Texas Hold 'Em

by PATRICK KAMPMAN

  “I gave it to her to hold on to,” was my lame reply.

  Lacey turned. “Chance, her formative years were in the 1950s,” and then she too was gone.

  At least now I knew what had struck me when I had seen it around her neck. She had assumed, or maybe presumed, that we were going steady.

  After that exchange, the rest of the day was relatively normal. I missed my first class, but managed to get my hand and side looked at in an emergency clinic. I made it to my second class, hand in a sling.

  That evening I had dinner with Mom. Thanks to a few subliminal suggestions by Marie, she didn’t remember anything other than a great few weeks with yet another guy who turned out to be a disappointment.

  I spent most of the night lying in my apartment trying to decide what direction I wanted to take my life. One involved finishing school, starting a family, raising two and a half kids, and maybe a dog. Growing old. Spending holidays with my kids. And eventually dying of something mundane, like cancer.

  The other consisted of maintaining a relationship with my newfound friends, which I was positive would lead to a distinctly less normal life, probably with a substantially more violent ending. And if I went down that path, the exciting one, which way did I go? Megan, or Toni? Or maybe neither. There was no way I could go much further without choosing.

  In the end, my decision had been no decision. I had a few more weeks before I had promised to visit Toni. In the meantime, I would bide my time and hope to be struck by some sort of divine inspiration.

  The inspiration turned out to be more duress than divine.

  The next morning, I got to school early enough to stumble down the Drag—the street that ran alongside campus boasting a ton of stores—in search of my books. I even had enough time to let my Game Shack manager know I was still alive and confirm that I could pick up some shifts later in the week. Lastly, I swung by a store to pick up a new phone for my permanent account. I tossed the two prepaid ones in the trash.

  I wasn’t too surprised when my new phone rang with my old number about a minute after I left the store. But I was surprised by who was on the other end. In retrospect, going back to a normal life had been a pipe dream.

  “Chance, my man! Do you realize how many times I’ve called you in the past couple of days?”

  “Detective Cassara?” I asked, dumbfounded.

  “In the flesh, so to speak. Now, to get back to answering my own question: a lot of times. Have I told you that I don’t like repeating myself? Makes it sound like no one is listening to me. And calling you over and over without a reply is kind of like repeating myself.”

  “Sorry. I lost my phone.”

  “Now, see, if it were anyone else telling me that, I might not believe them, might think they were avoiding me, which would hurt my feelings. But it’s you, so I’ll go ahead and give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Um, thanks. Can I help you?”

  “I think you can. See, I’m a simple man. A creature of habit, really. When I find one thing associated with another thing, I make a connection, and connections are hard to break, you know? They stick with you.”

  I mumbled agreement.

  “And in your case, the connection I made is with weird shit.”

  How he could have possibly found out about what just went down in Texas, I had no idea, and understood even less why he cared.

  “But I thought we were square—you know, after I returned that urn to Mr. Powers and everything?” I asked.

  “You did, and we were. All square. Until last night, that is. And I’m not saying we’re round now. We could still be square. Or who knows, maybe we’re another shape altogether. Thing is, before I decide what shape we are, I got some questions to ask you first. Let’s call it professional curiosity.”

  “Look, I can explain about what happened here in Austin, but I don’t see how that matters to you back in California.”

  “Austin? You mean like Texas?”

  “Um…never mind.”

  “We’ll get to Texas later. At the moment I’m interested in an old lady right here in California. Not my old lady. Well, I am; I mean, even though we’ve been together for a while, you know, she still holds my interest, but that’s not who I’m speaking of in this case. Seems like this old lady was spotted with a…hold on for a second, I wrote it down somewhere…here it is. She was spotted with a ‘demon or demon-like entity.’”

