Jack Carter's Law (8 page)

“Hello, Charlie,” I say, “Hello, Albert.”

Albert is pleased that I’ve singled him out to be acknowledged. He’s that kind of character, builds himself up on the names he thinks salute him, shoots the shit to the people who find those names impressive. Charlie is something else again. Whereas Albert basically realises he’s lucky to be given the nod, Charlie really believes that people are as pleased to see him as he is to see them. He’s high on the excitement of his brother-in-law’s success, exhilarated by the fact he can always put the touch on his sister, so he doesn’t have to fail at trying to draw a few bob ever again. The closest Charlie ever got to success in his own right was when he sat behind the counter in one of Gerald and Les’s shops and drew a shilling for every punter’s note he took, but even then he had a bit of bother with his accounting system and it was only because Jimmy Swann spoke up for him he avoided getting some attention from Gerald and Les. And because Jimmy’s so heavy Charlie basks in his reflected light, imagining himself to be on the same level, deluding himself that he’s respected the same way Jimmy’s respected. Or was.

“Want to come in on this one, Jack?” Charlie says. He beams round the table at the others. “That’ll be all right, won’t it, lads?”

That’s the kind of fucking stupid thing Charlie says. There would be no way it wouldn’t be all right if I wanted to sit down. The door opens and Con comes in.

“No thanks, Charlie,” I say. “Leave me out of this one.”

“Good school, Jack,” he says. “Good school. We’re all very good players here. You’d enjoy the action.” Con winces and I now know who the asthmatic was who always sat behind me at Saturday morning pictures repeating the American phrases that glided down from the screen.

I shake my head. “I’ve had enough excitement for one night, Charlie. You carry on.”

“Been on a tickle have you?” Charlie says, looking at the others again, to see if they’re admiring his familiarity, but all they do is avoid his eyes so that they can be left out of any embarrassing repercussions that might be caused by his lack of tact. I don’t answer Charlie.

Instead I take a sip of my tea and Albert says, “Come on, Charlie. Let us know what you’re doing.”

They’re playing a version of brag where you’re dealt three cards, two face up, the third blind, and gamble against what your opponents might have face down, taking into consideration of course what you already see, and not knowing what you have face down yourself. Charlie has ace and three of spades showing, Bob Shearer has ten of spades and four of hearts, Albert five of diamonds and three of hearts, George Longman jack of spades and nine of spades. Mouncey has thrown in his hand so on the showing cards Charlie has the best chance with the ace, and he could have a flush, but then Albert could have a run, George could have a run or a running flush, and all of them could have nothing like Bob with his ten and his four.

But as Charlie has the psychological ace he’s very happy with the present state of affairs so he says, “I’m carrying on bragging, Albert, that’s what I’m doing.”

He grins at me as if I’m the only one in the room who appreciates his card-playing ability and floats another pound across the table. Albert follows him and so do the other two and inside a couple of minutes the pot is twenty quid heavier. At this point, George Longman tells the table he’s going to have a look and slides his blind card to the edge of the table and flicks the card with his thumb and the card snaps back face down and George is thoughtful for a while.

“All right,” he says. “I’ll go with you.”

For the privilege of looking at his third card George now has to pay double what the blind men are paying. How long he is prepared to continue paying two to one depends on how good his hand is or how far he’s going to bluff a bad one. Personally, I think he’s bluffing because George never had a good hand in his life; a bent dealer would never have to worry about George because he just naturally attracts all the shit in creation. Why he bothers to sit down at all I’ll never know. But he carries on throwing his money in and he’s just on the point of deciding whether or not to cut his losses when his mind is made up for him by Albert having a look at his own blind card to see if it goes with the five and the three and deciding that he wants to let the others think it does by staying in.

So George says, “Fuck it, then, I’m out.”

Charlie gives a knowing smile and now the betting’s round to him.

