But since when did my curiosity and greed ever succumb to my guilt?
I came to several newspaper and magazine clippings, folded and paper-clipped. I smoothed them out. They were business articles, some dating back twenty years, from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, USA Today, Atlanta Magazine, and Business Week.
That’s when I recognized the dead homeless man from the bus stop.
He was heavier in the pictures, and flashier, but it was him—the common denominator in almost every photograph. He wore expensive suits, a slick hairstyle, and a big, plastic grin. Schmoozing with the big dogs. Looked to have been some kind of business mogul in Atlanta.
Most beautiful of all, I had discovered his name: Chester Holte. Maybe, just maybe, my ticket to paradise.
Voices, beyond the door. I slid the stack of money and rings to the side of the box, out of view. Through the window I watched, almost breathlessly, as the black woman escorted a short, elderly man into the vault of safety deposit boxes, eying me through the glass as she turned the corner. I set the lid on the box and waited, feeling the heat in my face and wiping the perspiration from my brow.
Less than a minute later she was at the doorway again, telling the man to let her know if he needed help but peering in at me once more, eyebrows lifted, before turning to head back toward her desk.
Rattled and running on empty after zero sleep, I needed to get out of there. But when I looked back down at the clippings, I stopped. It was a photograph of the man’s wife. Her name was Candice. A tall, shapely, striking brunette, pictured in sequins in one photo and a formal gown in another, with a glowing smile, arm-in-arm with her husband.
My curiosity was in overdrive. What was all this stuff doing in this box? Was it all he had left of his past life? I was sitting on one powder keg of a story, if I chose to pursue it. How did a rich, big cat from Atlanta—married to a sleek gazelle—end up on the streets of Sin City, apparently of his own choosing, with money to burn?
Movement distracted me. The old man, oblivious to me, was tucking an envelope in his coat pocket and shuffling toward the exit in his beige walking shoes.
Something else in the box piqued my interest, confirming that Chester Holte had some business savvy, indeed. Opening up a number of stiff, white stock certificates, I was flabbergasted to learn that he had been the proud owner of hundreds of shares of Atlanta-based stocks, including Coca-Cola and Home Depot. There had to have been enough value in those shares alone for him to have retired a wealthy man.
As I gathered everything up to leave, a different clipping fluttered to the floor—this one sickeningly different from the others, especially its large, severe, blocky headline on soft, yellowing newsprint:
HOLTE PLANE DOWN, WIFE LOST
The photograph showed rescue boats and searchlights scouring the rolling Atlantic. A door to my heart opened, ushering in a heavy robe of shame.
The article was six years old. He had tried valiantly to save her, clinging to part of the Cessna’s wing, disregarding his own fuel burns and fighting savagely to hold on to the love of his life in the frigid waters. But he could not hold on. And Candice had slipped away.
I found Candice’s obituary next. A long one. I put it in my pile of things to take home.
I’d had all I could take for one sitting and didn’t want to press my luck.
About to close the box, I stopped and stared at the impressive stack of money, rings, and other articles, letters, and paperwork I’d set aside to take home.
Don’t do anything stupid. Think it through.
Hesitantly, I returned the money and stock certificates to the box.
I’ll take the rest home, study it, and bring it back.
Snatching up the rings, letters, and clippings, I closed the box, returned it to its slot, held my breath, and gave the woman in customer service a confident nod as I glided breathlessly out of the building.
It was already sweltering. I would need sleep sometime that day, before the night shift.
As I headed west on Charleston I noticed a young, hunchback woman walking in the direction I was driving. The sun shone hard on her back, casting a crisp, stark shadow on her path. She wore a black windbreaker and carried a gallon jug of water in each hand. A quarter-mile farther an old man and woman sat in old lawn chairs at the side of the road beneath a pink blanket they’d hung to protect themselves from the coming sun. Maybe that had been their daughter back there, bringing water for the day.
I’d never taken the time to think about homeless people as human beings before and wondered about the man I’d found at the bus stop. Where did he live? Where were his clothes and possessions? How had he made all that money?
Something had happened after his wife died.
What?
Why had he chosen to live like a bum? Why Las Vegas? Why would someone want to kill him?
I knew me, and I knew I had to find out.
***
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Table of Contents
Praise for Full Tilt
Copyright Information
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
AUTHOR'S NOTE
READER'S GUIDE
NOBODY excerpt