Wild Card

by Luke Murphy

  Chapter 1

  “E4. Your move, Mr. Robinson.”

  Vladimir Alexandrov analyzed his opponent over the chess board. Beads of sweat peppered the scalp of his challenger. Alexandrov had yet to lose a game since entering Ely State Prison twelve years ago. His adversaries knew the stakes; losing a match didn’t just mean losing a game of chess. It meant a lot more than that. He loved the fear he could inflict from anticipation alone.

  The individuals involved with the Federal Penitentiary Service of Russia had been easier to buy off, but the American prison was like a five-star hotel suite compared to some of the corrective labor colonies and filtration camps he’d frequented in his home land.

  It was dry, warm and quiet, unlike Russian prisons. He’d been placed in a secluded wing of the maximum security penitentiary, away from “general population”. It suited his business requirements. The guards left him alone.

  “I—I told you, M—Mr. Vladimir. I’m not a very good player,” William Robinson stuttered, unwilling to make direct eye contact with the Russian. “I’ve never really been shown the rules.”

  “You knew the rules, Mr. Robinson. Now play!”

  Robinson used a shaky hand to move his pawn. “E5.” He swallowed hard.

  Alexandrov surveyed the chess board and smiled. Without looking up he said, “So tell me again, Mr. Robinson. What exactly went wrong?” He licked his lips, planning his next move.

  “I told you already!” Robinson raised his voice, but it still quivered.

  A beefy bodyguard, who’d been standing behind Alexandrov, stepped forward. With his arms crossed over his bulging chest, he played the clichéd role to perfection. The sleeves were cut off his prison jumpsuit and his bicep vein pulsed. He had sleeve tattoos on both arms, a shaved Mohawk and a diablo goatee.

  Alexandrov raised his hand to halt his protector.

  Robinson’s eyes expanded. He looked at the bodyguard and then back to Alexandrov. “I’m sorry, I mean…”

  “Queen, H5.” Alexandrov’s eyes showed no emotion, no mercy. He sat back on his steel chair and let out his breath.

  “Please, Mr. Vladimir. Give me one more chance.”

  Alexandrov allowed himself a twitch of a smile at the honorific. In this American prison, other inmates had learned to address him as Mr. Vladimir, a sign of respect and formality. Alexandrov had certainly earned it. “Your move, Mr. Robinson.”

  Robinson looked down at the chess board and moved without taking any time to think it over. “Knight, C6.”

  Alexandrov scratched at the corner of his eye and scanned the board.

  “So, do I get a second chance?” Robinson asked, desperation choking his voice.

  Alexandrov did not look up. “Bishop, C4.” He looked at Robinson with lifeless eyes. “Your play.”

  “Mr. Vladimir, please.”

  “I said it’s your play, Mr. Robinson.” For the first time, his voice rose one decibel level. It was a stern voice, one used to commanding, one unused to insubordination.

  The bodyguard moved behind Robinson, looming over him. He placed a beefy hand on the man’s shoulder.

  Robinson shifted in his chair. He looked at the board and then up at Alexandrov with a helpless gaze. “I told you, I’m a beginner.”

  The old Russian nodded slightly to his guard. The big, muscular Russian pulled three Polaroids from his breast-pocket and set them on the table in front of Robinson.

  William Robinson picked up the photographs and looked at them. He closed his eyes, tears sneaking down his cheeks, and dropped his head in his chest.

  “Your play, Mr. Robinson.”

  Robinson lifted his head, almost forcing his hand to grasp his second knight. “F6.”

  Alexandrov shook his head and made a quiet noise. “A rookie move. You Americans have no discipline, no patience for this beautiful game.” He grabbed his Queen and looked at Robinson. “F7…checkmate.” Alexandrov stood. “You lose, Mr. Robinson. But I think you already knew that.” He grabbed a cloth off his cot and wiped his hands, moving in slow, studied actions.

  Robinson attempted to stand but the guard behind him gripped his shoulder and easily shoved him back into a seated position.

  Alexandrov turned his back to the men and walked towards the bars, where the cell door hung open. He gripped the bars and stretched, cracking his neck to relieve the pressure that had been building up. “So, what do I do with you, Mr. Robinson?”

