Murder in the Charlestown Bricks: A Dermot Sparhawk Crime Novel

by Tom MacDonald

  “No kidding.” Skeeter pulled on to the highway going west. “Speaking of Southie, how did you end up at the Aces & Eights? The place is a dump.”

  “The owner made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” Gage raised his face to the sun and closed his eyes. “He said you’re hired.”

  “I see.” Skeeter drove along with the top down, letting the warm air blow through the car. “I wish I could’ve been one of those frontiersmen back then, riding and roping, drinking coffee around a campfire, roughing it with the other cowboys.”

  “Like City Slickers,” Gage said.

  “Yeah, City Slickers. We’re like Jack Palance, aren’t we? He was a tough prick, Jack. Remember the one-arm pushups he did at the Oscars?”

  “Yup. Where to next?”

  “The next stop is the Texas Panhandle, the bustling town of Amarillo for a high-stakes poker game. This guy I know told me about it, big-time poker he said.”

  “What guy?” Gage asked.

  “Just some guy.”

  When they saw the Amarillo skyline Skeeter howled yippee ki-yay!

  “Pull over soon,” Gage said. “I gotta go.”

  “We need gas, too.”

  Skeeter drove in to a service station and parked at the pumps. They got out and circled the car, stretching their legs and rolling their necks, and then their carefree mood changed. A monstrous man, wearing a leather vest and mirror sunglasses, came up to them. Sweat and oil stained his red bandana. Tattoos covered his hairy arms and neck. He wasn’t alone. A teenage girl with brown hair stood a few yards behind him.

  Skeeter and Gage tried to walk by them, but the big man blocked the way and said, “Meet El Knucklehead. I’m talking about the bike not the girl.” He pointed a big finger at a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. “You thought I was talking about the girl, didn’t you? El Knucklehead is the 1936 Harley, the first hog ever to go the length of Route 66.”

  “Good to know,” Skeeter said, trying to walk past him.

  “Whoa, friend.” The big man extended his hand. “I’m Maish, and I got a proposition for you and your buddy. The little gal I’m with is down on her luck. What I’m saying is she needs money.” Maish leaned closer. “She’ll take care of both you boys for a hundred bucks, the best money you’ll ever spend. Believe me when I tell ya, she’ll bang your bones off.”

  “She seems young,” Gage said.

  “She ain’t young,” Maish countered. “Well, not that young. It’s a good deal. You’ll walk away with a smile on your face, and she’ll walk away with a little money in her purse. Talk it over and let me know what you think. I’ll be with the little lady.”

  Maish walked back to the girl and waited.

  “I don’t like this guy,” Gage said. “He’s pimping that poor girl.”

  “He’s bullying her, too.” Skeeter looked over at Maish. “I hate bullies, especially hairy ones. Let’s hammer him, Gage.”

  “What?”

  “The two of us can take him. Let’s whale his ass.”

  “With your heart?” Gage lowered his voice. “Bad idea, Skeeter. Besides, he probably has a gun. Let’s just get out of here.”

  “I’m not running.”

  “You could have a heart attack punching him out.” Gage reasoned. “I’m worried about your ticker.”

  “I didn’t think of that.” Skeeter unclenched his fists. “Then we’d need two ambulances, one for him and one for me. I guess I’ll give the ugly bum a break this time and let him off easy. Let’s go before I change my mind and bust him up.”

  “Smart move,” Gage said, “very smart move.”

  Skeeter and Gage waved to Maish and said no thanks. Before Maish could make a counter offer, they drove away.

  Skeeter sped along the highway, his left arm resting on the car door, his right hand clutching the steering wheel. He tooted and waved to a trucker as he roared by him, with the Corvette kicking into overdrive and the speedometer climbing to ninety.

  He said to Gage, “I love the open road.”

  “Are you in a rush or something?”

  “Not in a rush, but I’m supposed to meet a guy at a place called the Panhandle Quencher in Amarillo. I want to get there early and get the lay of the land.”

  “I’ll look it up.” Gage fiddled with his phone. “The Panhandle Quencher, we’re right on top of it. Take a left up ahead on Nesmith Street.”

  “Nes-what?”

  “Nesmith, as in Mike Nesmith.”

  “The name sounds familiar,” Skeeter said. “Is he a Townie?”