“So,” he says to Albert, “you’re trying to tell me you’ve got three four five, are you Albert? You’re a cocky little devil, aren’t you? But I got this feeling, this little feeling, that you’re trying to bluff old Charlie out of what is due to him and what is rightfully his. So, the case being that you can’t see a blind man, I’m going to make you sweat a little bit, Albie, my little lad.” Charlie takes his wallet out, eases out some notes and slips the wallet away again.

Then with the kind of gesture that goes with a cod sleight-of-hand trick he places a fiver on the centre of the table. Albert looks at the fiver without any change of expression and thinks about it and then selects ten singles from his stack and pushes them into the middle. Charlie grins again as if he’s sussed everything out, everything’s as he reckoned it would be, and Bob throws his hand away.

“There’s bluffing and there’s bluffing,” he says, reaching for his bottle of light ale. But before he can wrap his fingers round it Con has leant forward and lifted the bottle to his lips. Bob watches Con while Con drinks but he doesn’t say anything.

Con puts the bottle back on the table and says to me, “I know it’s only Courage, but it tastes very sweet after
Maurice’s piss.”

Bob still doesn’t say anything but leaves the almost empty bottle on the spot where Con put it. In the meantime Charlie has donated another fiver to the kitty and now he sits back happy, confident that Albert’s going to stack.

But instead of stacking Albert digs into his suiting and excavates a pile more money and says, “Here you go, then, Charlie. I’m fucking barmy, as you well know, but I’m putting in forty, so it’s down to you for twenty, all right?” Charlie’s glasses shimmer a bit and he has a good old think. Is Albert or is he not conning him, Charlie’s thinking. He must be, he thinks, because Charlie hasn’t even looked at his third card yet. Yes, that’s it, Albert’s trying to buy the pot, and besides, Charlie can’t be seen to avoid a twenty-quid raise in front of Con and myself so he pushes in his corner and sits back waiting to be proved right. Albert keeps his face straight and pushes in another forty quid. This makes Charlie even more convinced that Albert’s bluffing but being the person he is Charlie just can’t bring himself to back his judgment so he drops a lot of face by picking up his third card and taking a look. It’s Albert’s turn to smile to himself but his expression is nothing to the one Charlie assumes when he sees what his third card is. He looks as though he’s just thrown away his sticks at Lourdes with the organ playing and the sun streaming through the stained-glass windows. He’s got his spade and he’s made his flush. So Charlie now has to pay the same as Albert and not only does he do it with a will, he ups it by another twenty, making his contribution sixty quid in all. Con looks at me and we don’t even have to shake our heads. For the second time Charlie sits back and waits for Albert to pay up and look sick. But Albert is looking far from sick when he separates one hundred notes from his pile and arranges them in the middle of the table. Now it’s up to Charlie to back his flush or macaroni his strides. He’s beginning to wonder whether Albert’s got the four after all. He can see Albert but if Albert’s bluffing Charlie’s going to look fucking stupid in front of us. And if Albert’s got the four he’s still going to look stupid. Either way it’s going to cost him another hundred. Two, if Albert doesn’t see him next time. Charlie ponders for a while and then he takes his wallet out again, only this time the flourish is missing. He draws out some more fivers and manages to make them add up to a hundred and puts them in the middle although Charlie’s fingers make it look as though he’s trying to take the notes out. Charlie withdraws his lingering hands and now Albert’s really got him. Albert gives Mouncey the nod and Mouncey opens up his wallet and adds a sheaf to Albert’s pile and Albert arranges the notes into a neat oblong and places it next to Charlie’s disheveled contribution.

“Two hundred,” Albert says. “Two hundred to go, Charlie.”

Bob Shearer tries to stop himself laughing and the sound comes out like a snort. Charlie looks as though somebody’s told him he forgot to post a winning coupon.

“Two hundred?” he says. “Two hundred?”

Albert nods.

“You’re not seeing me?”

Albert shakes his head.

Charlie raises his hand to wipe his lips but he’s only imagining that they’re wet. He stares at Albert’s neat pile of notes as if it’s about to jump at him.

