Sin And Vengeance

by West, CJ

  Two minutes later, Randy tripped the main at the utility panel and removed the listening device he’d wired to the phone line. After that, he removed the remote for the doorbell and hustled into the kitchen where all six gas cans waited in a line. The first two he carried through the foyer and up to the top of the stairs.

  There he saw the leaks that had driven them from their house. To Randy, the damage was wholly disappointing. Every few feet, a stream of dripping water fell from the plaster above. There were puddles on the floor and the furniture was getting wet, but this was nothing like the flood he’d envisioned.

  He splashed the first two gallons over the wooden floor in Bill’s viewing room, backing his way to the third-floor landing and tossing the empty can over the railing. The fumes quickly filled the air, stinging his eyes and lungs. He gagged, as he opened the second can and drizzled gas over the wooden stairs one by one, connecting them together with a trickle of fluid as he descended. All three floors would ignite in a furious blaze. The dripping water would do little to dampen the fire’s fury.

  Next, he circled the first floor splashing the outside walls and soaking the more expensive furniture and the piano. He hoped the ring of flames would consume the shell until the house fell in on itself. He thought about he holes drilled in the roof and in the sill. The arson investigators might find them. Whatever happened, the house would be a total loss. Next, he dumped half a can down the cellar stairs. He used the rest to connect the puddles of gas together with a long thin fuse that stretched all the way through to the kitchen door, which he thoroughly soaked.

  He took a ball of string from the pantry and a candle from the dining room to buy himself some time. The string he soaked in a puddle of gas then tied one end to the kitchen doorknob. He ran the string down under the door and tied it to a shelf in the garage, taut as he could manage without breaking it. He placed the candle against the string, so when it burned down half an inch, the string would work its way into the flame and ignite, rushing the flames to the puddle in the kitchen.

  Randy looked at his pocketful of matchbooks and picked the White’s book with white and green lettering. He lit the matches all at once and touched them to the candle. He tossed the flaming matchbook on the floor where it could harmlessly burn out. He ran for the back door, locked it and disappeared. He would have enjoyed watching the flames streaking through the house, engulfing the entire structure in a matter of seconds, but he sprinted along the hedge to the street, never looking back. He crossed the street calmly eyeing up and down for anyone out in the gloom. Lights were on down the block, but no one was aware of the comings and goings at the Caulfield house, not yet. Safely across, Randy dashed along his row of arborvitaes and scampered down the bulkhead steps.

  Still at a run, he made for the kitchen, tucked the gloves, his clothes, and his shoes into a garbage bag, and hustled upstairs. Freshly dressed he rushed to the garage, started the SLR with the lights off, opened the door, and waited.

  The flame met the string and the house exploded with a boom that shook the entire neighborhood. The SLR slipped away with a whisper as red streaks flickered in every window across the street. The foyer was aglow, but the other houses were shielded from the sight by the arborvitaes and the pear trees that ensured the Caulfields’ privacy. The sounds of the roaring fire were muffled by the steady rain. Someone would venture outside to investigate the noise, but not before Randy slipped away.

  Two miles down the road, Randy hit the brakes and switched off his lights. Bill’s Mercedes slumped at the roadside, stranded by the blown tire. He sat with his bottle of Grey Goose with nowhere to go and no way to call for help. Randy donned a glove, picked up Bill’s phone and dialed 911.

  “Nine-one-one dispatch. What’s your emergency?”

  Randy let the dispatcher repeat himself two times before he hung up. He flipped the lights back on and crept by the crippled Mercedes, heaving Bill’s phone into the bushes as he passed.

  “Poor Bill, why’d you do it?” Randy said to himself. “Guilty conscience finally got to you. Too bad. Things were going so well.”

  Bill thrashed violently in his seat unaware of Randy’s car behind him. Randy saw him slam the steering wheel twice before he noticed the lights.

  When Bill recognized Randy, he lurched for his door to plead for help.

  Randy pretended not to notice and hit the accelerator.

