Dead Money (13 page)

Then we’ve got a problem.

I know.

Ricky, you’ve got a client here. And he’s not about to lose a lousy couple million. The kid could go to jail. And soon.

Good point.

So what are you going to do about it?

I don’t know. I was hoping you’d have an idea or two.

My God, Ricky, do I have to do everything for you?

Well, not everything. But most things.

Jesus, she said, lighting another long thin cigarette.

She took a good haul. Blew a river of smoke to the ceiling. Looked me in the eye.

Okay, she said, let’s get down to it. Hit the pavement. Examine the paper trail. We need more data points.

Data points? You’re kidding me, right?

It’s just shorthand, Ricky. The point is, the more you know, the more you know.

Can’t argue with that. Okay, data points. Such as?

The usual stuff. Credit card records. Bank accounts. Telephone records. Did the deceased have a cell phone?

Who the hell doesn’t?

Phone records are always interesting. We should get everybody’s.

God’s in the details.

And the more details you have, the closer you get to seeing the face of the Almighty.

Yeah. Data points. The Almighty. I’ll see what I can do.

Redemption awaits.

So much better than rehabilitation.

JAKE’S BIG GAME.
I was looking forward to it. Something different. Something new. Something less Delphic than daily life. I reserved a limo, put it on the office tab. Research, I told myself. If I was going to be the house criminal lawyer, I had to get to know the criminal element.

Eighth and thirty-eighth, Jake had said. Not a nice neighborhood. In the civilized parts of the city, your eyes relentlessly were drawn to street level: the lights, the signs, the people. The store windows, with their stuffed rabbits and silk dresses. Here, at 10 p.m., there was none of that. Solid metal shutters put the doorways and the windows far beyond reach. The buildings were uniformly dirty gray. Monoliths. Nothing to see. Your gaze drifted upward. It wasn’t pretty up there. Broken window panes. Dirt. The grime of ages. No doubt the upper parts of buildings were as squalid elsewhere in the city. But here you saw it. You looked up. You noticed.

The limo driver had let me off at the corner. There were no numbers on the buildings. I saw no open doorway on the block. Was this the right block? Was there really such a place? Had Jake led me on, led me into some …setup? I hardly knew the guy, after all. What was it that Hal had said about him not meeting your eyes? Was I too naive? Would meaty guys with hairy palms grab me from behind, take my wallet, my watch, my life? Who’s that dark and dangerous-looking fellow on the corner, anyway?

Foolish thought. Too elaborate a ruse, for such a paltry goal. I looked again at the corner. Nobody there. The hulking brute was gone. Or hadn’t been there at all.

My cell phone rang. I jumped two feet. ‘Private number.’ I ignored it. Damn. I’d almost had a heart attack.

I found the door at last. Dark gray. Flush with the building. Hard to see.

Just push, Jake had said.

I pushed.

Inside, the space was small, old and dank. The walls were papered with ancient flyers. ‘Massage therapy: Call Helga.’ ‘Blues bassist wanted for trio.’ ‘Sofa for sale, slightly soiled.’ Love for Sale, I said to myself. Johnny Hartman. John Coltrane. Good. This is good.

A low chuckle startled me. Apparently I’d been talking out loud. I turned around. There was a guy with a do-rag, hanging out. I hadn’t noticed him. Weird. He was sitting on a kitchen chair, in the corner. What was he doing there? He certainly didn’t look like a watchman. He chuckled again. I hoped it was a friendly laugh.

I nodded to him, pressed the button for the elevator.

The elevator took forever to descend. The do-rag guy was silent. I felt like I should say something. Strike up a conversation. But I couldn’t think of anything to say to a do-rag guy in a tiny fetid lobby at ten at night. Lobby? Much too grand a word. Sinkhole, maybe. Death trap. For the second time, I wondered if I’d come to the right place.

Finally the elevator arrived, with much clanking and wheezing. I stepped in. Room for one. Two in a pinch. Random graffiti. ‘Jumbo D. sucks cock.’ I made a mental note. You never could tell what might turn out to be important.

Fourth floor. Step out. Turn right, left at the end, past the men’s room door, from under which a sharp rank odor seeped. Three more doors. The red one. Laughter, shouts from inside.

I knocked once.

Twice.

Silence.

A voice.

Yeah?

It’s Rick.

Rick?

Jake invited me.

