“You’re tits up then,” Dick says to Chrissie.
“I’ll be motherfucked,” Chrissie says again, in a somber tone.
Julius risks a glance at the wool coat. The man doesn’t look back but smiles from the side of his mouth and says, with a voice surprisingly light and ecumenical, “Haven’t seen you here.”
“Just arrived,” Julius says.
“This place ain’t on the way to anything.”
“I’m on holiday.”
“From your office job,” the man says, but his tone is friendly.
The men on the periphery start to roughhouse until their playful voices are shouted down and someone’s porkpie hat is blown off and catches the inbound wind. The hat lands between Chrissie and Dick like a wish and Chrissie picks it up and twirls it onto his head, then pops it off with his forefingers and looks around as if for some specter. Dick does not smile but nudges him seriously. It’s Chrissie’s turn to deal but he seems to have forgotten this and when the man in the coat starts to shuffle Chrissie does not call him out. Dick leans back in the sand and seems no longer willing to play. As the wool coat shuffles, he sleds his thumbs along the edges of the deck and does the same trick with the center card and fingers one out and deals it to Chrissie. He looks at Julius who does not look back and then he starts to speak.
“You all know the story now, don’t you, about how this game got invented?”
Chrissie smiles in his new hat like a fish. The hat is too big and the boy tilts it down and cocks it sideways so all that shows are his full mouth and the very tip of his nose. He says, “It don’t matter to me how anything got invented, if it was invented by the man, as is likely,” and Julius sees how very young he is.
The coat says, “That’s fine, because the thing about stud poker—or any game—is that you can play it without knowing any real thing about it. You know the rules, you can play, even if you don’t know why the rules are what they are.”
Julius feels this little speech could be for him or for the two boys or for the dark night itself. Dick has found some small awareness of the world and he sits up and takes his cards. He watches the wool coat and twists a dull smile. Despite the drunkenness and the ragged clothes and the coarse talk, Julius is sure the boys don’t know that there is a lower floor to losing than they’ve yet seen. The wool coat calls for bets and Dick folds, but Chrissie tosses in another ten-peso note, then lifts one hip to dig in his pocket for a dime. Julius meets the raise and stands, and then the coat deals out the next card as he talks.
“A cold night in Texas in the last century, there were four men playing poker the old way, with all the cards hidden,” he says, “and as the deal went around here comes a ruckus from outside.”
Chrissie pricks up the card he’s been dealt and makes a face so beneficent his fate is obvious. The wool coat sees this and the side of his mouth curls up. He continues: “One of the men at the table gets up and runs outside toward the noise, and while he’s gone of course the other players take a peek at his cards, like anybody would.”
Dick has turned to look at the surf or perhaps at the stars beyond and the man in the wool coat smiles openly. Chrissie is so intent on his own good fortune that only Julius sees this bit of pleasure from the man, and that pleasure makes him fond. He smiles back and feels the man’s attention drift toward him kindly.
“The other players are still laughing about how stupid the man was, to leave the table like that with his cards sitting there, when he comes back in leading a stallion by the bridle. Well, they really laugh then. Apparently he’d raised the horse up from a yearling but he hadn’t gelded him because he was worth quite a bit as a studhorse, and the noise outside was that studhorse trying to rear up on some old infecund mare.”
Chrissie tosses in another dollar and Julius follows and raises and the wool coat calls. The two boys are distracted by the story and the night and whatever the man has dealt them and do not see the man wink at Julius. No one in any attic above them to witness this fleecing, either.
The man says, “So now there’s a stallion in the bar, which isn’t all that unusual really, because this is the olden times—” And here Chrissie laughs cynically, perhaps at the way the man has spoken or at the idea of a time before this one. “But when his owner sits back down he realizes the mistake he’s made, by leaving his cards. He’s got money in the game and doesn’t want to lose it.”
