Drawing Dead (2 page)

Maybe, he said, swirling the ice in his double scotch.

Come on, I said. You telling me you never wanted to be a big shot? Everybody wants to be a big shot.

Not me, man, said Butch, shaking his head slowly. Really. I never cared about that shit. Never. I like the job. The real job. Catching bad guys. That stuff. I don’t know. There’s got to be a better way.

To make a living? There’s no good way to make a living. Marry rich, live high. That’s the only ticket.

Yeah, but then you have to put up with her.

There’s that. I’ve never given up the dream, though.

A couple of scotches later, Brendan showed up. Took a stool. Said sorry for being late. Told us some story that had to do with ginger ale, enemas and prosthetic devices. I smiled politely. It was probably a funny story, but Brendan told it all wrong. He was a terrible storyteller. Butch gave him the big baritone chuckle. Butch is a nicer guy than me.

We took a corner table to eat. Butch in the center seat. He liked to have command of the room. That authority thing. Brendan took the corner, back to the wall. Something about abject insecurity. I took what was left. Something about my life.

So guys, I said. You know I quit the firm …

Tell us something we don’t know, said Butch.

You did? said Brendan.

I did, I repeated for Brendan’s benefit.

Apparently he’d missed the news. Been living in some fetid cave off the Polynesian coast for the last few months, or something.

Does Polynesia have a coast? I asked.

They were used to my non sequiturs. So we considered that question for a while. We decided the answer was yes, and no.

I had to quit, I said, getting back on message. Jesus, the place was going down the tubes anyway. FitzGibbon was the firm’s best client. And he just got pitched off a thirty-third-story balcony. And his heirs are all in jail, or dead.

And it was all your fault, said Butch.

About as much as yours, buddy, I replied. No, it wasn’t all our fault. Just some of it. But that was more than enough for Warwick. So I decided to preempt him. Told him to go fuck himself.

Got to tell the Man to fuck off once in a while, said Butch.

Easy for you to say, I said.

Yeah, he said. I have no responsibilities.

You don’t have a child to support, I said. And an ex-wife’s grave to maintain.

Brendan cringed. It was his sister’s grave, too.

Sorry, man, I said to him. That’s just me. Humor to cover up the pain and all, you know.

It’s okay, said Brendan.

It was always okay with Brendan. That was part of his problem.

A life of endless trauma will do things to you. It made me feel bad. But I didn’t know what I could do about it. I didn’t even know if it was my job to do anything about it. I mean, was I my ex-brother-in-law’s keeper? He ain’t heavy, he’s my ex-brother-in-law? Didn’t really have that ring to it.

Damn. Where was my shrink when I needed her?

So, I said, trying to head off the impending gloom, what’re we gonna do?

We? said Butch.

Yeah, I said. We. Me, you, Brendan. I thought we were a team.

Damn it, Redman, said Butch, you are a presumptuous mother-fucker.

That’s why you love me, I said.

Brendan laughed. It wasn’t that funny a line. But that was Brendan, too. When he laughed, it always seemed like he was laughing at something else. Something far away. Out of reach.

So, I said. I have an idea.

Shoot, said Butch.

You guys can join my outfit.

Outfit? said Butch.

Outfit, I said. It’s called The Outfit.

What the fuck are you talking about?

Listen, just think about it. No, forget thinking. Just listen. I’m a lawyer. I’ve done some criminal stuff. Some sick divorces. All sorts of shit. I have some skills. Some contacts.

Sure, said Butch.

Sure, said Brendan.

Butch, you’re a cop.

Detective, to you.

Better yet. You’re a detective. You know the ropes. The technical shit. You have your own connections.

I see where you’re going.

Brendan was sinking into his chair.

And Brendan, I said, with perhaps a touch too much obvious cheer. You’re the perfect undercover guy.

He straightened up a bit.

Sure, I said. Nobody would ever think you’re a cop or anything. You’re an actor. A carpenter. You’ve been around. Lived in different places. You can be anybody, any time.

Sure, he said. Yeah. I can do that.

So. It’ll be our outfit. Investigations, enforcement. Whatever comes along. Once we get it going, Butch, you can quit your job. Brendan and me, we don’t have anything to quit. We can start right away.

