Drawing Dead (32 page)

Joey was staring down at the remains of the comic book. “Those fuckers,” he said. He didn't understand what was happening, but he knew he was getting fucked again. If Wexler, Kjellgard, and cousin Tony hadn't been sitting there watching, he'd just have had Spence take Crow down to the parking ramp and do a little Harlem Globetrotters with his head. Crow was looking at him, same stupid expression on his face. The guy looked about half as bright as Freddy Wisnesky. “Where'd you get this fuckin' thing? Goddamn it, quit staring at me like a fuckin' wooden Indian. I'll pay you for your goddamn comic book! Where'd you get it?”

Crow said, “I told you. Franklin Jefferson Investments. Now you want to take my bet?”

Joey gripped the edge of the table, practicing self-control. It felt as though he had a rib cage full of monkeys, clawing at his skin from the inside. He grabbed the remains of the comic in a fist, crumpled it, threw it back over his shoulder.

Spence said, “Be cool, Mister C. It's gonna be okay.” He was smiling, one hand on Joey's shoulder.

Joey shot him a look, then forced himself back down into his seat. With Kjellgard and Wexler there, not to mention Tony, there wasn't much he could do. “We got to have a talk, you and me, later,” he said to Crow. He threw four gray chips into the pot. “That's for the comic. You wanted to bet ten? Now you're light seven.” He picked up his cigar, only three inches left now, and relit it, staring through the gathering smoke at Joe Crow.

After a time, Tony Battagno said, “It's up to you, Joey.”

“I know that, goddamn it!” He reached for his dwindling stack and considered the chips with his fingers. He looked again at his cards. A straight to the ten. In light of Crow's raise, the straight didn't look as good as it had a few minutes ago. But he couldn't fold now. Maybe he should raise, really blow the guy's mind.

Fuck it. After the comic book thing, he didn't have the heart for it.

“I call.” He pushed ten thousand dollars into the pot. “Let's see 'em.”

Crow showed his flush. Joey looked at Spence, then back at Crow. He shrugged and forced out a laugh. It sounded like an old man's cough.

“Good thing we give it all back at the end of the night, right, guys?” His mouth smiling, his little black eyes dead on Crow's impassive face.

Everybody laughed.

At four in the morning, Thor Kjellgard announced that he was leaving after one more round. He was down only a few thousand dollars, a good time to leave. Tony said that sounded good to him too. He was ready to hit the sack.

“What a bunch of flyweights,” Joey said.

Crow said, “I'm out of here too. Sorry, guys. I've got to be back in Minneapolis by tonight. Long drive.” He had somewhat over fifty thousand dollars in front of him, nearly all of it from Joey Cadillac, whose stack was down to about fifteen thousand dollars.

Spence had been winning modestly. Wexler and Tony were each within a thousand dollars of even.

Since the hand where Crow had taken him for nearly thirty K, Joey had calmed down considerably, but he had continued to lose. It didn't seem to matter to him anymore. He laughed every time Crow swept in a pot.

Crow didn't want to ride down in the elevator without Thor Kjellgard and Tony. He had the feeling that Joey wouldn't try anything with any of his legitimate buddies in the vicinity. Joey had been acting far too sanguine about his losses; he was playing as if it didn't matter whether he won or lost. Crow was remembering the solid feel of Spence's arm across his abdomen. The real challenge was not to win the money; it was to keep it.

Joey played the last round aggressively, buying most of the pots. No one, at this late hour, wanted to play against him. That was fine with Crow. Let him win a few hands. Crow was happy with his take. Spence dealt the last hand, five-card draw. Crow was ready to fold—he had no desire for a final confrontation—but when he looked at his cards he found four jacks and an eight. He looked across the table. Joey Cadillac was staring at him, his little eyes like black olives.

Tony checked. Crow checked. Wexler bet one hundred, and Kjellgard folded.

Joey raised the bet to five hundred. Spence folded, Tony called the raise.

Crow considered his cards. They were too damn good. He had been watching Spence deal all night, and the guy clearly was no card mechanic. But four jacks? Last hand of the night? There was no way. It had to be a cooler. Spence had probably set up another deck during one of his trips to the bathroom, kept it between his legs, and switched it in somehow. Had Joey cut the cards? Crow couldn't remember.