Chrissie is paying careful attention to the man’s story and has not glanced again at his hand. Outside the firelight the beach is uniformly dark, but now a figure steps into the light carrying a wooden crate and Julius hears the clink of bottles. Julius watches the figure over the top of his cards and something about him is familiar. He is tall, with pendant cheeks, his skin the color and texture of cantaloupe rind.
“And you can’t blame the other players, really. You couldn’t even call it cheating. So the man with the studhorse says—”
The coat pauses and looks at Chrissie and nods for his wager. Chrissie comprehends and lifts his cards. He pats his pockets and shrugs, then pretends to find a ten-peso note he’d forgotten, in the band of his sock. Then he leans over and nudges Dick who checks his pockets and then Chrissie throws in his money and the rest of Dick’s, then he takes off his boots and tosses them in with the money.
“He says, ‘Listen, gentlemen, I see what’s happened here and it’s my fault for leaving sure enough, but let me propose something to you. Let’s say we all turn up our pocket cards to make it even steven and then we’ll each take one more card on the draw and we’ll wager on that. There’s a bright idea in that kind of game, it makes the math more interesting, you have to admit.’ And when the other fellas look skeptical the man walks over and pats his ungelded horse and says, ‘To make it worth your while I’ll raise the bidding with this studhorse here.’”
Chrissie is watching the wool coat carefully now. A few of the men on the periphery have turned to listen to this story. The tall man steps forward into the firelight. Julius watches him from the top edge of his vision but does not look up or around.
“Why would that man bet his horse? That ain’t going to turn out,” Chrissie says.
“You’re catching on,” says the coat.
The tall man stands still at the edge of the fire but comes no further. The firelight throws his shadow long and angular across the sand. His chin casts a shadow over his neck and shoulders, so he appears dark and without particularity. Julius looks with soft eyes at the man’s shadow and tries to bring him into clarity. He thinks through the men he met in the Parque Santa Cecelia and others in the low-rent Cacho bars and he can’t find this man among them but he knows the man was there somewhere. The man takes a long pull of wine then turns with the bottle and heads back toward the coast road. In the streetlight he has the lean and single-minded look of a match-head. Julius tries to imagine the form of the question and where this man might lead him and if Henry will be there. The dream and the canasta players and the easy way he’s found this game: all seem to Julius the kind of fate that states itself clearly. That is, in itself, absolution. He cannot stand in the middle of the wool coat’s story or leave this hand of cards to follow the tall man but he watches as the man walks toward the lighted cantina and Julius knows where he will look later.
Finally the wool coat thumbs two cards from the deck and deals the last cards to himself and then to Chrissie and when Chrissie turns up his card he has lost spectacularly. The wool coat drags in the pot on a low straight then he finishes his long story:
“And whoever won the pot that night in Texas—for a happy ending let’s say it’s some old miser with nothing to his name but a scrap of land with no oil but a decent fence, who could make a far better fate for himself with a horse to stud out—that man teaches this new game to someone, and then that man teaches it to someone else, and so a whole system of risk is born, and forever after we play poker that way, with the
hole cards up, and call it stud.”
Chrissie frowns and says, “Now wait,” and Dick calls up from the ground, “Because stud poker. Because of the man’s horse.”
This conclusion clouds Chrissie’s face and then lands fully. Chrissie laughs in his ratty way and says, “Oh that’s good, huh,” and elbows his reclining friend. The boy’s bootless feet are bare and filthy and Julius thinks how young he is. Then, as if he heard every day the origin story of the world, Chrissie shrugs and sprawls out next to Dick and together they look up into the sky and the clouds strung across it. The stars come through only here and there, and the moon is partly covered to the east. Julius thinks the boys must come by money like mistrals or daylight, that it means nothing to them.
