Pokergeist

by Michael Phillip Cash

  “Oh, listen, listen,” Clutch stood, moving closer to the TV to make the sound louder. “This guy was paying attention to me that night. Like my grandpappy Buster used to say, ‘You can judge a man by the amount of hair in his ears.’”

  “That makes no sense,” Telly told him.

  “The way I see it,” Stu shook his head, “Clutch may have had three kings, but he was the king of the table that night. He is the king of poker.”

  “The king of poker?” The apparition stood before Telly. “I’m the fucking emperor of poker! The caesar of poker! The khan of pok—say, what’s wrong with you, boy?” He bent low to see Telly’s frozen face. Clutch reached out, causing Telly to lean back and slide off the couch, landing with a thud. The older man crouched down, but Telly skittered away, his hand scrambling for his cell phone. He pulled it down but couldn’t get the screen to wake up.

  “It’s no use; it’s dead. Like me,” the spirit told him.

  Telly crawled toward the bedroom. In a burst, he scrambled on all fours, his forgotten skinned knee raw with pain. His glasses were off, so everything had a muted, fuzzy look. He could barely see. He hurried into the next room, slamming the door behind him. His back against the door, he pressed every button on the phone, his breath harsh. His asthma came back, tightening his airways, and soon he was wheezing like a set of old bellows. His pulse pounded in his head, his hands shaking. He was tired.

  He figured he must have been sleeping. I never should’ve eaten yesterday’s wings—who knows how old they were? he thought frantically.

  Placing a hand on the floor, he made to rise, only to find himself face-to-face with the green, glowing person. “You better take your spray, man. You’re noisier than a freight train.”

  This time, Telly closed his eyes and screamed as loud as his closed throat would allow. It came out like a reedy clarinet, and Clutch covered Telly’s mouth to silence him. The last thing Telly remembered was that the cold hands didn’t feel bad at all.

  Telly came to awareness on his lumpy bed, a wet cloth on his head making runnels of water that were soaking the pillow. He felt clammy. When he sat up, the rag fell into a sodden heap in his lap. The man was sitting on the edge of the bed reading a newspaper.

  “Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice…” Telly repeated frantically.

  “Aw, kid, that don’t work. That’s fake. All that crap is fake from the movies. It’s nothing like that,” Clutch held out a ghostly hand. “Don’t go all white and faint again, now. Listen…Telly—”

  “You know my name?”

  “I’ve been watching you for a while.” He picked up Telly’s hand to shake it. “Clutch Henderson. Nice to meet you.”

  Telly pulled his hand away, chilled with the contact. He looked around the room, squinting at the digital clock to see the time.

  “It’s two, and no, you’re not dreaming. Here, put on your glasses so you can see me better.”

  “I don’t want to see you better.” Telly put on his glasses anyway, blinking owlishly.

  Clutch ignored him with good-natured bonhomie. He reached over to pick up a book on the nightstand. “I like your reading material.” The ghost held up his last book; a photograph of Clutch himself on the back cover mocked him.

  Telly opened and closed his mouth like a hooked trout. Clutch pointed to the author’s picture. “Yep, it’s me all right.”

  Telly reached out a hand to touch Clutch’s knee. His hand went right through him, but his fingers stiffened with cold. He pulled back, rubbing them to warm them back to life.

  “What’s happening? Am I having a breakdown?”

  “Nope. Something happened tonight—something special. I was walking along and saw you make a wish.” Clutch held up his hands, wiggling his fingers. He reached forward, pulling a coin from Telly’s ear. “Your wish became our wish.”

  “But you’re dead. You can’t have wishes.”

  “Who says?” Clutch demanded. “Maybe I died with my wish. They don’t disintegrate, just because we die. Wishes have lives of their own. You should know that.”

  He did know that. Telly’s wish was a living, breathing thing that he carried with him all hours of the day. “What has that got to do with me?”

  “You and I have the same wish, and we’re going to make it come true together.”

  “That’s crazy. You’re dead. You’re not alive. You can’t play poker.”

