by Alan Lee
“Where’d he go?”
“White-guy dumbass school, my guess,” he said.
“Okay. I’ll play pinochle with you.”
“Poker. I’ll text you the address.”
“You still got my number?”
“Keeping a close eye on you, August. Closer than you think. Course I got your number.”
“I pay my taxes. Obey the speed limit. Always use fertilizer. What are you worried about?” I said. “Why do I need supervision?”
“I talked the Kings outta acing you.”
“So?”
“Deal was, you get outta line, I do it myself.”
“Ah,” I said. “What an dreadful episcopal you are.”
* * *
I put Kix to bed and left for the sinister card game. The address led to the fifth floor of one those downtown buildings without an obvious entrance, just a door in a wall, no markings, the kind of building you only notice at a distance but never up close. I followed the noise upstairs and on the fifth floor I met the corpulent guy I’d seen earlier with Marcus. He still wore the voluminous shirt, hung almost to his knees. His feet were planted, blocking my path, and he regarded me coolly.
“Would you like to buy Girl Scout cookies?” I asked. “I sell enough, my troop wins the vacation.”
“The hell is wrong with you.”
“Can’t you recognize a card sharp when you see one?”
“Sharp?” He frowned, which pressed a lot of flesh together at his eyes. “Thought it was shark.”
“Either way. Go ask Marcus if I’m allowed in.”
“No need,” said Marcus Morgan, appearing at the big guy’s elbow. “He with me, Fat Susie.”
“Fat Susie,” I repeated.
“Got a problem?” asked Fat Susie, in a voice pitched higher than Marcus’s.
“Yeah. Your name. You’re not that fat.”
He tried not to smile, but failed.
Mackenzie August, professional comedian.
Marcus led me down the hall. This floor was vacant and most doors were covered with heavy plastic tarps. The overhead lights were exposed fluorescent bulbs and our voices caromed. “Two games tonight. One down the end a bunch of white guys talking stocks and mutual funds. Boring as hell. We play in here.”
He led me into an unfinished room framed with drywall and subfloor. Like the construction budget ran out halfway through. To compensate, it’d been furnished with a rug, a felt poker table, and leather chairs. Drinks in the corner — glasses and scotch. A bluetooth speaker played Sinatra. Men of gravity and money had already arrived.
“Look at this guy. The gumshoe hero.” Calvin Summers stood from his place at the table, his drink in his left hand. He wore a white sports jacket, salmon shirt beneath with a popped collar. Perfect hair perfectly parted. We shook hands. “Good to see you, August. You’ve found my rat, I hope?”
“In fieri. Soon.”
“In fieri?”
Marcus Morgan said, “Means ‘In progress,’ Summers. Learn your Latin.” Morgan pointed at the hirsute lout next to Summers and said, “You met Wayne?”
I said, “I’ve met Wayne Cross. And his truck. Huge fan of both.”
Wayne had dead eyes. He wore a red-checkered flannel shirt. I debated punching him.
Marcus kept going. “You know Big Will.” He indicated the bald and bearded man who would sit next to him.
I nodded. “I follow Big Will on Instagram. Love what he does with his corpses.”
Big Will, ever my fan, rolled his eyes and continued to shuffle a deck of cards. He did not stand.
The man at the end, the one with a big red face and blue jean jacket, stuck out his hand. “I’m the redneck,” he said. “Name’s Clay Fleming. From Floyd County.”
“Good to meet you, Clay.”
Marcus pointed to the man between Wayne and Clay. “This is Edgar Knight. It’s his building. Local gun store proprietor, too.”
Edgar looked like a land shark. His goatee was well trimmed and pointy. So was his hair, which had lines cut into the sides. Despite being indoors, he wore dark glasses. Dark skin and a dark black suit, and he reminded me a little of Antoine from Ronnie’s office but this was a different dude. He nodded at me, didn’t offer his hand. “You play cards?”
“I dabble.”
“Last player,” Marcus said, pointing at the man sitting across from me, next to Calvin Summers. “This is Duane. Colleague down from Washington.”
