Jack of Diamonds

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Rachmaninoff.’

  ‘Eh? Too hard.’

  ‘Rachman then?’

  ‘Okay, Mr Rachman it is. No disturbances, not even the cleaning maid, okay? Hey, you’ll need a bathroom, I’ll put you in a room with one right next door.’

  Within twenty minutes of leaving Juicy Fruit I’d called her and given her the details.

  ‘Jack, I’ll need to talk with someone. What about Peter Cornhill? We trust him and he’s never really been a friend of Reggie and he likes you a lot; thinks you’re the best thing to come to the Brunswick in years.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’

  ‘I’ll call you in the morning about ten o’clock. I’ll bring you some breakfast. Good night, Jack. Don’t worry, the giant ain’t gonna chop down the magic beanstalk as long as I can help it.’

  I think I was asleep in ten minutes.

  I awoke at nine, the usual time, ready for a quick shower then Mrs Spragg’s breakfast before my mind clicked into place. I needed to go to the bathroom, so I grabbed my towel, opened the door in my Jockeys and scanned the corridor. Nobody appeared to be around so I gathered up my clothes and slipped next door unseen. There was no sign that anyone had used the shower before me. I had a lightning shower and dressed in clothes that smelled of stale cigarette smoke. There was a rind of collar dirt where I’d sweated the previous night. I considered asking Juicy Fruit to buy me a shirt on her way in but then thought better of it. Maybe Peter Cornhill would, later.

  The phone rang around ten o’clock.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Rachman, this is Peter Cornhill, the bell captain,’ Peter’s familiar voice announced.

  ‘Good morning, this is Jack Rachman.’

  ‘Listen, buddy, Juicy Fruit has been round. Don’t worry, everything’s under control, she’s told me what happened.’ There was a moment’s pause. ‘I’m not surprised. Reggie Blunt can be a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘Peter, I’m sorry if this is, you know, splitting your loyalties.’

  ‘Hey, buddy, I’m a bell captain, I need guys like him, but it don’t mean I have to like him.’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t give it another thought, Jack, Reggie

  Blunt needs me more than I need him. This town is full of whorehouses.’

  ‘Thanks, buddy, I owe you.’

  ‘Nonsense, we’re long past that stuff, Jack. Sit tight, I’m sending up a maid with your breakfast. How do you like your eggs?’

  Despite myself I had to laugh. ‘Over easy.’

  ‘She’ll tap on the door and leave the tray outside for you. Call you later, son.’

  ‘Oh, Peter, if this isn’t stretching things too far, can you organise a shirt, extra large?’

  ‘Yeah sure, I’ll get one from the hotel laundry. People leave them behind. Must be fifty there. What colour do you prefer?’ He was trying to put me at ease and doing a damn good job.

  ‘Anything, long as it fits.’

  ‘Good, I’ll choose a nice loud Hawaiian, something people will notice,’ he shot back, laughing.

  Breakfast arrived with a plain white shirt on a wire hanger, a brown paper packet pinned onto the back of the shirt, containing a clean pair of Jockey shorts. I guess bell captains have to be good at detail.

  Juicy Fruit called shortly after I was dressed. ‘Hey, Jack, lucky you went when you did. Reggie called round about half an hour after you’d left. He was in a real state and wanted to know if I’d seen you. “What, after we left the Brunswick?” I said. “No, of course not. He was going to your poker game, that’s what he told me anyhow. Why? What’s happened? It’s two-thirty, Reggie, he’d be at his boarding house, Mrs Henderson’s.” “No, we’ve checked, he’s not there,” he said. “Why do you want him?” I asked again. “Money, he stole our money,” he said. “At the card game? C’mon, Reggie, Jack wouldn’t do that!” I said. “Never mind. None of your business, girl! You haven’t seen him then?” “I told you, Reggie, no!” I said. He left without even apologising for getting me up. Jack, he was in a real funk, kept licking his top lip. They must have knocked up Mrs Henderson, too.’

  ‘They’d have got a right mouthful at that time of the morning,’ I replied, thinking she’d have shown them very little Christian charity at that hour.

