Jack of Diamonds

by Bryce Courtenay

  For a moment, a look passed over Bridgett’s face that I couldn’t read, and she said, ‘Oh, Jack, I’d simply hate that!’ Then immediately she recovered her composure. It wasn’t hard to see how she’d transformed herself from hillbilly to sophisticated woman of the world; she was capable of rigidly concealing her emotions. ‘Jack, that’s something only you can decide,’ she said, but then added, ‘such a pity you don’t take notes.’

  ‘As I said before, I’m a jazz man, it’s all in my head.’

  ‘Where a bullet could so easily remove it,’ Bridgett said softly, almost as if to herself; then, looking me in the eye, she said urgently, ‘Please don’t go, Jack.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ I laughed, unsettled by the dark turn the conversation had taken, ‘I guess I’ll just have to come to terms with the fact that, like you, I’ve done a deal with the devil.’

  ‘Jack, I hope you can. I love having you around . . . and so do the patrons and the staff – the coloured folk, in particular, regard you as one of them, a white guy they trust with their lives.’ She looked deep into my eyes and I felt my throat tighten. She really was gorgeous. ‘But, please, if you decide to stay, if anything untowards should happen between you and Sammy, I beg you not to take things into your own hands. Will you please let me know immediately?’

  I stood up to leave, uncertain what to say, and, quite unexpectedly, Bridgett’s composure seemed to crumple. She came around the desk and to my surprise gave me a hard hug and kissed me on the cheek, then suddenly her lips were on mine, soft and very tender. She drew back almost at once, but I could see she had tears in her eyes. ‘I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you, Jack,’ she whispered.

  I lightly touched the place on my cheek where she’d kissed me, wondering if I dared hope there might one day be something between us. I was a gambler, after all – perhaps this wasn’t the time to cut and run. ‘Bridgett, I’ll keep out of trouble or I’ll leave. Don’t worry, I got through the war with only a nick to my earlobe.’

  Two weeks after ‘the kiss’, as I wistfully referred to it, Johnny Diamond and I were playing with a carefully chosen group of out-of-town poker players in a Sunday night game on Fremont Street. The house took ten per cent, which covered the cost of the suite, drinks and a decent tip for the barman. It was around four in the morning and I was ahead about fifteen hundred dollars.

  The company was pleasant – good solid players – who always seemed to enjoy Johnny’s nice laconic wit. He had a way of undercutting the town’s pseudo glitz and glamour that I enjoyed. He was a realist and was always straight and true; something, I guess, we both tried to be. If, for instance, he reached his anticipated stake and it wasn’t going well, he’d pull out politely. He never made a fuss, and I never saw him sulk.

  We were having a break while players’ drinks were refreshed, and some went to the bathroom. I got up and walked over to the window, where one of the visiting players had pulled the heavy drapes back and was looking down into the street.

  You could see why Fremont Street was called Glitter Gulch – it was like a waterfall of light so bright it was like midday but with a chaotic and constantly changing kaleidoscope of colour. Nobody initially sets out to design a streetscape composed largely of neon advertising – over the years, it simply evolved to become a clashing, brashly flashing, crowded display of tubular light mixed with discordant snatches of broadcast music, and nightclub barkers shouting their invitations over the din of traffic, all of which combined willy-nilly to create a very effective lure for any sucker with a wallet who was prepared to chance his luck. While the new resort casinos on The Strip had taken most of the local action, Glitter Gulch and the older established casinos continued to flourish in Fremont Street.

  The visitor, a guy named Warwick Selby, turned to me. ‘This place kinda gets to you, don’t it, buddy?’

  ‘Yeah, you said it. When you see it like this, it’s really something.’

  ‘Been here long?’

  ‘Four – maybe five – years.’

  He gave a low whistle. ‘And you’re still ahead of the game?’

  I laughed. ‘I work in the piano bar at the Firebird until very late, so during the main gambling hours I’m otherwise occupied. Games like this one on my night off are pretty much it. So far,’ I jerked my head in the direction of the card table behind me, ‘playing this way, I have a fluctuating bank balance, though, for the most part, it’s in the black.’

  ‘Wise man. A friend is staying with her husband at the Firebird and invited my wife to hear you play last night. I think she fell a little in love with you – they both did. They want to go back and hear you tomorrow night.’