  “He’s a Monkee.”

  “They give monkeys last names?” Skeeter said. “How do you know him? Does he live at the Stone Zoo?”

  “He lives in England.”

  “England?” Skeeter took a left on Nesmith Street and stopped at a red light. “Mike is an English monkey?”

  “The Monkees,” Gage said. “Come on, Skeeter, they’re a British rock-and-roll band. You must’ve heard I’m a Believer.”

  “Nope, never heard it. Did it just come out?”

  “Yeah, it just came out,” Gage said, shaking his head. “It’s a big hit on the radio.”

  “I mostly listen to sports.” The light turned green and Skeeter drove ahead. “Remember when that gorilla escaped from Franklin Park Zoo?”

  “Sure, Little Joe, with the long arms. He pulled himself over the cage.”

  “I wonder if Little Joe had a last name.”

  “He did, it was Young. Little Joe was the great grandson of Mighty Joe Young.”

  “Ah, you’re bullshitting me.” Skeeter glanced at Gage. “Really?”

  “I’m kidding.”

  “I knew you were kidding.” Skeeter pounded the steering wheel with his right hand. “I told you we’d have a million laughs on this trip.”

  “I hope the next turn isn’t Lennon Street,” Gage muttered.

  “I heard that,” Skeeter said. “The Monkees. Mike Nesmith, Davy Jones, Micky Dolenz, and Peter Tork. I watch the reruns. I was practicing my bluffing for the poker game.”

  They parked in the Panhandle Quencher lot and went inside. Skeeter ordered a couple of beers at the bar and brought them to a table. They sat by a TV and watched a local rodeo.

  “Who are you meeting?” Gage asked.

  “A high roller named Lucky LeCam,” Skeeter said. “He comes here every night at eight o’clock looking for card players. Lucky is an important man in Texas gambling circles, international circles, too. Some people call him Lucky the Legend.”

  “How will you recognize him?”

  “He wears a yellow rose on his lapel,” Skeeter said. “And there’s another clue. He orders a shot and a beer, goes to a table, and plays solitaire.”

  “If he comes in, then what?”

  “I’ll ask him about the poker game,” Skeeter said. “It’s gonna be great, Gage, a poker game in the Texas Panhandle, just like Maverick. Remember Maverick, with James Garner?”

  “Yeah, sure, I think.” Gage’s head shook slightly. “Are you that good a player? Do you even know how to play poker?”

  “I’m outstanding, Gage, one of the best on the East Coast, maybe the entire country. No one can read my bluffs.”

  “I never heard you mention it before.”

  “That’s ’cause I’m humble. I don’t brag.”

  The barroom door swung open and an older man in a brown suit walked in. He took off his Stetson hat and held it in his left hand.

  “I think that’s him, Gage. I think that’s Lucky the Legend. See the yellow flower?” Skeeter watched as the man crossed the floor to the bar. “Did you see that? He ordered a shot and a beer. It’s gotta be Lucky LeCam.”

  “See if he plays solitaire,” Gage said.

  The man with the yellow rose put his hat back on his head so he could carry the drinks to a table.
He finished the shot before his ass hit the stool, and then he took a deck of cards from his pocket and began to play solitaire.

  “That’s him,” Gage said. “That’s Lucky.”

  “Come on.” They walked to the table and Skeeter said, “Lucky LeCam?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s me.” He looked up. “You must be Skeeter from Boston.”

  “What did I tell you, Gage!” Skeeter joined Lucky at the table. “Did my friend call you? Did he tell you I was coming?”

  “He sure did. He said you were quite a poker player.” Lucky placed a black eight on a red nine. “Is that true, Skeeter? Are you good?”

  “The best ever, better than Maverick, better than Doc Holliday,” Skeeter said, unbridled. “Can you get me into the game? I have the cash.”

  “The cash is a good start.” Lucky put away the cards. “Meet me here tomorrow night at eight and I’ll tell you then. Are you sure you have the money?”

  “I have the entry fee and more.”

  “Tomorrow night at eight.” Lucky stood. “Bring the money.” He looked at Gage. “Are you playing, too?”

  “I’m a spectator,” Gage answered.

  “Each player is allowed one spectator, so that means you’re in.”

