feel.
What could possibly go wrong?