Drawing Dead (7 page)

Of course it does. I’m a miserable depressive. I guess I’m as happy as a miserable depressive can be. And I mean that in the nicest possible way. Don’t get me wrong. You’re very helpful. The drugs are very helpful. They really are. But happiness, Jesus. That’s for people who do good works. And I’m not the type.

Maybe you could try.

Doing some good works? I’ve tried. And it only makes me more depressed. All those sad, lonely people? It’s really depressing.

You’re in quite a state today.

I am. I’m sorry. Can’t make much progress when I’m in this mood.

Let’s talk about something more concrete, then.

Like what?

Like anything you choose.

Well, speaking of happiness, I met this woman.

Oh dear.

Yes, I know my history isn’t promising. But she really seems special.

So did Dorita.

Dorita
was
special. It’s just that, I don’t know, she needed even more medication than I do.

But you know your real problem.

Of course I do. Idealization. I have to find the perfect woman, never will, perfection is for heaven, not this vale of … what is it, sludge? I know, I know. But let me tell you about Louise.

All right. Tell me about Louise.

I told her about my new client. Her legs. Her silky manner.

Are you supposed to be having these kinds of thoughts about a client?

I’m not a shrink, I said. I’m not her lawyer. I’m just an investigator. A helper. I’m not sure there’s a code of ethics for helpers.

You don’t need to have a code of ethics in order to have ethics.

A good point, I said. Excellent point. I’ll give it some consideration. But I haven’t done anything, anyway. I’m just telling you how I feel.

All right.

So, I’m having this meeting with Louise, my client. She bends over to reach for a glass. I take a sharp breath. Really. Just like they say in the books. I try to disguise it as a cough. If she notices, she doesn’t let on. Anyway, you know how some guys say they’re breast men? There’s the ass guys? Love that booty? Some guys go for legs. Long, shapely legs. I go for all those things, of course. But at heart I’m a skin guy. Smooth skin sends me. So, when she bent over, her shirt lifted up from her skirt. I saw a few inches of her back. I was sent to the moon.

I see, said Sheila.

Skin that sun-blessed color you can’t buy in a tube or a tanning salon. Soft and firm. You don’t have to touch it, to know. You can see it. You sure as hell know. That and the curve of it. A curve so pure and gently placed, you had to know it went on endlessly, and just right. All the shapes and valleys just where they should be.

I could feel Sheila’s disapproval. But I couldn’t stop.

It kills you. It could kill you. Such perfection in a human form. You have to have it. You have to have it or die. You have to have it to know. To know if it really is the perfect embodiment of the female flesh. In which case you’ll never let it go. Or that it isn’t. Which is a relief, I guess. A relief from the responsibility. The need to have it at all costs. Because if you never had it, never tried it, never found out, everything else you ever touched would suffer from the image of perfection you’d constructed. From that one glimpse of that one part of that one whole you’d sought forever, now and forever past, before you were born, even, the other half of the Platonic egg, you flattered yourself …

I looked down. I realized that I’d pulled half the tassels off a throw pillow.

It’s all right, Sheila said.

I’ll buy you another.

Don’t worry. I’ve got extras.

But still.

As we were saying, said Sheila.

Yeah. Idealization. Am I boring you?

No, she said. But the time’s up.

Ah. Saved by the bell.

W
E WERE AT
F
AST
V
INNIE’S GAME AGAIN
, B
RENDAN AND ME
. Looking for a challenge. I mean, the field at the World Series is pretty weak generally, but if you go deep, last into the third, fourth day, you’re going to be playing some of the best players in the world. Some of the best players in history. So there’s no point in warming up with fish. Fish like cold water. If you’re warming up with them, they’re usually on the grill.

The usual crew was there. Won Ton John, Internet Mike, Bennie Sniffles with the box of tissues, Donny from Hudson County. I was glad to see Donny: as big a fish as they came. Bluff Daddy, a fat guy from Brooklyn with a moon face and speckled gray skin. Sort of reminded you of an uncleaned ashtray. And a guy called Bruno. New guy. Vinnie told me to watch out for him. He was huge. Not fat huge. Bodybuilder huge. Impossibly good-looking, in that square-jawed, blue-eyed way. And with enough arrogance to tell you he was well aware of both. Had the Nazi-style motorcycle helmet next to him. Oh yes, he was telling you, you can see me on the Harley—it had to be a Harley, one of the biggest, loudest and most obnoxiously beautiful of Harleys—rocketing down the turnpike, all in black, anonymous and massive, stray dollars from that night’s take flying out behind me like the sparks of the hellhounds’ claws on the blacktop. Oh yes. A walking, talking comic book hero. A towering heap of intimidation.