Duane looked like Euro muscle. Strong neck. Muscles bulging at his suit as though it’d been tailored that way. “How you doing,” he said. He looked European but he sounded like Jersey, a soft voice. He watched me and his eyebrow arched without amusement. Duane had brought a guy with him, a white guy in a navy suit, tattoos on his neck. Tattoo Guy stood behind Duane’s chair.
What a strange crew. Going around the table…
Me — fearless detective
Marcus — cocaine mover
Big Will — streetwise thug
Duane — from Washington, colleague with Marcus
Calvin Summers — rich white guy, ex-con
Wayne — big guy, not as rich, hit me once
Edgar Knight — gun store owner
Clay Fleming — redneck from Floyd County
Why had I been invited?
“Fat Susie, this room is full,” Marcus told the big man at the door. “No one else.”
Fat Susie nodded.
Each player bought in for five hundred. We handed our money to Edgar, who made neat notes on a ledger. We selected colorful chip denominations from a rich mahogany box under the watchful eye of Edgar and everyone else, denominations totaling five hundred. The game began in silence, nothing but the clacking of chips and the snap hiss of shuffling cards.
Duane won the first two hands with strong bets. He didn’t announce the bets; he quietly slid in a stack of chips totaling ninety both times. Aggressive. Rich men folded like he was betting a million. It wasn’t about the amount. Ninety dollars was nothing to them. It was about the pride. The shame of starting on even footing and playing bad, losing ground because of poor decisions. This was mere change to them. But having your chips taken away because you were an idiot? That was everything.
Calvin Summers broke the silence. “August. Got any leads?”
He sat across from me. I glanced from him to Wayne and back. “Talk about this here?”
“Wayne knows. I informed him. If you need assistance, you can ask Wayne.”
“In that case,” I said. “Wayne. I need a drink. Fetch.”
The table enjoyed this. Especially Big Will. He wheezed with laughter.
Wayne did not. He tried to hammer my soul with the impact of his dead stare. I remained undaunted.
“Hey,” Calvin Summers said. “We have a guest. Get the man a drink. Let’s show some hospitality.”
With infinite reluctance and silent protest, Wayne acquiesced. He went to the drink station.
“What’s August doing for you, Summers?” Clay asked and he began dealing the next set of cards. Quiet flips, corners skimming the felt.
Calvin Summers said, “You already know. Someone in my organization passed incriminating evidence to the government. August is finding the guy.”
Wayne returned and set a glass on the table. Far out of my reach. I let it sit.
“Hey. Paul Bunyan,” Edgar barked. “Get your fucking drink off my felt.”
“It’s his drink.”
“Move it. Now. You leave a ring, Imma bust you in your nose.”
With even greater reluctance, Wayne slid the drink closer to me.
“Thanks Wayne,” I said. “Next time just one cube.”
Clay Fleming the redneck pointed at me and then at Summers. Back and forth with his finger. “We can talk business? While August’s here?”
“You can,” Marcus Morgan said. He owned the deepest voice at the table and he remained static and constant in his chair.
“You sure about the dick?” Wayne sa
id. “Fucker’s a former LA SWAT guy. A cop.”
“Dick is slang for private investigator,” I said. “Wayne is merely being collegial.”
“That true?” said Duane, the colleague from Washington. His voice was soft like a rasp. Only he and I were in the hand. He bet, I folded. “You former SWAT?”
“More or less.”
“More or less,” Duane repeated. Gently, like someone who doesn’t have to yell.
“I was LAPD. Trained with the SWAT guys. Preferred detective work.”
Clay Fleming the redneck looked at Summers, at me, at Duane, then back to Marcus. Looking for help. “So…?”
Marcus said, “August’s good. I say he’s good, he’s good.”
“We can talk?”
“We can talk.”
“This the white guy aced Sanders?” Edgar said.
Morgan replied, “Technically I aced Sanders. But yeah.”
“Sanders used to sit that seat, August.”
“Lucky me,” I said.
“This the white guy working with Sheriff Tits,” Edgar said. He indicated me with his chin.
