Drawing Dead (22 page)

Though maybe, I thought, with a little convincing …

I sat at the bar. There were the usual number of customers in the tent: none. Good, I thought. We can have a private moment.

So where’s your boyfriend? I asked.

My boyfriend?

Yeah, isn’t he your boyfriend?

Who?

Whoever your boyfriend is.

Are you trying to make a joke, Rick?

Yeah. Guess it didn’t work.

Nope, she said, refilling my glass.

So, I said, you know those guys?

Is this the same joke?

No.

What guys?

Those guys who Brendan left with? The Russian guys?

Andrei and Anatoly? You asked me that before.

Yeah, but you were a little vague.

Sure, I know them.

More than just from around here?

She gave me a sideways look. Who wants to know? she said.

That would be me, I replied.

Ah. I see.

Well?

Sure. It’s a community, you know? Young Russian kids.

They don’t look all that young to me. Andrei and Anatoly.

Okay, she said.

How do you know them?

Rick, are you interrogating me?

Just making conversation.

Hmmm.

Okay, I said, I’ll be straight with you. Brendan is, I don’t know, sort of my ward.

Ward?

Like Robin. You know, Batman and Robin?

Oh, yes, she said without conviction.

A bit like that. Anyway, I’m a little worried about him. Hanging with those guys.

Why worried?

I know them from New York. They’re sort of, I don’t know, gangster types.

Gangsters? Natalya laughed. I don’t think so.

What makes you not think so?

They’re too stupid. And ugly.

Maybe you got your gangster ideas from the movies. Lots of gangsters are stupid and ugly. Most of them, maybe.

She refilled my scotch. Looked at me with her head at an angle, chin raised, eyelids lowered to half-mast.

I read the signal. I’d gotten as far as I’d get. Might be some more later. Right now, back to the poker room.

Thanks for the drinks, I said.

She handed me a bill. Thirty bucks.

Suddenly I wasn’t quite as grateful. But I put forty on the bar. Left her with a smile.

The poker gods weren’t with me. I busted out of the satellite early. I decided to check out some cash games. I put my name on the list. Hung around waiting to be called. Watched some of the TV stars play. Hell, I lied to myself, I can play better than them. Or at least as good.

Grandiosity, I heard Sheila’s voice say. Watch out for that. There are ups. There are downs. When you exaggerate them, they’re destructive. Both of them. Melissa had succumbed to the downs. Others to the ups.

Of course. It was obvious. But like so many things, easier to understand than implement.

They called my name. I sat down at a 5–10 table. Full of tourists. Arrogant Internet geeks. And a couple of gray-faced regulars. Rocco, a super-tight player with slicked-back hair and an air of menace. Louie, a scrawny guy with a long red face with a lot of mileage on it, longer disheveled hair. His t-shirt read
Let All The Earth Fear The Lord
.

I was ready to bust some ass. And for a few hours I did. I stayed sharp. I declined the drinks impressed upon me by the cleavage-enhanced help. I threw my chips in when I saw weakness. I folded when I sensed strength. I was up a couple grand. Okay, I said to myself. Be responsible. Be mature. Cash out. Get the hell out of here with your profit.

I called for the floor person to give me a couple of racks. I needed two, to hold all my chips. I started stacking them into the racks.

The dealer deals me in.

Wait a minute, I’m about to say, I’m leaving.

Before I say it, I peek down at my cards. Ace, Queen. Nice.

Ah, what the hell, I tell myself. I’ll play one last hand.

I lean forward again.

One last hand.

The flop comes Ace, Nine, Three. Rainbow. Three different suits. Could hardly ask for better. I got the Aces. No flushes, no straights on board. I bet. Everybody folds, except the quiet guy. Forgot to mention him. The Quiet Guy. He’s over on the left. Three seats down from me. He plays solid. Tight. Quiet. Like I said.

He calls.

The turn’s a rag. I bet. He calls. What’s he calling with? Got to be an Ace, with a weak kicker. Weaker than my Queen, for sure. Ace, King, he would have raised before the flop. He could have something better, of course. Two pair. A set. He could have come in with a pair of Nines, hit the set. But the probability of that was sufficiently low that, in the absence of further information, I had to assume that wasn’t the case. For now. I need to keep it in mind, though. Future bets may tell me different.