  “Well, you’re alive, and you can’t play for shit either. Together, we’re going to win this game.”

  “You’re nuts!” Telly screamed, the veins popping on his neck. He jumped up to pace the room. “No, I’m nuts! I’m certifiable. Gretchen’s going to have to commit me.”

  “Well, if that’s true, at least you won’t have to drive a cab.”

  “How did you know that?” Telly demanded.

  “I know everything.” Clutch came nose to nose with him, his blue eyes glaring. “That’s how we are going to win—I can see and hear everything.” He winked. “I can see the other players’ cards. I’m gonna tell you what to do. My grandpappy always said, ‘A man’s got to have eyes in his ears and ears in his eyes.’”

  “That’s just about the dumbest…hey, that’s cheating!”

  “So what? All you need is a chip and a chair, and I’m going to take you all the way to the top.”

  “Are you asking me to sell my soul? Are you the devil?” He sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Now I know you’re nuts. That shit only happens on the television, Telly.” The ghost moved closer to him on the bed. Telly skittered away. Clutch asked gently, “Don’t you want to know what it feels like to win?”

  “You are the devil,” Telly said softly.

  “Just imagine what Gretchen’s going to say when you give her that big, fat, yellow diamond.”

  Telly gasped. “How did you know…”

  “I told you—I know everything.”

  “It’s cheating. I don’t cheat.” Telly stood to pace the room.

  “Neither does Gretchen…yet?” Clutch said cryptically. He waved his hands, and the television in the bedroom went on. It was the bar, and Gretchen was setting up a tray of drinks. “Sit back and watch the show, Telly.”

  Telly stared wide-eyed as the seedy bar filled the television screen like a cheap sitcom. He grabbed the remote, clicking it to the off position, fear lodging in his chest when the picture remained. His jaw dropped when he heard Gretchen speak.

  “Glad those losers left,” she said as she placed cash on the bar.

  Chrissy, Gretchen’s friend, leaned against the bar separating a group of bar tabs. Assorted piles of change were spread across the counter. She looked at the C-note Gretchen had placed on the bar. “What you’d do to earn that?”

  “Dazzled them with my charming wit.” Gretchen laughed. “I gave them coupons to the nearest strip club. They were so grateful, it was pathetic.”

  “You don’t have to split that with me,” Chrissy told her. She was a whey-faced waitress with a fake diamond stud in her nose and a matching one on her upper lip.

  “We decided to pool everything, Chris. We can’t change the rules now.”

  “No one ever got nothing that big here. You ran your ass off for them tonight.”

  Gretchen shrugged. “That’s the job.”

  “You might as well keep it—you’re going to need it. If Telly’s luck doesn’t change, you’re going to have to ask for more hours. I don’t know why you put up with his crap.”

  Gretchen shook her head. “Telly’s a great guy. I’ll never leave him,” she said with a smile.

  “He’s a loser, just like every other loser in this city. Listen, Gretchen, I’ll ditch Jack. He’s deadweight too.”

  Telly winced at the description. He wondered if Gretchen thought of him as deadweight.

  “He’s working as a tel
ler! In a bank! Sheesh, what an asshole,” Chrissy finished. “Minimum wage.”

  “He’s trying to use his education to get him a career; you have to give him credit.”

  “He’d be better off being an electrician, but noooo. He had to waste all that money on that online college.”

  “Well, I admire Jack for trying,” Gretchen told her.

  “By spending thirty thousand dollars to work for a shitty wage? No thank you. It’ll take forever to pay back those school loans. Listen.” Chrissy leaned closer. “Let’s get a place together. We can pool everything and move into a better neighborhood. We don’t need these creeps.”

  “You don’t mean that, Chrissy. Jack’s sweet, like Telly. Besides, I love Telly and…and…” She paused as if she had something to share and then shook her head. “Anyway, tomorrow he’s going to George and taking the cab driver job.”