Clay Flemings from Floyd thought this was funny.
So did Big Will. Another wheeze.
“Working with the sheriff,” Duane repeated, as he seemed prone to do.
“I said he’s good,” Marcus Morgan rumbled.
“You say he’s good.” Edgar shrugged, nonplussed. He had the air of a man requiring greater assurances.
“It’s like they don’t trust me,” I noted.
“August,” Marcus sighed. “How do I make my money?”
“Nude modeling, I assume. And moving cocaine.”
Laughter. Infinite mirth. I am the best.
“You see. I trust him. August owes me,” Marcus said. “He’s good for it. A better man than all you. You can talk.”
“Yeah. Well,” Calvin Summers said. “Just find the guy, August.”
Cards were flying. I still hadn’t won anything.
I asked, “How do you know the informant’s not Wayne?”
“Because it ain’t me, motherfucker,” Wayne said.
“Elite badinage, Wayne. I meant, other than that.”
“It could be Wayne,” Summers said. “You got proof?”
Beside me, Marcus was chuckling about badinage.
I said, “Neither proof nor accusation. Inquiring after your certitude, only.”
“I doubt it’s Wayne. But you should verify,” Summers said.
“Ain’t me,” Wayne grumbled. “I’m loyal.”
“Yes you are, Wayne. But, trust and verify.”
I asked, “Could it be a family member?”
“Like my fucking attorney?”
“I doubt it’s Ronnie. Some other family?”
“No. No other close family,” Calvin said.
“One of the guys in this room?” I asked.
Collectively, the room smiled. Like a lion pride smiles.
Calvin shrugged. “Maybe. First though you should eliminate suspicion from my employees.”
Duane the colleague from Washington spoke, the soft rasp. Not like the Godfather. Like strength in abeyance. “I doubt it’s someone in this room.”
“Why’s that?” Calvin asked.
“We do not enjoy working with police.”
“That’s the damn truth.”
“Although,” Duane said. “I must admit. This Sheriff Tits sounds intriguing.”
Clay Fleming let fly. “God almighty, you should see this woman. Like she’s elected by Hugh Hefner. Has to be the best-looking sheriff in A-merica. Has to be. Ain’t no doubt.”
“Might need to meet this sheriff.”
“Careful, gentlemen,” said Marcus in his deep rumble. “The sheriff in question is dating August’s old man.”
Marcus, with no germane words spoken between them, took a large pot of chips off Calvin Summers. Summers liked to call and lose, a feckless player.
Duane said, “Dating the sheriff. More I learn about you, the more interesting you become.”
“I’m also a ten handicap,” I said. “And show no signs of male pattern baldness.”
“You do this thing for Summers maybe I got some work for you.”
“If it’s within the scope of private investigation, I’m your man.”
“You do a little violence?”
“I do not. I’m not a thug for hire.”
“Not a thug for hire.” Duane repeated the words much slower than I’d said them. “What do you do?”
“The stuff cops can’t or won’t. On the side of decency.”
Big Will, without looking up, said, “He works with the spic. Manny the marshal. Couple’a Robin Hoods.”
“Manny is from Puerto Rico and we’re more like Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday. Though there’s some discussion on who gets to be Wyatt.”
“Gets to be Wyatt,” Duane said. “Law keepers.”
I shrugged. “Friend to the friendless. Hope for the hopeless. Noble hearted. Compared to you guys, I’m Abraham Lincoln.”
“Do-Gooders. Marcus, you brought Do-Gooders to this game.”
“This game fills up with nothing but drug runners be a boring game,” Marcus said. “Variety. Spice of life. Shit like that.”
Edgar the gun store owner spoke. “I hear the new marshal’s unhinged. A lunatic. You trust him?”
“With my life,” I said. “But I’m on his side.”
“What side’s that.”
“The side of decorum. Harmony. Peace and love and Jesus, stuff like that.”
“Christ,” said Duane. “Couple of fairy princesses.”
Big Will scoffed, “Los Angeles made him gay, maybe.”
“Los Angeles was an education,” I said. “Now I know.”
“Now you know. Now you know what?”