The kind of guy, he got run over by a semitrailer one day, you held a party.

He bought in huge as his shoulders. Banded stacks of hundreds, ten thousand dollars each. Made a nice handsome pile in front of him. Made sure he had more money on the table than anyone else. Had to be that way, for his style to work. I knew the type. Big bets. Very big. Always putting the question to you: Are you good enough? Do you want to invest your whole bankroll with that lousy pair? No? Ship it! Ship those chips over here. Of course, half the time the guy would have air. Seven, Four off suit. But when you stood up to him, and you’d guessed wrong, and he had Kings, or two pair, you just lost all your money. That’s what he counted on. Fear.

Those guys were hard to play against. But not impossible. Everybody has a weakness. Anybody can be exploited.

There are two ways to play against the big-stack bully, the Bruno type of guy. Both ways require that you have a hand, though. You’re certainly not going to bluff the guy, because if he re-bluffs you, it’s going to be for all your money. The old saying, you can’t bluff a bluffer, has far more than a grain of truth in it. So, you wait for a serious hand. Jacks, say. Or a premium drawing hand. King, Queen of hearts. You can flop a flush, a straight, two pair, all sorts of good stuff. And when he shoves his chips at you, you push back over the top. Put him in for all his money.

Since, most of the time, a guy like Bruno is shoving his chips in with less than a monster hand, he’ll usually fold. He doesn’t want to play a pot with you. He’s looking to intimidate you. Shove you off your cards. And since against most guys at the table it works eight times out of ten, maybe nine, he doesn’t need to look you up. Take a risk for a lot of chips. He’s making lots of money without having to do that.

The other way is the rope-a-dope. You get a monster, a pair of beautiful Aces, you just call. The flop brings another Ace, he bets, you just call again. He keeps betting, you keep calling. What’s he got? Ace, King, probably. Or Kings, or Queens, and he thinks you’re on a draw. Or air. He’ll play air like this. And on the river, there’s no flushes on board, no pairs that could make a full house for him. There’s a straight out there, but not something he’s likely to have. So when he bets again, you come over the top.

Of course, you can’t be too obvious about it. You’ve got to mix it up. The guy’s no fool. He’ll pick up on it if it’s all you do. But since you’ll use both of these techniques with big made hands as well as draws, it’ll be hard for him to read you. He’ll have to keep betting. He doesn’t want to give you a free card if you’re on the draw.

That’s how you play a guy like Bruno.

The problem was, I found out, Bruno was also sick lucky. There are guys like that. You don’t want to believe it. You want to think it’s all random. The luck evens out in the end. I mean, you do know it. There’s no empirical doubt about it. Long term, the cards even out. But somehow, it seemed, Bruno lucked out more than his share.

So, we’re at the table a couple hours. Nothing much happening. Bruno’s doing his shoving and talking, laughing and dominating the table. With his chips, and with his outsized personality. I’m playing cagey. I’m staying out of his way. I pick up a few small pots from some of the others. Tight, selective, aggressive. Winning poker.

Everyone folds to me. I’m two off the button. I look down. A smooth, shiny black pair of Aces. The Grand Enchilada. The Holy Grail of poker hands.

I throw in three hundred bucks.

Vinnie mucks his hand. If I don’t double up soon, he says, somebody’s going to get hurt. Won Ton John folds, too. Everybody else folds to Bruno. He’s on the button. The best place to be. Last to act in every postflop betting round. He looks at me. Smug. Calls my three hundred.

The blinds fold.

I got you, I’m thinking. I got you this time, big guy.

The flop comes King of clubs, Ten of hearts, Six of hearts.