  Bill was going to wake up with a nasty hangover and then things were going to get ugly.

  Chapter Twenty

  The ringing phone jolted Charlie from his trance on the rain-pattered window. He reached over and answered, his attention still on the raindrops.

  “You ready?” Randy’s voice asked.

  “The only thing I’m ready for is a soak. I’ve been standing on concrete all day. My knee is killing me.”

  “Did you forget free money night at the Sportsmen’s?” Randy loved this monthly tournament because it had so much dead money.

  Charlie was ambivalent. “I’m beat. I’ll fall asleep at the table.”

  “You never win anyway. Give yourself a good slap. I’ll be there in five.” Randy hung up without waiting for an answer.

  Charlie’s poker skills were one of the few things that transcended his injury. Charles had taught him to play at fifteen years old—his first attempt to turn Charlie into a businessman. “Poker is like business. It’s a game of math and people,” he had said. “Control your emotions and everything becomes clear in poker and in life.” Luck didn’t exist for Charles. Only skill mattered.

  Charles taught him the basics, but Charlie mastered the game on his own. He read Caro, Brunson, and Sklansky. He learned a hundred signals that could betray a man’s hand. When a new player came to the table, Charlie evaluated his clothes, his hair, and his gestures. He knew how a man would play before he ever touched a card because people play cards the way they live life. The meek will fold a good hand because they’re scared. If they make a bet, they have a monster. The young and lazy play loose. They pick up any two cards and play because waiting is just too painful. The wild ones are the most dangerous. They play with emotion, betting when the mood strikes, which is often.

  Randy’s style perplexed Charlie at first. The long hair, the stubbly face, and the leather made him a stereotypical loose-aggressive player, a maniac. Everything he did, he did on the edge. But when Randy played poker, the craziness was a rouse. He talked nonstop, needling anyone he could annoy into poor play. He made huge bets and when he bluffed someone out of a big pot, he showed them his cards and watched them steam. But then he could surprise you and fold twenty hands in a row. Everything about him said he craved instant gratification, but Randy played disciplined poker and he usually walked away a winner.

  Charlie’s mood improved as the cards flipped in his mind. By the time Randy picked him up and they reached New Bedford, he was focused and ready.

  Randy parked the SLR and they walked past a line of cars that Charlie would have scrapped for parts. At the corner, Charlie caught a strong whiff of ammonia and angled farther away from the building. He noticed several fist-sized holes broken through imitation stone façade to reveal cinderblock construction underneath. Two dark windows faced the street with a small neon sign declaring the club “open.” Charlie preferred casinos, but Randy loved to feed on the novices in places like this.

  Inside the door was a smoky room with a few tables and a bar. Four men argued over the corner table in Portuguese. At the far end of the bar, a man divided his attention between the Red Sox game and the woman standing beside his stool. She wore a florescent-pink skirt too short to allow for dignity if she sat and so bright Charlie’s eyes were immediately drawn to its edges. An equally skimpy band of pink fabric clung to her chest with fleshy breasts protruding above and below.

  The man behind the bar fixed on Charlie and Randy as if they were intruders in his home. Randy dealt an imaginary deck of cards and the bartender motioned to the double doors beyond the television. Randy t
urned and whispered as they started back. “For twenty bucks she’ll get you loosened up for the tourney.”

  The position of her hand on the man’s thigh suggested she was close to getting a customer. She looked about Charlie’s age and watching her, he felt a twinge of guilt for the station he’d been born to.

  He averted his eyes as they crossed the room and pushed through the doors into the bustling crowd and the bright lights. The back room was a simple square of windowless cinderblock walls, crammed with green-felted tables and men shoulder to shoulder between them. They fought their way back to the registration table, handed over a hundred dollars apiece, and signed in as players sixty and sixty one, just three ahead of the cut-off. Charlie took a seat at the nearest table and watched Randy work his way through the crowd and return with a draft and a bottled water. Charlie never drank liquor when he played. It softened his edge.

