Dead Money (18 page)

What’s so slimy about them?

You met them?

One of them.

Then you don’t have to ask.

I guessed he was right.

Lisa brought over a couple of cans of Heineken. I took both, tossed one at Jules. He caught it clean. With his right hand.

Lisa vanished. Upstairs, I presumed.

Did you see either of them that day?

Who?

Ramon and Raul.

What day?

The day Larry was killed.

Them? Nah. Why would I have seen them?

Just asking. What about your father? Did you see him?

I try to stay as far away as possible, he sneered.

Tell me about the poker game.

What poker game?

The one where Larry said you lost two grand to him.

I told you, man, Jules laughed. The guy was wired. Wasn’t no two grand.

Well, who else was at the game?

Shit, man, whose side you on anyway?

I’m on your side, Jules. I’m your lawyer. Everything you tell me is privileged. I couldn’t tell anyone about it even if I wanted to. I’m just looking for somebody who can maybe corroborate your story.

He looked me in the eye, his lips curled in a good imitation of someone who didn’t believe a word I was saying.

What difference would it make, somebody says I owed him, says I didn’t?

He had a point, I supposed. If somebody confirmed that he did owe Larry, all that would prove was that Larry had been right about the debt. Perhaps hurt my client’s credibility a bit. That wasn’t my goal. If they said there was no debt, all it meant was that Jules was right. Either way, it wouldn’t change the fact that Jules and Larry disagreed about it. That they had a fight. And it wouldn’t say a thing about whether Jules chased Larry to the alley.

Listen, Jules, I said, I’m just trying to get all the facts here. You don’t need to keep answering my questions with questions.

Okay. Yes, no, maybe.

I’m trying to help you, Jules.

I know. Sorry. Whatever. Sorry. Sometimes I just say shit, you know? It comes into my head. If I don’t let it out, it stays there. It fucks me up.

All right, I said. I understand. Listen, maybe you need someone to talk to. I could put you in touch with somebody. Somebody who’s real good to talk to.

You’re kidding, right?

No.

Jesus, man, I don’t need no fucking talk buddy. I just need a high-caliber rifle and a clear field of vision.

That’s not going to help anything, Jules.

He gave me a hard glare. Then he laughed.

I know, he said. I was just pulling your chain.

I wondered.

BACK AT THE OFFICE
, I called up Vinnie Price. To see what he’d come up with. Not a lot, it turned out. He’d got the records. Jules didn’t have a credit card. No surprise there. Neither did Larry Silver. Less surprise there. He’d got Jules’s and Larry’s cell phone data, sifted through it. Not much there to catch the eye, so far. Except, maybe, a few calls from Jules’s
cell phone. Calls to FitzGibbon’s office. Four or five of them, in the days just before Larry Silver’s demise.

Curious.

I thought about what that could mean.

I didn’t have a clue.

I needed to clear my head.

Nah. I needed a drink.

Not mutually exclusive, I told myself.

I called Dorita.

She talked me out of it.

I admired her for that.

But I had to get away from the office glare, at least. We went to Starbucks. I had a tall something. She had a mucho grande skinny low-fat vanilla no-foam latte. Or something.

I told Dorita about the Lisa thing.

You pushed her away? Dorita asked in dismay.

Of course I did. What do you take me for?

Even more of a pussy than I thought?

Oh come on. Can you imagine the complications?

Mmm, yes. Delicious.

You’re crazy.

I thank you for the compliment.

I think we should get back to business.

Let’s get some paper. Make a list of all the facts. The suppositions. Draw some lines and arrows. Make a chart. Charts help me think.

You know, I think we should do that. But not right now.

What do you want to do now? Whine about your awful wife? I mean life?

Well, yes. I do.

Okay. I guess you have to take the warts with the frog.

Nice metaphor.

Thank you again. But first, I want to know more about the chickie.

Lisa?

That’s the only chickie I know about. Are there others?

Not that I can think of.

That’s a relief. Only so many chickies I can handle in one day. So tell me about her.

What’s there to tell? I told you everything already.

Is she cute?

Oh for God’s sake, does it always have to come back to that?

Yes. Is she cute?

Sort of. In a pierced and tattooed kind of way.

Describe her for me.

Come on.

Go ahead. It’ll be good for you.