“Now I know I’m good at violence but don't enjoy it. That I’d rather be a decent human. And I also know your boys aren’t good enough.”
Marcus sniffed a quiet laugh. “Avoid violence. Last fall you knocked Nate Silva senseless and shot two his guys.”
“Yes. But. I only half-enjoyed it.”
“Wait.” Duane held up his hand. “Your boys aren’t good enough. The fuck’s that mean?”
“Fat Susie. Tattoo Neck, the guy behind you. They aren’t good enough,” I said.
The cards were momentarily forgotten. The awkward silence lasted three heartbeats longer than it should.
“Not good enough. Elaborate. Educate us,” said Duane.
“Tattoo Neck is scary looking. Fat Susie is big. But so what?” I said. “Tattoo’s got his hands in his pockets. Fat Susie’s gun is buried under an entire department store of shirt. If there was trouble, how would I pass the time waiting for them to get their guns?”
More silence. I leaned back in my chair.
“I’m going to pull my gun,” I said. “And even with advanced warning your boys will be too slow.”
Big Will tensed. Clay squirmed.
Duane arched the eyebrow.
My gun came out. Easy practiced movement. Aimed at Tattoo Neck. Fat Susie didn’t move but Tattoo jumped and fished for his pistol within the depths of his jacket.
“Bang,” I said.
When he finally got his gun out mine was put away and I was shuffling cards.
“You guys aren’t small time,” I said. “I know you’re not. But guys who like violence? They aren’t always the baddest men in the room. I’ve been doing this a while. Was trained for years. The only person in here ready for me was Big Will. He pulled his gun and no one saw. Anyway. Like I said. Your boys aren’t good enough.”
Duane the powerful colleague from Washington shot Tattoo Neck an accusing stare and Tattoo put his piece back into his jacket. Then he thought again, decided maybe it should be out. So he put his hand in his jacket. And stood uncomfortably. Poor Tattoo.
Big Will’s gun rested on the table, inches from his hand. He watched me with a bored expression but he wasn’t bored.
“See,” said Marcus Morgan. “Spice of life. Game’s livened up already.”
“Big Will. My man,” Edgar the gun store owner said. “No guns on the table.”
Big Will put it away.
Duane took a breath, held it, and said, “Marcus, you told me he was a pain in the ass.”
“Wasn’t wrong, was I.”
“So. Pain in the ass from California. You want to work with me or not?” Duane said.
“Depends on the work.”
He and I were in a hand together. I had two sevens in my hand and another seven landed on the board, giving me a set. Very hard to beat. He bet big.
I did nothing. Thought it over. Or pretended to.
“I’ll put you on retainer,” Duane said. “You do the work I send down.”
“I’ll pass.”
“You’ll pass,” he said.
I raised him for all my chips.
He watched me.
I remained impassive.
He glanced at the pile of chips, which represented about six fifty. Glanced to Marcus and back to me.
“You’ll pass,” he said again.
Wayne chuckled. Under his breath he called me a fucking idiot.
Wayne might be right. That was my grocery money on the table.
Duane counted chips and slid them into the middle. He called me. Now the pot was over a thousand.
I turned over three 7s.
Wordlessly he tossed his cards away.
I won. He was down to a hundred.
Clay Fleming the redneck whistled. “Christ almighty.”
“You’ll pass,” Duane said again.
“You and I. We’re in different lines of work,” I said, stacking the chips in front of me.
We played another hand. In silence.
Duane was the big shot at the table. Almost certainly he sat at high councils with the District Kings. His dominance was assumed by everyone there, including by himself. So the table waited, wondering how he’d react to my rebuff. To losing to me.
Even Fat Susie looked concerned.
“And my boys aren’t good enough,” Duane said softly.
“Tattoo isn’t. Maybe you got him on special?”
“Damn, August.” Edgar, guy who looked like a shark in a suit, shook his head. “Most new guys keep their fucking mouth shut first few games.”
“No,” said Duane. “No. I like August. I like this Do-Gooder. This fairy princess Robin Hood got a big swinging dick.”