  Robinson’s shirt was damp all the way through. He pulled it away from his body. He swallowed, having trouble breathing. “I know I can make this right, Mr. Vladimir.”

  Alexandrov turned and rubbed his chin. “My wife wanted a second chance, when I caught her in bed with my nephew. Do you think she got one?”

  Robinson shook his head.

  “Let’s just say neither of them will ever cheat again.”

  Robinson dropped to his knees and clasped his hands together. “Please, Mr. Vladimir, I beg you. I can make it right. Just give me the opportunity.”

  Alexandrov looked at his bodyguard and then back at Robinson. He rubbed his hands together. “That is one option.” He motioned for his guard to have Robinson removed from his cell. “I’ll let you know.”

  Once Robinson had left, Alexandrov looked at his muscled cellmate. “Ubit’ yego.”

  The big, hulking bodyguard nodded his head obediently and was about to leave when Alexandrov spoke again.

  “Go find me Mr. Ace.”

  ♣

  “Hey, Boss, looks like William Robinson just lost a game of chess to Alexandrov. We recorded everything.”

  Half a dozen uniformed men inside a tiny surveillance room scanned monitors of video feeds from every corner of Ely State Prison. They were mainly focused on one camera in particular.

  A prison guard punched a few buttons and the camera from Alexandrov’s cell pulled in and zoomed out.

  “Fuck.” Warden Terry Shilling approached a row of monitors and watched the video feed from Vladimir Alexandrov’s cell. “I wish we had audio feed. God damn ACLU!”

  The guard nodded. “Yep. But if it isn’t the American Civil Liberties Union protecting the prisoners’ rights, it would be someone else.”

  “Christ, that’s all I need. Have a guard posted outside Robinson’s cell for the next forty-eight hours.” He tried to keep the tremor from his voice.

  Shilling had been the prison warden for twenty years. Since that time, he’d been divorced twice and had taken up drinking, smoking and gambling. He’d put on thirty pounds and lost half a head of hair.

  He’d been there when Alexandrov was brought in, and Schilling knew that someday the Russian would cause major problems. Shilling just hoped that he’d be long gone by the time that happened.

  “One or two guards, Boss?” the guard asked.

  The Warden took a greedy drag from his cigarette. “We’re talking about Alexandrov, better make it three. Keep surveillance on his bulldog, too.” He turned to an older man watching the same video. “I know I’m not a lip reader, but does Alexandrov want to meet with Ace Sanders?”

  Chapter 2

  “Looks like the student has become the teacher.” Jarvis Mulligan smiled, revealing a row of pearly whites, as he cleared the chess board. “Do you have time for another game, Cal?”

  Calvin shook his head. “I have to get to the office.”

  He and Jarvis had been friends for over three years, since Calvin started working on the Vegas streets. Jarvis was a wise man who always had sage advice and a calming effect on Calvin, a man he’d turn to whenever he needed to hear the right words.

  It had started innocently enough. Jarvis had no family and few friends, so Calvin had made a point of stopping at the man’s store every morning to chitchat and buy something. Jarvis seemed to enjoy the company.

  But when Jarvis admitted to being a chess prodigy, Calvin took him up on the challenge, and their weekly encounters became clockwork. Calvin had learned a lot in only a short time.

  �
�Well, you owe me a rematch. You can’t just stop by and whop me like that, and not give me a chance at redemption.”

  Calvin smiled. “You’ll get another chance, but work calls.”

  “Your mother would be proud of you.”

  “She’s the real hero.” Calvin felt a lump in his throat tighten.

  Jarvis nodded. “A single parent, raising two boys while holding down a fulltime night-shift job—you could have gone either way.”

  Calvin knew Jarvis was right. After his mother died of cancer when he was thirteen, he’d spent the next few years in and out of foster homes with abusive parents.

  “I didn’t do it alone. Father Mac was a big part of my scholarship to USC.”

  “But all you after that. Breaking records, winning Heisman trophies, leading the team to consecutive championships. That was all you, and you don’t need to be so modest.”

