Drawing Dead (38 page)

How do you know he’s going to show up? I asked.

I don’t, she said. I have no idea. But if he does, I want you to be there. And if she leaves, I want you to follow her. Find out where she goes.

I didn’t like this at all. But it didn’t look like I had a choice.

Okay, I said. We’ll stake it out. But it won’t just be me. We’ll have to rotate.

That will be fine, she said.

She smiled.

Victory.

N
EXT THING, FIND
B
RENDAN
. Unless Butch had already. I had to talk to Butch. I called him. No answer.

I didn’t know where to start. Butch always knew what to do next.

I headed for the Rio. The purple velvet bar.

Butch was there. What a fucking relief. Something normal.

Butch, I said.

Rick.

Did you find Brendan?

Not a trace.

Shit.

Yeah.

I don’t know what to do.

I think we got to talk to the damn Russkies.

I think you’re right. I deputize you. I can’t.

Why not?

I got a problem.

We know you got problems.

You’re right. Problems. Plural. I’ve got a lot of fences to mend.

Go mend your fences, Rick. I’ll keep looking.

I hate to say it, but maybe you should check the police. Hospitals. Like that.

Thanks, Rick. Hadn’t thought of that.

Okay, okay. I’m useless. Just as well I got other stuff I have to take care of.

Don’t wear yourself out. Tomorrow’s our Day Two.

Shit.

Yeah.

Feels like a week’s gone by.

Yeah.

A tall, slim young woman with a singularly confident air strode up.

Shit, I said under my breath.

Hi, Dad, she said.

Butch raised his eyebrows.

We only met yesterday, I said. Do you think that’s appropriate?

What? she said.

Calling me Dad.

But you are my dad.

Butch’s eyebrows raised further.

To tell you the truth, I said, I only have your word for that, and that Lesquirrel guy’s.

She laughed. Folded herself into the empty chair. It reminded me of someone. I couldn’t place who. Which reminded me. I still didn’t know who the hell her mother was.

Don’t worry, she said. We can talk about that later.

I wasn’t sure if she’d read my mind, or … what was she talking about? I was confused. Better not to let on, though.

I’m really sorry about last night, I said. I got tied up—I almost laughed—I didn’t have my cell phone with me …

It’s okay. I know you’re busy.

I appreciate that. Thank you. Listen, let’s do it tonight, okay? Eight o’clock. I promise I won’t miss it this time.

Okay, she said, and demurely took her leave.

Butch’s eyebrows were in danger of reaching the back of his head.

Jesus, he said, what, or should I say who, was that?

Uh, my daughter, Butch. Did you miss that?

You been keeping something from me all these years?

No more than I’ve been keeping from myself.

Come on, Rick. Give me the download.

Don’t worry about that. One of those long-lost-daughter things
you read about. I’ll tell you later. Anyway, you know just about as much as I do at this point.

Oh, c’mon, man.

Seriously, Butch. Just leave it alone for now, okay?

Whatever you say, man. So, what’re these problems you were talking about? Other than the one that just walked away.

I asked you to leave that alone.

Sorry, man. Sorry.

All right. Listen.

I told him the whole miserable story. Delgado, the club, the blackout, the overalls. The dustup with Louise. The complete unexpurgated ugly mess of it. Well, not entirely complete. I left out the part about Kelley and Madeleine.

So let’s go back there, he said. Bust up the place. Break some heads. Find some answers.

Violence isn’t the answer to every problem, Butch.

Yes it is.

Anyway, if we have to do that, we’ll do it. But first I have to try to remember what the hell happened. I mean, what if … I don’t fucking know. I just can’t go back there, guns blazing, when I don’t know a damn thing. Besides, wouldn’t whoever did it be ready for that?

You want me to call some people?

It’s the same thing, Butch. Sure, I’m going to report that I went, voluntarily, to a sick joint like that, woke up naked and can’t remember anything? First, they’ll laugh their asses off. Second, exactly what is the crime I’m supposed to be reporting?

Yeah.

Yeah.