Rick, said Butch, it’s not that simple. You got to establish some credibility, get a client base. And it’ll cost more than a shingle and a pole to hang it on. You got to set up an office, make it look nice. Get a receptionist. And you got to have a license to do some of that shit.

So, we’ll call it something else, until we get a license. Hey, I’m still a lawyer. It’ll be a law firm, to start. And the thing of it is, we can go to the World Series of Poker. Qualify in satellites. Win big in the Main Event. Use the proceeds to set up shop.

Vegas, said Brendan. I’m there.

You gotta be kidding me, said Butch. There were eight thousand players in the Main Event last year. More this year, probably. And about eight hundred of them are probably better players than any of us.

Brendan lost his smile.

Okay, okay. We’re not going to win the Main Event. Probably. But there’s three of us. Any one of us could go deep. Get to the serious money. We’ll make a pool of ourselves. If we lose, we lose. If we win, it’s a bonus. And anyway, how can we lose in the cash games? The place’ll be rank with tourists.

You got a point there, anyway.

I know I do. I’ve thought this through. Is it a deal?

Rick, said Butch.

Ye s, Detective?

I know what you’re doing.

You do?

Sure. And so do you.

Just what might that be, Detective Butch?

You’re going to play poker. And use this outfit shit to pretend you’re doing something productive.

Damn, Butch, I said. Now I know why they promoted you.

He gave me a small bow.

So anyway, I said. Say that’s true. Anything wrong with it?

Nope.

So is it a deal?

Butch put his elbows on his knees. Lowered his head. I watched his scalp twitch.

Well? I said.

I got some vacation coming, he said, his head still down.

That’s a yes, I said.

Yeah, that’s a yes, he said, lifting his head and smiling his big Butch smile. You crazy bastard.

Deal, Brendan?

For sure, he said.

It was a deal.

I
CALLED MY SHRINK
. I needed her permission for the Vegas trip.

She was sitting on her recliner, as always. I sprawled facing her on the matching leather couch, also as always. She was wearing some kind
of loose neo-hippie pantaloon item. Clunky sandals. And a billowy blouse thing of indeterminate but definite ethnicity. Her hair was graying, in that nice Upper East Side way. Made you feel comfortable.

What she lacked in style, she made up in compassion.

Which is what I was paying for.

Sheila, I said.

I liked to call her by her first name. I knew it bugged her. She liked to keep the proverbial professional distance. It was the only liberty I took with her, though. She was the best. And I needed all the help I could get. I couldn’t afford to alienate her.

Yes? she said without a trace of disapprobation.

I’m going to Vegas.

You’re going to Vegas.

Yes. I need your permission.

You don’t need my permission.

Yes I do.

You don’t. You’re an adult. You don’t need anyone’s permission.

My daughter’s?

Kelley? She’s in college. You don’t need her permission.

Maybe not. But I need yours.

No, you do not.

Yes I do, I insisted. I mean, do you think it’s all right?

Is what all right?

I explained The Outfit thing. My new life. The World Series of Poker.

I do have some concerns, she admitted.

That’s more like it, I said.

I thought we were making some progress.

I agree.

How long will you be gone?

Just a week or two. Maybe. It depends. We need to qualify for the Main Event first. The entry fee is ten thousand bucks. Ridiculous. But they have these mini-tournaments, satellites, they’re called. You can buy in small, a hundred bucks. Work your way up to a thousand-dollar table. Win that one, you have your entry fee. Or they have these mega-satellites. Small buy-in, huge field. You go there early, before all the pros get there. It’s all tourists. Easy. I did it last year.

Perhaps we can talk by phone while you’re there.

Sure. I like that. You can’t see me twitch.

She laughed softly.

But, she said.

But.

But the obvious. We’ve made some progress. You’ve been moderating some of your self-destructive behavior. You know the drill. You’re supposed to avoid temptation. New stresses. Big changes. It sounds like this is all of those.

I can handle it, I said. It’s only a couple of weeks, probably. Listen, I’m different, you know. I can do anything I put my mind to. I can do this.

Of course you can. Everything is possible. I don’t want to deny you that. But why take the chance?

Because I love to take chances?