  Chrissy pulled her lips downward in a grimace, then shook her head. She glanced around the room, her eyes falling on the boss. “You don’t have to put up with cab driver’s pay, anyway. Rob can’t keep his eyes off you.”

  Telly observed Gretchen looking at the manager. He was sitting at a table in the rear, his laser eyes watching her intently. He raised a glass slowly, nodding for her to come closer. “Ugh, I have to ask for more hours, and I hate when he does this,” Gretchen complained.

  “He wants to take you out, and he won’t stop until you give him what he wants.”

  “There are laws that say he can’t do that!” Gretchen hissed.

  Telly smiled as he watched. “Good girl, Gretch.”

  Chrissy laughed bitterly. “Yeah, sure, honey. I got a good bridge to sell you too. That’s why we women outnumber them two to one in management,” she finished sarcastically. “Look, either Telly has to make enough to get you out of this shitbox, or you better get ready to make that bonehead happy. I read the book, and it don’t look like a happy ending for you.”

  “Gretchen!” Rob jiggled his glass at her. “Get me a shot.”

  Telly saw Gretchen sigh, take a deep breath, and walk over with a bottle of tequila. She reached over to take the glass from his hands, but he caught her fingers, turning her hand palm up. Rob walked his fingers over her sensitive skin, and Gretchen impatiently made to grab for his glass. He held it out of her way, his face inches from her breast.

  “I got customers waiting; do you want a refill or not?”

  Rob handed her the glass, a smirk on his face. A faint shadow of dark hair outlined a horseshoe shape on his head. Telly saw Gretchen observing Rob’s wide forehead, wondering if she realized that if he let it grow in, he’d be bald. He smiled when he saw her smirk at her boss’s bald head.

  “What’s so funny?” Rob demanded.

  “I’m tired, Rob. It’s been a long night. Is it possible for me to get extra hours next week?”

  “I’d like an extra night.” Rob smiled wolfishly. “How about Tuesday?”

  Gretchen shook her head. “No, that would cut into Sylvie’s hours. Besides, everybody’s consumed with the Series. Tips will be slow.”

  “I’m not talking about here, Gretchen. I’m having a party.”

  “Oh. I don’t usually do the private stuff. Aren’t you having Chrissy and her girlfriend work that?”

  “I wasn’t talking about you working for me there. I figured you could come as my guest.”

  Telly watched Rob’s eyes strip her as he downed the shot, slamming the glass on the table.

  “Telly—”

  “I didn’t invite Telly,” he told her, reaching out to lay his hand on her hip.

  Gretchen sidestepped away, shaking her head.

  “You refusing work?” Rob said with a menacing growl.

  “You said it wasn’t work.”

  “Did I say that? I don’t recall. I said I’m having a party, and I asked you to come,” he said with a wide smile that bordered on unfriendly.

  Telly turned to Clutch. “I’ve seen enough; you don’t have to leave this on. Gretchen would never cheat.” The screen went dark.

  ***

  Gretchen grabbed a wet rag and wiped the stained surface of the bar, angry at Rob and the position he was putting her in. There were no jobs around town. She was on the northern side of thirty, competing with twentysomethings who could juggle bottles like a circus act. Those were the ones who got hired. Gretchen couldn’t sing, barely danced, and just yesterday she’d spied a gray hair at her temple. Thank goodness she was blond at least. At this point, she couldn’t even afford to go to a beauty parlor to hide it with color. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry, and remembered her new complication. Any way she looked at this thing, it didn’t look promising. What was she thinking?—she knew how Rob had been eyeing her the last few weeks. If Telly had gotten the taxi job then, she’d be out of here and have the luxury to find something at a reasonable pace, even pick and choose. It wasn’t his fault; she hadn’t complained. Hadn’t wanted to worry him. Telly was such a sweet guy who had fallen in love with her even though she wasn’t as educated as he was. He was solid middle class, came from a nice family, and had gone to college. Gretchen had spent a lifetime living in foster care. Never completing tenth grade, she’d fled her last home when her foster father had tried to rape her. She worked hard, never giving in to the temptation for the easy money Vegas offered in the streets. Gretchen had cleaned offices and worked at dead-end retail jobs, finally taking the bartending job in the evenings to supplement her income. It ended up paying her better than all the other jobs put together. Only Rob had bought the little bar, and things started going downhill after that. It didn’t take a genius to know what Rob wanted from her. Gretchen bit her lower lip, sound receding so that she felt trapped in a bubble. Telly had to get that job tomorrow. He had to, because there was no way she could put up with this. Thick and thin, and it was fast becoming so thin you could see through it. She sighed.