Oh yeah. The voice grew fainter: Jake, your bud’s here.

The sounds of chains and bars. The door opening. A heavy velvet curtain. The smell of mildew. The room lit deeply orange.

I was through the looking glass.

The place was tiny, windowless, rank with reefer smoke. Guitar cases, well-traveled steamer chests. A mammoth equalizer on a
stand, a drum kit. A loft bed, rack on rack of CDs. Amps, a beer keg in the corner. A green felt poker table in the middle of it all. And that orange light.

Rehearsal space, it seemed. Rock ‘n’ roll tricked out for poker night.

It felt warm, and like a dream of childhood.

Introductions. Mike, Jonesie, Jake, Riverstreet, the Dane, Andrea. And the other Jake.

Yeah, said Mike, two Jakes. Straight Jake and Drunk Jake.

My Jake was Drunk Jake. He looked at me with bleary eyes.

Rick!

Jake. How’s it going?

Never better, Rick. Take a look.

A mammoth pile of small-denomination bills sat on the table in front of him.

Andrea laughed. A woman’s laugh. I liked that. Nicely out of place. Andrea. Slim, long-faced, all angles. Her arms delicate and muscular, all at once. Leaning forward. Open to inspection. Seductive. Between the sleeveless top she wore and jeans, the bottom of a tattoo. The apertures of a violin, or cello. Man Ray. A living Man Ray photo.

I was in love already.

Hey, man, take a seat, said Drunk Jake.

The seat across from Andrea was free. Mike on my right, my Jake on my left, Straight Jake next to him.

We’re playing hold’em, Drunk Jake said, leaning close to me, whispering with a whiskey breath. See that guy, Jonesie? Famous actor. You recognize him?

Really? Don’t think so. What’s he been in?

Just made his big breakout.
Nine Times on Sunday
. Seen it?

No.

Fact was, I’d never heard of it.

I took Jake’s word for Jonesie’s budding stardom. For Straight Jake’s one-man show in Berlin, Riverstreet’s stock market killing, and the other morsels he slurred my way.

It was true that everyone at the table seemed to exude a certain self-confidence. An aura. A charisma, if you will.

When Jake told them I was a lawyer, it got the predictable response.

Okay, I said, so I’m a lawyer. So shoot me. No, wait. Sue me.

That got a laugh.

Listen, I said, now that I had an audience, it’s not true, all that stuff they say about lawyers. Or actually, it
is
true, but it’s only true about a certain type of lawyer. Plaintiffs’ lawyers. Ambulance chasers. Champions of the dispossessed. Bullshit artists. Most lawyers, actually, are more uptight than your great-aunt Gertrude. Won’t take a piss without clearing it with the Urination Committee.

You say? said Mike.

I do. They’re very fearful people. Not risk takers. Don’t ask a question you don’t know the answer to. That’s the cardinal rule of cross-examination. It’s built into the system. Fear. Fear of the unknown.

Shit, I never heard that before, said Jonesie.

Of course not. Why would we publicize it?

He’s got a point, said Andrea.

I usually do. Points are my thing. Getting to the point. Talking points. Pointed remarks. Singularities.

I was warming up.

Andrea took the bait.

Ah. Singularities, she said.

Points with no dimension, I replied.

Are there any other kind?

Infinitely dense points.

The point of it all.

She nodded as she said it, and dealt me pocket Queens.

I felt a surge of euphoria. And it wasn’t just the cards. Here was a crowd I could relate to. I could let my mind and mouth run free.

I bet twenty bucks. I was in early position, but I had a good feeling. Besides, I wanted to project the right table image. Aggressive but selective. If somebody called me down, saw my Queens, even if I lost the hand I’d still have made a point. I make a big bet, I’ve probably got a hand. I could use that later, bluff a few pots.

As it was, Riverstreet raised me from the button. It was a pretty automatic call. The only question was whether I should re-raise. Feel him out. Anything other than a pair of Aces or Kings and I would be the favorite. If he came over the top on me, I could be fairly sure he had them, get out before I got in too deep.

I re-raised.

He just called.

The flop came all rags. I bet out again. Riverstreet took his time. Looked me in the eye. If he had a hand, he was doing a good imitation of someone who didn’t. He raised.

I went with my gut. I figured him for Ace King, Ace Queen, maybe a middling big pair like Tens. He was figuring me for the same, hoping to push me off the pot.