You’re doing it again.

Yes, I know, I know. Using humor to evade dealing with the real issues. With reality. Yes. Of course. But I really can do this.

You’re an adult, Rick, she said.

I knew that wasn’t true.

But I took it as permission anyway.

If she was going to call me an adult, she’d just have to live with the consequences.

T
WO WEEKS BEFORE
V
EGAS
. We decided to bone up, play the toughest games in town. Brendan and I went to Fast Vinnie’s. Vinnie—that wasn’t his real name, of course—was a short, scrawny guy with a thick accent of some indeterminate kind, a pockmarked face, greasy receding hair. Always in motion. He talked up a streak. Half the time you couldn’t understand a thing. That’s why they called him Fast.

The game was in a two-story apartment in a brownstone on the Upper East Side. The place was pretty nice, as illegal poker joints go. There were only two tables, one downstairs and one up. And they weren’t the usual cheesy articles that guys who run games in New York City always seem to have—shaky aluminum-tube things with felt that comes off in clumps under your fingernails. They were good solid oak tables. And Vinnie always had a couple hot ladies there to serve drinks,
order in food or run to the corner store for smokes. And good dealers. Fast and efficient.

The only problem with Vinnie’s game was there was usually a bunch of Russians there. Now, I’ve got nothing against Russians in general. But these guys, I don’t know. You hear about the Russian mafia. If these guys weren’t the Russian mafia, there isn’t any Russian mafia.

There was Vitaly. Mr. Dumpling. Razor-cut hair with a bald spot, shaved up too far in the back, every part of his face—nose, chin, cheeks, ears—looking like another pair of chubby ass-cheeks. Never saw the guy smile, or say a word in English other than raise, check, fold. This was the guy, you figured, did the dirty work. And there were these two guys, Anatoly and Andrei. Always seemed to be there. Anatoly was tall and thin. Wore leather vests and a soul patch. Andrei was short and round. Smoked small cigars. His fingernails bitten to the bone. They were always sitting next to each other at the table, nudging and mugging and talking in Russian between hands.

You wanted to complain about it, but you couldn’t. An English-only rule applies when you’re involved in a hand. Standard practice, to prevent collusion. But when you’re not in the hand, you can speak Esperanto if you want.

Of course, guys don’t have to talk to each other to cheat. You can spot it, sometimes, when it’s badly done. Hand signals: place your fingers on the left side of your face, you have an Ace in your hand, like that. Or series of coded signals. Like the baseball manager signaling the third-base coach to signal the hitter. But that kind of stuff’s not easy to get away with, in a good game. Good players, they’re always watching you for the slightest tell, the smallest change in your regular pattern. More effective, you can shuffle your chips in a certain way, place them on your cards in precoded patterns. Upper left, you’ve got a pocket pair. Lower right, you’ve got rags. Whatever. Endless variations.

There are those who say that two guys colluding once in a while at a full table can’t really change your results that much. But tell that to the guy who gets soaked out of a couple grand when his big bluff doesn’t work, because Anatoly knows from Andrei that the scare card the guy’s representing—the Ace of hearts on a four-heart board, say—was in Andrei’s since-mucked hand. It doesn’t have to happen that often to put a serious dent in your profit rate. Not to mention your mood.

I watched Anatoly and Andrei, behind my wraparound shades. But if they were doing something, they were doing it well. There was nothing I could pin on them. They just had that air about them. They found each other very amusing. But only in Russian. In English they were stone-faced.

They bugged my ass.

Brendan got along fine with the Russkies, though. Brendan got along fine with everybody. That innocent air of his made everybody want to like him. It helped that it also made them think he couldn’t play poker.

The savvy guys figured out soon enough he could play pretty damn good. But the fish would put it down to luck. And you want to be nice to the fish. Don’t tap the aquarium.

Evgeny was another Russian guy in the game. A different kind of Russian. Evgeny was a fish. And he wasn’t just another fish, another guppy or goldfish. Not even a tuna. Evgeny was a big, special kind of fish. The biggest, best kind of fish. A whale. A fish with a lot of money. Dead money, you called it. You could latch on to a whale, buddy up to him, get him to play your table regular, you could live off the guy for years.