But he didn't believe the four jacks. You just don't get dealt in four jacks.

Chrissy was scratching her nose again. It was all red on one side. Crow placed his cards facedown on the table and pushed them forward.

“I fold,” he said.

He thought Joey was going to explode. He watched Wexler call the raise. Tony and Wexler both drew two. Joey stood pat—no surprise there; he probably had a straight flush. Another round of betting, raising, and re-raising brought the pot up to over twelve thousand dollars, with all three players staying in. Crow was guessing that both Wexler and Tony had been dealt in trips, with one or both of them improving on the draw. Of course, if the deck was a cooler, his dropping out might have screwed up Wexler's draw.

He was right about Wexler and Tony. Tony turned over three aces. Wexler had a pair of fours to his three sevens, making a full house. They both looked at Joey, who threw his cards away.

Wexler dragged in the chips and started arranging them by color in neat stacks of twenty.

“You got to show 'em, Joey. You were called,” Tony complained, reaching for the cards and flipping them up. A little flush, ten high. Joey crossed his arms and glared at Wexler.

Crow sighed, thinking about his four jacks. He started to count his chips and made a new rule for himself:
When somebody deals you four jacks, you bet the hell out of them.

Crow
and Debrowski rode down in the elevator with Thor Kjellgard and Bobby Wexler.

“That was some hand you played,” Wexler said.

“I got lucky,” Crow replied.

“Like hell. Listen, anybody interested in some breakfast? I got to get some chow. No? Kjell?”

At the front entrance, Kjellgard and Wexler turned north toward a twenty-four-hour cafe that had “incredible hash browns.”

Debrowski and Crow headed up the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Debrowski said, “I thought we were goners, that one hand.”

Crow looked back toward the building, watching for Joey or Spence, or for somebody else. He was glad that Freddy Wisnesky was back in Minneapolis.

“Where's the car?”

“Up the block, right where we left it. Are you okay, Crow?”

“For now.” He had put all the money in his briefcase. Joey and Spence had been sitting on the white sectional, talking quietly, glancing up at him occasionally.

“He's going to come after us,” Crow said.

“Let him,” Debrowski said. She was loosening up, shedding the meek bimbo persona. “Man, was that ever something! He didn't know what the hell was going on. That was almost as good as kicking him in the head. No, it was better. How much did we score? Tell me again.”

“I think about fifty-four.” He looked down an alley entrance. No one there. They were only a few yards from the Lincoln. “Hurry it up,” he said as Debrowski fumbled with the door key.

Moments later they were moving north on Lake Shore Drive, Debrowski behind the wheel. At 4:30 a.m., the street was empty.

Crow asked, “Does anyone know where we're staying?”

“No.”

“Not even Chrissy?”

“Nobody. Crow, don't turn around, okay? There's a Cadillac back there—came out of the ramp—about a block behind us.”

“That's it. I knew it. Shit.”

“You want me to try and lose them?”

“Just keep going, see what they do.”

“They're coming up on us.”

“Can you see who it is?”

“Too dark. Tinted windows. Shit, we're gonna catch a red light, Crow. You sure you don't want to go for it?”

“I doubt we could lose them.” Crow opened the briefcase and shook the money out onto the seat. He closed the empty briefcase.

Debrowski stopped the Lincoln at the light. A black Cadillac Eldorado rolled up alongside them, to their left. The tinted window lowered to reveal Joey Cadillac's smiling face.

“Roll down your window,” Crow said. “Let's see what he's got to say.”

Debrowski found the window control and pressed it.

“How you doing?” Joey Cadillac asked, grinning.

Crow leaned over Debrowski. “We're doing fine, Joey.” He tried to see who was driving. Spence.

Joey asked, “You want to stop and have a nightcap? Celebrate your big win? There's a place I know, a few blocks over, never closes.”

“No, thanks, Joey. I think we'll just be heading back to our place.”

“Yeah? Where you staying?”

“The light's green, Crow,” Debrowski muttered.

“I don't remember offhand,” Crow said. Debrowski took her foot off the brake and eased down on the accelerator. The Cadillac fell in behind them.

