Drawing Dead (30 page)

black dogs. Since then, she had watched the tale evolve.

“So I get to work—I like to get in early, y'know—and these two Rotts, supposed to be guarding the place, they're all laid out on the ground, fast asleep, bellies bulging like a couple cooked sausages.” Joey grabbed a handful of peanuts from the dish at his elbow, threw a few into his mouth, and bit down on them, looking from face to face. Kjellgard and Spence had heard the story before and were wearing neutral expressions. Cousin Tony and Wexler the alderman were leaning forward, listening with some interest. It was Joey's turn to deal, and there would be no more cards until he finished telling his tale. He washed the peanuts down with his Remy and diet Coke, then continued his story.

“So I'm thinking, I'm gonna have to get myself a new guard dog service. These mutts couldn't protect this place from a damn rat. Then I notice this big stain on my driveway. I go, What the fuck? I think its tranny fluid at first, 'cause it's sort of pink and red, and then I take another look at these two dogs, all bloody on their faces, and I think, These fucking mutts have killed themselves a cat or something, y'know? So I give one of them a kick on account of I'm pissed, getting my driveway all messed up like that. Dog jumps up and starts doing that hunching thing dogs do when they're gonna puke, then he blows breakfast all over the place.” Something about the image of dogs vomiting made Joey laugh. Cousin Tony politely joined in.

“I'm going, What the fuck? What the fuck are these fucking dogs doing to my fucking driveway?” He opened his eyes as wide as possible and looked from face to face, demanding reaction from each of them. When he was satisfied that everyone at the table appreciated his dilemma, he went for the big finish. Chrissy sat up and paid attention here, repelled but curious to see how Joey was going to end it this time.

“So I look down at this pile of vomit, and I see something sitting right on top. I just about lost my own breakfast right there, damn near barfed my eggs Benedict all over my fucking shoes!”

Again he laughed, looking around the table.

“It was a fucking
nigger dick
! Turned out some black kid jumped the fence, and these Rotts, they're big dogs, they ate the fucker, bones and all.”

“They ate everything?” cousin Tony asked. Tony was in the restaurant business.

“Yeah. Bones and all. So when K-9 came around to pick up the dogs, I told them they owed me a discount, on account of they wouldn't have to feed 'em for a couple days.”

Chrissy had to leave the room. She was ready to talk Technicolor herself. Every time Joey told the story, a different body part was upchucked, but it was always a
nigger
toe, or a
nigger
ear, or a
nigger
finger.

When she came back to the room, Joey was dealing a hand of five- card draw, a freshly lit Davidoff clenched in his teeth. Chrissy took her position at his elbow and watched, waiting for the next player to demand a drink, or more chips, or a quick neck massage. It was going to be a long, smoky night. She thought about her bank account, about the thirty thousand she had socked away, thinking about making it forty or fifty thousand, thinking she could then afford to move on to another guy. The phone rang. She picked it up.

“Yes?” A smile spread across her face. “Sure, Cal. You send them right on up. Thanks.”

She turned to Joey, who was looking at her with raised eyebrows. “Your other player is here,” she said.

If you haven't figured out who the fish is in your first half hour at the table, it's probably you.

—Poker saying

Crow entered slowly,
letting himself absorb the scene in Chrissy Swenson's condo. The layout was disorienting at first. To his left, down two steps, a sitting area or conversation pit that the rental agent had no doubt described as “cozy” was filled with a white leather sectional sofa. It looked cold and uncomfortable, as if no one ever sat there. The glass coffee table held a copy of
Architectural Digest
. To his right, three green-carpeted steps, eight feet wide, led up to a tiny kitchen, a hallway, and a larger space that might have been intended as a dining area but was now serving as a cardroom.

Chrissy grabbed Debrowski by both hands and whispered, “I'm so glad you're here!” She looked at Crow. “Is this Joe?”

Crow smiled.

“He's
cute
!” Chrissy said.

“You're cute too,” Crow said. “Sorry we're late. Laura here had a problem with the traffic.”

Debrowski smiled and gave him a light but sharp kick on the ankle.

Chrissy said, “Oh, God, I know. Isn't it awful? You two come on in and let me introduce you to Joey and the guys.” She pulled them toward the dining area.