The wool coat gathers the pot and holds Chrissie’s boots by the heels and regards them, then tosses them back toward the boy. He puts away his money and stands to go though Julius senses in his posture a continued attention. He senses the man’s desire for him. Upwind the low tinkle of a steel drum; just above the beat a flute plays “Singin’ in the Rain.” A few of the men run shouting toward the cold surf. Julius leans over and picks up the hat and tosses it next to the boots but Chrissie doesn’t notice. The two boys lie on their backs in the sand sharing the intimacy of the sky and for a moment they are not lost or squabbling but perfectly together and Julius feels a fondness for them as if for his own childhood. He thinks of Henry and nights they reclined and watched the lights of Fremont and the headlights of cars cast across the ceiling of the Squaw.
Julius stands and turns to the man in the coat and thanks him for a fine game. The man holds out his hand and says, “Jack Dunlap. My folks always called me Jackie.” He laughs as if his name is a joke he dislikes and Julius sees two things in him, the service he’d done and his predilections.
“Maybe you ought to offer me a drink,” Julius says.
Jackie narrows his eyes and nods. From the heavy sound of Chrissie’s breathing it seems he’s fallen asleep.
“You’ve been a real good sport,” Jackie says, but without menace. Beyond, Julius watches as Dick points up the road toward the cantina.
* * *
—
JULIUS OPENS THE DOOR to the rooming house where the lobby is warm and smells of coffee. The dining area is empty but one table is dirty with dishes and two others are set for supper. The proprietress is sitting behind the desk reading a book; a turntable turns with the needle rested, making no sound. When she sees them she spines the book on the desk but does not stand. Julius says, “Gustaría comer, si está bien.” They take the table by the window farthest from the door and the woman does not ask them what they want but brings two cups of coffee and a plate of grilled tortillas too hot to touch. Julius sits with his back to the strange paintings and Jackie looks them over but makes no comment.
“I won’t say nothing if you tell me how you learned to rig like that,” Julius says.
“Rig what now, friend?”
“Don’t get savvy or you’ll miss out on this fine spread I’ve brought you to.”
“You could’ve called me out back there.”
“My heart wasn’t in it.”
Off the dim beach and the shadow play of the fire the man is Julius’s age, fine-looking but with the dark brow and stare of a curate.
“You got a good eye,” the man says.
“I wouldn’t have seen you if you hadn’t let me.”
The man laughs.
“That was fun though, wasn’t it? Taking home those little cousins,” he says.
“I didn’t have nothing to do with it.”
The proprietress returns with two flange bowls of paella and a plate of shredded meat and another bowl for their shrimp tails and yet another bowl with some milky soup the color of robin’s egg. She brings all of this stacked up one arm and when they’re settled she returns to the desk and plies the record needle and picks up her book. The record is a sonata on twelve-string and sounds so rich and forthright Julius feels he is hearing a prayer. For a while they talk of the game they’ve played and the fire and the music of the beach and each feels good and light and they laugh without expecting anything from each other. Jackie’s hands are wide and the fingers long and tapered and perfect for the work he’s chosen. If Julius had seen him below the peek he would have watched him a long time. They eat until the shrimp is gone and most of the meat and the woman returns with more tortillas. When the song ends she pulls the needle back and plays it again.
Then Jackie says, “You’ve been overseas.”
“Yes, Japan and that, Inchon before.”
“And you stayed after.”
“I did, a bunch of us was still enlisted and owed time. I was navy and Inchon was just about all they had for us to do in that whole war.”
Jackie nods.
“It’s all airmen’s wars now,” he says. “I was army but it was like you couldn’t tell. Where we were along the coast we played pinochle and took in the wounded but it was the hero aces who landed and fucked all the women and ate all the bread. They’ll drop those bombs too. That’ll be on them.”
Jackie pauses.
“It will—all of it, everything—will come from there now. From the air. No great need for the common man.”
Julius hums his agreement. Jackie pushes his plate to the side and lifts the sleeve of his wool coat and wipes the table before him. The woman sees this and clears his plate, and Julius gestures for the rest to be taken though she leaves the bluish soup and their coffee cups. Then Jackie brings the cards out and cracks the deck.