  I smiled. It was a common compliment and I’d learned to deal with it by pretending to be slightly embarrassed.

  ‘She says you’re very good, I mean very good.’

  ‘Why, thank you. It’s always nice to hear about happy customers.’

  ‘So, how long do you plan to stay?’

  The question was one I had been asking myself ever since my talk with Bridgett. Deep down I knew the answer but wasn’t sure I wanted to admit it, even to myself. ‘I’m not sure I know. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, my family have various entertainment interests in Houston; among them, a club my dad started way back in the twenties. It’s small but classy. I thought you might like a sea change. We’d pay you well and build you any piano-bar setup you want – good clientele, no jerks, your kind of music.’

  I feigned astonishment. ‘You’re making this offer on your wife’s recommendation? Don’t you know the GAWP Bar – I mean, The Phoenix – is famous for the strength of its highballs?’

  He laughed. ‘No, but she was a pretty good jazz singer in her day – still is, I guess – but now she’s on the other side and helps with our business, mostly with the hiring of talent; and, believe me, she knows a good piano player when she hears one.’

  ‘That’s a very nice offer and I thank you, Warwick. I confess I have two addictions, jazz and poker, and both are available here and in about the right combination and, alas, nowhere else in America.’

  ‘I like a serious game of poker myself.’ He jerked his head to indicate the interior of the room. ‘Games like this one.’

  ‘So, you don’t come to Las Vegas to play in a casino?’

  ‘Yes, occasionally, but playing poker without having to win at all costs, with guys like you and Johnny Diamond, that’s one aspect of this town I love. If you have any other friends, next time I’m in town let’s get together for a private game.’

  ‘You’re right, Warwick. We all know when we’re in a casino it’s going to end up in a Mobster’s pocket. I prefer to think I can win or lose to someone who plays to enjoy the game. I admit I’m addicted to poker and the piano, like I said.’ I gave a short laugh. ‘I guess they’re going to have to carry me out of Las Vegas in a box.’

  Warwick Selby nodded. ‘I’m not a hood, nor was my daddy, but he knew just about every big Mobster in America. You don’t get through Prohibition as a nightclub owner without meeting a few less-than-honourable men on the way. Las Vegas has more than its fair share. I should know; my family are among the few honest investors in two casinos in this town and we see the names behind the names, if you know what I mean.’ He gave me a steady look. ‘Jack, you could well end up leaving Las Vegas in a box. Think seriously about a sea change. Take my advice, my offer of a piano bar in Houston stands any time you want. My daddy always maintained that the company you keep defines you, and if it involves the Mob, in the end it may eliminate you.’ Before I could think of a suitable answer, or even thank him for his advice, the call went out that the game was about to recommence.

  I won a reasonable amount – no fortune but well worth my Sunday night. I crawled into bed with the air-conditioner rattling its usual breathless lullaby and got to thinking about what Warwick Selby had said about the company you keep defining you. Maybe it was time to move on. But, as soon as the thought entered my head, I pictu
red Bridgett. How could I leave her? How could I ask her to leave with me? It was hopeless. With her points in the Firebird and the essential role she played in the success of the GAWP Bar, she was stuck for years if she wanted to become filthy rich.

  Although she worked with Lenny and frequently met with the other casino owners on business, when she attended a social occasion, she always went alone, even though almost everyone else brought a spouse or a friend. Those who didn’t know her regarded her as a cold, over-efficient harridan. But among her staff, Mrs Fuller had, at the very least, total respect and often absolute love; in fact, the lower down the hierarchy, the more love and trust she inspired. But her ability always to keep just the right distance meant that nobody had the courage to tell her how much they admired, respected, trusted and loved her. She’d mentioned that the coloured folk liked and trusted me; by comparison to the way I knew they felt about her, I would have been considered a poor second.

  I’d mention their regard for her from time to time but I don’t think she believed me and wouldn’t discuss the subject, dismissing my passed-on compliments with a click of the tongue and a flick of her elegantly manicured fingers. ‘Jack, it’s my job,’ she’d finally conclude.

