A Pure Double Cross

by John Knoerle

  The Schooler shook his head. “Five card then,” said Jimmy, divvying up the matches.

  Two-hand, five card, now there’s some excitement. Raking in a two dollar pot with a pair of treys. “What stakes?”

  “Hundred dollar minimum,” said Jimmy, pushing a stack of matches my way. “We’ll settle up later.”

  Uh huh. The only settling up later we’d do would be at the point of a gun. But the high stakes were good, it meant Jimmy took this as his last chance to add insult to injury, to demonstrate how all-fired smart he was before he blew my head off.

  Fine. Jimmy would concentrate on bulldozing me off the table while I cursed my luck and waited for the right moment.

  I pushed out a hundred dollar ante and dealt one down to Jimmy, one down to me, one up to Jimmy, one up to me. I’m an indifferent poker player, I enjoy the banter around the table more than I do the game. No doubt Jimmy was just the opposite. He peered at his hole card as if it contained atomic secrets.

  Killing Jimmy and The Schooler was the percentage play of course. A .32 is plenty lethal at close range. But this wasn’t war, this was commerce. And I had enough blood on my hands. I would have to conk Jimmy out, then hold The Schooler at gunpoint. And there would be no going back inside once I backed out the door with three blocks of hundreds.

  Tough shit. Were it humanly possible, Jeannie would be waiting nearby that caved-in garage at five-thirty p.m. Me too. I wasn’t going to leave her hanging this time.

  Jimmy had a queen of diamonds showing. I had a four of hearts. His bet. He pushed another hundred dollar matchstick into the pot. I saw Jimmy’s hundred and raised him one. He hesitated, staring at my four. Poker is a simple game, the only thing that makes it interesting is the bluff. And I had nothing to lose but matchsticks.

  I dealt an eight of spades to Jimmy and a queen to myself. “An Ada from Decatur and a bitch of hearts.” I’m no good at poker but I know the lingo.

  I checked my watch. 1:38 p.m. Way too early. Time to put my pride in my back pocket and lose a few hands. I wanted Jimmy sitting back and relaxed for now, head down and hunched over later on.

  Jimmy was a good poker player, I didn’t have to try very hard to lose. Okay, I didn’t have to try at all. I ran out of wooden matchsticks at one point. Jimmy dredged up a soggy match-book and tossed it over. I tore out the paper matches and piled them in front of me. Jimmy had taken the winner’s habit of high stacking his chips one annoying bit further. He had built a long cabin with his wooden matches.

  Time passed quickly. The next time I checked my watch it was 4:51. Time for Mr. Jimmy to bend to the task at hand, bend down nice and low. The Schooler was sitting off to the side, buffing his nails with an emery board if you can believe that. Riding herd on his itchy young men.

  “Okay Jimmy, I concede. You’re the king of five card. Now how ‘bout some Down the River?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I shuffled up the deck. Jimmy cut the cards. We hadn’t set any maximum on wagers. My plan was to bluff Jimmy into submission. Down the River, with three hole cards, makes a bluff harder to detect. I slid another glance at my watch. 4:56.

  I looked up. Jimmy was waiting on me.

  I anted up and dealt. Two down, followed by one up, high card bets first. Jimmy had an ace of diamonds. I had a nine of clubs.

  Jimmy had only two facial expressions, bored and angry. Bored was bored and angry covered everything else, from defeat to elation. Jimmy looked bored as he checked his hole cards.

  I hiked my eyebrows as I looked at mine. He bet a hundred off his ace. I threw in two soggy matches. Jimmy called, I dealt him the two of hearts. “Deuceball.” I dealt myself the four of clubs. “The devil’s bedposts.”

  Jimmy bet one hundred, I bet three. I hadn’t bluffed him all afternoon, not seriously. My bet said I had two clubs in the hole to go with my two showing. A five-card flush is a dead lock in a two-man game. I didn’t have any clubs in the hole but that was beside the point.

  Jimmy called my bet. I dealt two more. A six of spades to Jimmy, a queen of spades to me.

  Well now, a face card. Could be I had three of a kind. One up, two in the hole. I waited on Jimmy’s bet.

