Ring Game (16 page)

Crow sipped his Coke. “Hy introduced you to Bigg?”

“Yeah, about a year ago. Bigg was promoting some sort of bodybuilding contest, looking for sponsors. I gave him a hundred bucks to get my name on the program.”

“Who’s playing tonight?”

“Me, Kirk, Ozzie, Levin. You, I hope.”

“Why don’t you give Bigg a call?”

“You think so? After that last game, I thought maybe he’d given it up.”

“He’d probably jump at the chance to get even.”

“I’ll call him. Does that mean you’ll play?”

“Let me know about Bigg. If he’s there, I’ll play.”

“Okay. Listen, seriously, what do you think about this Rogaine? You think I’m wasting my money or what?”

“It all depends on how important it is to you to have a kid with a hairy chest.”

“Goddamn it, Joe, you know what I mean.”

“Let me have another look.”

Zink leaned over the bar. As far as Crow could tell, it looked the same as ever. He said, “I’d give it another couple months, Zink.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely.”

People whose lives were in turmoil, Crow had observed, had a way of sucking in anybody who got too close to them. Crazy people make people crazy. He could feel it happening to him already. Two days ago, the wedding of Carmen Roman and Hyatt Hilton had meant no more to him than a fart in a hurricane, and now he could think of little else. He had become infected by Axel’s anxiety. Not only was he thinking far too much about Hyatt and Carmen, he was worrying over the fact that he was spending so much time thinking about them. Crow was not unconscious of his condition. He knew that once anxiety itself became a source of anxiety, his only choices were to bail out, or seek counsel.

A guy like Zink Fitterman, when he had a problem, would ask everybody he knew what he should do. For instance, Zink would ask two dozen or more people whether or not he should continue the Rogaine treatment. How he applied such widespread and varied advice was a mystery to Crow, whose advisers, at this point in his life, numbered two: Laura Debrowski and Sam O’Gara.

Crow missed Debrowski for many reasons. He missed the feeling of having her near him, he missed the heat and sensation of her body pressing against him in the night. He missed the idle banter, her sudden sideways smile, and the jangle of chains as she shrugged off her motorcycle jacket. Right now, he missed her talent for listening carefully and, with a few words, massaging cramped thoughts into a state of relaxed lucidity. Debrowski was the only woman Crow had ever met who seemed comfortable navigating his mind. She knew him, yet she loved him—a fact that astonished him. But Debrowski was on the other side of the world, and he didn’t even have a telephone number to call and thinking about it just made him more anxious than ever.

His other adviser, Sam O’Gara, provided guidance in the form of long, tedious, cautionary tales from his youth. His recommendations were rarely practical or useful, but after listening to them Crow usually came away with greater clarity and focus, if only in knowing what
not
to do.

Crow found Sam’s legs hanging out of the engine compartment of a 1969 Dodge Dart. The car was one of a dozen assorted non- or semifunctioning vehicles parked in the backyard of Sam’s East St. Paul home. Crow closed the gate behind him and waited for Chester and Festus to lumber over and give his crotch a sniff. Crow was one of the few humans who did not arouse a cacophony of bays, howls, growls, and snarls from the aging hounds. He walked up behind Sam and tried to see what he was doing.

“Sam?”

Sam’s body jerked in surprise. “Son? That you?” His voice echoed from the engine compartment off the sprung hood, which was held up by a thin, precariously balanced wooden yardstick.

“What are you doing in there?”

“I’m tryin’ t’ get my goddamn ’spender loose a this goddamn thing is what!”

Crow leaned in for a better look. One of Sam’s bib overall suspenders was snagged on the alternator mount, and both his arms were caught down near the oil filter. He couldn’t raise his arms without lifting his body, and he couldn’t lift his body because of the snagged suspender—a remarkable posture. Crow could not quite see how it had happened.

“How did you do this?” he asked.

“Never mind that, goddamn it! Just get me loose.”

Crow reached down and unsnapped Sam’s right suspender, then helped him out of the compartment. As soon as he was back on his feet, Sam gave the Dodge a vicious kick in the front quarter panel. The yardstick snapped and the hood crashed down.

Sam jumped a good six inches, then shook his fist at the Dodge. “Goddamn fuckin’ Mopar. Tried to eat me.”

“How long were you stuck in there?”

“Long enough!” Sam produced a slightly bent pack of Pall Malls, lit one with a stick match and puffed furiously. As the nicotine penetrated his blood-brain barrier, he visibly relaxed. “No more’n five minutes. I could’ve ripped ’er loose, but these bibs are practically brand new.”