  “I’ll see you Tuesday. Wear something nice,” Rob said to her, retreating back. She heard the echoes of his laughter all the way from the other side of the bar.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “What am I going to do?” Telly walked in a circle, not knowing where to go. “Gretchen…” he sighed.

  “Stop doing that; you’re making me dizzy,” Clutch ordered. “I’m gonna tell you what we’re going to do.”

  “We’re not doing anything. You’re not real.”

  “I thought we established exactly what I am. I am here to help you.”

  “I don’t know you,” Telly said forlornly. He ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t know who you are.”

  “You’ve read at least one of my books. Believe me, you know me pretty well.”

  “I read…I read all your books.”

  “Then there’s no issue. We’re practically family.”

  “But you’re dead. You can’t help me. It’s probably the wings. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten the wings.”

  “Wings had nothing to do with this, Telly.” Clutch paused and thought of the white-haired angel with the huge feathered wings. “Well, maybe they do, but not the way you think.”

  “I don’t know what to think. This is crazy.” Telly sprinted to the bathroom, slammed the door, and leaned up against it, hyperventilating.

  “Now listen here, kid. If I could walk through the motel door, I can sure as hell walk through a flimsy bathroom door. Calm down before you ruin everything. Can’t have two dead poker players.”

  “Dead!” Telly exploded. He glanced up to look at his white face in the mirror. A cool breeze ruffled the hair at his neck. Telly knew Clutch was right next to him, but only his face stared back from the mirror.

  “You know I’m there. You can feel me, and if you look to your left you’ll see me. Look, Telly, I have all the time in the world. I’m not going anywhere until we work this thing out.”

  Telly t
urned to face the older man. “What do you want from me?” he whispered frantically.

  “That’s better. We’re going to play poker together.”

  “Where? How?” Telly shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I retired tonight.”

  “You lost tonight. Tomorrow you are going to win.”

  “I’m not good at it. I give up. I’m going for a job in…”—he looked at his wristwatch and sighed—“…seven hours.”

  “In four hours, I promise you that you are going to be sitting with a pile of chips that will bring you halfway to your seat at the Series.”

  Telly shook his head. “No way. I’m not that good.” He gestured at his pocket. “I’m out of money. No stake.”

  “Minor issues.”

  “Maybe to you,” Telly said hotly as he left the bathroom. “The fact is, I’m no good at it. I’m a loser!” he shouted.

  Someone pounded on the thin walls and yelled, “Quiet, loser!”

  “See?” Telly gestured to the wall. “The guy in 4A agrees.”

  “Pah. That don’t mean anything, kid. I can coach you. I can teach you the playbook.”

  “Right,” Telly said. “Well, thank you for coming.”

  “You’re going to throw it all away,” Clutch said with disgust. “You have the greatest player in the history of the game begging to teach you, and you want to toss me out like yesterday’s trash.”

  “May I remind you, Clutch: you didn’t win.”

  “Broke my heart.” Clutch touched his chest, his grim face sincere. “No, really, caused a massive heart attack.”

  “Why? Why are you doing this? What could you do with the money?”

  Clutch walked over to the dusty dresser. His slender fingers drew circles in the grime. Motes lifted to fly around him, and he seemed to glow softly.

  “Some things are not about money. I’ve made millions in my lifetime. I spent part on booze, part on broads.” He paused with a smile. “As Buster used to say, ‘The rest I spent foolishly.’”

  He waited for Telly to laugh. The younger man stared blankly at him.