Joey and the guys were finishing up a hand of draw poker. A chubby guy in a white cotton sweater, black hair combed straight back over a bald spot—Crow figured him to be Joey Cadillac—had just raised the pot by two stacks of blue chips. A blond man with a big Nordic face stared at his cards, thinking about it. That would be Kjellgard, the Swede. Joey Cadillac was drumming his fingers, scratching his nose, stretching his neck, puffing on his cigar, waiting for Kjellgard to make up his mind. Crow liked playing against a guy with lots of nervous mannerisms. They were all tells, once they were decoded. The Swede decided to go for it, pushed a pile of chips out into the center of the table. Crow realized then that the Swede was not all that big in his body, but his head was enormous. His small hands flipped over two pair, nines over fours. Joey Cadillac grinned, showed him three deuces, scooped in the chips, emitted a thick cloud of smoke, then looked up at Crow and Debrowski.

“You Chrissy's friends?”

Crow nodded. “Joe Crow. This is my friend Laura.”

Chrissy jumped in. “They're from Minneapolis.”

Joey's eyes narrowed. He started to say something but closed his mouth.

Chrissy said, “This's Joey. Next to him, that's Jimmy—”

“Call me Spence,” said Jimmy Spencer, with a crinkly-eyed smile that made Crow want to back slowly out of the room. The smile was too practiced, too cold.

The slim, elegant-looking man closest to Crow stood up and offered him his hand. “Tony Battagno,” he said, with a genuine smile. “Good to meet you, Joe.” Crow shook his hand and liked him immediately. Tony was wearing a suit and tie, his hair was silver on the sides, full and jet black on top. He was a guy who took a lot of time to make sure he looked good, but not in a vain, pretentious way. Crow's sense was that he wanted to look nice for his friends. Tony continued the introductions that Chrissy had started. “This is Bobby Wexler, our prestigious alderperson—”

“How you doing?” Wexler, the chunky alderman, rumpled gray suit with no tie, shifted in his chair and wiggled his hand in the air—a truncated version of standing and shaking hands.

“—and Thor Kjellgard.” The Swede with the big head nodded.

Joey said, “You want to sit down, get this game rolling?”

“What's the game?” asked Crow. He took the empty seat between Wexler and Tony Battagno.

“Five draw, seven stud, or Hold 'em—dealer's choice,” Joey said to Crow. “No new games, no limit. Twenty-dollar ante. Cash plays, but we like chips. Chrissy's the bank; you buy your chips from her.”

Crow turned to Chrissy, who was standing directly behind him. “Let's start with ten thousand,” he said.

He handed her a thick packet of hundred-dollar bills. Chrissy counted out an assortment of chips—white, red, blue, and black—and set them on the table in front of him. “What have I got here?” he asked her.

“Whites are ten, reds twenty, blues one hundred, blacks five hundred,” Chrissy said. “You want something to drink?”

“Yeah. How about a rum and Coke. Have Laura make it for me, though. She knows how I like them.” Crow looked over the other players' stacks. He hadn't yet made his first bet, and already he was looking light. Only Wexler, the alderman, was sitting on a smaller stack.

“The gray chips are worth a thousand?” Chrissy hadn't given him any grays.

“That's right,” said Joey, who had at least twenty grays in front of him, in addition to another twenty thousand in assorted smaller- denomination chips. He obviously liked to play behind a big stack.

“Table stakes?” Crow asked.

“Only if you're tapped,” said Spencer, whose own stack was nearly the size of Joey's. “Ante up, gentlemen. This is Texas Hold 'em.” He gave Joey the cut, then dealt two cards to each player. Crow looked at his cards. Seven, deuce. A beer hand. Tony bet twenty dollars. Crow folded and sat back to watch and learn. Both Bobby Wexler and Thor Kjellgard called the bet without hesitating. Joey raised it up to one hundred dollars; Spencer folded, Tony folded, Wexler and Kjellgard called the raise. Already, Crow was forming his line on the players.

Kjellgard and Wexler were callers on the first bet. They would probably always be callers. They wanted to see the flop every time, no matter what two cards they caught on the deal. Joey Cadillac was clearly a pot jammer and would be the most aggressive player at the table. If he caught good cards, he would make a lot of money. He could also lose big on a run of second-best hands. From what Chrissy had told them, he usually swung twenty or thirty thousand one way or the other. Crow wasn't sure about Jimmy Spencer, but he looked like a tough player. Tough and tight with his money. Joey C.'s chop- shop guy.

