Pokergeist (3 page)

CHAPTER TWO

C
lutch wandered down the Strip. Night had fallen, and it was showtime. The Strip was like a parade, cars inching along, the cacophony of hundreds of varieties of music blaring in the sultry night air. He stood before the Venetian, watching rowdy young men screaming from the balcony. They held yardsticks, a beverage in a thirty-six-inch plastic container colored in sherbet shades acting as camouflage for the intense alcohol content. Honking car horns, laughter from various groups of people, and the babble of different languages filled the night air. Clutch paused, leaning on the railing of a fence, the oversized bronze sculpted heads of Siegfried and Roy behind him. A group of girls, one wearing a cheap rhinestone tiara with a short white veil, banged into him, squeezing him into the shrubbery to take a picture with the statue. They were happy, silly with drink, their dresses too short, their hair too high, their eyes too shiny. Clutch perked up.
Women,
he thought. One of the things he missed most from this world—a close third after whiskey and poker. And Ginny, of course, he added guiltily. He admired the tight dress, the maid of honor’s backside stretched her fabric so tightly, he swore he could see…Clutch reached out to caress her curves.

“Hey,” one of them smacked her friend on the shoulder. “You poked me.”

“No, I didn’t,” the bride of Frankenstein shot back. Her hair was piled high on her head and the tacky veil hung lopsided in her ditch-water blond hair. She was weaving, her heels getting stuck in the cracks of the sidewalk.

“Stop,” one of the more sober ones added. “I told you not to wear those shoes, Brittney.”

“She keeps banging into me. Your purse is goosing my ass.”

Brittney spun on her friend, holding her impossibly small purse in the air. “How can this little thing affect your big ass, Tiffany?”

“What did you say about my ass?” Tiffany stalked over to Brittney. A breeze ruffled her hair, and she stopped to shiver as goose bumps pebbled her skin. She felt like she’d walked into a cloud. The night was so dry, yet she felt chilled, her skin damp with dew. “I’m cold.”

“You’re shit-faced. Let’s take a selfie and head back to the room,” a third girl chimed in, holding up her phone.

The girls all laughed and crouched low, their heads together like a bouquet, for a picture. Clutch hovered above them, trying to get into the shot.

“Lemme see.” Tiffany grabbed the phone. “What’s that? Stop touching my ass, Brittney!” She spun wildly in an off-kilter circle.

“What? I’m over here. Cut it out, Tiff. No more Jell-O shots for you! Hey, what happened to our picture?”

The three heads looked down at the phone. “What’s that?”

“It must be a reflection from the light,” Brittney reasoned. A large orb hovered before their faces in the picture, slightly obscuring their images. “Wanna do it over?”

“I think I don’t feel too good.” Tiffany gagged, gagged again, and retched violently into the bushes, Siegfried and Roy silent observers to her agony. The girls patted her back, and then, hooking their arms under her shoulders, they headed off toward the hotel.

“Let’s grab a cab?” Tiffany offered.

“I’m out of money. And I don’t feel so well either,” Brittney responded, her face green in the weak light.

“The evening air will do you good. We’ll walk until we can’t walk anymore.” They all laughed, weaving as they pushed on farther down the Strip.

Clutch looked down at his vomit-covered shoes.
That’s what you get for messing with the living,
he thought ruefully. He could almost hear his grandpa say, “You stupid idiot; you touch shit, you gonna smell.” Clutch shook his feet and then strolled the Strip. He headed toward the Bellagio Fountains. He had nowhere else to go. People walked around him, through him, as if he weren’t there. Well, technically he wasn’t. He was there, but not there. Oh, he saw the light that everybody talks about, but he had no urgency to leave. It pulled at him, but he resisted. He wasn’t ready to go, he told a white-haired guy in an iridescent suit and enormous feathered wings. The fella was always hovering, just out of his eyesight. Sometimes it annoyed him, and he would try to ditch him. He thought back to that day right after he collapsed. He felt himself being lifted, high outside his body. He floated next to that colorless winged guy, watching in a detached manner. Wait, he couldn’t believe it. His daughter was in the crowd, watching, her eyes wide with horror. He hadn’t even known she was there. Hell, they hadn’t talked for over a year. He passed her, ruffling the hair on her dark head, and then meandered around the poker room, waiting there, watching the Ant get his check. His eyes caressed the bracelet, even as it was clamped around Adam’s thin wrist. He floated back to Ginny and watched her place his ashes on the table next to the television. She really mourned him, Ginny. He wished he had told her he loved her, at least once.