I re-raised.

He mucked his cards.

I’d made my point.

I’d tripled my stake in one hand. But then I lost a few. These guys weren’t amateurs. They weren’t averse to slow-playing a monster hand. Check-raising an over-optimistic middle pair. Varying their strategy to keep you off balance. Players. No doubt about it.

I came close to tapping out. Got lucky with a full house on the river to survive. Boat on the river. Maybe that’s how it got to be called a boat. Or how the river got its name. Which came first? It was hard to say. A boat to float you on the river.

The question seemed way too interesting. I was caught in a blur of beer and joints and laughter.

The beer was warm. I drank it anyway. Red plastic cups. Like you get at the ball game. I breathed the smoke. I had no choice. The room was thick with it. As the night went on my head got fuzzier. I folded a Seven Three off-suit in the big blind. Nobody had raised. I could have played for free.

Uh, you shouldn’t have done that, said the Dane.

The Dane was tall and blond and young and well-meaning. I could have, should have said, ‘Oh, sorry, didn’t realize I was in the big blind.’

But I didn’t. The guy irritated me.

Hey, I said, though I said it with a smile, hold’em is my game. I know what I’m doing.

If you knew what you were doing, he said patiently, you wouldn’t have folded. You could have seen the flop for free.

Yeah, well, fuck you, I said.

I meant it as a joke. Tough-guy talk. But it didn’t come across that way. He looked surprised, taken aback. I sank into my chair.

The flop was Jack Jack Six.

Oh my God, I said sarcastically, unable to stop myself. Why did I toss my pair of Sixes?

Sorry, said the Dane, contrite. I was just trying to help. I didn’t know if you knew the rules.

I’m sincerely grateful, I said. Really, I am. I appreciate it. But fuck you anyway.

I was on a roll.

After that I lost another pot or two. I played too loose. I didn’t want to seem a churlish guest. Maybe if they took my cash they’d invite me back next time, despite my bad behavior.

The cards started coming bad again. I couldn’t catch a draw to save my life.

Cold cards, they say. You just can’t hit a thing. When you do get dealt a pair, or a couple of nice connectors, Ten Nine suited, and you chase them to the river – correctly: there’s been some betting; you’ve got the odds – you know the deck will deal the other guy his card, not you.

That’s where the Zen comes in. The master of the game just flows with it. Okay. I’m here. The weather stinks. The beach is closed. My girlfriend left with Moe. Let’s see what I can salvage. Here’s a good book. A quiet bar. Chat up the waitress. Wait for my luck to change. Wait it out. It will end, like everything else. As sure as chickens come from eggs your luck will change. Just minimize your losses til it does. Take what the cold cards give you. Steal a pot or two. Don’t ask for more.

My stack dwindled. I tightened up. I didn’t play a hand for an hour. I started watching, taking notes.

It was Mike’s game, it seemed. He lorded it over the table. When someone breached etiquette he’d fine them. Five bucks for betting out of turn. Ten for gloating. The misdemeanor jar grew stuffed with bills.

The idea was to play one hand at the end of the night for all the misdemeanor cash. It was a lure, to those who otherwise might leave, to stick around until the dawn came through the window. If there had been a window. The saddest loser would hang around, for a shot at that last pot.

It was 2 or 3 a.m., I’d lost track, when the final hand came round. One hand of hold’em for a pile of crumpled beer-drenched cash stuffed in a peanut butter jar.

It wasn’t really poker, playing one hand for all that dough. Just really rolling dice. So much money had accumulated from the fines that it dwarfed most any bet that you could make. It didn’t matter what cards you had. I looked at mine. Jack Ten again, unsuited. Could be worse.

Two bets up front, the Dane re-raising. Normally I’d fold, but with that jar in view I wouldn’t dream of it.

I’d sunk a couple hundred in the game so far. I was weary and annoyed, upset that I’d let myself lose control. The Dane hadn’t spoken to me for hours.

The flop came Nine Queen Queen. Andrea went all in. Three Queens, for sure. She knew enough to know that bluffing wouldn’t work. What the hell. I pushed the rest of my money in. An open-end straight draw. I’d take the chance. No matter what the odds, and they weren’t that bad. With that much money in the pot it would be foolish not to try.

The rest all called as well.

Drunk Jake, who’d long before collapsed from excess booze and substances, lay sideways like a fetus on the floor.