Faces in Time (15 page)

“No, I’m a local.”

“Good, I’d hate to be buying a beer for the enemy,” turning to the bartender who bounces past, “Hey, Tracy, can you get me two more please, darlin’?”

She raises her hand and nods her head as her lips silently repeat the order she’s just taken. Some fiddling at the register, a ding that can’t be heard over the noise of the televisions, and some scribbling on an order ticket that hangs on a magnetic clip to a square beam that runs from the island to the ceiling behind the register: then she pulls the two beers out of the iced bin and hands them to the stranger before she starts making the shots from the order before.

“Here you go, pal. Thanks for watching my spot,” says the stranger with the grateful bladder.

“No problem; thanks for the beer.”

After letting a quiet burp out the side of his mouth, he asks, “What’s your name anyway?”

“Chester. Uh, most people call me Chaz. What’s yours?”

“Lucky. Everybody calls me Lucky. So, Chaz, do you think our boys will pull this one out today?”

“I think they’ll at least keep it close enough so Washington won’t cover the spread.”

“You’re a betting man, Chaz?”

“Just getting started with it actually.”

Laughs, “Well, it won’t take long for you to get hooked—makes games more exciting. Sometimes even more depressing. It comes on like a fever.”

“I’m not quitere yet,” leaning in quietly, “Is there any action in this place?”

Nodding his head toward the opening of the billiards room, “Yeah, it’s big business in there,” looking toward their nearest bartender, who is several stools’ distance away from him, “I’m pretty sure the owner knows ‘bout it, but I keep quiet ‘round the bartenders anyway.”

Chester
nods and puts the bottle to his mouth, pretending to drink as the frothy liquid sloshes to the rim and over his closed lips.

“So, Chaz, are you going to put down some cash on the game? It’s startin’ in just a few minutes.”

“Yeah, I think I might,” he says trying to be nonchalant.

“Look, there’s this guy Manny in the next room; he’s the bookie. My wife should be walking in the door any second with her sister who wanted to be all dolled-up to come here today. I left them ‘cause I couldn’t wait no longer—like to be here for the pregame and da wife won’t know how many I’ve drank before she gets here.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Look, she don’t like me bettin’ no more since I lost our vacation money last year during the playoffs. But I know we’re gonna win today. Gotta support the home team and all—gotta believe.”

“Yeah.”

“So, will you place a fifty for me against the spread?” his fingers fumbling in his worn faux brown leather wallet without looking for a reaction from Chester.

“Alright,” responds Chester, and the stranger stuffs some unevenly folded bills in his hand, a random bit of paper falling out of Lucky’s wallet to the ground.

“My wife’ll be here any second unless her sister decides to change her clothes again,” head shakes and eyes roll, “So if she’s here when you come back with the stub, don’t let her see it, but hand it to me when she’s not looking, or better than that wait for them to head to the bathroom—that won’t take them very long.”

“Alright, what’s Manny look like?”

Laughs, “He looks like what you’d expect. He’ll be the tallest guy in the room with a pen hanging on his shirt. Can’t miss him.”

A little disappointed that Lucky didn’t offer to bring him to Manny, “Okay, I better get to it.”

“Yep,” says the man on the stool and adds as Chester is turning away, “and make sure he gives you bettin’ stubs.”

Chester
nods as he takes his first step in weaving through the dense crowd, most of whom seem to be misted with thin pockets of perspiration. The room is warm, but it doesn’t seem to be bothering Chester in the same way. He’s also not drinking.

As he sidesteps moving bodies, tables, and chairs, the smell of burgers, frying grease, and sizzling chicken fingers infiltrates his nostrils. The combined scent is intoxicating, yet he doesn’t feel hungry. In fact, he hasn’t truly felt hungry since traveling back to the schoolyard of his youth some two weeks ago. He’s eaten periodically because he knew that he should whenever he’s realized it has been a long interval since his last meal; it’s never occurred out of necessity. Although after eating, he always feels relieved, and his spirits lift a little.

When he has eaten, it hasn’t been much, not even for him, so hunger should be a relentless inner predator, but it hasn’t been on his trail as if it couldn’t follow him to the past. This thought and several others have plagued his mind over the illogical aspects of his tear through time. The only conclusion he’s come to is that he doesn’t really want to taste anything anymore.

But for now, he doesn’t have long to think it over since he can now see the length of the hidden billiards room as he passes through its doorway.

The clacking of the billiard balls is the only sound to rise above the bombastic televisions and the murmur of conversation. Glancing around the room, Chester sees that Lucky’s simple description is indeed adequate. Leaning against a small table with two stools, one containing a young brunette with tattoos running down to her elbows like sleeves, daintily drawn skin doilies, is a man who is easily the tallest in the room, and a pen is verily clipped to his sleeveless wife-beater t-shirt.