His second-place winnings were in limbo, just like him. Jenny, his ex, and Ginny were battling it out in court. He’d never had a will—there never seemed to be a need. Now it looked like only the lawyers were going to get anything.

He was at Ginny’s the day the goons came about a week after he died. They burst into the house, breaking the door, grabbing Ginny by the shoulders. They were thugs. One was short with tattoos covering his entire neck, going up his bald head. The other was so fat, he practically waddled. With a baseball bat in one hand, he knocked off her knickknacks from a small table.

“Where’s the money?” the tattooed one demanded.

“What money?” Ginny cried. “Who are you?” she asked, but she had a gut feeling she knew who they worked for.

Clutch moved forward but found himself held in place by unseen hands. He kicked, used his elbows, but it was as if he were suspended in midair, entangled in an invisible web.

“Clutch’s winnings. They say he won four and a half million at the game,” the short man told her in Spanish.

“I didn’t get anything. It’s not mine to get.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded.

The first thug was walking around, opening drawers, looking in the closets. He picked up the bronze urn that held Clutch’s cremains. He lifted the finial, opening the lid.

“Stop,” Ginny begged. “Please, it’s all I have left of him.”

“Where’s the money, bitch?” The fat one slapped her across the face. Clutch fought with the invisible manacles holding him, listening to Ginny’s moans.

“I told you, it’s not here. His wife…he was still married. His wife is inheriting the money, or maybe his…I don’t know. All I know is that I’m not getting a dime.”

“Where does the wife live?” he asked as he walked over to the trash. Ginny shrugged.

Clutch felt lightheaded. A buzz started from behind his forehead to travel down, making his inside hum. He watched the man hold the jar of his ashes over the garbage.

“Noooo!” Ginny screamed. “Please, if I get anything I’ll give it to you. I don’t want anything but Clutch.”

“Where does the wife live?” he demanded.

“I don’t know, I told you.”

Dots swam before Clutch’s eyes as his ashes floated in a graceful arc from the urn to the garbage.

“I always said Clutch Henderson was trash.”

Ginny was punched once in the face. A white business card fluttered onto the floor next to her foot.

“Expect to be contacted. My boss, Victor, will be wanting to speak to you. You,” he said as he pointed to her, his eyes serious. “Be ready for his call.”

Ginny clutched her cheek,
her mascara running down her face like a macabre clown.

What could the loan shark have to say to me?
she wondered. She couldn’t pay Clutch’s debts; she barely had enough to pay her own bills. She hoped they wouldn’t bother Ruby; she worried her bottom lip. The kid had enough on her head, what with rehab and her crazy mother.

The door slammed behind her. Ginny slid to her knees crying as she crawled to the scatter of ashes on the floor next to the waste bin. With bloody hands she swept them into a pile. Her tooth lay whitely in the middle of the mess.