Sam’s overalls looked about ten years old to Crow, but it was all relative, he supposed. “You’re lucky that hood didn’t crash down while you were in there.”

“I lead a charmed fucking existence.”

“You told me Axel was lucky. I think you’re the lucky one.”

Sam snorted a jet of smoke through his nose. “Not by half. How you doing on monkey-wrenching that wedding?”

“I’m not trying to monkey-wrench it, Sam. Axel just asked me to check the guy out. Make sure he’s not a psycho skinhead like the last one. I didn’t find anything, though.”

“All’s that means is you didn’t look. Everybody’s got something nasty in their closet.”

“Even you?”

“’Specially me.”

“You think I ought to keep looking?”

Sam’s wrinkles rearranged themselves.

“I’m not talking about you, Sam. How hard should I look at Hyatt Hilton?”

“How hard’s Ax want you to look?”

“That’s what I don’t know. He’s sort of ambivalent.”

“That mean he can talk out of either side of his mouth?”

“Yes. He’s talking like the wedding is going to happen, and he says he doesn’t want to know anything half-nasty about his future son-in-law. Unless it’s something so nasty that Carmen would back out of the deal.”

“Sounds like Ax. I ever tell you about the time him and me got robbed in Brownsville? We was playin’ Bourre with a bunch of Cajuns—sharks, every last one of ’em—losin’ so fast I was about to just hand ’em the rest of my money and go home. Then Ax got hot, had a run of luck the like of which those Cajuns hadn’t seen since Huey Long. We quit winners, then drove out to this little ol’ roadhouse to celebrate.” Sam took a massive drag on his cigarette, flicked it at the Dodge, and peered up at Crow through a cloud of smoke. “Your old man was a real cock-a-the-walk back then.”

“I never doubted it.”

“But it was Ax got the girl that night. Little Mex gal, pretty as a pair a aces, charmed ol’ Ax like he was hit over the head with a sock full of lead shot. And that’s just what she done. Those two went down the road to the joint we was stayin’ at and the next thing Ax knew she’d knocked him silly and took all his money. Woulda took our Lincoln, too, only she flooded ’er. That thing always was a little tricky on the start.”

Crow waited while Sam lit another cigarette.

“Next night we was in Houston, playing stud poker.”

“What’s that got to do with Hyatt Hilton?”

“Got nothin’ to do with him. I’m tryin’ to tell you, son, how when it comes to a certain kind of woman, Ax don’t got the sense God gave ’im. You just got to take ’er as she comes.”

Crow said, “Interesting.”

“I didn’t tell you the interesting part. That little Mex gal? He couldn’t get her off his mind. Talked about her for weeks. And it wasn’t like he was mad at her, either. He just wanted to see her again. So there you go.”

“There I go where?”

“That Mex gal, I just seen her that once, but I remember what she looked like. She looked just like that Carmen. He’s still got a crush on her. He’s shackin’ up with the mama, but it’s the daughter’s ass that’s got his bone in a twist. Reason he don’t want her to get married don’t have jack-shit to do with Hyatt Hilton, and he knows it, too. That’s why he’s paying for the whole shebang.”

“Now I’m totally confused.”

“So’s Ax, son. He don’t know what the fuck he wants.”

Advice is like a dead fish. It stinks or it don’t.

—Sam O’Gara

C
ARMEN NOTICED THE SMELL
as soon as she got out of her car in front of Hy’s house. At first it smelled good—like hot butter. As she turned her key in the front door lock, the odor became more powerful, reminding her of stale popcorn. Carmen pushed the door open. The smell hit her full force, sending her staggering backward. She put a few yards between herself and the open door, then stood there, breathing deeply, trying to quiet her heaving stomach. What
was
that? The odor reminded her of vomit. Even more vividly, it reminded her of an old boyfriend, a keyboard player named Crustola, who had earned his nickname by his casual approach to personal hygiene. Cautiously, Carmen again approached the front door. The smell seemed slightly less potent—either it was dissipating, or her nose had gone numb. She stepped inside and called Hy’s name.

“In here,” came his voice.

“Where?”

“In the bathroom,” he shouted. “And don’t worry, it’s only V-8.”

V-8? Was that what he’d said? Leaving the front door ajar, she walked through the living room, examining her surroundings suspiciously, breathing shallowly through her mouth. She could hear Hy’s low voice. “Yeah, no, that’s Carmen. Listen, I understand what you’re saying. A job is a job. But couldn’t you have just handed it to me? I mean, I’ve got the neighbors calling me up here, complaining about the smell. Not to mention you’ve wrecked my water business.”