“You can always see me, Charlie,” Albert says. Charlie manages to force a grin. He’s got to make the best of things now. He shakes his head.

“No,” he says, still managing to maintain the smile. “No, no thanks. I’m not paying you two hundred just so you can show me the four.”

“Stacking?” Albert says.

Charlie’s smile disintegrates as he nods to Albert and Albert shrugs and leans across the table and rakes in the pot. Charlie lights a cigarette and tries to show us that it wasn’t very important anyway.

“Jesus, Jack,” he says. “I really thought the bleeder was bluffing. I really didn’t think he’d got the four.”

“And did he?” I say.

Charlie stares at me and when he’s working out what I’m saying he turns his gaze on Albert. Albert grins at Charlie and picks up his cards and turns them over. Instead of three four five, it’s a pair of threes that’s staring Charlie in the face.

When Charlie gets his voice back he says, “A pair of threes? I could have beaten that. I had a hand that would have beaten that.”

Albert nods in agreement. “That’s right, Charlie. You certainly had the better hand.”

“Shame,” Bob Shearer says.

Charlie scrapes his chair back and stands up. He takes a last look at the pair of threes and walks out of the cardroom. As the door swings to behind him everybody bursts out laughing.

“What a prick,” Bob says. “What a flaming prick.”

“Well,” says Con, “that’s Charlie Abbott for you.”

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go and prop him up with a drink. Otherwise he might be too dry to talk.”

Con follows me through the frosted-glass doors. When they’ve closed behind us I say, “There’s one thing. Charlie sure as hell knows fuck all about Jimmy. Not a thing.”

“Yes,” Con says. “We’re wasting our time down here.”

“Not entirely,” I tell him. “Charlie’s ignorance might even turn out to be a help.”

Charlie is at the bar sorting through the remainder of his notes so that he can pay for the use of the half-bottle of scotch Storey’s just put on the counter for him. By the time Con and me get to him he’s already splashed out a tumblerful and he’s sucking it up, eyes closed, trying to blank out the last five minutes.

“Bad luck there, Charlie,” I say. “I would have backed him having the four, if I’d been sitting down.” Charlie opens his eyes and begins to feel a little better, managing to forget the money for a moment.

“Yeah, right,” he says. “But that’s cards, isn’t it, Jack, eh? That’s what it’s all about. Sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, Charlie.”

Then Charlie remembers his manners.

“Cliff,” he says to Storey, “get two more glasses, will you? Jack, you’ll have a drink, won’t you? And Con?”

“May as well,” Con says.

“Charlie,” I say, “can I have a quiet word?”

Charlie’s just picking up the new glasses and when I tell him I want to talk to him, all of a sudden he’s on the verge of doing the macaroni. Now he knows that I’ve come all the way down here to see him, and reasons why start flashing through his mind while he stands there like a waxwork with the glasses in his hand. I pick up the scotch and pour some in the glasses then I take the glasses from him and pass one of them to Con.

“Don’t worry, Charlie,” I tell him. “It’s only a word. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“What do you want, Jack?” Charlie says.

“Let’s take our drinks over to the corner and I’ll tell you.”

We move away from the counter and over to the far side of the hall, where there is a long bench seat on a platform raised six inches off the floor and flush to the wall.
Charlie sits down on the bench and Con and myself sit down on either side of him. The two games which were in progress earlier are still going on but they’re right down the other end of the hall. All the other table lights are switched off and where we are the only illumination is the counter’s reflection in Charlie’s glasses.

“Been in touch with your sister lately?” I ask Charlie.

“Jean?” he says, looking from me to Con and back again. “I haven’t seen Jean in a fortnight. Maybe longer. Why, has she—”

I cut him off short. “She hasn’t been in touch with you?” I say. “Tried to phone you or anything?”

“No, not that I know of. I mean, I move about a bit, you know, she might have tried to, but—”

“But you might be wanting to get in touch with her after tonight, eh, Charlie?”

It takes Charlie a minute or so to tumble.