  One hundred. I called and raised him three. Jimmy carefully removed the top matchstick from each wall of his log cabin. I dealt two more. Five of diamonds, seven of hearts. No obvious help to either faction. I kept a calm and confident demeanor. This bet would be my last chance to bluff Jimmy off the table before the final hole card showdown.

  Jimmy looked at his cards, looked at my cards, looked at me and checked. Give him credit. Only Jimmy Streets could make the harmless ritual of tapping the table look like a death threat.

  I pushed all ten remaining paper matches into the pot. I kept a calm and confident demeanor. Jimmy, legs still stretched out under the table, counted out ten matchsticks.

  This contest of wills was completely stupid of course. I would have a perfectly good opportunity to crease Jimmy’s skull if he leaned forward to gather up the pot. But I didn’t want that to be Jimmy’s parting memory of Hal Schroeder.

  “Bring it here,” said Jimmy.

  I dealt. One down to him, one down to me. We peeped our hole cards. I had drawn another four. I had two grand on the table and a pair of fours to back it up.

  Jimmy didn’t have much showing but he didn’t need much. Almost anything beats a pair of fours in seven card. Provided you’re willing to pay to see them.

  “I need another pack of matches.”

  The Schooler handed me a small waterproof cylinder with a screw top and said, “We need to wrap this up.”

  Uh oh. That meant the money broker was due soon. I un-screwed the cylinder and dumped six long gold-tipped matches on the table. “There they are, my five hundred dollar chips.”

  Jimmy tapped the table. I took my time rolling out the gold-tipped matches, all six of them. Would Jimmy call a $3000 bet?

  Yes he would.

  I reached my right hand into my gun pocket, slid my finger through the trigger guard, behind the trigger, and got nervous. A .32 revolver wasn’t much of a cudgel against Jimmy’s thick skull. The butt was hollow, better to use the cylinder, smash it into his temple. If that didn’t take I’d have to shoot him. There wouldn’t be time to subdue Jimmy while The Schooler dug for his Beretta.

  I leaned forward. I used my left hand to turn over my hole cards and expose my puny fours.

  Jimmy surveyed my hand for the longest time. He looked perplexed, defeated. Angry. But, despite my silent pleadings, he didn’t lean forward. Dammit.

  Then he did something unexpected. Jimmy threw his hole cards down on the table, grabbed the bottle of rum off the counter and stormed out the front door.

  Guess I wasn’t the only one bluffing.

  I gathered up the cards. If The Schooler followed Jimmy out to the lake I could grab my dib and escape out the basement window.

  But Henry Voss didn’t co-operate. Best he did was stand on the snowy porch and call after Jimmy.

  I glanced down as I absent-mindedly gathered up the deck. A tiny alarm bell sounded in the lower chambers of my skull.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  “Jimmy won’t stay away long,” said The Schooler as he closed the front door. “Not if he knows what’s good for him.”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” I said, still at the kitchen table, shuffling the deck of cards into order. I put the cards down and crossed to the parlor.

  “I insulted Jimmy, tried to chump him. If I walk away in one piece with my fair share, Jimmy loses. And Jimmy can’t lose.”

  “Jimmy has worked for me since he was ten years old, I raised him from a pup. He’ll come around.”

  Such paternal concern. Such filial devotion. Of course it hadn’t kept Jimmy and Henry from selling each other down the river when given the chance but, still, it was a sweet and tender thing.

  “Maybe he won’t shoot you. But soon as Jimmy gets his dib he’s in a duck blind and I’m
a redwing mallard.” The Schooler didn’t argue the point. “Which is why I would like to take my share and go.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  I yanked my .32.

  The Schooler looked disappointed at this crude breach of etiquette. “You’ll freeze to death out there,” he said after a time.

  “Hell, I’m freezing to death in here!”

  The Schooler laughed his mirthless laugh. Heh heh heh. I felt a pang for the old gent, decided to throw him a bone.

  “I’ll take whatever dib you say is mine.”

  Two hundred and fifty was his answer.

  “Done.” I backed up to the wall of money and removed two blocks of hundreds and one block of fifties, keeping my gun leveled. Henry Voss made no move for his Beretta. Gunplay wasn’t his strong suit, guilt was. I felt a complete shit while collecting fifty grand less than I thought I deserved.