  “Yeah.” Calvin smiled. “There were a lot of highlights.” And also a lot of lowlights, including more setbacks. A devastating knee injury ended his college career and any chance of a pro contract; he’d lost his scholarship and wound up on the Vegas streets, collecting from gamblers for Donald Pitt, the scumbag. And if that wasn’t enough, then he was framed for murder, forcing him and Rachel into hiding—on the run from not only the local cops, but a hired hitman.

  Calvin shook his head. “Gotta go, Jarvis. Same time next week?”

  “You got it. I’ll be waiting.”

  “See ya.”

  “Hey, Cal. You play pretty good for a leg-breaking street punk.”

  Calvin grinned. “And you’re not so bad for a decrepit old blind man.”

  ♣

  Calvin stood outside his private investigative business sporting a smile that hadn’t worn off for months. He was building his clientele, and things looked up.

  He still couldn’t believe how far his life had come, and how much of a roller coaster ride it had been. The highs and lows had been beyond compare.

  He’d been well-known over the years, albeit in totally different worlds. At one time, he was the next “big thing”, bound for big-league glory in the NFL. But one earth-shattering decision turned him into a violent, African-American, Las Vegas debt collector. The people he loved, his true friends, had always known the real Calvin Watters, and hadn’t been swayed by the character he forced himself to play when he was “the collector”.

  It all felt like one big dream now.

  Calvin’s business was located in Bonneville Square, in a five-story building at the Northwest corner of East Bonneville and Las Vegas Boulevard South. The office wasn’t part of the elite units in downtown Las Vegas, but close enough to be considered acceptable, and the rent affordable. It was in the center of the Las Vegas Valley and just north of the Strip.

  He entered the building and headed to suite 102, just off the lobby. It contained a reception area, two private offices (they only used one), and a conference room (which was rarely used at all). He knocked once, looked up into the camera, and the door buzzed open.

  When he stepped inside, he saw the one constant in his life, the one thing that kept him going when everything else seemed impossible.

  “Good morning, Boss.” Rachel got up from her desk and went to greet him, her high heels snapping across the hardwood floor.

  He loved when she wore her hair up and sported her dark-rimmed glasses. Today, she wore a black, tailored, wrap-front jumpsuit.

  “Good morning.” He gave her a long, passionate kiss. “I see the new security system has been installed.”

  Rachel smiled. “Yep, cameras and a new intercom locking system at the door. Do you think it’s necessary?”

  Calvin looked grim. “With Baxter on the loose, we can’t be too protective.”

  “I thought you said he wouldn’t come back?”

  “I can’t be certain.”

  “Thank God Dale and Jimmy called the building’s owner.”

  “Yeah, with the Vegas police having our backs, we can breathe a little easier.”

  He handed a memory card to Rachel. “Email two of these pictures to Mrs. Walters. Not the juicy ones, but a couple of teasers. Tell her that her husband is a cheating dog and we have the proof. When she comes in to pay, she can have the rest of the digital snapshots, audio cassettes and my report.” He went through some of the papers on Rachel’s desk. “Is there anything for today?”

  “Chet called from the gun club.” She read from the memo, “You won the small-arms competition, again. They said they’re going to stop allowing you to enter the shooting tournament unless you start letting other people win.” She smiled.

  Calvin felt embarrassed. “Anything work related?”

  She shook her head. “Mrs. Lester is coming in at eleven o’clock for her second consultation.”

  He sighed out loud. “I’m sick of these divorce cases. I feel like an ambulance chaser. Spying on cheating husbands and wives while they do the nasty with people other than their spouses isn’t exactly what I envisioned when I started this business.”

  “I know, but it’s paying the bills.”

  He nodded and pursed his lips. “Anything else?”

  “Nothing new. Just a whole lot of clients who have yet to pay you. We can’t pay bills with IOUs. You need to stop taking their word.”

  Calvin exhaled audibly. “Christ, I hate collecting. Give me the numbers.”

  Rachel laughed. “Yeah, I bet it really bothers the Bone-Breaker. You mean you don’t miss it just a little?” She held up her thumb and forefinger, inches apart, to indicate how much Calvin might miss his former job.