  30

  The next night at eight o’clock Skeeter and Gage went to the Panhandle Quencher and waited for Lucky LeCam. At eleven o’clock Lucky came in and explained his tardiness.

  “It took some convincing. Those boys don’t cotton to outsiders.”

  “But you got me in, right?” Skeeter said. “Did you get me in?”

  “You’re in.” Lucky jingled his car keys. “Follow me. The game starts in an hour.”

  They followed Lucky out to the desert where you could see every star in the sky. Lucky parked next to an adobe building under a busy highway overpass, with eighteen-wheelers and work trucks thundering overhead. Skeeter and Gage got out of the Corvette and locked the doors.

  Lucky came over to them and said, “Give me a minute to smooth the way,” and he went into the adobe hut. Skeeter and Gage waited by the car.

  “This is it, the big night.” Skeeter popped the trunk. “Grab the satchel, Gage.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “A hundred and fifty thousand dollars, my stake for the game.”

  “A hundred-fifty grand? Are you nuts?”

  “I feel lucky, Gage. I’m gonna show these clowns what card playing is all about. I’m gonna fill straights and draw aces. Wait’ll you see me in action.”

  They knocked on the door of the adobe hut and waited. A bearded Mexican holding an over-under shotgun opened it and nodded them inside. Skeeter said gracias, which came out grassy ass. Eight men, all smoking cigars and cigarettes, all drinking beer and liquor, turned and looked at Skeeter and Gage. A rawboned man who looked like a cowhand walked over to Skeeter and said, “My name is Wade Ralston and I’m from Lubbock. Lucky okayed you for the game, so I guess that’s good enough for me. He said you weren’t too bad for a Northerner.” Wade gestured to an octagonal table. “You need fifty grand to get in.”

  Skeeter unzipped the satchel and counted out fifty packets of $100 bills and tossed them on the table. “Am I the only one with the entry fee?”

  “Don’t be a wiseacre, Boston,” Wade Ralston replied. “It don’t play well down here in Texas. We don’t like mouthy types.”

  “I was kidding, Tex. Lighten up.”

  The players were verifying each other’s bankrolls when a busty woman with brassy hair sat at the table. She peeled the cellophane off a deck of playing cards, broke the seal, and said, “Let’s get started, boys.”

  Wade Ralston said to Skeeter, “This is Miss Jeffers, the dealer. Any objections?”

  “No objections.” Skeeter took a seat. “She’s the prettiest dealer I’ve ever seen.”

  “Button it, Boston,” Wade said. “We don’t go for smart alecks down here. In Texas we respect politeness and heed decorum.”

  “Then take your hat off at the table,” Skeeter said. “There’s a lady present.”

  Wade’s eyes looked up to the brim of his cowboy hat. Before he could bite back, Miss Jeffers said, “He’s right, Wade. A Texan never wears a hat indoors, especially at the table.”

  “Yes, Miss Jeffers.” Wade grumbled and removed his hat. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  The game commenced and the hours passed. Midnight, one, two, three in the morning. At five o’clock, three players remained at the table: Skeeter, a kid named Teddy, and Wade Ralston, with Wade holding most of the winnings. The others had busted out.

  Miss Jeffers dealt the cards. Wade won the hand with three sevens. Teddy, with two pairs, joined the other losers, busting out. It was now a two-man showdown, Skeeter Gruskowski versus Wade Ralston. Skeeter lost the next three hands, the last with a pair of deuces. Wade, who was showing signs of the bourbon, unleashed an attack.

  “Deuces?” He roared laughing, pounding his fist on the table. “Who the fuck bets ten grand on deuces?” Wade pounded again. “What do you think we’re playing, Go Fish? Boston thinks we’re playing fish.”

  Skeeter lost the next two hands and Wade rubbed it in, his voice growing hoarser and his pounds getting louder. Skeeter whispered to Gage, “I got Wade right where I want him. I’m ready to take him.”

  Miss Jeffers called for a break to let things cool down. Everyone stood and stretched, except Wade, who never moved from his lucky seat. Skeeter and Gage came back to the table.

  “Seven card stud,” Miss Jeffers said, opening a fresh deck of cards. “Any objections?”