  ‘Now, down to business, Jack. We’re more or less organised. John the chauffeur has gone off, pretending to be sick. Peter’s taking the hotel car and driving you on to Indian Head. That’s in case Reggie’s friends are waiting at Moose Head station. You’ll catch the Winnipeg train at Indian Head – I used some of your money for the ticket and Peter needed money for the booking clerk at the station; the rest I’ll give you when you’re safely on the train. Never know, they may be waiting at Indian Head. Peter has your money in a sealed and taped envelope in case I get stopped and searched. They wouldn’t search him. I took out some money for the night clerk and kitchen and laundry staff too. I don’t know how Peter’s done it, but you’ve got a compartment on your own. Best I’m not seen in the hotel. I’ll turn up as usual dressed for the cocktail-hour gig and play it dumb. But I’ll be in the car with Peter . . . plenty of time to get back for tonight. Staff entrance at eleven o’clock, don’t be late.’

  ‘Wait on! Don’t ring off,’ I yelled down the phone, than in a calmer voice I said, ‘Juicy Fruit, I’ve really screwed things up for you, haven’t I? I mean your singing career . . .’

  There was a slight pause. ‘Jack, it was fun. Think no more about it, I’m a big girl.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. Which is sometimes the most inadequate word in the English language.

  ‘Forget it, Jack, it never happened. A bit of fun, chance to show off a bit, that’s all.’ She hung up before I could frame another pathetic apology.

  The trip to Indian Head was mostly spent giving Peter and Juicy Fruit a blow-by-blow account of the game. Peter had timed it so that we arrived ten minutes before the train from Moose Jaw. Juicy Fruit kissed me thoroughly and said, ‘For old times’ sake, Jack,’ finally drawing away from me. God, I was going to miss her.

  Peter Cornhill shook my hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Jack, a truly great pleasure. Breath of fresh air.’

  I thanked him for everything, asked him to explain to everyone what had happened, and climbed aboard. He handed me a large sealed brown envelope, not just sealed but thick with Scotch tape. I pushed it into the inside of my jacket and shouted my final goodbyes as the train started to pull out of the Indian Head station. It was a lousy way to end my scuffing experience, but at least I wasn’t returning to Toronto on the bones of my ass. And I still had my mouth organ. Come hell or high water, it always remained on my person.

  As we headed east through Pilot Butte it occurred to me to check the money in the envelope to see if Juicy Fruit had taken the five hundred dollars and whatever else she may have had to spend to get me out of Moose Jaw. I’d always been a bit careful with money, because of my Cabbagetown background and the Depression, I guess. But I had plenty left for my mom’s nose job and money to spare. By Joe’s standards I’d get an A-plus for scuffing. I briefly wondered if Jim Greer would get my Mrs Sopworth suit for his Sunday best and the shirts and collars. I hoped so – his were looking a bit the worse for wear, although mine would be a bit big. I’d miss my anorak come winter. Hell no, I’d be in the army.

  I plucked away at the Scotch tape – she’d made a damned good job of it, even taping the edges of the envelope so it couldn’t be ripped open willy-nilly. Finally I opened it. Inside was a wad of neatly cut strips of newspaper, two hundred dollars in tens and a written note in a careful schoolgirl’s script.

  Dear Jack,

  A girl has to do what a girl has to do. Your generosity will get my little sister through her hairdressing school and help me also. I’m off to New York to take me a bunch of singing lessons. Hey-hey!

  You want to know something, Jack Spayd? This girl loves you and not just for the money! You are simply the best! I hope we meet again some day.

  Juicy Fruit

 
; P.S. One day if you see the name Prairie Gold, give me a call.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I USUALLY ENJOY TRAIN journeys, but I spent a lot of this one staring blankly out of the window, probably due to my preoccupation with the events of the past twenty-four hours. I was returning home broke. Well, not really, I had two hundred dollars and some loose change which, when you think about it, was almost two months’ salary for a waitress or road construction worker. Nevertheless, it fell short of the money I needed for my mom’s nose. I’d effectively lost the opportunity to properly repair the damage my father had inflicted on her, at least until after I got out of the army. But with the Canadian forces due to go overseas and into battle, who knew when that might be, if ever.

  This upset me more than anything else. She was not yet forty and still very attractive, in spite of her nose. Perhaps I should use the money, the two hundred bucks I still had, to find a poker game somewhere – I might get lucky. But every poker player believes that if you go into a game chasing a buck it always runs away faster than you can hunt it down.

