Dead Low Winter. T.K. O'Neill
at his brother and the rest of us. “I’m sure Miko feels a little worried,” he said, “about carrying a large sum of money in what to him is a strange town, thousands of miles and an ocean away from his homeland. Bay City can be a little threatening in some sections, late at night. Something my brother and I firmly resolve to change. Isn’t that correct, brother John?”
“That’s correct, Peter. But we aren’t here to discuss work.” Looking at the rest of us now. “How about we take care of business and get on with the game? You people don’t know how Evelyn can get if I’m too late getting in.”
“Relax, John,” said Tom Geno, chuckling. “You’ve still got time to get some lipstick stains on that nice shiny shirt of yours.”
Miko’s brow furrowed until his thick eyebrows met in the middle and formed a single row of bushy black hair. He glared at Sam. Sam had his back turned and was busy aiming the gun at the chandelier and the overhead fan and at successively all of the numerous antiques lining the walls and shelves of his rich sibling’s basement rec room. Truly a child at play.
“Okay,” Miko said. “Two hundred. I take it. I win hand and buy back tonight.” Then he hid his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned toward Tom Geno, Miko muttering a barely audible, “Man is a-hole.”
Mayor Geno coughed and almost did a spit take with his Whiskey-and-Seven.
Sam slid the diminutive weapon into the pocket of his worn sharkskin suit coat and counted out twenty ten-dollar chips. As soon as Miko got his hands on them they were tossed into the pot along with a fifty-dollar bill. The little guy was shoving it back at the politicians and the businessmen and the crooks.
“There you go, assholes. There you go. I sell my gun—only protection from the crazy drug sick maniacs you have here. And I have reason to fear. Some of you know. But I shall win this game and return to ship with pockets stuffed and then I will stay there until business is done and I can return home.”
Peter McKay’s chips lay on the table in neat little equal size stacks and his gaze was fixed on the Greek. Peter was trying to look into the little man’s eyes but Miko got up and walked over to the leather-covered bar along the back wall and poured himself a shot of Petri brandy in a lowball glass. Nick always bought rotgut liquor for these games.
Now old Pete pursed his lips and made a noise in his throat that sounded like hem and brought his cards in close to his body. After studying each player with his prying eyes, he slowly counted out enough chips for the call and slid them in the pot, peering around the table once again.
Sometimes I swore the bastard was fixing on me. All night long when I eyeballed him he had this weird glazed look on his pasty face. Seemed like he was checking me out. But it made sense; I was the dealer.
Sam Cross plucked an unopened Marlboro box from the table and tapped it three times hard against the palm of his hand. He removed the cellophane, tore a hole in the bottom of the box, shook out a cig and left the flip-top unopened. He rolled the unlit cig in his fingers, stared at the pot, avoided Nick’s gaze and checked his cards. Then he brushed the ash off his beard, counted out two-fifty worth of chips and quietly called.
Nick’s face was red, matching fifty percent of his checkerboard wool L.L. Bean shirt. Maybe some gray hairs were popping out. He rubbed his temples like maybe there was an aneurysm. I wasn’t sure if it was one of his signals or the onset of a stroke.
Mayor McKay said, “Too rich for my blood, I’m afraid. Even though I had trips—I’m done. The cards were bound to loosen up. That’s the last hand for me gentlemen.” He flipped his cards over to me then leaned back and sighed.
Nick—who seemed to be about to swallow his tongue—gripped tightly at the front of his shirt and glumly slid in his chips. “Call,” he said with a weak rasp.
Now Miko was back in his dark captain’s chair looking like John Barrymore waiting for the right dramatic moment. His chest seemed to swell as he looked around at the remaining challengers and proudly slapped his cards down.
Aces over eights, full.
“Full house,” Miko said, big smile on his face. “Beat this, you mothers.”
“FUCK,” Nick screamed at the top of his lungs. “Ace-high flush and I fucking lose. GODDAMNIT.” He tossed his cards in Sam’s direction, stood up and stormed across the room to the bar. He stood there chugging from the Petri bottle and swearing to himself.
“Beats me,” Peter McKay said, smiling. “I’m afraid it’s a bad end to a good evening.” He flipped his cards over toward me, turned and looked smug.
All eyes went to Sam Cross.
Sam could hardly contain his glee. His body jerked with suppressed laughter as he plopped down his four sevens. Little bursts of air squeaked out the sides of his pressed-tight lips as he raked in the monster pot with both arms.
Miko groaned and his body went limp; he sank down into the chair in utter defeat.
Ain’t it funny how the lucky ones stay lucky and the rest of us keep losing.
From his spot at the bar, Nick screamed, “YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE, SAM.”
Peter McKay glared at Nick and blinked his eyes several times. Then his benevolent pose returned. John McKay got up from the table and walked slowly over to a leather couch in front of the fireplace. He picked his brown cashmere topcoat off the couch. His face glowed yellow from the flickering flames as he said a perfunctory goodbye and walked up the stairs. A moment later I heard the outside door open and close. Sam couldn’t hold it any longer and broke down into a giggling mess. Tom Geno grinned along with Sam—he could afford to. Miko regained some composure after downing his brandy but still had the look of a stunned rat.
Now Nick screamed again—at all of us this time: “OUT. ALL YOU ASSHOLES GET OUT OF HERE. THIS IS THE LAST FUCKING TIME I DO THIS SHIT. OUT—GODDAMN NOW!!!” Then he raked his hand across the top of the bar, sending bottles and glasses and ashtrays flying, gave us all one last glare and stormed up the stairs.
That gave us something to smile about as we showed ourselves out into the blustery March night. And I needed a laugh real bad. The sky was cloudy and there wasn’t a star in sight. I shivered. The hawk was blowing from the North and the dampness went right through me. But it was more than the weather had me shaking. Things hadn’t turned out very good tonight. And my whole life was the shits. I was in debt to the brothers for ten grand and after that performance in there I felt sure Nick would soon lose all patience with my financial delinquency, You don’t throw good money after bad, one of his favorite sayings. And after I didn’t turn the cards his way, I definitely qualified as bad.
Things were worse than I knew. Funny how you can get started into patterns without realizing it, and before you know it you’re going down some road leading somewhere you don’t even want to go. You don’t know where you’re going till you arrive and then later when it’s too late you’re not sure how you got there. And for the life of you, no matter how hard you try, you can’t find the way back. That’s the way it was for me.
My love life was also the pits—too many classless, ignorant bar flies with a marked propensity toward procrastination and sloth. I read that last part on a men’s room wall somewhere. But what do you expect from a divorced guy for Christ sake—church socials and discussion groups?
My ex-wife Loraine and I were flower children sweethearts back in the sixties. Then after seven years of marriage she caught me in the car with a topless twenty-year old and kicked me out of the house. Losing Loraine wasn’t so bad though, because by then we really had nothing in common—and even the sex was stale. All she wanted to do was go bowling and eat, while I, according to her, only cared for drinking beer and “staring at little chickie’s chests.” Fact it was imported beer never seemed to make an impression on her. Sometimes I miss the early days when she loved me still.
Despite the wind’s nip, Sam Cross was still flying high. And still laughing about his luck with the cards and his brother’s tantrum. He invited me along