So we talked poker for a while. He’d had a bad day. Lost in a couple of one-table tournaments. He’d ended up all in with a dour, pockmarked Asian dumpling. Or maybe it was a dour, pockmarked East Indian dumpling. Are Indians Asians? Technically, yes, I guessed. I made a note to look it up. Either way, the guy had a brown boiled matzo of a nose, as Butch described it. You could store your life’s savings in the guy’s pores. He called Butch’s all in with Eight, Seven off suit. A total donkey play. Butch had Aces. Needless to say, Matzo Boy hit a Seven on the flop and an Eight on the river for two pair. Butch sucked it up. Went to the cash games. Lost a pile there too.

It happens. Sometimes the cards don’t fall for you. He understood. I understood. Part of the game. He was drinking it off.

I didn’t feel like another drink.

That’s when I knew something was terribly wrong.

Butch went to take a piss. I ordered a cranberry and soda. I watched a guy at the next table. He was sitting alone. Enormous ears. Balding, fat. Hooked, veiny nose, thick, shiny lips. He looked like your great-uncle Moishe after a two-week bender. He was reading a hefty book. A half smile on his face. He put the book down. I discreetly leaned over to see the title.

How to Succeed with Women
.

I ordered a double scotch.

I
HAD DINNER WITH
M
ADELEINE
in the high-roller lounge. It was hard to act normal. I did my best. She didn’t seem to notice anything wrong. Or maybe she was just being polite. We talked about a lot of stuff. It was therapeutic. For me, anyway. I couldn’t speak for her.

She wanted to know about her father. I hardly knew where to start. It’s not like I was a dad to be proud of. Even back when I was a big-shot lawyer, I was faking it eighty percent of the time. Not that I wasn’t good at it. But I never really bought into the ‘The Organization is bigger, more important than you’ thing. In fact, I loathed it. Not too strong a word.

Anyway, she was bound to find out a few things about dear old Dad that were less than complimentary. To put it mildly. So I decided to give her a little background. Some context to put them in.

Back when I was a big-shot lawyer, I explained, well, a medium-shot lawyer, some people were surprised at my predilection for sleazy joints. Some guys hung out at the Champagne Bar, I liked to go to the Randy Pony. But it wasn’t any mystery. I wasn’t born a big-shot lawyer. Or a big-shot anything. I was born in a tiny mining town in northern Québec. And I acquired my taste for the low life early. Started going to the Tavern at thirteen, every night but Sunday, with my friend Weasel. The Tavern was a peculiar Québec institution of the time. Women weren’t allowed. It was a refuge for the working man. You’d watch the
hockey game. Drink draft beer. Play pool. We got pretty good at it, me and Weasel. We’d go in with a quarter or two. You’d play a game for a draft, loser bought the beer, paid for the next game. We’d almost never lose. Drink all night for a quarter.

We’d hang with the guys. Old guys. Working guys. Guys with lines in their faces and grime under their nails. Guys who went to the track. Bet on the ponies. Guys who lived for
Hockey Night in Canada
. Les Canadiens. Jean Béliveau. Yvan Cournoyer. Later, Guy Lafleur. They were our Gods. We didn’t care about much else.

To me, it was a warm place. You could count on it. The same guys every night. The same talk. The smooth green surface of the pool table. The same reassuring tilts and slow spots. The weight of the cue in your hand, slightly warped. You’d try to find the same one every night, the one whose warp you’d accustomed yourself to. The draft beer, in tall fluted glasses. You’d put salt in it, watch the bubbles frantically rise. You’d eat beer nuts, pickled eggs, french fries. The best french fries anywhere.

No nasty surprises.

So I guess the rest of my life, I was looking for that place again.

Never found it.

Came close a few times.

The Wolf’s Lair was close.

Vinnie’s game was close.

I guess everything else I did was part of the same thing.

I’d been looking at the floor. I raised my head. There she was. Jesus, I’d almost forgotten she was there. It was like I’d been talking to myself.

She looked at me. She had a small smile at the corners of her eyes.

I get it, she said.

I hoped it was true.

K
ELLEY AND
P
ETER WERE WAITING FOR ME AT THE MOTEL
. It was disconcerting. I was desperate to let all the secrets out. They were clogging up my soul. The problem was, I didn’t even know all the secrets. The drains were going to run slow till I did.