Tony looked out of place, too elegant and open to do well in what promised to be a nasty game. Debrowski set Crow's rum and Coke in front of him, then pulled up a chair and sat at his elbow. Chrissy took a similar station behind Joey. Crow sniffed, smelled the quarter ounce of rum floating on top of the Coke, and sipped. The false high hit him in the back of the neck. He felt his scalp lifting, then settling back into place. He watched the hand play out, watched Joey Cadillac turn over a full boat to take Bobby Wexler—who had been playing trip sixes—for an easy five thousand. Wexler lit a cigarette and watched, eyes watering, as Joey scooped the pot for the second time in a row. Crow thought, If he keeps catching cards like that, we might as well just give him our money and hitchhike home. Still, it was good for Joey to be winning the money. The more he won from the other players, the more Crow could win from him. He took a deep breath and another sip of his drink, his hindbrain wishing fervently that the imagined jolt was real.

It took another twenty minutes for him to make Joey Cadillac's shit list.

It was a small Hold 'em pot, Tony dealing, and all the players except for Crow, Wexler, and Joey had folded before the flop. Crow was holding an ace, deuce. The flop came up five, jack, king, giving him nothing but a long shot at a straight, plus an overcard. Wexler bet a hundred, Crow called, Joey raised two hundred. Both Wexler and Crow called the raise. The turn brought another jack. Joey bet five hundred. Wexler scratched his nose with a stubby forefinger and folded.

Crow looked at Joey and considered. Chrissy was blinking both eyes, as though the cigar smoke was getting to her.

Crow said, “Raising it up, Cadillac man.” He threw three five- hundred-dollar chips into the pot.

Joey stared across the table at Crow, slowly counted off a stack of chips, and raised back an equal amount. Crow called.

Tony dealt a seven. Chrissy's eyes were bothering her again. Crow bet three thousand. Joey scowled at his cards and threw them away.

“Thanks,” said Crow. He turned his cards faceup and collected the pot. Joey stared at Crow's ace, deuce, turning slowly red, color radiating from the cigar in the center of his mouth.

“What the fuck were you doing in there?” he demanded.

“Messing with your head, Cadillac man.”

“Listen, Crow, you can call me Joey or you can call me Mister Cadillac. You understand?”

“Sure thing, guy. Hey, you got any more of those cigars?”

Joey took the cigar out of his mouth and looked at it, then flicked his eyes back at Crow. “You take my money, then you want me to give you a cigar? You're lucky I don't stick it in your fucking eye.”

“Hey, fellas,” said Wexler. “We here to play cards or what? Come on!”

Joey held the glare for a few more seconds, then smiled and laughed. “Just kidding. It's your deal, Bobby. Hey, Chrissy, you want to clip a fresh smoke for my friend Crow, here? I hope you appreciate it, Crow. Cuban Davidoffs; they don't make 'em anymore. Cost me twenty-five bucks each.”

“I like a good cigar,” Crow said.

“The game is seven stud,” Bobby Wexler announced. “Jack, nine, another nine, a lady for Tony, a cowboy for the Crow, dealer gives himself the big ace. That ought to be worth one little blue chip for starters. What do you say, Thor?”

Joey returned his attention to his cards, but Crow could see the flicker of his eyes, every few beats, checking him out.

Something was nagging at Joey's mind, something about Joe Crow and his girlfriend. He looked at his cards, two and six down, with a nine up top. Rags. He checked, then folded when Crow bet fifty on a king of hearts. Something about the guy? Joey watched him light the cigar. The guy looked like a slob, all wrinkled up, but his clothes had some style and he was wearing a nice watch. The face looked familiar, like he was on the TV. Or maybe it was the chick, Laura. Had he met her before? She wasn't bad, nice hair, and that big white bow over her tits made you want to tug it open. Maybe it was just that all the shit in his life lately was flowing down from Minneapolis. The comic book guys, Freddy Wisnesky, and that Rich character. What was going on up there? Were they sending all the assholes south?

Joey watched Crow win a small pot, about five hundred bucks. Joey didn't like his style, whoever he was. Fucking with him, asking him for a twenty-five-dollar cigar like he was bumming a ten-cent cigarette. And the way he was smoking it, holding it like a prop, making big clouds of smoke, not taking the time to savor the Cuban tobacco. He might as well have given him a twenty-five-cent Dutch Master. What did he know about this guy? Chrissy's friend's friend. Could be anybody. Chrissy had said the guy was some kind of businessman who loved to play cards and usually lost. Crow didn't look much like a businessman, and he wasn't losing.