Drawing Dead (9 page)

“I'm doing fine,” Cartwright replied. The two men watched each other, leaning against opposite walls.

Between the fifth and fourth floors, Crow pressed the red emergency button and the elevator chattered to a stop.

“Maybe I'm not doing as well as I thought,” Cartwright said. He looked at the elevator control panel. “I always wondered what would happen if you pressed that button.”

“What happens is, the elevator stops, you pay a guy eight bills, the elevator starts up again.”

“That how much you dropped?”

Crow smiled.

Cartwright stared down at the smaller man. After several seconds, he nodded, returned Crow's smile, and pulled a folded sheaf of bills from his hip pocket.

“You should have seen it sooner,” he said, as though delivering a critique on Crow's performance. “It's been years since I did this for a living. I thought for sure you could hear me pulling out those cards. Noisy deck.”

Crow took the money and pressed the button for the twenty-fifth floor. “I thought it was a friendly game. I wasn't looking for a trim job.”

“Trim job?” Cartwright seemed surprised and offended. “You call that cheating?”

“What do you call it?”

“I call it poker, Mr. Crow.”

As
Crow returned to the game, Debrowski counted off a stack of bills and threw it down in the middle of the table. “Five hundred forty. All-in.”

“What happened to twenty-dollar limit?” Crow asked. “We got bored,” Wicky said. “Laura, here, wanted to play some no-limit.”

“Why not, since she seems to be doing it with my money. What the hell you doing, Debrowski?”

“Winning.”

“She sure is,” said the red-faced man. “Where the hell did you find her?”

“I forget,” Crow said. “Let me see what you're betting my money on.

Debrowski showed him her cards. Crow nodded, crossed his arms, and stepped back to watch the hand played out.

The drunk sitting to Debrowski's left looked at his cards, then at the pot, then back at his cards, then folded. Debrowski's crap game sponsor, Ron Lipke, a.k.a. Loman, had taken the next seat. He gazed sadly at his cards, threw them away. The red-faced man, his cigar burned down to a one-inch stub, looked as if he was about to explode. “I don't believe this shit,” he muttered, slamming his cards down on the discard pile.

Wicky was not looking at his cards, or at Debrowski, or at the money on the table. His eyes were fixed on Crow. Slowly, he counted out five hundred forty dollars, then counted out another five hundred. “I raise,” he said.

“You can't raise,” said the fat man. “She's all-in. Aren't we playing table stakes here?”

Wicky was looking at Crow. “What do you say, buddy?”

“I'll cover your light,” Crow said to Debrowski.

Debrowski leaned forward and examined the pile of cash in the middle of the table. “How much we got here? About two thousand?”

“Something like that,” Wicky said.

Debrowski smiled. “I'm light the pot.”

Crow felt as if his stomach had detached itself, turned to ice, and started spinning. He focused on keeping his face neutral and his body upright. The cards Debrowski had shown him were a lousy pair of deuces—any decent hand would beat them—and she had just raised fifteen hundred dollars. Wicky was staring not at her but at Crow, drumming the table, staring at him, waiting for him to snap into focus. Crow tried to slow time, astonished by the effect Debrowski's bluff was having on him. He had been in hundreds of bigger hands, but this effect was new to him. He was furious with her for risking his money, he admired the guts it took to run this bluff, and he was flattered by her confidence in him—they both knew that Crow was the active player from here on out. Wicky's pale-blue irises floated on pink scleras, picking at Crow's face, seeking access. Crow felt a warm wave of confidence rise from his groin to his belly; the spinning inside slowed to a stop. Wicky was finding nothing; his eyes were skittering across Crow's shield like water droplets on a hot iron skillet. He was going to fold. Crow could read it in Wicky's eyes as clearly as he could see the chains on Debrowski's jacket. He didn't have shit. The shield was holding; Wicky was coming up empty; the only play that made sense now was for him to fold.

Wicky dropped his eyes to his cards. It was all Crow could do to keep himself from reaching over Debrowski's shoulder and scooping in the pot. It was as good as his.

Hunches are for dogs making love.