“I don't like this, Crow,” she said. “Christ, another light. I'm gonna run it.”

“Don't. I want to talk to Joey some more.”

“What for?”

“Trust me. I've got a plan.” He wished it were true. Debrowski's instinct to make a run for it was tempting, but he didn't think the rented Lincoln would be able to outrun the Eldorado, not with Spence behind the wheel. He would have to come up with something, tell them some story.

Debrowski stopped at the light. They were on a section of Lake Shore Drive that was all condos and pricey apartment buildings. The Eldorado eased up beside them.

Crow leaned over and said, “Hey, Joey, what do we have to do to get you off our ass?”

Joey laughed. “In my game we give the money back at the end of the night.”

“You want your money back?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Or else what?”

Joey laughed again. The barrel of a shotgun appeared across his chest, pointing in the general direction of Debrowski's head. Spence's craggy face was suddenly visible, looking down the ribbed barrel. So much for telling them a story.

Crow held up the empty briefcase. “How about we split it?”

The shotgun barrel moved back and forth. Debrowski was staring straight ahead, one foot holding down the brake pedal, the other pressing against the accelerator.

This is bad, Crow thought. He had to do something before Debrowski tried to take off and got a face full of buckshot. “Just stay cool,” he said in a low voice as he opened the door. “I've got everything under control.” He got out of the car, set the briefcase on the roof of the Lincoln. He thought he heard Debrowski mutter, “Like hell.”

“You want it all?”

“That's a good idea,” Joey said. “Why don't you just bring it on over here.”

“Tell Spence he doesn't need to be pointing that thing.”

Joey said something to Spence, then turned back to Crow. “He doesn't agree with you, Crow.” The barrel lifted and was now focused on Crow's head. “All you got to do is bring the money over here, then you can go back to Minnesota. Nobody wants anybody to get hurt. It's only money. You had a good time playing, didn't you? You want to keep your comic books? I'll let you keep 'em.” Joey opened the car door. As the doorpost passed in front of the shotgun barrel, Debrowski took off, tires shrieking. Crow, Joey, and Spence stared after the fishtailing Lincoln with equal measures of astonishment. The briefcase had flown from the roof of the car, bounced, rolled end over end, and landed upright in the middle of the street, twenty yards away. The white Lincoln disappeared down a side street.

Crow took off running in the opposite direction, imagining the buckshot chasing him, tearing through the fabric of his jacket, penetrating his skin, shredding lung, heart, liver. He hoped Joey Cadillac would go for the money, give him time to get lost. His years as a cop had taught him that the hardest guys to catch were the ones on foot. He looked back and saw Joey lifting the briefcase, feeling its light weight, throwing it. Crow was over a block away when the Eldorado made a screaming U-turn, tires shrieking, and came at him. He looked for a break between the buildings, or an open lobby, or anything he could get between him and the approaching Cadillac. The wall of condos was uninterrupted, a barrier as unbroken and unsur- mountable as the Great Wall of China. He looked back, risking a full-speed collision with a utility pole.

They were coming. He needed an alley to duck into, but there were no alleys or even cross streets on this stretch of Lake Shore Drive. He threw another look over his shoulder.

A white Lincoln was bearing down on the Eldorado. The Lincoln struck from behind, hard, sending the Eldorado over the curb, across the sidewalk, and into a concrete lion that guarded the entrance to one of the older buildings. The Lincoln stopped on the street. Plastic molding, chrome, and broken glass were everywhere, but the car was largely intact. Crow ran to the driver's-side door and opened it. Debrowski, still gripping the wheel, seemed dazed but uninjured. “Are you okay?” he shouted.

Debrowski nodded. The air bag was hanging like a limp plastic rag from the center of the steering wheel. He looked back at the Cadillac. Steam rose from its hood.

“Move over.” He reached over her and unsnapped her seat belt. She slid across the money-littered seat. Crow got behind the wheel and turned the key. After a few long seconds, the engine caught and started. He looked again toward the Cadillac, saw one of its doors swinging open. He dropped the Lincoln into gear and took off up Lake Shore Drive. A howling sound was coming from under the hood, but the car was moving.

“I hope you bought the insurance when you rented this thing,” Crow said.