Chester’s heart rate is steady as he dodges pool sharks and guppies who are far more focused on their games and wagers than anyone trying to pass through their bent over bodies and pool sticks in motion like branches in an animate forest of green felt, pools of barley, the frost of powder, trees with four legs and stained wood, blue square acorns used to prepare the tips of the branches, and the wildlife of the competitors.

Manny, leaning on a small table which is pushed into a groove in the wall under his weight, has long, slender arms that are folded across his chest. Other than his height and the pen, his appearance is indistinguishable from the other people in the room.

His behavior is the only other giveaway to his occupation. Everyone else either watches one of the TVs or the pool game in which they are already involved or are waiting to play the winner. Manny watches neither TV nor the tables but stares at the members of the room, routinely glancing at the entrance for any sign of trouble. Sleek, long-limbed, and on alert, he might as well be the panther of their noisy forest.

“Are you Manny?”

Narrowly opened eyes that appear faded and drained of energy look Chester over.

A calm, deep voice responds, “Are you a cop? ‘Cause you have to tell me.”

Research during Chester’s years as a television writer have taught him that Manny’s statement is entirely untrue, a common misconception readily believed by those who desperately want its protection yet are too afraid to investigate its validity.

Chester has always been fascinated with people who convince themselves that something is true by repeating it as often as they can, spreading the story to everyone they know, as if an urban legend holds any more truth than the most ridiculous lie told by an idiot.

Chester
has been equally baffled at their faith in their own invention and oddly jealous of their blind assurance that they are safe and what they’re doing is not illegal, or in the least that they won’t get caught. Their belief in their own fabrication actually relaxes them, as evidenced in Manny’s complete assuredness.

Unlike them and unable to fool himself into believing some made-up logic, Chester has no illusions that what he is about to do is illegal, if not altogether wrong.

“No, I’m not a cop; I’m Chest—Chaz, and I’m a friend of Lucky’s. I’ve got bets for both of us.”

“I didn’t know Lucky’s wife let him have friends,” silent chuckle from six inches above Chester’s head, “I know she won’t let him bet no more. Took him this long to figure out to get someone else to do it for him,” shakes head, “So whaddayou want: Washington game or a pick sheet for the whole day? We only got a few minutes before I’m locking it down for the day.”

“Just Washington. I don’t think they’ll make the spread. What are the odds?”

“Twelve to ten with a minus seven-point Washington spread.”

“What if we make the spread negative seven home team?”

“You’re nuts.”

“Well then, if I’m nuts, you can take my five hundred bucks on it—but I want two to one odds.”

“
Two to one?
” grinning and turning his eyes away from Chester, “No, I don’t think so, jack,” followed by more awkward chuckling.

“Well, how good are your spread numbers then?”

“Vegas good—they’re gold,” he snaps with a strong accent on the v in Vegas and the g in gold, folding and flexing his skinny but defined arms as his face turns taut and alive with tense eyes.

“Then it should be nearly impossible for me to win. What are the chances of Vegas being off by fourteen points?”

“Could happen.”

“But how often? When was the last time you saw it happen?”

Raising his lanky fingers to his chin, “How much you wanna bet?”

“Five hundred for me, fifty for Lucky.”

“Lucky’s in on these crazy odds too?”

“Sure, it’s his idea.”

Manny smiles before he can restrain it, “Awright, I’ll make an exception; don’t tell nobody—I don’t like doing stuff like this.”

“So, two to one? Fifteen hundred for me and one hundred fifty for Lucky if Washington loses by seven?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok.”

Chester
hands over the money.

Manny counts it twice, hands it to the young woman behind him, and saysnny countht, we’re set.”

“Stubs? Lucky said to get stubs.”

Manny stares, popping his jaw back and forth making clicking noises, and exhales slowly.

He yanks the pen from his shirt, turns, and starts scribbling on a little white pad. Stops. Tears. Writes a second one. Grabbing them both between giant fingers, he holds them a half an arm’s length from Chester’s face. Chester takes them and looks them over. The writing is crude; an awkward mix of print and script, but it conveys the terms of the bet accurately.

“Thanks,” says Chester without taking his eyes off the stubs.

Manny nods his head and then glances around the room to see if anyone has watched the last transaction closely.

She enters the bar like a blue bird flitting closely over a swine pen. Her cobalt heels step along the grimy floor that was clean three hours ago but now hosts dirt, peeled-off bottle labels, and beer spills.