  Perhaps she thought no man would want her, but if this were true she was mistaken. I saw the way guys looked at her, and I knew how much I wanted her. I longed to hold her, make love to her, and she’d figured in my fantasies from almost the day I met her. But she was my boss, four or five years older than me, and in those days that was supposed to count. In truth, I simply didn’t have the courage to make the first advance. I analysed that kiss, the one on the mouth, and told myself it had lasted longer than necessary, and her being near tears; surely that meant something? But her startled withdrawal after the kiss and the speed with which she regained her composure seemed to warn me not to make any assumptions.

  I was deeply honoured that she’d chosen to tell me about her hillbilly past. Humans are by nature social animals, even those who draw into themselves almost completely. Eventually they all need to talk to someone. The idea that confession is good for the soul underpins many religious faiths and, as Joe once said to me when I’d confessed some deep, dark secret of my childhood, ‘Jazzboy, we all gotta carry dat bag o’ beans on our back. Ever’ day more beans goin’ in and if no beans comin’ out ever, it gonna get too heavy. Dat why ever once in a while we all gotta spill da beans.’

  I’d seen the effects of low self-esteem in Cabbagetown innumerable times; known them myself, on more than one occasion. People from dirt-poor backgrounds, the so-called white trash of society, no matter how successful, never feel they’re quite good enough to make the grade. Bridgett was one of us and I felt honoured that she’d chosen ‘to spill the beans’ to me. Despite going over things for an hour or more, I was none the wiser, and eventually descended into a troubled sleep.

  Nothing was said to me officially about not talking to the police, and Sammy was still driving around Las Vegas in his pink Cadillac convertible with the two goons in the back seat manning the rear window. He’d relocated his debt-collection business from downtown to almost next door to the Firebird, so I’d now often see him on my way to work as I crossed the road to go through the parking station and into the kitchen entrance. In fact, it soon became obvious that just before three o’clock, when I came in to practise piano, Sammy and his two henchmen made a point of being on the sidewalk outside his office. He would stand, legs apart, his arms crossed above his increasingly enormous belly, and stare at me, his two goons adopting the same stance and stare. I could always have taken a longer route but I told myself no one had ever been killed by a stare and I was damned if I were going to give the fat little fart the pleasure of upsetting my routine.

  As for Loose Spring, he never returned from New York. He was probably wearing an apron and selling bagels and lox from a pushcart in the Bronx. The Flamingo replaced him with a seemingly nice-enough guy named Michael Solomon, inevitably known as ‘Mr Sol’. Although I had little or nothing to do with him, Lenny, who didn’t share Chicago’s attitude to Jews, said he was on the ball and a real nice guy who’d made a point of offering his cooperation, should it become necessary.

  There wasn’t much I could do about the daily appearance of the threesome, but I admit, after a bit, it was making me increasingly uneasy. This wasn’t Bridgett’s territory, so, after several weeks of ignoring the intimidation, I decided to raise my concerns with Lenny.

  ‘Come!’ Lenny, ever the master sergeant, called without glancing up when I tapped on the open door of his office.

  I walked in and sat down facing him across his over-large desk, the surface of which was spotless except for an immaculate blotter with scarlet leather trim, on which lay a copy of Sports Illustrated open at an article he appeared to be reading.

  He’d recently redecorated his office in scarlet and gold, the colours of the US marines. There was no hint of Anna-Lucia Hermes’ influence and, I must admit, the effect was more Chinese New Year than US military. Heavy gold drapes with scarlet tassels framed the large window, the carpet was scarlet and the ceiling was gold; although, thankfully, the walls had been left a deep cream. On one wall was an enormous colourful painting in an ornate gold frame, inspired by Joe Rosenthal’s famous black-and-white photograph of the US marines raising the flag at Iwo Jima. Miss Frostbite would have referred to it as being ‘in truly appalling taste’ and I feel sure even my mom would have agreed with her.

  ‘Oh, hiya, Jack!’ Lenny exclaimed.

  ‘Have you got a moment, Lenny?’

  He spread his arms and smiled. ‘Hey, Jack, buddy! For you . . . always!’

  ‘It’s Sammy, Lenny,’ I began.

  Lenny frowned. ‘Whaddaya mean? He say somethin’ to ya? Somethin’ outa line?’