  Banking on winning enough to pay for her nose only showed that I was becoming addicted to chance, or was an addict already. I was young and foolish and thought myself more or less bullet-proof. That big win, despite the danger I’d only just escaped and the loss of the money, convinced me I had the touch, the ability to get to the top. Naturally I wouldn’t have admitted this to anyone, but I knew, I just knew I was lucky with cards. To prove how stupid this conviction was, I truly believed that I would be dealt a royal flush at the very next game I played – the odds are a mere 2,598,960 to 1, no problem at all. If I could win almost two-and-a-half grand with all the cards coming out right for me, why not? As they say, that first big win is the worst thing that can happen to a young player. It sets him on the wrong path, which often, if not inevitably, leads to his destruction.

  At first I was furious with Juicy Fruit for stealing my winnings, especially after I’d given her a very generous five hundred dollars. It was, I told myself, a lowdown dirty trick only a slut and a whore would do to a man. But I realised that using such words to describe her saddened me, and did little to relieve my feelings. I was sort of half in love with her and fully in lust. She was a lovely woman who had been forced into the life of a prostitute in order to keep her family safe from harm. I had even used the term courtesan when I thought about her, which sounded a lot more honourable. But I had been wrong, dead wrong.

  However, there’s nothing quite like a train journey for a little self-analysis. Long before we got to Winnipeg I’d more or less sorted myself out. Sometimes just owning up to the truth isn’t such a bad idea. In my case a couple of hundred thousand or so clickety-clacks of the train wheels straightened out my thinking.

  For a start, all my pathetic stammering remorse on the hotel phone about ruining her chances of a singing career was utter bullshit. Irrespective of what had happened at the poker game, I would have left in three weeks to join the army. Three more weeks beside the piano with me wasn’t going to turn Juicy Fruit into a smoking-hot chanteuse. The five hundred I’d offered her wasn’t money I’d reserved before the game to give her specifically for singing lessons; it wasn’t even money I’d previously possessed. Okay, perhaps you could say it was generous, but even this wouldn’t be true. Of course I liked to imagine myself looking into her eyes and handing her an envelope: ‘Sorry, Juicy Fruit, but my country needs me, so please accept this small token of my love and gratitude. My hope is that you’ll use it for singing lessons.’ But nothing of the kind had ever occurred to me. Convincing myself that I was Mr Nice Guy and had planned for Juicy Fruit to have singing lessons was arrant nonsense. The gift, given on the spur of a panic-stricken moment, had no such strings attached and I was certainly no generous-minded hero.

  I’ve learned that self-deception usually follows something reprehensible or unwise and I’d been attempting to justify my actions to myself. But it’s a psychological slippery slope and when I make these self-deluding excuses, that is, forgive myself for my actions, it inevitably turns out badly in the long run. Looking at things clearly might be painful, but in my experience it removes the roadblocks in your mind and leaves a clear pathway that’s uncluttered with excuses and procrastinations. It allows you to learn from your mistakes. I’d sorted out that much before we’d reached Maryfield, a town almost halfway down the line to Winnipeg, where I bought myself a hamburger and sent a telegram to my mom to tell her when I’d be arriving in Toronto.

  It didn’t mean Juicy Fruit was off the hook. No way! Dealing with the theft of most of my winnings – a veritable king’s ransom and sufficient to pay for several nose operations – took a few hundred thousand more clickety-clacks and a good deal of silent invective tossed in for good measure. Owning up to a bit of self-deception over the gift of five hundred dollars was one thing, but coping with outright stealing was quite another. Thief, con artist, swindler, morally depraved low-life, these were just some of the words and descriptions I hurled at Juicy Fruit in my mind.

  However, I was wrong again. Nobody had expected me to win. In fact, quite the opposite was meant to happen. Reggie’s idea was to leave me destitute, to completely humiliate me and send me back to Toronto with my tail between my legs, his revenge a satisfying, stone-cold dish.