  A few minutes later, the tournament was full. Four men in black T-shirts scurried around placing eight equal stacks of chips on each table. The crowd parted for them and hushed when another man stood, announced the game as No Limit Texas Hold ‘em, and waved a printed schedule for the blinds.

  A voice at the back of the room squawked, “Shit! This isn’t bingo?”

  The crowd of regulars roared, drowning out the emcee as he went through some basic rules most players had heard a dozen times. He announced that each player would be allowed one re-buy and pointed out the men in black shirts for any questions during the game. When he finished, he began drawing scraps of paper from a glass bowl, announcing the names, and placing them at successive seats. The crowd heckled familiar players as they maneuvered to their chairs. Randy and Charlie drew seats across from each other at the first table, owing most likely to the fact that their names were put in late and still on top.

  The players took their seats, counted their chips, and the game began. Charlie folded the first hand and studied the other players. Usually men wearing jewelry played loose. At this table, nearly everyone sported a thick gold necklace or a gaudy ring. Randy sat directly across the table, a neutral place for a solid opponent. There was another man with a thick mustache doing exactly what Charlie was doing; folding and watching. Charlie was glad to have him on his right.

  After ten hands the jewelry prediction was holding up. Randy played three, Charlie played one, and the guys with the gold played eight or nine each. There was one huge guy between Charlie and Randy who had played all ten. He’d crippled the player to Charlie’s left and more than doubled his stack. But it was just a matter of time before his luck would turn and he’d give back what he’d won. Randy started harping on the big guy to make sure he had his attention. When things started to go bad, Randy wanted his chips.

  Everyone played the next hand except Randy, Charlie, and the mustache. Muscle Man bet the flop with TEN, SEVEN, and FOUR showing on the table. The other players called and Randy laughed out loud, “Now you’re in trouble. Those tens are going to get you.”

  The big guy pointed an angry finger at Randy, confirming he couldn’t beat tens.

  A TWO came next. The big guy bet and most of the competition folded.

  Only two players remained for the final card, a KING. The player on Charlie’s left was down to a hundred after starting with two thousand. He stared at the board, looked up, and pushed his last four chips into the middle. “All-in.”

  The big guy had already put six hundred in the middle. He hesitated. Charlie sensed he was beat; Randy knew it, too.

  Randy patted the table. “Go ahead, call. We all know you can’t help yourself. Just get it over with.”

  The chair flew out behind him as he leaped up. He had to be six-five and strong as a semi. His voice boomed at Randy, “Shut your smart-ass mouth or you’ll be eating through a tube.”

  Randy never left his seat and fortunately, one of the black-shirts was between them before any punches were thrown. Charlie remembered how fiercely Henri had fought. This guy was Henri to the fourth power.

  Muscle Man composed himself and threw in four chips. Randy laughed when he turned over pocket nines. The quiet guy showed kings and tens. Randy’s read was right on, and thanks to the earlier bets from the jewelry crew, the quiet guy had more than tripled his stack. Muscle Man still had plenty of chips, but he was too angry to play well, not that he knew how.

  In the next hand, Charlie was forced put out two chips for the big blind. He peeked down at the three and four of diamonds, a horrible hand. The usual instant gratification crew called and Charlie tapped the table in turn. No one was alert enough to raise him out, so it was a free ride. Charlie forced himself to look away from the THREE, FOUR, and NINE the dealer flipped up. He considered going all-in, but one of these schmucks might call and get lucky. He checked and the big guy bet a hundred. He was giving away his chips. The next card was another FOUR. Charlie thought he felt a subtle smile at his full-house and quashed it.

  Charlie tapped the table as did the two players to his left. Muscle Man threw in two hundred, the top two chips bouncing off and rolling across the table like wagon wheels. His face slackened when Charlie check-raised him for five hundred more. The other three guys got the hint and folded. Muscle Man, proud as ever, threw in five hundred without hesitation. The next card was a QUEEN. Charlie paused, looking at Muscle Man’s chips as if he had to think about this bet, then bet seven hundred, exactly what Muscle Man had left. Of course he called and Charlie showed him the full-house. He slammed the table and looked down at the felt as if more chips would magically appear. Failing that, he headed to the registration table with another hundred dollars to get a fresh stack.