Jesus. All right. She’s very small. Maybe five feet. Pale and thin, in that junkie kind of way. Green eyes. Very pretty green eyes. They give her an innocent look. Her hair is shaved off on one side. Heavily hennaed. Rings and stuff inserted here and there. Dragon tattoo on right deltoid.

Nice.

It is. It’s a very nice dragon. Not a frightening dragon. A C.S. Lewis kind of dragon.

Did he have dragons? I thought that was a lion.

I don’t remember. But you know what I mean.

Aslan.

That’s right. Aslan. But maybe there was a dragon in there somewhere too.

Okay, go on.

Isn’t there always a dragon?

Sure. There’s always a dragon. Get back to the subject, smart guy.

I think that sums her up pretty well. She’s a bit of a type. Tries very hard to cultivate the bad girl look. But she’s not fooling anybody. Very vulnerable. She’s afraid.

Afraid of Jules?

Just generally. She’s fearful. I’m quite sure she’s had a traumatic childhood. I’m guessing abuse by the father. It fits with how she acted today. From what I’ve read.

Needs Daddy’s approval.

And comfort.

Some kind of twisted comfort.

Yes, but that’s how it works, you know.

I know. So tell me, you weren’t tempted? Even for a moment?

Of course I was tempted for a moment. Maybe even two. I’m a man.

In some senses of the word.

It was a challenge, that last.

I had never really confided in Dorita. Nothing very private. Our friendship was one of banter and innuendo. But always that tension, hovering over every bit of repartee. Why we’d never consummated it. That’s what made it fun. One of the things that made it fun. That and all the things we shared. We always got each other’s jokes. That was rare, and to be treasured.

It was fragile, that tension. Break through it and you couldn’t predict what might happen. Perhaps you fall in love. Live happily ever after. But more likely, much more likely, the magic disappears. The delicate bubble bursts. You see that there was nothing more than air inside. And even that has dissipated. To the clouds.

Back to dreams.

I don’t know what made me forget that. Some need, I guess. A need for consolation, for commiseration not artificially enhanced by two hundred dollars an hour.

I blurted it out. I didn’t give myself time to think it over. To second-guess.

I couldn’t have done anything with her even if I wanted to, I said.

There was a wide-eyed pause.

Ricky, she said softly, are you saying what I think you’re saying?

Unfortunately, yes. And now I’m not at all sure I should have.

Of course you should have. I’m not going to take advantage. I swear. Right here on this empty coffee cup. I swear I’ll never make a single joke.

I think you just did.

Sort of. But that’ll be the last one.

Okay. Nothing I can do about it now anyway.

Sure there is. Talk about it.

There’s nothing to talk about.

How long has this been going on?

Years. Since the first time Melissa went into rehab.

How odd.

Yes. A funny coincidence.

Sure.

Or whatever.

It’s not physical, is it? I mean, they have drugs for that.

No, it’s not physical. I don’t have to go to a doctor to know that. Though I did. I went to all the doctors. There’s nothing wrong with me. Physically.

Oh dear.

Oh dear, I repeated. Anyway, you can imagine how uncomfortable this conversation is making me. So maybe we can drop it now?

Dorita looked at me sympathetically. It was a new and strange experience, that look. I didn’t know quite what to make of it.

All right, she said softly, but we’re coming back to it soon.

Please.

No, we are, she said, in her don’t-mess-with-me tone. We’re going to fix it.

Ah. You are an arrogant young thing. If only it were so easy.

I admit to the arrogant bit. But I’m not so young anymore. And we
are
going to fix it.

I’d like to take you up on that. But I don’t think we should be jeopardizing our thing with this. I shouldn’t have brought it up.

I have powers that you can’t even guess at, darling.

I have no doubt of it, and I’d love to see you demonstrate them. But maybe on someone else. I’ll watch.

You’ll need protective glasses.

Listen, I appreciate the offer, but frankly I’d rather you helped me with my poker game.

Not my field, I’m afraid.

Not that way. Come to the casino with me. Just hang around. Keep my spirits up.

Jesus, that’s a job for Hercules. Anyway, I thought you had meds for that. Your saintly shrink. The miracle worker.

Now don’t you start on Sheila. She saved my life, you know.

I know, I know. My competition. Anyway, tell you what. Next time you’re going to throw another stack of cash away at the casino, call me. I’ll be your, what do they call them? Your sponsor. Pull you back from the abyss.