“What’s true about that, though, is our worse chance of being alone. Those satellites or whatever they call them. Flying over and keeping an eye.”
He lays out three cards from the top of the deck like street monte. Julius glances at the proprietress who has rolled up the sleeves of her sweater. She sees the cards come out but doesn’t seem to care. Jackie gestures to Julius, who taps the leftmost card, and Jackie turns it up and shows it to him. Ten of spades.
“You know the story of Pan? The flute on the beach made me think of him.”
Julius shakes his head. Jackie scrapes up the remaining cards and with the ten packs them back into the deck. He cuts the deck a few times with his thumb and lays down three more cards. Julius taps the middle card this time and Jackie turns it up. Queen of diamonds. Through all this Jackie keeps talking.
“He was a god, but if you see paintings of the devil chances are you’re looking at Pan. Goat legs and horns and cloven hooves, but a man’s face. His whole deal was nature and mirth and lust. These boys—” Jackie points his thumb behind to indicate the beach where they’d been. “They think Mexico is some wild pasture filled with pink flowers and wine where no one can see you and you can do as you like. Like there’s no culture here and no time, just one long night in the garden.”
Again Jackie performs the procedure. Julius is listening but he’s also watching the trick. He’s already seen what a story can do to a card player’s attention, and though there’s no money on this game Julius thinks there might be some other reason to play it. He’s waiting for the right moment and he’ll know it when it comes. Jackie shuffles but this time he lets Julius cut. From the top of the cut Jackie lays out three more cards and Julius picks the middle again. Queen of spades. The bedpost queen.
“But the thing about Pan was that, when he fell asleep, he shouted and carried on because he had terrible dreams. We get our own word from that, panic. He’d spend his days in the green pasture fucking and playing the flute, but at night he’d wake from nightmares about those very things. And it was that—his bad dreams and the way they brought memories back to him—that gave him his best idea.”
As he talks he fans the whole deck out and lets the cards sit there a moment. Julius has pushed away the soup and set his coffee cup on the edge of the table, and when the proprietress comes back ar
ound he holds it up. Jackie covers his own cup with his hand. Outside the darkness has come fully and the rain with it.
Jackie says, “Pan could do lots of things, but the most important thing he did was make people forget. That’s what he wanted most, to get away from those dreams. Then you got your garden and your romance and your flute and perfect empty sleep.”
Julius, knowing stories of this type if not this one, says, “But surely there’s some cost to that, huh? Something you’ve got to give up for that.”
The fan of cards on the table sits like a footnote to the story and neither man reaches out.
“You know how a god ain’t supposed to be able to die? Well, Pan dies. And when he did, so the man says, Jesus Christ was born,” Jackie says.
“You’re a believer then.”
Finally Jackie slides the cards back together and shuffles and breaks a few times, then drops the deck on the table except for a few cards left nipped in his palm.
“Nope,” he says. “That’s just the end of the story.” He lets the nipped cards fall by spreading his fingers and they land facedown. Julius reaches out and separates the cards and turns them up, then laughs and picks up the rest of the deck and fans through it.
“Now, how’d you do that?”
Jackie is still holding up his open hand. On the table the ten of spades and the two queens. He says, “In the service I think we felt free but we shouldn’t have. We came home and cashed in our leave and then it turned out we were supposed to live in the world we’d protected.”
Jackie’s face is serious and heavy but his voice still holds the pleasure of his trick. Julius understands what he is being told, though neither man will name it directly. He thinks of Dick leaned back in the sand and the flat forlorn face of the man Chrissie. Jackie had taken nearly a hundred dollars from those boys. Eventually, when they sober up, they might care about their loss. Jackie shifts in his seat so his shoulders frame the window and his legs plank out into the room. In this dimmer light Julius sees how Jackie might be handsome to someone. He sees what another man might love in Jackie’s pointed face, his wide eyebrows and tiny ears.
On Swift Horses Page 24