  ‘I didn’t tell you at the time, but he threatened me in the passageway when I stopped him beating up Hector,’ I said, and Lenny’s frown deepened. ‘And now . . .’ I explained the regular sidewalk routine with Sammy and his two minders.

  Lenny immediately relaxed and leaned a long way back in his new scarlet executive swivel chair, his hands thrown wide above his shoulders. ‘Jack, take it easy, old buddy. You know Sammy. That a matter o’ pride, him tellin’ ya he ain’t forgot. But, listen up, he ain’t gonna start nothing, ya hear?’

  ‘Lenny, I kept my side of the bargain. I kept my mouth shut. For Sammy, it could have turned out a whole lot worse.’

  ‘Let’s not go there, kid. I’ll talk to him. I know it ain’t easy for you. Even if Hector is only a nigger, it happened on the casino premises and coulda maybe come to something if you hadn’t stayed schtum and Bridgett hadn’t stopped the kitchen staff talkin’ to the cops. Sammy ain’t stoopid enough to shit in his own nest a second time!’ He then added, ‘The godfather glad Sammy stayed outa trouble. Sammy don’t want to get into no more shit like that.’

  ‘Thanks, Lenny. I appreciate your help.’

  ‘Jack, Sammy’s just being himself – fat little guy, gammy leg, fucked in the head. Jesus, he’s a debt collector! Intimidation is all he’s got goin’ for him. That Loose Spring strong-arm stuff, it all over now. Ain’t nothing gonna happen between the two of you, buddy! Nigger’s one thing, beating up you – white guy, big money-spinner for the casino – that’s somethin’ else. You know what I mean? Chicago gonna tear him a new asshole if he try something like that.’ He shook his head slowly, then added, ‘It don’t make no sense. My advice, take no notice.’

  Though he’d inadvertently put me in my place as a mere money-spinner, I knew it was just Lenny’s clumsy way and that he regarded me as an old friend and wartime buddy. Although I wasn’t entirely convinced Sammy would behave himself, I accepted Lenny’s reasoning and his promise to talk to his cousin and, almost at once, the sidewalk intimidation stopped. Three months passed and I’d only occasionally see Sammy; usually on The Strip, driving his pink Caddie convertible with his two hoods in the back seat.

  What I didn’t sus
pect was that the sick puppy in Sammy was steadily growing into a mad dog, and that he’d developed a dangerous addiction to Benzedrine. As a medical orderly, I’d issued Benzedrine during combat and was aware of the drug’s dangerous side effects, such as paranoia, aggression, agitation, anxiety, grandiosity and even psychosis. Had I known he was hooked on Bennies, I’d have taken my own advice and left the night Bridgett and I talked and she ended up kissing me. I should have taken the memory of her kiss with me and run for my life.

  I’ve mentioned before that Sammy was, at best, a poor poker player, but the drug exacerbated his delusions of grandeur. There were rumours around town that he insisted on playing poker with the rich and famous in other casinos, and that, as usual, he was losing hand over fist. None of that was my concern, although it made me anxious about the private Sunday games I played with Johnny Diamond and various acquaintances. Sammy hadn’t given up on these and, once or twice, he’d cost us a night’s poker when we’d had to turn down an invitation from an outsider who didn’t know what he was getting himself into when he invited Sammy.

  I had my fair share of poker games with the rich and famous, too, mainly through the GAWP Bar. Bridgett would tease me about whenever some movie mogul or star, or mega-rich oilman, requested a private game be set up because his wife or girlfriend had sung my praises the previous night, having imbibed one too many Manhattans. When the husband or boyfriend heard that I knew my way around a poker game, he’d request a private one, either to check me out or show off to the little woman. Bridgett would pass on the invitation with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Women love you, Jack, and it’s not only for your piano playing . . . or your poker!’ Sometimes I’d be invited to play a game in a guest’s suite, organised by the Firebird. It might be with a visiting high roller or big-time musician or movie star, who, for whatever reason, had requested I be included in a game. Bridgett had little choice but to agree to such requests, and the casino supplied my stake. It was usually nice work and I’d often end up with a little bankable money. I kept my winnings and the casino carried any occasional losses. It was, in a sense, public relations.