  I had a vision of a Mrs. Brewer, the head of a coven of witches back in California that had helped me banish the demons from Solomon’s Urn. In my vision, I saw her eyes and the craving for power that had filled them. I saw the night when the demons were banished. I thought of the demon that had possessed Lacey, and flashed on where it might have gone once it had been banished from my friend’s body.

  I wanted no part of what I saw.

  “Sorry, I don’t know anything about old ladies and demons, but if you come across a possessed ashtray, you be sure to look me up.”

  “Heh. A funny man you are not. Chance, part of my job is detecting lies and the liars that tell them. I’m good at it, if I say so myself. It’s one of my many talents. And, well, Chance, I hope you don’t mind me saying this—but as a liar, you suck.

  “So what I’m thinking is, because you managed to answer the rest of my questions without me even having to ask them—thank you for that, by the way—what I’m thinking is that you come on back here to California from Austin, or wherever it is you are, and clean up the mess your little demon is making.”

  “It’s not my demon.”

  “Oh, see, I disagree. Didn’t you hear? Possession is nine tenths of the law. Get it, possession? I’m a friggin’ comedian. Anyway, like I was saying, possession is nine tenths of the law, and you, my friend, possessed the urn that had all of the demons in it.

  “See, believe it or not—and I know it may be a hard one for you to believe—but those demons of yours? The ones you supposedly got rid of? Those are the only demons I’ve run across lately. And by ‘lately,’ I mean in the past, say, forty-five years.

  “Until this one. A week later. Now, you might say it’s a coincidence, me finding a demon so soon after what happened. But see, to me, coincidences are for suckers, and I’m not a sucker. Do you think I’m a sucker, Chance? Please don’t tell me you think I’m a sucker.”

  “Uh…no.”

  “No? Good. So let’s review the facts. Fact: you had in your possession a lot of demons. Fact: here we are, a few days later, and what do I run across? I run across a demon. Demons, in my humble experience, are not common things. Do you disagree?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Fact: this demon is not minding its own business. It’s been causing problems. And these have become my problem. And in this case, my problem has become your problem. It’s like the trickle-down theory; you know, the one that was supposed to make us all rich? This is it trickling down on your head.”

  “Why me?”

  “Are we back to you making me repeat myself? I already told you, it’s the association thing. Remember, the one involving you and weird shit?”

  “Sure, I remember. But why me? There has got to be someone else who can do a better job with this,” I said.

  “You’re telling me. And if you find them, you let me know and maybe I’ll reconsider. But until that time, this one’s all yours. Oh, and Chance, this time I expect you to do all your own cleaning up, you know what I mean? Make it all neat and tidy-like.

  “Not like what happened last time with the church. Did you know they had to use street sweepers to clean it all up? I don’t mean little men running around with brooms, I mean the big trucks. Don’t make me have to use a street sweeper to clean up your mess this time, or I’ll be forced to send you the bill.

  “And, Chance, I hope you don’t miss the implications of what I’m about to tell you, but I don’t think it will be a bill you can afford to pay. Do you understand?”

  “I got it.”

  “Good. I like you, I real
ly do. That’s why I’m doing you the favor of telling you about this and letting you clean it up, because these kinds of things draw the wrong kind of attention. Do you know what I’m saying? Attention from the wrong type of crowd that neither one of us wants. Do you get my drift?”

  Not entirely, but I said, “Yeah.”

  “Good. Speaking of unwanted attention, just between you and me, Powers was kind of ticked off at losing the contents of that jar of his. And not a little bit ticked—we’re talking like a gigantic, blood-engorged parasite. And he is one of those men, unlike myself, that hold a grudge. So, do us both a favor and watch your back.”

  “Will do.”

  “And, Chance—we’re all looking forward to seeing you back here in California.”

  About the Author

  A California native, Patrick Kampman now lives in Central Texas with his family, cats, and a steadily decreasing number of fish. He is currently working on the third novel in the Chance Lee series.

  When he is not writing, Patrick can be found reading, watching classic movies, or helplessly watching the St. Louis Rams lose games.