Drawing Dead (28 page)

No, I couldn’t say that.

Wouldn’t be prudent.

What’s my take? I asked instead.

Rick-ay, Rick-ay, Evgeny said. This not nice question. We take care each other. You do good job, I pay you good. Everybody happy. Yes?

My choice of responses was limited.

Sure, I said.

We understand, Evgeny said, nodding in Brendan’s direction, you do some work, some investigation work, some … other kind work, that maybe useful for us, yes?

We’re available, I said. To do what we can do. For a price commensurate with the task.

Comm …? said Evgeny, leaning back to Manfred, who whispered in his ear. Ah, yes, of course. The pay it’s by job. Hard job, the more pay. Yes.

I nodded.

This small job, he said. Small pay. But you do good, we get you next time. Bigger job. You see?

Sure, I said. I understand about client relations.

Evgeny laughed. He laughed so hard he started coughing a deep and horrible cough, a cough that descended very near his bowels. I was afraid. I was not afraid for his health, frankly. I was afraid for my appetite.

He got it under control.

When do I get the details? I asked, carefully ignoring the near-fatal expectory episode.

Evgeny confined himself to a smile. Ziggie picked at a zit on his neck. Manfred crossed his arms. They were very large arms.

You get details tomorrow, Rick-ay, Evgeny said.

Tomorrow. I thought you meant … Aw, forget it.

You have problem tomorrow?

Tomorrow’s fine, I said. Tomorrow’s beautiful. I look forward to working with you.

One of those stupid automatic responses left over from my law firm days, that last. The ironic smiles on all of their faces—even the obviously brain-challenged Ziggie—told me that it sounded just as inane to them as it did to me.

Nevertheless, Ziggie and Manfred nodded together, like mismatched bobble-head toys.

Yes, said Evgeny, near breathless from hauling himself erect. Is good. Is very good.

The delegation wobbled out.

I looked at Brendan.

I can’t wait, I said. And by the way, what with all these jobs in Vegas, I don’t know when I’m going to have time to play poker.

I’ll help you, he said. We’re a team.

Ah, I said. Yes.

It’ll be good. You’ll see.

You keep saying that.

I
WOKE UP
. I was confused. When I’m confused, I call Sheila. I called Sheila. She had a cancellation. I was shocked. And pleased. Actually, I wasn’t shocked. I was just pleased.

Sheila, I said. I have a daughter.

Yes, she said, calmly ignoring my use of her first name.

No. I mean, yes. I mean, another one. I have another daughter.

Ah. Something you’ve been keeping from me?

I just learned about her myself.

I can’t say that surprises me.

No. I mean, yes. It wouldn’t. But this isn’t a new new one. It’s an old one. I mean, she’s an old one. I mean, she’s eighteen, actually. She just sprung herself on me. Or at least, some beefy guy from Louisiana did.

Oh dear, she said.

Yes. Oh dear indeed. I don’t know what quite to do. Quite what to do.

Why do you have to do anything?

Uh, I don’t know. Now that you put it that way … I suppose I could do nothing. Let the chips fall … damn, these poker metaphors are everywhere. But no, really, I mean, first. I have to tell Kelley, don’t I? I mean, she has to know, right? And vice versa. She has to know, right? The new one.

Can we give her a name?

Madeleine.

Thank you. Do you want my opinion?

No, I guess I don’t. I mean, yes, but I already know what it is. You agree with me. They have to know. Right?

Right.

Okay so far. But then I get to the hard stuff. I mean, she’s my daughter, I get that. I don’t have a problem with that. But then what to do?

Well, I guess that depends. What about her mother? Does she have a stepfather?

Of course she has a mother. Had a mother. It seems she’s deceased. I know I should know who she is. The mother. I haven’t had the nerve to press her on that. She said she’ll tell me at the right time. Stepfather, I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that. Hasn’t been any mention of one.

I see.

But it’s weird. She seems so … poised. Together. It kind of doesn’t make sense.

Why doesn’t it make sense? Do you think she couldn’t have thrived without you?

I paused to think.

Yes, I said. I guess you’re right.

It’s all about you.

As usual.

She laughed. I laughed.

Speaking of children, I said, Brendan’s been acting weird lately.