But as soon as I walked in, the anxiety was gone. There she was, my light, my angel. And Peter. The comic relief. Maybe something more.
I wasn’t sure yet. My surrogate son, at least in spirit. And this was good. Please, I thought, don’t disappoint me.

We drank some wine. At least, Peter and I did. Kelley didn’t touch the stuff. I admired her for that. More than admiration. Relief, too. She wasn’t going to go down that road. The path her parents took. Her grandparents. Everyone on the goddamn family tree. For once there was someone who wasn’t going to succumb to the poisoned fruit.

It wasn’t just me. Everyone loved Kelley and Peter. Everyone given the privilege of entering their world. Who couldn’t? They were funny, kind and unselfconscious. Well, Kelley was funny, kind and unselfconscious. Peter was funny. Was there anything more you could ask of a human?

But I knew I was in trouble. Their hours were even worse than mine. They had the depraved need to watch pay-per-view movies and DVDs till dawn, commenting and cackling loudly at every line, every amateurish cut and splice. Inured through years of this, I’d simply pass out in the wine-soaked haze of it, my otherwise terrifying dreams most assuredly improved by the atmosphere.

And, most nights, we found time, between screenings, to talk, and live.

Menopause, said Peter. Women becoming obsolete, but convincing themselves that there’s something graceful about it.

That’s not very charitable, I said. A lot of people find that very difficult to go through.

I took a course, Peter said. Women in cliterature.

There was no slowing him down.

But I figured it was time to tell them about their sister. Kelley’s sister. Half sister.

I told them.

They were speechless.

It was a first.

And you don’t even know who her mom is? Kelley said at last.

Not yet, I said.

How old did you say she was?

Eighteen.

So that means …

Yes, I know. I’m sorry. Can we not go there right now?

Okay, she said.

But she didn’t look happy about it.

I let some time go by.

Would you like to meet her? I asked.

Silence.

You’ll have to sometime, I said. Might as well be now. She’s really nice. You’ll like her. She plays the piano.

Oh, well, if she plays the piano …, said Peter.

Okay, said Kelley.

I was a bit surprised. And relieved. We could get this over with. Started. Over with and started.

I called Madeleine. She was excited. Kelley and Peter were not. I endured some frost for a while.

The wine helped it down.

The doorbell rang.

And there she was.

She couldn’t have looked more different than Kelley.

And yet, there was something. I could feel it. Kelley could feel it. I could feel Kelley feeling it.

There really wasn’t any doubt about it.

After a few minutes of discomfort, things started to roll. Madeleine told a story. About why she’d changed her hair color. A girl at her school, she told us, showed up one day with the same hair color, the same makeup, as Madeleine. That’s it, she told herself. I’ll have to change everything.

It’s like an original Louis Vuitton bag, she said. Once you’ve seen so many fakes, the real thing doesn’t look so good.

Ah, yes. There was no doubt.

She was one of us.

H
E HAD AN ODD EXPRESSION ON HIS FACE
. Half smile, half grimace. Part puzzlement. That may add up to more than a whole. But death does strange things to people.

He was lying face up. His right arm twisted behind his back. He clutched something in his left hand. I couldn’t make out what it was.

He was in black tie. Tuxedo. White ruffled shirt. Bow tie. Bare feet. Clean, though. As though recently shod.

Oh, Brendan, I whispered. What have you done?

Shit happened. Something about a fountain, a knitting needle.

I heard Butch’s baritone voice. Turned around. Saw his extra-wide smile. Trying to be reassuring. Succeeding, a bit.

Ricky, Ricky, he said. Come on. Let’s go home.

I felt his arm around my shoulder.

I nodded my head slowly.

We flagged a cab. It smelled of sardines and sweat.

S
LEEP FOR AN HOUR
. Get up. Drink scotch. Take painkillers. Avoid the mirror. Watch T V. Spit at it. Drink some more scotch. Fall asleep for an hour. Wake up. Get up. Same thing again. Shit.

People kept dying.

And it wasn’t that Time guy I was warned about. It was something else.

On top of which, it was fucking Day Two of the Fabulous World Series of Poker. How the fuck was I supposed to play poker now?

There was only one way to get through it.

I’d play in honor of Brendan. Hell, I’d win the whole thing for him. Buy him a statue for his grave.