I don’t hesitate. If I hesitate, it’ll look like exactly what it is: Hollywood. I’m acting. I’m trying to look weak. As everybody knows from Poker Tells 101, weak means strong, strong means weak. So, seeing as how I don’t figure my adversary for more than a two-level thinker, I’m looking to do the reverse tell: fire out a grand without missing a beat. He’s got to figure there’s a good chance it’s a continuation bet: I was going to bet whether the flop hit me or not. I have to back up my preflop aggression. He knows that. Everybody knows that. And this flop looks good to me. Relatively uncoordinated cards. Two hearts, of course. He could have a flush draw. But the chances of Bruno having two more hearts in the hole are relatively small. And anyway, I bet enough that if he calls with the heart draw it’s going to be very expensive for him to try to hit it.

I’ll take my chances.

Bruno goes into the tank. He looks at his cards. He stares me down. He looks back at his cards.

It’s quite an act.

I’m not sure what it means.

Meanwhile, I’m doing my usual thing: staring at a spot on the felt. Immobile. Unreadable.

At least that’s the theory.

Bruno starts making little piles of black chips. I try not to salivate too visibly. He pushes out five piles. A five-thousand-dollar raise.

I’m all in, I say instantly.

This is the moment I’ve been setting up for hours. I know the guy’s a good player. I don’t let my distaste blind me to his skills. Most of the time, I stay out of his way. But at some point, I’ve been telling myself
all night, I’m going to punish him. I’m going to look in his arrogant face and gloat. It’s going to be a very satisfying moment.

I push my whole stack into the middle. Slowly. It’s a big stack.

Oh shit, he says with a rueful smile. You got me. I call.

Damn, I think, that was way too gentlemanly.

Ruined the mood.

No hearts, I tell the dealer, who peels off the Ten of spades.

No more Tens, I say, louder. No more Kings, louder still. No hearts!

By now I’m yelling. I’m not embarrassed about it. Yet.

The river is … the King of clubs.

Bruno shrugs, turns over the King and Eight of hearts. Three goddamn Kings.

You fucking son of a bitch, I mutter.

I fling my now-pathetic Aces across the table. They bounce off the felt, hit the dealer in the chest. He shrugs, picks them up. Gives me a Look. The Look says, Do that again and I’ll be dealing you rags the rest of the night.

I know I’m making a fool of myself.

I can’t help it.

The dealer starts sweeping the mammoth pile of chips to Bruno.

If you look at it objectively, shit, the guy had fourteen outs. The nine remaining hearts. The two Kings. Three Sixes. Fourteen outs twice: once on the turn, again on the river. Jesus, the chances were almost exactly fifty-fifty. And anyway, that’s poker. Shit happens. You get sucked out on.

But I’d had him right where I wanted him. And he got away. The oversized prick. I slammed out the back door into the yard. Lit a cigarette. Cursed the Poker Gods.

The guys inside having a good laugh at my expense.

I didn’t care. I was too fucking mad.

T
HE SECOND TIME
I
MET THE DISTRACTING
M
S
. C
HANDLER
was at Bastone’s, a pasta joint in Little Italy. I was pretty sure it wasn’t her kind of place, but I liked the baked ziti, and I wasn’t going to take the chance that my esteemed client was going to invade Melissa’s space again.

Bastone’s was the kind of place that had a cheap bust of Julius Caesar on the wall, surrounded by five generations of Bastones, stiffly posed in elaborately framed pastel portraits. The even earlier Bastones were on the opposite wall, stiffly posed in black-and-white framed photographs.

All the waiters in the joint were in black tie. On the wainscoting by the table was a doorbell of the early sixties kind, a little brass hubcap with a Bakelite button, presumably installed when the place was new, to allow you to summon a waiter. Hadn’t worked since Rich Little was a big act. There seemed to be more wait staff than customers, anyway. The waiters, of course—Luigi and Pasquale and Giorgio and their kin—were lifers. Guys in their seventies and eighties who had worked their way up from busboy in the fifties and sixties. And never looked back.

The Vegas-style surveillance domes in the ceiling were the only modern touch, giving away—as if you hadn’t figured it out for yourself—the real provenance of the place, of the clientele. Although the world was changing, it seemed, seeing as how, looking around at the dozen or so customers, none of them appeared to have been born in Palermo or anywhere in the vicinity. Unless you counted the northern hemisphere as the vicinity.

After a bottle of Chianti, it didn’t seem important. If it ever had.

Something about the multiple angled mirrors from the corner table I’d finagled gave me a long-distance image of myself from a three-quarter rear view. My, I thought, you’re almost handsome, from that perspective. I resolved to sit three-quarters away from all future prospective conquests.