CHAPTER THREE

T
elly stood outside the Bellagio, the soaring music matching the movement of the fountains. Spouts of water shot up with each rich note sang by Andrea Bocelli, and he wondered, too, if it was indeed time for him to say good-bye. He was miserable at this game. He was always the top player at his weekly game with his buddies and had played online with pretty good results. Yet, somehow in the casino, he felt like the country mouse among the city mice. All his moves, his experience, left his head. They intimidated him with their private poker language. No matter how much he looked it up and studied the verbiage, he always missed the one they used at the table that night. Telly was shy, and sometimes the aggressive behavior stunned him. He had to admit, though, it excited him too. Sitting with the grizzled group of hard-drinking, tough-talking poker players was thrilling. However much he loved the atmosphere, he couldn’t read the other players. Gretchen had said he should get it out of his system, but that was almost a month ago. She wasn’t so generous about the idea anymore. Something was bothering her, and that worried Telly. The poker playing was so different from what he was used to. When Telly sat at the table, he tried not to feel like the skinny kid with nerd glasses, the one all the other kids pushed around. It was mysterious. If he squinted just right, they couldn’t tell he was so new he could barely contain his excitement when he hit a hand. The Bellagio was cool, the fountains were cool, and saying you were a professional poker player was cool. Telly had wanted to be cool his whole life. There was some indefinable thing about certain people that made them cool. The way they answered, the swagger, the clothing they wore. No matter how much Telly tried, he never had the cool factor, except for when he sat at a poker table. Or so he thought, until tonight. The wizened lady poker player tweaked his ego. She saw through him, and soon so did the others. Who was he fooling?—he was a computer nerd who was trying to take a step out of his boring box to live a dream. It wasn’t as though he’d quit his job, he’d told Gretchen. He’d sent out his résumé and gone on interviews, but his heart wasn’t in it. He wanted more. This was his chance to break the mold his parents had cast for him when he was still in high school. They had mapped out his life before he had a chance to leave the cocoon of their household. He was never given choices. He was the smart one; he had to pick something steady. He had to shoulder the responsibility for his bipolar brother. He had to grow up fast and not look back.

Telly leaned against the fence, admiring the graceful water. He tapped his foot in time to the song about a chorus line. The water moved synchronized, so perfectly—it was a marvel of technology. He analyzed the patterns, working out the equations that made them work. He knew every button that was pressed, every line of programming it took to make the water dance. It was predictable—boring, like him. He felt himself pushed hard from behind. Three giggling girls, clearly drunk, surrounded him, and the bride of the trio draped herself onto Telly.

“How ’bout a lil’ kiss,” she puckered her overfilled lips for a smooch.

Telly disengaged her arms with a smile. “Much as I’d like to accommodate you, I’m engaged to be engaged.”

“What stays in Vegas stays in Vegas.” Brittney pushed her bridal veil so it hung drunkenly off the ponytail that now dropped to one side crookedly.

“What
happens
in Vegas stays in Vegas, stupid,” Tiffany said. She pushed Brittney on her tattooed shoulder. “Don’t you know the commercial?” Tiffany wrapped her arms around Telly, her hands caressing his face, dislodging his glasses. “I think we are gonna have to go home with you, ’cause we don’t have no more money.”

Telly grabbed his glasses before they could fall and hastily put them back on. “Do you need a cab?”

“We’re out of money, honey, but we got plenty of time.” The bride rested her sweaty head against Telly’s jacket, pushing Tiffany out of the way.

Telly dug deep into his pocket, finding a few crumpled dollars. He took Brittney’s hand, leading them up the small incline toward the cab line. The other two girls followed him like sheep.

“How you doin’, Telly?” Clarence the doorman asked as he tipped his hat.

“Where are you staying?” Telly asked, turning to the less inebriated one.

“Excal…Excalbit…Excalibra,” the girl struggled, her eyes rolling. No help there.

“I don’t feel well again,” Brittney moaned.

“Clarence.” Telly handed the doorman a dollar. Clarence shook his head.

“This one’s on me, Tel. Thanks for saving my hard drive.”

“I’d like to hard drive you.” Tiffany pulled Telly’s face, kissing him hotly on the lips, shoving Brittney behind her.

The cab pulled up, and the cabby leaned over, smiling. “Where to?”

“Take them to the Excalibur. How much?”

“Gonna be at least fourteen.”

Telly pulled out a crushed twenty from his pocket. “Get them back safely.”