—Amarillo Slim Preston

Crow sat on his porch
and watched it rain. It was coming straight down, thick but oddly quiet. The First Avenue traffic hissed by on slick black asphalt. It was Saturday, early afternoon, but none of the neighborhood kids were out. The only foot traffic was the postman, shrouded in his gray-blue raincoat, walking through the wet as if he owned it. Crow watched him deliver to the apartments across the street, then lost sight of him as he crossed over to Crow's side. A few seconds later, he heard the clank of his mailbox downstairs. He thought about going down to look at his mail, but he could not think of anything he was hoping to receive. Still, it would be something to do. He visualized himself getting up from his chair, opening the door, walking down the stairs.

An hour later, he was still thinking about it when he heard a door slam, footsteps in the staircase, pounding on his door, a muffled voice: “Open up, Crow.”

He got up and opened the door.

“I brought your mail,” said Debrowski, handing him a slim assortment of envelopes. She was wearing a sweater, white cotton with a cowl neck, and a pair of khaki slacks that had no holes, patches, studs, chains, or graffiti. Crow could not detect any makeup, and her usually spiky hair was combed down and held back by a tortoiseshell barrette.

He took the mail. “Thanks. What happened to your basic black?”

“I got to go out and see my mom today.”

“She doesn't like leather and chains?”

“Actually, she doesn't mind them. She's pretty cool for an old lady. I just like to surprise her now and then.”

“The penny loafers ought to blow her mind.”

“You think I should put some pennies in them?”

“Too retro.”

“That's what I thought. I don't want to scare her. She's got this heart thing, has to take all these pills.”

“Uh-huh.” Crow sorted through his mail.

“Crow? I'm sorry about last night.”

“You already said that about twenty times. Forget about it. It wasn't a bad play, but you should never try to bluff a drunk. You never know what he's going to do. Best thing is to play your cards tight and wait for him to give you his money. I wasn't thinking, either.”

“Yeah, well, it was mostly my fault. It was my hunch. Listen, I want to cover it. What was it we lost—about five thousand?”

“More like four. Forget it, Debrowski. You were playing with my stack. You don't owe me anything. We were both a part of it. He had no business calling us with a lousy pair of fours.”

“I shouldn't have bet your money. Especially pulling light that way. I want to pay you back. I can give you a check for fifteen hundred right now and the rest of it in a few weeks.” She opened her purse and took out a black leather checkbook.

“I don't want your money, Debrowski,” he snapped.

Debrowski jerked as if she had been slapped.

Crow looked up. “Sorry.”

“Me too,” said Debrowski, putting away her checkbook.

“It was my stack,” Crow said again.

“It was my play. You aren't the only asshole in this universe, you know.”

Crow shrugged. Debrowski turned and walked out. He listened to the soft sound of her penny loafers on the stairs, feeling more than a little ill. He looked at the mail in his hand, tore open an envelope from Bobick Realty of Brainerd, Minnesota, looked at the photographs. Pictures of an island and a small cabin. He read the note from Jimbo.

“Great,” he said to the empty room. “All I have to do is come up with a hundred thirty thousand bucks and a boat.” He laughed and threw the letter and photos in the wastebasket. Milo stalked into the room, sniffed the wastebasket, stretched.

“I'm afraid old Jimbo's wasting his time on this one,” Crow said. “He wants my money, he's going to have to get in line behind Dickie.” He winked at Milo. “You believe it? I'm talking to the damn cat.” He picked up another envelope, and his usually expressionless face went white.

“Mrow?” Milo asked.

Crow swallowed and stared at the return address of the Internal Revenue Service.

“I think the line just got longer,” he said.

At
nine o'clock that evening, Crow was awakened by someone pounding on his front door. It used to be, when Crow had troubles, he just got high. Now, hooked on sobriety, he went to sleep. He rolled off the sofa and staggered toward the sound, more to make it stop than because he wanted to know who was there. It was Dickie Wicky, wearing a neon baseball cap.

Crow's half-open eyes went to the cap and got stuck there for an eternal moment. He shook his head to clear it. “Nice hat,” he said, his voice thick with sleep.

“Thanks!” Wicky stepped inside and looked over the room. “I've been trying to call you all day. You ever listen to your messages?”