  Juicy Fruit must have known there could be trouble the moment Reggie’s dubious friends had appeared at Madam Rose’s for their free evening’s dalliance. She’d have realised Grover and Fred had been included to make the game appear to be honest. Reggie’s pals would have arrived around the time she was getting ready to come over to the Brunswick for our cocktail-hour gig. She’d done the only thing she could do for me and at some real personal sacrifice. It was clear that she had refused to sleep with Fred on previous occasions even though he’d lusted after her, but had agreed to do so when she’d gone to Madam Rose to ask if the two railroad men could take care of me if something went wrong. She knew they were straight even though they were fairly rough characters. Fred, grasping the opportunity, had made screwing him the condition for their protection. Sleeping with Gorilla Fred for free when I was certain she wouldn’t have agreed to do so even if he’d offered to pay, was more than a gesture of friendship.

  She’d tried to warn me. ‘Our Reggie isn’t what you think he is . . . be very careful.’ And she’d returned two hundred bucks, which meant I had exactly the amount I’d had when I went into the game. In theory, anyhow, I hadn’t lost a dime. She’d taken money that wasn’t really mine, and I no longer thought of it as stolen. I couldn’t begin to repay her for her generosity of spirit, nor for what she’d done for me, which was something I would never forget.

  On top of this she’d got me out of Moose Jaw unscathed. You couldn’t put a price on that, could you? I wasn’t under any illusions about what my fate would have been without Grover and Fred standing by: Snake Eyes would have beaten the living daylights out of me and taken my winnings. If I’d been found battered and bleeding in the gutter outside Girls Etcetera at two in the morning it would not have given the police any cause for alarm. Losing the money was by no means the worst thing that could have happened to me.

  Here I was sitting in a compartment heading home with my body and mind intact. What, I asked myself, was that worth? What had I lost? The money won in a single night’s gambling, my Mrs Sopworth suit and anorak and a few bits and pieces – books, a framed picture of my mom, a pile of sheet music.

  And then it hit me. Of course I had the money for my mom’s nose! I’d been feeling so goddamned sorry for myself, so preoccupied with losing my winnings, that my memory had done a blank. See what I mean about self-deception?

  I’d only taken two hundred dollars to the game, leaving one hundred and fifty dollars back at the boarding house. That was only twenty-five bucks short of the hundred and seventy-five dollars my mom had returned to me from what she’d saved out of my wages as a kitchen hand at the Jazz Warehouse. The rest of my stake had come from my personal
savings and small poker winnings while in Moose Jaw. Now when you added the two hundred I had from Juicy Fruit and deducted the three dollars in rent I owed Mrs Henderson, I had a total of three hundred and forty-seven dollars. I only needed three hundred for the nose operations. I hadn’t broken my promise to myself that my mom would be pretty again.

  Jim Greer and Mrs Henderson were born-again Christians; I guessed they could be trusted. I’d write to ask them to send back my stash, which I’d buried in a tin box in a corner of the woodshed where I went to fetch wood for the fire in the parlour so I could read there on winter mornings. Mrs Henderson would get her money and be able to pay for the postage, Jim Greer could have the clothes and there’d be enough money for my mom. So there you go, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, all’s well that ends well, as Shakespeare said.

  I don’t know how it happened – probably the thrill of winning big money – but I’d well and truly caught the gambler’s disease. I’d never before seen such a huge amount of money, let alone won it, but I told myself it wasn’t the money, it was the game. The bug had bitten deep. Poker made me feel independent, totally reliant on my own wits and nerve; Jack Spayd pitting his skill against all comers. I liked that, I liked that a lot, mind against mind, mine against my opponents’, winner takes all.

  It was nonsense of course, but I believed it at the time, believed it was something only I could do and that, like jazz, it gave me an opportunity to be myself. The reason I’d given up classical music was because I didn’t want to be always playing in the past tense, demonstrating someone else’s genius, someone who was long dead. While I was never going to be Art Tatum, jazz let me be an individual – it was music that began in the heart, satisfied the head and gave me the opportunity to extemporise and add something of my own.

  But with poker I was really on my own. Win or lose, every game started afresh, every game was my own doing or undoing. (Ha ha, and who was it who rescued me when I was about to be undone playing poker? Well, a woman, of course.) But this didn’t change my idea that, come what may, I would henceforth make my own decisions. Up to this moment I had always done as I was directed. Even scuffing, though it was meant to teach me independence, had been Joe’s idea. I was determined right or wrong to be solely responsible for the man I was to become.