  “You going out that rear window you broke?”

  I nodded. The old man didn’t miss much. He opened the door to the basement. I grabbed up an army blanket. He wished me luck. I took the steep stairs one at a time. Henry Voss locked the door behind me.

  I made my way across the basement, one quarter of a million dollars clutched to my chest, the half-empty bottles winking at me from the old walnut bar. I used my blocks of cash to bust out the jagged shards of the rear window but I needed a satchel to hide my loot.

  I searched behind the bar, I searched the little room. Not even a paper bag. I eyed the big tackle box, dumped the contents on the floor and crammed the cash inside. It didn’t want to fit, I had to sit on the box lid to snap it shut.

  Hip waders, right in front of me on the cedar chest. Perfect. I sat down and pulled them on over my bedroom slippers.

  I climbed out the open window with a minute to spare, 5:29 p.m. I crunched through the snowfall, a swashbuckling figure in thigh-high rubber boots, two-days’ growth and an army blanket shawl. Jeannie would swoon at the sight of me. I hid myself on the far side of the garage. I set down the tackle box and shivered and stamped my feet and kept a lookout.

  Had Jimmy got wind of my call to Jeannie somehow, used the poker game as a pretext to storm out and intercept her? Nah, there was no way he could know she was coming. No way in hell.

  When I checked my watch again it was 5:44.

  I would give Jeannie ten minutes more, I thought, then had a good laugh at myself. And just where do you intend to go once those ten minutes have expired, Mr. Schroeder? I considered my options. That killed two seconds.

  I looked down the road, hopefully, unseeing. It was dark now, and the snow was coming down like sleet.

  I eyed the dubious shelter of the caved-in garage. It was then I heard the distant thrum of a twin-engine airplane. Had to be the money broker, he was due.

  I stood there in abject misery for another five minutes. In that time the twin-engine circled high overhead and dipped its wings. It was all white, pontoons under the wings, not an airplane I knew the name of. It droned away and droned back, on approach for a landing on the frozen lake.

  Jeannie didn’t show.

  I shook myself like a wet dog, picked up my cash-crammed tackle box and trudged back across the backyard, not sure what I was up to but certain I would think of something.

  I reached the back corner of the old Victorian and took a look. The airplane, lights blazing, was slowly taxiing up to the pier. Where was The Schooler? This was his moment of glory, the dramatic conclusion to his masterpiece. By rights Mr. Big should have been standing on the end of that pier with a big pile of dough and a triumphant grin.

  I didn’t see him. Which meant The Schooler was still trying to round up Jimmy. Or Jimmy had found him and The Schooler was now deceased. Jimmy wouldn’t like it that Henry had let me skate.

  I watched and waited. The white plane approached the dock and shut its engines. It was a big sleek pricey-looking job, with bright nav lights mounted above the hatch. The hatch remained closed.

  A minute passed. Nothing happened. Then the side hatch of the snow white plane popped open and a man leaned out and lashed the plane to the dock pilings. He had a big gun slung over his shoulder.

  The man stepped out onto the pier, cleared away snow with his foot and extended his hand behind him. A woman inside the cabin took his hand and stepped out. A tall woman wearing a white fur jacket and matching hat. She stood on the end of the pier with her hands on her hips. I couldn’t see her face with the bright light behind her but I knew who it was. Lizabeth.

  “She’s a sight to behold, isn’t she?”

  My heart leapt to my throat and attempted to squeeze itself out through my ears. I whipped around. “Where did you come from?”

  “The basement,” said The Schooler. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

  “Me too. Where’s Jimmy?”

  “He’s hiding. He does that sometimes.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, he was already teed up about the money broker. And if he saw you sneak out the basement window he may have reached a wrong conclusion. Jimmy tends to have a gloomy outlook on life.”

  “Yeah, no shit.”

  “That’s why I need you to walk down that pier with me, arm in arm.”

  I checked the road by the caved-in garage one last time. “Let’s went.”

  The Schooler grabbed up his lumpy gunnysack. “Where’s yours?”

  I hoisted my tackle box. The Schooler laughed his flat clipped laugh and led the way down the side of the house under the shelter of snowy cedar branches.