  Neither man objected. Miss Jeffers shuffled. Wade cut the deck. She dealt the first two cards down and the third card up, a king for Wade, an ace for Skeeter. Skeeter bet five thousand. Wade looked at his down cards and said, “I’ll see your five and raise you ten. You gotta put in ten grand more, if you can count that high.” Skeeter saw the bet. Miss Jeffers dealt the next card, another king for Wade, another ace for Skeeter. Skeeter bet five thousand. Wade bumped it ten, just like the first round.

  “Everybody’s in,” Miss Jeffers said, and dealt the cards. A jack for Wade, a third ace for Skeeter. “Your bet, Skeeter.”

  “Twenty thousand,” Skeeter said.

  “I’ll see your twenty and raise you ten.” Wade plunked thirty thousand into the pot. “Your aces don’t scare me, Boston. Nothing about you scares me.”

  Gage leaned in and whispered to Skeeter, “You have three aces showing and Wade is raising you. He’s got you beat.”

  “Fuck him.” Skeeter whispered, and threw in ten more. “I’m taking him on this hand.”

  Miss Jeffers dealt. Another jack for Wade. He now had two pairs showing, kings and jacks. A five for Skeeter. He now had three aces and a five showing. It remained Skeeter’s bet.

  “Five thousand,” he said.

  “Only five? Gettin’ nervous, Boston?” Wade counted his bills. “Make it thirty, chump. Fuck thirty, make it fifty.”

  Both men were in. Miss Jeffers delivered the seventh and final card, a down card that Wade immediately looked at, and when he did he jumped from his seat and howled.

  “You’re gonna lose, Boston.” Wade rubbed his hand together. “I bet a hundred grand. You might as well save your money ’cause you’re a loser on this one.”

  “Hold your horses, Wade,” Miss Jeffers said. “It’s Skeeter’s bet, not yours. You yourself said that poker carries with it a certain decorum.”

  “I apologize, Miss Jeffers,” Wade said. “I got carried away.”

  “Pass,” Skeeter said.

  “Pass? You’re smarter than you look. ’Course, you’d have to be.” Wade counted out a hundred thousand dollars and dropped it in the pot. “You can’t win!”

  “Hand me the bag, Gage.” Skeeter added a hundred grand to the pot and said. “Call.”

  “Ha!”
Wade turned over his cards. “Four kings, asshole! And I know you ain’t got four aces, because I got the fourth one right here.” He held up the ace of clubs. “What do you have to say for yourself now, Boston?”

  “Go fish.” Skeeter turned over his down cards, the two, three, and four of spades, to go with the ace and five of spades showing. “Straight flush, you lose.”

  “Lose? What do you mean lose? I can’t lose, I got four kings.” Wade stared at the cards. “He can’t do that. I have four kings.”

  Teddy, who had just been wiped out by Wade, said with a grin, “Don’t be a sorehead, Wade. The man beat you fair and square. Don’t give Texas a bad name.”

  “He must have cheated.”

  “He couldn’t cheat,” Miss Jeffers admonished him. “I dealt the cards myself. He might have got lucky, but he didn’t cheat. And besides, you cut the deck, Wade. Right here in front of everybody, you cut the deck.”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Wade flung his cards in the air. “He cheated. The son of a goddamn bitch cheated.”

  “Watch your tongue, Wade,” Miss Jeffers said. “Skeeter whooped you, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “I didn’t have to cheat to beat you, Wade.” Skeeter shoved the cash into his satchel. “I had a great time tonight. Except for Wade, you’re a good bunch of guys.”

  Wade came around the table at Skeeter. Gage stepped between them and said, “He’s got a bad heart. Back off.”

  The Mexican with the shotgun got up. Lucky LeCam, who had watched the whole affair from his spectator chair, spoke. “Wade, at your request I bring moneyed players to these games. Don’t ruin everything because you met your match.”

  “How the fuck do you lose with four kings?” Wade said. “Something ain’t right here. Something happened.”

  “You lost,” Lucky said him. “Live with it.”

  Gage and Skeeter left the adobe hut to head back to Amarillo. On the way out the door Skeeter said to the Mexican, “Mañana.” It rhymed with banana. Once they hit the highway, Skeeter said, “Did you see the look on his face when I told him to Go Fish? He shit his pants, didn’t he, Gage? I did the impossible tonight — a straight flush!”