Isn’t he in his thirties?

Sure, sure. But I sort of think of him as a surrogate son. And he doesn’t exactly act like an adult.

Okay.

And I have this guilt.

About what?

About nothing. About Brendan. I don’t know where it comes from. That I feel responsible for Melissa’s death? For not saving her? I don’t
know. They were incredibly close, you know. And then he disappeared for years. It was just after he came back that she died.

Maybe it’s Brendan who feels guilty.

Yes. I think he has a big burden. That’s why he can’t grow up.

Tell me about this burden.

It’s a long tale, I said.

You can start now. Finish some other time.

I compressed the thing as much as I could. His sister, my ex-wife by decease. How she was pursued by some sick fuck their father was in business with. How good old Dad was happy to have his daughter used as bait. How she rejected the Sick Fuck. The fear, the insecurity that built. Brendan being gay in an uptight Midwest backwater. How he framed Brendan and Melissa, in revenge. Accusations of incest. Humiliation. Outrage. Their father’s suicide. Their mother committed to an institution. Brendan had thought she was dead. He was wrong. But it didn’t make any difference. She was gone. The body was alive. Nothing more. There was no salvation there.

That’s quite a childhood, said Sheila.

Makes mine look like Happy Hour.

Yes, she ruminated, ignoring my Freudian choice of simile.

We sank into our respective thoughts. Mine were about the World Series. Day One of the Main Event coming up. Had to get my mind right.

You’re not responsible for getting him to grow up, Rick. That’s his job. And even if you were, with that kind of history to deal with, there’s very little you could do.

Yeah, yeah. But I can’t help it. And it turns into anger. Why the hell can’t he grow up and let me stop feeling guilty?

All about you.

All about me.

We said it simultaneously. We laughed.

We understood each other.

It was almost like love.

Not that kind. Anyway, not quite. I still had to pay the bill.

On the other hand, I could have been paying two hundred bucks an hour for a hell of a lot less. Had to count my blessings.

That was my mother’s expression. Count your blessings.

I didn’t cry when she died, you know, I said.

Melissa?

No. My mother.

How did we get to your mother?

I don’t know. Free association or something.

Okay. So you didn’t cry when she died.

No, I didn’t. It was more of a relief, sort of.

Well, she had Alzheimer’s, didn’t she?

Yeah, that was part of it, I guess. But I wasn’t really exposed to the bad parts. My sister took care of her. Sometimes, actually, it was comical.

Comical? That seems a strange word.

Well, for instance. My sister told me one day that my mother had started drinking again. After fourteen years of AA and abstinence. Turned out she’d forgotten that she’d quit.

Sheila was silent. I guess she didn’t find it funny. But really, it was hilarious. In that you-either-have-to-laugh-or-you’ll-cry kind of way.

You were saying that it was a relief, of a kind, when she died?

Yeah. Or maybe it was more like, gee, great, orphan at last.

Sheila was silent. Careful not to show disapproval.

I’m not making light of it, I said. Really I’m not. That’s how I felt. Now, of course, there’s lots of guilt. Not least for thinking that awful thought, to start with …

The orphan thing? Why is that an awful thought?

I don’t know. It sounds kind of cold, doesn’t it? Heartless? Unfeeling? I cried when my father died.

You were eight years old.

But still …

Rick, you know this. Feelings don’t have values attached to them. There’s no such thing as a good or a bad feeling, from an ethical point of view.

What if I felt like strangling Brendan?

There was a long pause. I could feel her discomfort. For all her acumen, her experience, her knowledge of my neuroses, she wasn’t prepared with an instant response to this one. It was too damn weird.

I was kind of proud of that.

The feeling itself isn’t bad, she said at last. The impulse is not good. I wouldn’t advise acting on it.

Sound advice, as always. But damn, you shrinks are so amoral. That always bugs me about you. Can’t you every once in a while tell me to get on my knees and confess?

You’re free to do that if you like.

Yeah, maybe I would, if I was younger.

What does your age have to do with it?

Hurts the knees. All that kneeling.

T
HEY WERE HOLDING ONE-TABLE SATELLITES
to the Main Event in the old poker room, miles away from the tournament itself. The air was stifling with the desperation of guys like me, guys who knew this was their last chance. Guys who were plonking down their last thousand dollars for a last chance to qualify. Well, it wasn’t exactly my last grand. But it wasn’t exactly mine, either.

