Free The Buck Passes Flynn by Gregory McDonald Page B

you think the money came from?”
    Spaulding looked at his whiskey glass for a long time.
    “I don’t know.”
    “You have no idea?”
    “It was just there, lying outside the front door one fine Saturday morning: six little packages all in a row.”
    “What’s your best guess as to where it came from?”
    Quietly, after a long pause, Spaulding said, “I admit … I have wondered about it.”
    A woman was standing next to Flynn. He hadn’t heard her approach.
    Her hair seemed an unnatural shade of red, even in the dark of the bar. She was wearing a long, white evening gown.
    She was staring through the gloom of the bar at Parnell Spaulding.
    She looked the plumb American ranch wife and mother worn out by the merciless noise and lights and spirit of Las Vegas. Her fingers were filthy from feeding coins into the slot machines.
    Her makeup was smeared. Bulbous tears were before her eyes. Her chin quivered.
    “Parn,” she said. “Parney’s dead. Parney’s been killed! That crazy car you gave him …” She wasstruggling to breathe. “That crazy car! Police … Went off the road, rolled over.” She raised her arms and lowered them, slowly. “Parney’s dead! Our boy is dead!”
    The cocktail waitress looked over, snapping her chewing gum.
    Parnell Spaulding had started to get up when he saw his wife, then froze in his seat. He was staring at her now as if he were trying to figure something out.
    Flynn began to stand up, to slide out of the booth. Spaulding’s hand shoved him hard back into the seat.
    Parnell stood over his wife, looking down into her eyes. Flynn watched. Parnell looked as he had at the roulette table while calculating odds.
    A smile played at the corners of Parnell Spaulding’s mouth. A beam of joy came into his eyes.
    “God,” he said hoarsely. “Now You owe me one. A big one. Now, God, You have to let me win.”
    He pushed his wife aside and marched out of the lounge. He went back to the central gambling room.
    Flynn was out of the booth in time to catch Helen Spaulding as she fell toward the floor.
    After a while Flynn led this woman, who said she’d been born into the spirit of Jesus and yet had left the family Bible behind, up to her suite on the eleventh floor, which was like livin’ on a hill.

12
    FLYNN was surprised to find himself being talked to by a computer’s voice.
    He had called the number in Pittsburgh that had been left for him at Casino Royale’s message desk. He said just one word when it answered: “13.”
    After a click that sounded like someone aligning false teeth before speaking, he heard: “Information Requests N.N. 13.
    “What are the known values of oil rights in the area of Ada, Texas?
    “Response: negligible.”
    “Ach,” muttered Flynn. “Bein’ talked to by a machine, I am. Not a hello or a how-are-you this fine day do I get.”
    “Are there valuable oil or natural-gas rights in the area of East Frampton, Massachusetts, including offshore?
    “Response: yes; all such rights have been secured by the Mobil and Exxon corporations.”
    “How are you yourself,” Flynn muttered, “and your mother, the vacuum cleaner?”
    The machine continued: “Has any U.S. agencyconsidered the area of Ada, Texas, as a nuclear-waste-materials dump?
    “Response: no.”
    “And your father, the Broadway taxi?” Flynn asked.
    And the machine continued: “State whereabouts of world’s ten top counterfeiters.
    “Response: Hughie Esbitt, the Yacht Buck, Villefranche, France; Louise Reynick, Villa Caprice, Etel, Switzerland; Cecil Hill, Dascha 11, Solensk, U.S.S.R.; Melville Himes, 11 Wall Street, New York City; Philip Stanley Duncan, Duncan Farms, Willing, Kentucky …” The voice droned on without taking a breath—of course. “… Franco Bonardi, Villa Chicaga, Cagna, Italy; Martin Malloy, 0748266, Federal Prison, Marion, Illinois …” (“Finally,” muttered Flynn.) “… Muir Jacklin, care of American Express, Paris, France; Robert Prozeller, Seaview Nursing