The river’s a Four of clubs. More nothingness. Hah, I think. Got him.

I make one last bet. Two hundred dollars.

He goes all in.

Shit.

Well, I’m thinking. Got to call that. I’ve only got another hundred, hundred-fifty in front of me. Seven hundred in the pot. Too much to fold. I’m probably winning anyway.

I call.

He turns over Ace, Nine.

Two pair.

Shit.

He pulls in my chips.

I get up to leave.

Wait a minute, says Rocco.

I turn to him.

He points at the racks in my hands.

Those chips are live, he says.

I stare at him.

It dawns on me.

That is the rule.

You can’t take chips off the table.

They’re in the game.

I’d called all in.

That meant those chips too.

Jesus.

I look at the Quiet Guy. He’s staring, impassive, at my chips. I plead with him, with my eyes. Don’t stand on the rules, my eyes are saying. Fuck Rocco. You know I only meant to play with the couple hundred on the table.

He doesn’t say a thing.

Which doesn’t stop the rest of the rabble.

Sure, the chorus goes up. That’s the rule. Those chips are in.

I’ll call the floor manager, the dealer says.

No, never mind, I say. I play by the rules.

I slowly stack my chips back on the table. The dealer matches the winner’s remaining stack with mine. At least I have more than him. I’ll get out of there with some money left.

The dealer slides a six-inch pile of my former chips over to the Quiet Guy.

He nods his head. He doesn’t gloat. Not visibly, at least. I appreciate that.

I leave.

I head back towards the exit.

Jesus, I think to myself, it’s true. Only dead fish swim with the current.

I have no idea what it means.

I pass through the reception area.

The sun is coming through the skylight there.

I stop at one of the velvet-draped bars along the way.

The waitress has some nice cleavage going.

And anyway.

I need a drink.

Hell, I needed five, at least. I found my way to the purple velvet emporium.

I was on my fourth scotch when Bruno sat down, complete with leather outfit, shit-eating grin, and a lighter sling. Seemed he’d taken the bandages off.

Oh, fuck, I said, feeling sudden pain in my gut, my sternum, my right ankle.

His grin grew wider.

That was quite a show, he said.

What?

The chips-in-the-rack show.

Shit. You saw that?

Sure did, he laughed.

Well, thanks for the sympathy.

Why’d you just give it up? I would’ve called the floor. Said my intent was clear.

I guess you’re a better man than me.

I’ll buy you a drink, he said.

That’ll do, I replied.

As he rumbled over to the bar, I pondered this sudden change in the Bruno dynamic. It seemed like his pounding me into the emergency room had somehow evened the score. I didn’t feel the animosity. It seemed like he didn’t either.

I wondered if I was losing my edge.

I made a note to look it up.

Bruno came back with a double for me and a bottle of vodka, three extra glasses.

Expecting some company? I asked.

Maybe, he said.

I’m not in the mood for Russians.

Ah, come on. That’s the whole point.

Point of what?

What you’re going to help me with.

That. Right.

Right.

So, what is it?

Not yet, he said.

It isn’t anything yet?

It isn’t anything I can tell you about yet.

At which point arrived the three Russians in question: Alexina, Sashina and Ivankina, as they were introduced. All three were tall and slim. Alexina had on a slinky black dress clinging to her curves. Sashina had white plastic boots flaring to her knees. Ivankina had a magnificent pout.

Ah, I said to myself. My lucky day. Russian hookers.

Listen, I said to Bruno, been a long day. I got to get to bed.

Bruno protested. He genuinely seemed to want me to stay, party on down with his skanky friends. But even if I were interested in Russian whores, which I wasn’t, I was still steaming from the chip rack incident. I apologized again, stumbled out of the velvet fog.

I
FOUND MY WAY TO A QUIETER BAR AROUND THE CORNER
. I hadn’t even ordered my first drink when I heard my name paged. Mr. Rick Redman, please call the front desk for a message. I was tired. I had no desire to call the front desk. Get involved in more crap. But if someone was paging me, it might be important. Kelley, maybe. Butch. I had to check it out.