“What’s your name?” Brittney asked. She draped herself on his other side, so he was sandwiched between the two girls.

“Telly.”

“Don’t you want to be with me tonight, Telly?” She twined her fingers in his long hair. “It’s my last night as a single girl,” Brittney whined, drool collecting at the corner of her mouth.

“Much as I appreciate your kind offer, I’d rather remember this night with the memory of what it might have been.”

“Oh, Telly,” Brittney sighed, and then she threw up all over his legs.

He helped them into the cab, waving as it pulled away. The Bellagio cleaning crew was already soaping up the cobbled pavement.

“You need another cab, Tel?”

“Nah.” Telly shook his head. That twenty was his stake for a game tomorrow. He was done, finito, kaput. Back to the grind. First thing tomorrow, he’d have to start looking for a job. He’d tried and failed. It was time to return to reality.
It’s time for daydreaming to go back where it came from—your head,
he thought ruefully.

Clutch stopped to observe Telly escorting the inebriated group of girls to a cab. He knew that guy, had seen him at the table. He was what Grandpappy would call a Donk, or Donkey, a lousy player. In fact, it was what Buster had first called Clutch when he started teaching him poker. It still rankled, hearing that term. He would hit him over the back of his head every time he made a poor move. He’d clutched the cards so tightly to keep them from falling out of his hand, the name changed from Donk to Clutch and stuck. Nobody knew that tidbit of trivia, and Clutch was grateful that it remained a secret that his trademark, respected moniker, had started out as a derogatory term of disgust from his grandfather. Clutch winced and muttered, “Rot in hell, you old bastard.”

Telly walked down the hill, the fountains dancing, a new song playing. Shoulders slumped with resignation, hands deep in his pockets, he glanced down at the speckles of vomit on his pants, feeling embarrassed.
Just my kind of luck,
he thought, his face reddening. It seemed to be the story of his life right now. He was sick of the whole thing.

He loved poker, yet even this didn’t feel like fun. The sneering condescension of the other players changed the dynamics, making him both unwelcome as well as uncomfortable. So what? Let’s say he was a new player, he reasoned. Why couldn’t they respect his willingness to learn? Instead they looked for a reason to ridicule him, poke fun at his expense.
What’s wrong with people today?
he mused.

The hot Vegas winds blew warm air around him. He looked across at the theater marquee. Legendary performers filled the screens. He watched the tall showgirls in their red-feathered headdresses walk daintily down a long white staircase with their heads held high. He knew what it took to be a dancer; Gretchen had trained for years, but a car accident in high school had ruined her knee, killing her career. She was never bitter about it, his Gretchen—sweet, charming Gretchen, the most likable person he’d ever met. She was so beautiful, he could stare at her face for hours. Gretchen was the type of person who always found the good in people. When he lost everything, she quietly packed up the house, found the crummy weekly rental, and never complained. He could be having the worst day, but when he walked in that door, her grin washed away his despair.

The ex–Playboy Bunny filled the screen with her long loop to wrangle sheep. Telly fought the disappointment biting at the back of his throat. Why did some people make it while others languished undiscovered and unfulfilled? Gretchen had put together a show too. She was prettier than the playgirl, and even if singing was not her forte, she could be charming and funny. She’d auditioned it all over Vegas, but even the third-rate casinos didn’t bite. He wished they’d bought Gretchen’s show, but they hadn’t. The vagaries of life teased and tormented them. Careful, he told himself, you are sliding down that slope into bitterness. Taking a deep breath, Telly resolved to find the peace that Gretchen brought him. The screen changed, and now that medium from Long Island who talked to dead people lit up the night. Her face revolved, showing her two-toned black-and-white hairdo and obsidian eyes. She had a warm personality; he liked her show. He waited to see the show times, hoping he and Gretchen might be able to catch one night of the limited engagement. If anyone could lift his spirits, it would be Georgia Oaken. Seriously, though, even if watching her connect with supposed spirits of the dead from the other side would be entertaining, he doubted she could change his derailed life.