  “Ex Bone-Breaker. And no, I don’t miss it, not even a little bit.”

  She handed him a stack of pink memo papers. Rachel, the diligent secretary that she was, had gone to the trouble of writing down every unpaid client’s contact information for Calvin. He took them and trudged towards his office. He put his hand on the doorknob but stopped and looked over his shoulder, staring at Rachel.

  She didn’t see him. She was busy shuffling between the computer, papers on her desk, the phone and note taking. The everyday jobs of a workaholic secretary who might suffer just a little from OCD, which made her an above-and-beyond secretary.

  Even though her appearance had changed, maturing and sophisticating, every time he looked at her he still saw that scared, unsure, eighteen-year-old he’d first run into on the streets. She wasn’t cut out for that life, and he’d taken it upon himself to do all he could to protect her from pimps and “Johns”, only after her for one reason.

  He’d dated her for a couple of years, known her for a lot longer than that, but despite their time together, he was still awestruck by her hard work and perseverance.

  He entered his office and threw the papers on his desk, removed his jacket, and sat down. He picked up the phone when the intercom buzzed.

  “What is it, Rachel?”

  “I forgot to tell you, Dale called and said he’d meet you at the gym after work.”

  “Did he say what it was about?”

  “No. Maybe he wants to be your spotter.”

  Calvin snorted. “Doubtful.”

  “Maybe Dale knows that since you run the gym, you spend every free second there and he doesn’t have a choice in the matter.”

  Calvin hesitated, wondering if that was a jab at him for not spending enough time with her.

  “It’s just until we get a routine going.” Did he sound too defensive?

  “I know. You’re great with those kids.”

  Calvin let out his breath, feeling somewhat relived. “Thanks Rach.” He hung up.

  Calvin flipped through the memo cards, found a big-time client owing payment, picked up the phone and took a deep breath.

  ♣

  Dale could hear Calvin’s booming voice—over the snapping leather, clinking barbells, and stereo speaker music—the minute he entered Big Mac’s Gym.

  “High knees, high knees! Get ’em up! Come on, harder, harder! Work it, work it, work i
t!” Calvin’s voice was pure intensity.

  Dale nudged his partner, Detective Jimmy Mason, and nodded towards Calvin, who was putting a group of teenagers through the workout gauntlet.

  Jimmy smiled. “Poor kids.”

  Calvin no longer resembled the man who’d been wanted in connection to Doug Grant’s murder last year, although some things hadn’t changed, like his impeccable physical conditioning. The dreadlocks had given way to a shorter, more conventional look.

  It was common knowledge for the public to not mingle with cops, and this crew was more alert and apprehensive than most.

  The detectives stuck out in their suits and dress shoes. As they worked their way across the room, the smell of sweat and new leather assaulted their nostrils. Dale noticed a group of giggling teenage girls sitting on a bench near where Calvin put his recruits through their drills; the girls’ eyes fixated on the big, handsome, athletic, black man who trained the athletes. Dale knew Calvin had that effect on women, he just didn’t realize it started that young.

  But that was Calvin. He’d help the girls feel welcome, joke with them, and not have the foggiest idea that they were awe-struck.

  The detectives snuck up behind Calvin and watched him work, the passion unyielding.

  “Come on, Johnny. You want it, you gotta go get it! No pain, you need to want it more than the rest.” Calvin stopped and sniffed the air. “I smell pork. Anyone else smell pork in here?”

  Johnny, the teenager Calvin worked on, stopped his plyometric circuit and smiled. “There are a couple of pigs standing behind you, Coach.”

  Dale smiled and playfully put Calvin in a head lock. Calvin hoisted Dale off his feet with the ease of a sack of laundry, in a fireman’s carry, swinging him around playfully like a helicopter propeller.

  “Okay, okay, I give up,” Dale cried out.

  Calvin set him down and they all shook hands. Then he turned to the group of teens. “Two more sets, double-time it.” He handed a stopwatch to one of the boys, turned and walked away with Dale and Jimmy.

  “It’s great to see you guys.”

  “It’s been a while,” Dale said. “I don’t think we’ve seen you since Sanders’ trial.”