“Not often,” Crow muttered.

“I thought so. You got a minute?”

“I was asleep,” said Crow. “What do you want, Dickie? Is this a collection call?”

“Yeah, I came over to break your arm—just kidding! I have this idea I want to run by you.”

“Excuse me.” Crow went to the kitchen and mixed two teaspoons of instant coffee into a mug of hot tap water. He sipped it, made a face, sipped it again.

Dickie Wicky was looking curiously at the prints, posters, and paintings that hung in haphazard array on the walls, and at cardboard boxes that were stacked along the baseboards. Each of the boxes was labeled: Books, Kitchen Junk, Misc, Mags, Towels. . . . Some of the boxes had been opened and partially emptied, others were still sealed with brown plastic tape.

“Moving?” he asked.

“Still unpacking,” Crow said. He had been unpacking for months. He took another pass at the lukewarm coffee, gestured with the mug. “You want some?”

Wicky shook his head, looking closely at a deep frame that held five dog-eared baseball cards: Harmon Killebrew, Roger Maris, Zoilo Versalles, Whitey Ford, Willie Mays.

“These might be worth some money,” he said. “I've got some friends that are into this kind of stuff. Collectibles. Comic books. You know that there was one comic that sold for over a hundred thousand dollars last year? You find an attic full of the things, you could retire. Baseball cards too. You want me to get them appraised?”

“No. You want to tell me your idea now?”

“You sure? Maybe you've got a fortune hanging there on your wall.”

“No, thanks,” said Crow, making a mental note to find out what his baseball cards were going for now. When he'd had them framed five years ago, they had been worth less than a hundred dollars. The frame had cost him more than the cards were worth.

Wicky shrugged, then sat down on the sofa. Crow remained standing. Wicky cleared his throat.

“Remember we were talking about Catfish before? At my office?”

Crow nodded.

“Did you get a chance to think about it some more?”

“Yeah, I did.” He took a breath. “I'm really not interested in that kind of work.” Actually, it wasn't the work he minded; it was the thought of working for Dickie Wicky.

Wicky nodded, but continued as though Crow had said nothing. “Because I was thinking that you could take care of that two thousand pretty quick that way. I'd even be willing to trade you straight up. You take care of my problem, I tear up your marker. What do you think?”

Crow forced down another ounce of the rapidly cooling coffee and thought about his financial situation. The IRS wanted $3,575 in back taxes, claiming that the Jaguar left behind by Bellweather, his former client, was unreported income. How had they found out about that? Bellweather had probably declared it as a business expense. Crow remembered receiving a 1099 for thirty thousand dollars from someplace called Eternal Enterprises in Honolulu. He had assumed it was a mistake, thrown it away, and hadn't given it a thought since. How did he get involved with these people?

“Joe? What are you thinking?” Wicky said.

Rent was due in a week. Things were looking bleak. He wouldn't be buying that island anytime soon, but the idea had become more attractive than ever. Getting Dickie Wicky paid off, at least, would be a positive step. Crow raised his eyes and stared at him over the rim of his coffee mug, playing with the balance in his mind. He wished he were a little more awake. Or maybe he didn't. He stared at Wicky, trying to imagine himself in his employ, fighting the stomach-rolling sensation as he realized that he was going to do it.

“Nothing,” said Crow.

Wicky held Crow's gaze for several seconds before his eyes fell away. He cleared his throat and said, “Catfish didn't make it home again last night, Joe.” His voice had suddenly changed, as if he had a mouth full of pudding, and his eyes were wet. Crow looked away. It was the way it had been the day before in the Litten Securities conference room—he was uncomfortable with the forced intimacy. Wicky's emotion was probably genuine, but that didn't mean he wasn't using it, consciously and with premeditation, to manipulate and to control his audience.

Now he was staring off over Crow's right shoulder, his eyes uncharacteristically still. “She finally got home this morning. I could smell him on her. Some kind of crummy cologne.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward, staring down at the hardwood floor.

Not fair, thought Crow. He shouldn't have to see this stuff, especially in his own home. He said, “And you want me to find this guy and pay him off.”