All of that was in his hands, however incompetent he was. He certainly felt incapable of correcting his life’s downward spiral. He couldn’t understand what had happened. He was the one who finished school, got a good job, paid his taxes, and carried out every responsibility laid on his young shoulders. He anticipated everyone’s needs, did his due diligence, and performed his duties with pride. He never expected to be kicked out of the club. It was as though he had the plague now. Once he was let go, none of his colleagues wanted to associate with him. It was as though they were afraid his bad fortune was contagious. He didn’t get it—he’d avoided all the pitfalls of adolescence, not succumbing to the temptations that had destroyed his friends’ lives. He’d played by the rules, and then the rules had punished him. Telly had fallen through the looking glass where the world was reversed, and all his good deeds rewarded him nothing; all his planning and work was a waste of time. He was in an alternate state, where he was unglued from all that was familiar in his former reality. Here, his education worked against him; his work ethic meant nothing; and his morality was useless. The yawning hole of depression sucked him to its precipice. He forced himself to breathe; he didn’t want to be like his brother, Manny. Telly told himself to stop; he was feeling redundant again.

He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and felt the hard surface of a coin. It was a penny. That was it, his last penny. He laughed ironically. A chill danced up his spine, and a cool current of air enveloped him.

Raising the coin, he considered Abraham Lincoln’s face. Honest Abe. Honest Telly. What had being honest ever done for him?
Between you and me, Abe, being honest didn’t work out too well for you either.

He flipped the coin high so that it spiraled in the air above him. “I just want to win something. Anything. I don’t want to be a loser anymore.”

The music muted, and all Clutch heard were Telly’s mumbled words. Telly’s wish intruded into his thoughts. He looked at the dude’s vomit-covered shoes and then glanced balefully at his own. He felt something for this loser, as if Brittney’s vomit connected them in some way.

Clutch watched the coin fly and then reached out to grab the penny in midair. The wish crystallized in the air, creating an electrical current between them. Clutch’s heart expanded. He didn’t want to be a loser either. They were attached by more than just vomit, he realized with a smile. He pushed the coin to fly high and wide, arcing over the tall shooting water. “Truth is, I want one more shot at the bracelet!” he shouted.

Telly watched as the penny hung suspended for a moment and then started to fall back toward him. He was such a loser, he couldn’t even throw a coin for crap. For one gravity-defying moment, it hung suspended in midair, and then it shot out over the fountain as if propelled by a rocket. The coin spiraled down, landing with a loud
plop
in the water, ripples flowing outward in widening circles. He stood transfixed, watching the spiraling circles on the mirror-like surface of the pond. As if on cue, the fountains sprang to life, Sinatra’s voice filling the thick evening and advising those assembled to start spreading the news.

The white-haired man in the iridescent suit hung over the water, glorious wings flapping behind him. He watched Clutch intently.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” the angel’s melodious voice questioned.

“Why are you following me? Who are you?” Clutch sneered.

“You know who I am, Clutch. I know you’ve figured it out,” the angel’s voice echoed.

Clutch laughed. “I never expected you, that’s for sure. The devil, maybe, but certainly not the likes of you.”

“No such thing as the devil, Clutch.”

“So you say. What’s your name?”

“Sten. But you knew that, didn’t you. We were introduced when you crossed over.”

Clutch nodded absently. It was still hazy to him. “I remember a bit,” Clutch said.

The penny appeared in the angel’s long fingers. He expertly fiddled it through his fingertips, much like a professional gambler would.

“You’re pretty good at that,” Clutch said with admiration.

“I’m pretty good at a lot of things. And so are you, Clutch.”

Clutch shook his head ruefully. “Don’t think so.”

“What’s it going to take for you to realize that you are?” The angel glowed a little brighter.

Clutch narrowed his eyes and said, “You sound like a teacher. I don’t like teachers. I was never good in school.”