Somehow it all came together. Everybody at the table was being crazy aggressive, trying to build a big stack early so they could coast to the endgame, the final two or three players. All I had to do was wait for a big hand or two and pick them off. My Queens held up against Ten, Nine suited to double me up, and I busted out another guy with Kings when he went all in on the flop with an open-ended straight draw. So it didn’t take more than an hour before I was heads up with a chatty Vietnamese guy who called himself Spikey Mike. He had a high marine haircut and a brisk little mustache that stuck straight out from his lip. Never stopped talking, in a heavy accent. On and on about how they played down in Mississippi. Not the first place you would have guessed he came from. Okay, he’d say, when Charlie bets out and the other guy calls—you’re playing against two Mexicans …

I ignored the banter. But he was a good player. Mixed it up a lot. He’d go preflop from a min-raise to a full-pot raise to an all in, three hands in succession, and show you his cards every time. There was no pattern to it, he was telling you. Call or raise at your own risk. A scary guy to play against, because he could bust you any given hand. But how you play against a guy like that is pretty simple. Just play solid.

So we went back and forth for what seemed like a long time. I kept watching the clock. The Main Event was starting in less than an hour. Damn. I wouldn’t even have time to take a nap before heading over. Assuming I could even beat this guy.

I have a small chip lead, and look down at a pair of Tens. A great hand heads up. I put in a standard pre flop raise. The blinds are 200–400 by this time, so I make it three times the big. Twelve hundred chips. Mike casually calls. So far, I have very little information, since he’s been calling my preflop raises about eighty percent of the time. The flop comes Ten, Eight, Jack, which looks good for me. I’ve hit my set, three Tens. But the flop is all clubs. A monochrome board will slow you down. Needless to say, I don’t have any clubs in my hand, since the Ten of clubs is out there, so all Mike needs to beat my set is any club in his hand—the Two would do—and another one to hit on the turn or river. And that’s assuming that he doesn’t have two clubs in his hand already. Not to mention there are a lot of possible straights and straight draws on that board.

Of course, if the board pairs on the turn or river, it’s all moot, because I’ll have a full house and his flushes and straights will be worthless. Have to factor that in, too. All in all, it’s a tough situation.

Especially when Mike pushes all in.

He does it with an air of confidence. Which can often mean the opposite. But I haven’t been able to get a read on the guy. Like I said, he’s been randomizing his actions pretty good, and letting me know he was doing it. Trying to get into my head. And it was working.

So I think it through. It takes a long time. I piece together everything that’s happened in the hand. Everything I know about the guy. And I figure this. Number one, he could easily be shoving with nothing at all. A pure bluff. He’d shown me a couple of them already. Of course, him knowing that he’d done that makes it much more likely that he has a monster—a made flush or straight—already, and is hoping I’ll call figuring he’s on another bluff. So I heavily discount the bluff possibility. Much more likely he’s on a monster draw. He has a high club, a Nine, or even the Nine of clubs, giving him an open-ended straight flush draw and making him, actually, close to a favorite in the hand. Or, he could just be on any old draw with a pair to back it up. He could have two pair, with a Jack, Ten in the hole. Perfectly plausible. I weigh the likelihood of each of the possible hands, put some tentative numbers on them. Figure that, overall, I’m a favorite here against his probable range of hands.

But that doesn’t end the issue. Complicating everything is the fact that calling here and losing means very likely not playing in the Main Event—I’ll have a few chips left, but he’ll have me dominated. And that’s the whole reason I’m here: the Main Event. I’ll have to wait a whole
year for another shot. Listen to Butch, and Brendan, and everyone else I know, rag on me for twelve months about it. Of course, the reward is commensurate: I win the hand, I’m in. Sign the papers, get my entry tokens, trade them in for a ticket to the Big One. Walk on over to the Amazon Room. Yes.

I call. Spikey Mike turns over the Nine of clubs and some random card, a Four or something. He’s got a straight draw
and
a flush draw. Just about the worst scenario for me, other than a pair of Jacks in the hole, the latter a notion so unlikely I hadn’t even considered it.