  When he was out of earshot, Charlie looked up from stacking chips and nodded to Randy. “Let’s take it easy on the big guy. I’m in no mood to get pummeled.”

  Randy recoiled as if he had no idea what Charlie meant.

  In the next hour, Randy pointed out every mistake Muscle Man made and coached the others to call or fold against the titan with stunning accuracy. Not only did he know what the big guy had, he usually had a solid read on what everyone else held. In spite of Randy’s advice, three players were eliminated from the table and their replacements sympathized with Muscle Man.

  Charlie uneasily surveyed the table while Randy took an oddly long time to shuffle. Mustache had ten thousand, Randy had six or eight thousand, Charlie had a little over nine thousand and Muscle Man was down to just five hundred. Randy dramatically stopped shuffling and told him the pain would be over soon. Charlie sensed that if Randy didn’t shut up, the pain would be his.

  Randy dealt Charlie two black aces, the best possible hand. He raised to two hundred and expected most everyone to fold. Only Muscle Man called and Charlie decided he’d play this one easy. The next three cards were a stunner: ACE, KING, and ACE. Charlie flopped four-of-a-kind, a nearly unbeatable hand, but he didn’t dare bet. The big guy bet for him and Charlie almost considered folding; not because he could lose, but because Muscle Man looked so determined to keep his last chip.

  When Charlie called, Randy looked at the lonely chip and smirked. “What do you need over there? Really, I can find it for you.”

  “Shut up and deal.”

  Randy flipped over a KING and the big guy lit up. He went all-in without allowing Charlie a chance to act. He stared across, daring Charlie to call.

  “Come on. It’s one lousy chip. You’ve got a pile of them.”

  Charlie pitched it in and watched Randy peel off an EIGHT.

  Randy leaned across the table. “Well you’re all-in. I hope you have a hand. Otherwise it’s goodbye time.”

  The big guy slapped down two kings. He had four-of-a-kind, too. Charlie flashed a look at Randy, but he was already out of his chair and walking over to the big guy. Randy patted him on the back and shook his hand, congratulating him on his win.

  Charlie peeked at his cards in disbelief. When the big guy saw them, he’d plunge from ecstatic to eliminated. Randy had stacked four aces against four kings. After two hour
s of being taunted and steadily losing his chips, Muscle Man couldn’t take this. He was going to explode and Charlie was going to get sucked into the aftermath.

  Charlie cocked his wrist to fold, but Randy slapped his hand over the muck.

  “Don’t you want to see what College Boy over there was playing?”

  Charlie bowed his head wishing he’d mucked faster.

  “The man has a right to see your cards. You called him,” Randy said.

  The big guy nodded, still grinning ear to ear, unaware of the pending ambush. “Yeah, come on. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Charlie tossed his cards onto the felt facedown.

  The big guy threw them over grandly for everyone to see as if he were invincible. Mustache gasped. The others followed. Muscle Man was confused for a second and then the rage hit him like lightning. He screamed something unintelligible at Charlie, spun, and grabbed Randy before he could step back. Randy deflected the first punch away from his neck, but half a second later, the big right hand crashed into the side of his head with an audible crack. Muscle Man let go and stood back expecting Randy to drop, but somehow he kept his feet.

  Randy snapped a supple arm upward, loose and flowing like a whip lashing at the big man. His fingers hardened before they struck and the rest of his arm followed, driving rigidly into the big guy’s windpipe before he could move. The gorilla was instantly transformed, hunched over, gasping for air, helpless as a child and Randy took full advantage. He grabbed him by the hair and landed two punches to the side of his head. When he cocked his arm back for a third, Charlie jumped up to stop him. The big guy was already struggling to breathe. His face was bloody and he teetered as if he’d fall the instant Randy let go. A third punch to the head might kill him.