I asked the bartender for the house phone. He pulled it out from under the bar. I called the front desk. Redman, I said. I was just paged.

We have a message for you, sir.

Thanks, I said. I think I figured that out.

Actually, sir, ah, one moment. I’m going to connect you to another line.

I pantomimed the bartender for a double Laphroaig, phone to my ear. He appreciated my effort. Brought it over right away.

Mr. Redman? a rumbling voice with a vaguely Southern twist inquired of my ear.

The very one, I said.

I wonder if I may have a word with you, Mr. Redman.

One, I replied. Each additional, fifty cents. Think about it before you agree. It may not sound like much, but it adds up fast.

I had been forewarned about your sense of humor, the voice reverberated, without a touch of amusement.

Such as it is, I said.

Yes, the voice replied. In any case, would you object to a short meeting? In the High Stakes Room.

You buying? I asked.

No.

Okay, we’ll go dutch.

I’ll be there in a moment, the voice said.

I put down the phone. The bartender had discreetly vanished. I put back a generous mouthful of Laphroaig. You weren’t supposed to drink it that way. You were supposed to sip and savor. Ah, well. I was never one for convention.

I wondered what this could be about. An emissary from Her Louiseness? Some Russian goon come to crush my gonads for disrespecting Evgeny? New business? This last I had mixed feelings about. I
hoped it could wait till after the tournament.

I took my glass with me to the high-roller lounge. I wasn’t a high roller, needless to say. But I had an invitation. And anyway, I’d learned that if you timed your entrance right, got by the heavies at the entrance—they were off having a smoke, whatever—you could wander right in, and once you were ensconced, nobody dared to challenge your presence. Lest they offend one of the casino’s better clients.

I liked the bar in there. It had a cushioned edge, on which I could rest my forearms, weary from all that chip riffling. I could look straight ahead, avoiding any unwanted eye contact. I could use my peripheral vision and finely honed hearing—highly developed from ferreting out tells at the poker table—to examine my potential interlocutors—preferably female—before turning to or away from them. Three-quarters away, in the ideal case.

But all of that depended on the bartender. The barkeep was the one person you couldn’t avoid, so it was essential that he or she be either silent and discreet, or adequately personable. On this evening, prowling behind the oak and brass was Hugo, a pompous little number with a tiny mustache and a faux French accent. Well, maybe it wasn’t faux. I didn’t know. But it sounded faux to me. And I wasn’t in the mood for it.

Serving tables, in contrast, was Armand. Armand was Swiss, and his accent, and his French, was real. I could practice. Not to mention that he seemed to be a real nice guy.

I chose a corner table. Sank into a deeply comfortable chair, back to the wall. Had to keep an eye out. You never knew when the swarthy assassin might find you out. I asked Armand, in French, for another Laphroaig. He nodded appreciatively. Didn’t make any remark about my Québécois accent. Yes, my type of waiter.

There was a Steinway grand in the high-roller lounge. I’d never seen anyone playing it before, but I awoke, after a short reverie, to Debussy. ‘La fille aux cheveux de lin.’ It wasn’t, I was mildly surprised to note, dumbed-down Debussy either, cocktail lounge Debussy, with added trills and stupid rubato. It was pure, concentrated, evanescent impressionism. Real Debussy. Must be a Juilliard student, summer job, I thought.

I was snorkeling my third glass of the smoky single malt when The Voice arrived, fully clothed and looming. It was true to its word: as large as its resonance would have led one to surmise.

It put out a substantial paw, complete with ostentatious ruby class ring. I couldn’t make out what class. Working class, I imagined.

John Taylor Esquinasse, it said. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Redman.

The pleasure is mine, I’m sure, I replied, noting the gold collar pin, the cinched waist, the intimidating shoulder span of the former football player not yet wholly gone to seed. It was that, or this was John Gotti. And Gotti was dead. Anyway, I wasn’t sure he had ever played football.

Mr. Esquinasse—could only be Louisiana, that name, I mused, yes, that was the accent—interrupted my thought:

May I have a seat? he asked with exaggerated deference.

I’d hate to try to stop you, I said.

He tried to smile. It came out as a grimace of a sort. He took a seat anyway.