Please, baby doll, no AA jokes. I get enough of that at home.

I’m sure it’s a laugh riot, darling.

You’re too kind.

I’ll try not to step on wifey’s toes again.

Damn. It was hard to keep that girl away from the edge.

I WAS A BIT SURPRISED
when Jake invited me back to his game. Maybe I hadn’t made as much of an ass of myself as I’d thought. Or the rest of them had been as drunk as me, and hadn’t noticed.

I asked him if I could bring my buddy Butch along. With him there I’d be more likely to behave. Jake checked with Mike. It was okay. They’d squeeze him in.

I didn’t tell him what Butch did for a living.

The game was in the back room of an arty little joint in the Village. The Dane wasn’t there. I was relieved. The rest of them were there. Jonesie, with a cowboy hat, two diamond earrings. Maybe he really was a famous actor. Andrea, in a black leather bustier and very red lipstick. She made me nervous, in a nice kind of way. High school nervous. Unworthy of talking to such an enticing creature.

Mike was in the captain’s chair, looking fierce in a shirt with Chinese characters that he claimed said ‘death to transgressors.’ Riverstreet, looking sharp in a blue pinstripe with thirties-style pleats. Straight Jake, all Armani and carrying a large black portfolio. Preparing a grant proposal, he said.

Early on, the banter was loose and the play desultory. Just a bunch of players having a good time. Butch fit right in. He always did. He was that kind of guy.

There wasn’t much check-raising, no big bluffs, at least that I was able to ferret out. And Drunk Jake stayed relatively sober.

The feel of the game turned when I took Drunk Jake for a big pot.

It was heads up. The flop came Jack of hearts, spade Ten, spade Three. I bet my Ace Jack. Pair of Jacks, Ace kicker. Pretty good hand. Jake called. The turn was a third spade. I bet, Jake put in a big raise. I called, feeling a little queasy about it. Jake’s confidence was palpable. He could have the flush. But the pot was big, he could be bluffing, and my Ace was the spade, so. I had a twenty-five-percent chance of improving to the nuts, the best possible hand, even if he hit the flush. I hung in. Swallowed hard. And saw that fourth spade hit on the river. Jake stared at it. You could read him like a
New York Post
headline. He knew that card could be big trouble. He looked at me. I smiled. He shook his head.

He checked.

I bet big.

He stared me down. He looked at me for a long time. Wondering. Calculating. Going back over the previous rounds of betting. Had I been getting the odds to try to outdraw him? If I wasn’t on a draw, could I have something big enough to have stayed in the pot? There was a Ten on board. I could have pocket Tens. Trip Tens was certainly enough to play with.

I was still smiling at him. He didn’t know if my smile was real or manufactured. I could just be happy, to have hit my Ace-high flush. But I wouldn’t want to show him that. So maybe I was bluffing, trying to make him think I had it. Or maybe I had it, knew that he’d know that I’d know that he’d know that I wouldn’t want to show it but might be bluffing, and was …well, you get the picture. Poker’s not an easy game.

In the end, he couldn’t take the chance. That I’d gleefully turn over a pair of fours while pulling in his money. If I had the spade Ace, he could say I was lucky. Outdrew him. If he folded and I didn’t have it, he’d look a fool.

He called.

I showed my spade Ace. He looked away.

Fuck, he said. I knew it.

He turned over his spade King Queen, threw them into the middle of the table. He got up, walked to the beer keg, drew out a pint into a plastic cup. Sat back down.

This was a new Jake. Normally he took the beats good-naturedly. He was drinking less this time. He wasn’t playing the buffoon. He was playing well. You could feel his ambition.

He wants to crush me, I thought.

I was game for the challenge. I knew it was foolish. Poker isn’t like high jumping, or tennis. You don’t draw on extra reserves of energy and suddenly transcend your opponent’s performance. There’s too much luck involved. Like that last hand. I’d played it right. And over the long haul I’d make money playing that hand that way. But on this night, this one iteration, that spade might well not have fallen. In fact, the odds were excellent that it wouldn’t. Four to one, in fact, a little worse. But tonight, it fell. And the other cards on the other hands for the rest of the night would also fall as they would, with no regard for anyone’s ambition or resolve.