For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,48

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“Hi, Sweetie,” I said.

“Is everybody okay?” The mother lion was in no mood to be called “Sweetie.”

“As far as I know. They’re not home yet.”

“Then what are you doing in the car?”

“If you’ll shut up for a minute, I’ll tell you!” She did, and I did.

“Wow,” Abby said when I was done.

“Yeah, wow,” I agreed. “So, can you get home a little early? Miriam doesn’t mind watching the kids for awhile, but you know how Ethan’s been. . . and I forgot to tell Miriam he can’t play Nintendo, so if you find him up there. . .”

“We’ll let it go until I get home,” she said. “I’m out of here at four.”

“Real four, or Abby-four?”

“Don’t be funny, Aaron, or I’ll be forced to withhold sex. And you know how cranky you get when that happens.”

“Yeah, like you could.”

“Let me know what you find out.” And she hung up. Probably someone walked into her office and asked her why she was having erotic conversations on company time.

Motoring along on the Garden State Parkway, an hour and a half from Atlantic City, it occurred to me that I might call Westbrook and let him know what I’d found out. But since I’d gotten such a prompt response to my similar request, I decided he could wait.

He could wait until I found out what was on the other end of this highway, on a peninsula where there’s gambling, cheap buffets, high-class entertainment, and the Miss America Pageant. And, it would seem, Madlyn Beckwirth.

Chapter 2

Atlantic City, New Jersey is a town badly in need of a lithium prescription. Its manic side features all the same thrilling high spots found in Las Vegas—gambling, drinking, all-you-can-eat buffets, elaborate productions with topless women, prostitution—without the class, if you can believe that.

Its depressed side, which is where the actual residents of Atlantic City live, has abject poverty, violence, domestic desperation, and drugs. So when you’re visiting, stay close to the water, which is manic, and away from the land, which is depressed. Unless you happen to like abject poverty, violence, domestic desperation, and drugs.

At about 4:15 that afternoon, I was sticking close to the water. I had driven like a madman on the way here, forcing myself to stay below 85 mph in the ’97 Saturn we had bought (used) the year before. The sun wasn’t even beginning to set yet, as the days were beginning to lengthen some, so my view of the Atlantic Ocean was clear. I realized somewhere around Camden that I’d forgotten to MapQuest myself into Bally’s itself, but that proved not to be much of a problem. Once you’re in Atlantic City itself, the casinos all make a very strong effort to ensure that you can’t miss them, and Bally’s was no exception. There were signs about every eight feet.

So I drove into the parking lot, which like most of the casino lots was large and underused. On my way to the hotel’s main lobby, I first had to pass through the casino, and since I had all of $14 in my pocket, did my best to resist the lure of the slot machines, blackjack tables, and $4 Diet Cokes.

I also wanted to avoid the front desk, which is where they ask questions and alert guests to unexpected visitors, so I adopted my patented “I-Know-Where-I’m-Going” face and marched at an accelerated clip toward the elevators. This led to some confusion, since there are several banks of elevators at the casino, and they go to several separate banks of floors. I rode up and down to the ninth floor before I figured out exactly where I was going and how to get there.

A mere fifteen minutes later, I was on the twenty-second floor, trying to decipher the signs posted to help mentally challenged visitors like myself find the room they’re looking for. These are, of course, the same rooms in which most room searchers would actually be staying, but after an active night in the casino with all the complimentary drinks, it can be hard to remember where you’re going.

The carpet, although thick, was a bit squishy, and of course red, since red appears to be the official color of gambling casinos worldwide. I’ve never been to the casino at Monte Carlo, but I’ll bet you it’s heavily decorated in red. That’s how you can tell the casinos are in the black.

There were a number of things to be thankful for in this hotel. For one, there was no enormous oil portrait of