  “You leave Jimmy his dib, inside?” I asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then could be Mr. Jimmy’s standing on the front porch right about now, looking to blow our heads off.”

  The Schooler didn’t comment. But he did stop just before we reached the front corner of the house. “Jimmy? Jimmy, we’ve got the money. We’ve got the money and we’re going to walk down the pier and we want you with us! Jimmer?”

  Little Jimmer didn’t answer.

  “He’s not there,” shrugged Mr. Big and walked out into shotgun range.

  I waited five seconds and followed. The porch was empty.

  We hurried toward the pier, The Schooler striding forward with spring in his step, me walking backward, tackle box in one hand, gat in the other. No Jimmy, no-where. Henry stopped by a little fishing shack at the head of the pier. Jimmy’s duck blind? No, the door was padlocked.

  It was then that The Schooler had his moment of triumph. At the head of the long pier, on Saturday, December 15th, 1945, 6:18 p.m. He held up his gunnysack in the bright wash of the nav lights, the gunnysack formerly filled with stale bologna and hardtack wafers, the gunnysack currently containing $600,000 of freshly minted currency.

  Lizabeth waved and clapped her gloves together. They made a hollow sound. Pock pock pock pock.

  We waded down the snowy pier to the waiting plane. No goons jumped out to mow us down. No Grumman Goose full of G-men swooped down from the sky. No Jimmy, no-where.

  The Schooler and Lizabeth embraced. She lamped me over his shoulder. I looked elsewhere.

  A small man wearing a bowler hat and a pince-nez appeared in the hatch door. The money broker. The Schooler greeted him and opened his gunnysack. The small man grabbed a block of cash and ducked back inside.

  The man with the big gun took his place. He held it at quarter arms, a Bren machine gun with a short stock. Nasty weapon. The man was forty or so, ex-jarhead by the look of him. A soldier of fortune.

  We waited for a time, The Schooler, Lizabeth and me. I kept an ear out for airplanes and an eye peeled for Jimmy. The snow slackened, the wind picked up. The money broker returned and gave The Schooler a deferential bow. The cash had passed inspection.

  Henry Voss turned to me and said, “We’re headed north. Care to join us?”

  Lizabeth stood next to him and hiked her eyebrows above those beautiful sea green orbs. A thunderous shotgun blast rent the air and echoed out over the
lake.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  The soldier of fortune pushed The Schooler and me aside as we turned to look for the source of the gun blast. Another hired gun, a younger version, jumped out of the airplane and joined him at the end of the pier.

  The Schooler told them to lower their weapons. They ignored him.

  The blast didn’t hit anyone. It was more along the lines of an announcement. It came from the direction of the fishing shack at the head of the pier. Jimmy yelled something that the wind carried away.

  I didn’t get the timing. Jimmy should have made his move long before Henry and I were about to step aboard a seaplane under cover of ex-Gyrenes with Bren guns. It made no sense of any kind, which flanged up my neck hairs. That he had waited till now meant something.

  The wind settled for a moment. Jimmy piped up again. “I’m not going down that pier! Bring it here!”

  Bring it here. Bring it here. Bring it here.

  That’s what Jimmy said when I dealt his last hole card. What he said when…oh Christ.

  Two jacks! That’s what had set my alarm bell dinging. There were two jacks in Jimmy’s discard pile on that final hand. I had glimmed them for an instant when I gathered up the cards, too distracted by Jimmy’s tantrum to pay attention. He had thrown that final hand as an excuse to storm off! Only one reason to do that. Jimmy knew I had help coming, and he wanted to greet them before I did.

  How could he know that?

  Shut up, Schroeder. How was a question for later on. What mattered now was that Jimmy Streets, unless I was very much mistaken, was standing behind the fishing shack at the head of the pier with his pig snout sawed-off pressed to Jeannie’s head.

  Holy Mother of God.

  The Schooler picked up his gunnysack, pushed past the Gyrenes and proceeded down the pier. I picked up my tackle box and followed. Father Sullivan said salvation is many choices well made. Damnation, on the other hand, can come in an instant.

  I didn’t care. I didn’t care who got hurt, maimed, killed or mutilated, myself included, so long as Jeannie stayed safe. We closed to within shotgun range of the shack.