Carmen stopped outside the bathroom door. “Who are you talking to?”

“Hold on a sec—” he raised his voice. “I’m on the phone!”

“It stinks in here, Hy.”

“I’ll call you later, okay? What’s that? Oh no you’re not. No way. I don’t care what she told you,
Eduardo
, you aren’t gonna break anything. You hear me? Not a foot, not a finger—nothing!”

Carmen heard a splashing noise and the beep of the phone being turned off. She said, “What’s that horrible stink?”

“You can still smell it?”

“I could smell it from the street. What is it?”

“Butyric acid,” Hyatt said.

“Bee-you-
what
?” Carmen opened the bathroom door, took one look at her fiancé, and fainted dead away.

Arling Biggie peeled the wrapper from his Casa Blanca Jeroboam. He crumbled the cellophane, making sure everyone noticed, then placed the enormous cigar dead center in his mouth.

Levin said, “Jesus Christ, are you going to light that horse dick?”

In answer, Bigg bit the end off the cigar and spat it onto the floor. He gave Zink, who was sitting on his left, a nudge.

“What?” Zink muttered, giving the cigar a bland look.

“You got a light?”

“Uh-uh. No friggin’ way.”

Bigg looked around the table, spotted a book of matches in front of Ozzie, bobbled his eyebrows. Ozzie sighed and tossed the matches across the table. The four men watched wordlessly as Bigg used three matches to ignite the cigar, creating a cloud of smoke that rose slowly toward the ceiling, mushroomed, then slowly settled to hover at head height over the table.

“Looks like you’re giving the invisible man a blowjob,” Levin said, the corners of his mouth pulled down around his chin.

Bigg grinned and sank his teeth into the cigar. “We here to play cards or whine about a little smoke? Whose deal is it?”

“Mine,” said Ken Kirk. He offered the cut to Zink, then dealt each player two cards.

Bigg leaned toward Zink, eyeing his stacked chips. “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing okay.” Zink drummed his fingers on his two cards.

“I’m down three hundred already,” Bigg said.

“That’s rough,” Zink said. He knocked on the table, passing the bet to Kirk, who bet twenty. Ozzie called; Levin folded.

Bigg frowned at his cards. The game was “hold ’em,” two cards to each player, with five community cards dealt faceup in the middle of the table. Bigg had a deuce of hearts and an eight of clubs in his hand. If the next three cards were three eights, or three deuces, or two eights and a deuce, or vice versa, he could win a big spot. Or if the flop came up five, six, seven of clubs, he’d have a shot at a straight flush. There were all kinds of possibilities.

“You in or out?” Kirk demanded.

“I’m thinking,” Bigg said.

Zink folded out of turn. “Let’s see what you got.” He leaned over to look at Bigg’s cards.

“What d’you think?” Bigg asked, his left hand hovering over his chips.

“Get out,” said Zink.

Bigg wanted to bet. They would never suspect him of staying in with a deuce, eight. If the cards fell perfect he could win big. On the other hand, if Zink was right, and he lost another three bills, he’d feel like a jerk. With considerable effort, Bigg dropped his cards. “Fold,” he muttered.

The first three cards came up deuce, eight, ace.

Bigg said, “I’d a had two pair.” He put his cigar between his teeth and bit down. The cigar served two purposes, he believed. First, it irritated the other players. Second, it kept him from grinding his teeth together. According to Bigg’s dentist, he’d been losing about a millimeter a year. Another five years and he’d be gumming his cigars.

“You’d a had shit,” said Zink. “Wait and see.”

The last two cards came up king, nine. Kirk took the pot with three aces over Ozzie’s aces and kings. Zink said, “See what I mean?”

Earlier in the evening, Zink had taken Bigg aside and told him straight out how he saw it. “I’m telling you this once, Bigg. Every time I’ve played with you, you’ve lost. Since I’m hosting this particular game, I feel it’s my obligation to tell you why. Your problem is, you think you got a hand when you got shit. You know what I mean?”

In an intellectual sort of way, Bigg believed that what Zink had told him was true. But the cards were unpredictable, and it all came down to luck in the end. He was counting on the cigar to change his luck. He picked up his fresh cards and squinted at them. Queen, four, off suit. Bigg squeezed his eyes closed, then looked again. Queen, four. He concentrated, trying to make them into something good. You never knew what would win. If the flop came up three queens, or three fours, that would be something! Even a pair of queens would be good. He had seen guys win with less. His left hand moved toward his chips.