Dr. Eccleston nodded. “When the brain suffers trauma, it begins to compartmentalize, closing off the affected sections from unaffected ones. Your consciousness is becoming divided, like a portmanteau suitcase.”
“I think I understand. But I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about it. Dr. Sarmiento said it was likely to get worse. . . .”
“You can keep coming here,” Dr. Eccleston said. She set down the pencil and leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingertips. “On a weekly basis. We’ll work toward self-actualization—merging all your parts, ordered and otherwise, into as congruent a whole as we can make it. It will be messy at times, but determining. Does this sound all right for you?”
Mannheim found he was reluctant to accept such a recurring arrangement without thinking on it further. But then he remembered Theo—he would like to speak to the child again, he thought. “Yes,” he said. “If I can meet with Theo as well.”
“I see,” Dr. Eccleston said, smiling. “You already appear to know how special he is, although he has hardly any training.”
“Is he your son?”
“Nephew,” Dr. Eccleston replied. She took off her glasses and placed them on the desk in front of her. Her eyes were wide-set and dark and penetrating. “I do have a son—at least I did once,” she explained. “I’m hoping we find our way back to each other someday. But Theo is my charge now.”
Mannheim found he could not stare into her eyes for very long. “Perhaps your nephew can benefit,” he said, looking around the room, “from my, ah, situation.”
“That’s very kind of you to offer.” Dr. Eccleston wiped the lenses with a tissue and neatly replaced her glasses. “Come back at three next Wednesday. That will leave twenty minutes for you and Theo to chat beforehand. Does that sound satisfactory?”
“Yes,” Mannheim said. “It does. And thank you.”
“I trust you will find our relationship gratifying, Mr. Mannheim.” She reached for his hand and patted it reassuringly. “We’re honored you would allow us to guide you in this manner.”
Then she began unhooking the machine.
The rest of the week passed fairly uneventfully for Mannheim, who left Dr. Eccleston’s office still not entirely convinced he should return. But the following Tuesday, the day before his next appointment, an odd series of events conspired to resolve his thinking on the matter. He left his house around half past twelve in the afternoon, intending to go to the bank to withdraw $200 prior to lunching at a new place he’d heard his dealers mentioning the night before, a Vietnamese restaurant called Forte, on the west side of town.
At the bank, he stood in line for a teller window, and when it appeared to be his turn, Mannheim approached, withdrawal slip in hand. However, the teller, a young man in his early twenties, instead waved forward the woman who had been standing behind him. Stupidly, Mannheim watched as they conducted their transaction, neither seeming to care he was standing right next to them. When they were finished, Mannheim thrust his withdrawal slip under the gap in the window, before he could be stymied again.
“Oh!” remarked the teller, startled, seemingly seeing him for the first time.
Mannheim withdrew $500—more money than he’d originally intended due to his peevishness at being ignored. In this aroused state, he entered the tasteful interior of Forte twenty minutes later, and was seated at a small table by himself near the bar. The server arrived and took his order, and although he usually did not drink before work, Mannheim decided he needed one to cool down. After his server left to place the order with the bar, however, Mannheim heard a loud voice saying behind him: “Hey Steve! Glad to see you made it home in one piece.”
He turned and saw that the bartender, bespectacled with slick black hair, in a white striped shirt and bow tie, was addressing him. “Vodka tonic, lemon. I know already,” he said, smiling at Mannheim and winking.
Mannheim was dumbfounded. He had never been to this restaurant before—he was certain of it. Nor had he ever seen this man who knew his drink, and, even stranger, his name, although no one had called him “Steve” for a long time, ever since he’d been in grade school.
Disturbed, he ate his bowl of vermicelli quickly, his back turned to the bar, feeling vaguely threatened, like an animal under scrutiny. When the server returned to check on his meal, Mannheim quietly asked for the bill. Then he wiped his mouth carefully, folded his napkin on the plate, and placed a twenty on the black plastic tray the server returned with. Out of the corner of his eye, Mannheim saw the bartender conversing softly with the other customers, two seniors in shabby, old-fashioned suits. He thought he could easily slip out underneath their notice, and quickly rose.
But as he neared the door, he heard the voice of the bartender again: “See you around, Steve. Like I said, glad to see you made it home in one piece!”
Mannheim turned and saw the bartender grinning at him, raising the pint glass he’d been polishing in a salute. The two elderly customers at the bar were laughing—at him? Mortified, Mannheim shoved the door aside.
Out of the restaurant, he walked haphazardly, his hands fairly shaking, hardly seeing where his steps were leading. How bizarre, how much of a stranger he felt to himself! What if these unsettling, disconnected moments came more frequently—became, in fact, the norm of his remaining days? Frightened and unmoored, it was only with the thought of tomorrow’s appointment with Dr. Eccleston and Theo that Mannheim began to feel less disoriented. They would listen, he thought. They wouldn’t brand him a lunatic, something to be pushed and tugged at, or worse, pitied and doddered over. They would see how mysterious he was becoming to himself.
Mannheim’s stride grew slower, more measured, and before long, he found himself on a block he’d rarely ventured into, a street that ended in a quiet park. In the distance, children were playing on the swings; their laughter carried to him on a moist summer breeze, and he sat down on a wooden bench overlooking a small pond, staring around himself in wonder.
How curious this all was, after all!
Off the Hook
As the rest of the week passed and the hour of Fong’s return neared, Chimsky settled into a routine he considered a kind of personal hell. During the afternoons, he practiced over and over the setting of the Faro deck at his kitchen counter, until his knuckles seized and would not straighten, his fingers throbbing and pulsing, their tips bleeding. In the evenings, Chimsky continued to appear for his shifts at the Royal—every hand he could practice seemed important now—conducted to and fro in his own car by Quincy and Simon. Even when he found time to nap, the Faro deck continued to confound Chimsky; he would dream he was setting the last three cards perfectly, but they would come out all wrong, sometimes not even playing cards but photographs of himself and Mr. Fong cut the same size.
Then on Friday, close to five in the morning, with only a single hundred-dollar bettor at the table, Chimsky attempted for the first time to set the deck in live play. After the initial scramble, he botched the riffle cut and the cards burst out of his hands everywhere. The result was a misdeal, an embarrassing moment when he had to call over his boss, Lederhaus, to explain that the deck had been exposed prematurely. Lederhaus, who was aware of Chimsky’s excellent reputation, was surprised but had ordered that all bets be pulled back, and for the shoe to be reshuffled. His boss hadn’t been suspicious, Chimsky didn’t think. But it was a demoralizing moment nonetheless.
Afterward, while they were waiting at a drive-through for Chimsky’s order—Quincy and Simon were initially horrified but had grown accustomed to the dealer’s dawn ritual of fast food after his shift—Chimsky overheard them chatting quietly in the front seat about a business venture they were entering. They were both aerobics instructors by day, and from what Chimsky could gather, they were preparing to embark upon a rather unusual enterprise: a private club that was combination hair salon, aerobics studio, and cafe. Fong was bankrolling the whole project.
“Exactly who is your clientele?” Chimsky asked from the back seat
.
“We’re aiming for the young and the young at heart. People who want to mingle,” explained Quincy, turning halfway in the passenger seat.
“What are you calling it?”
“Well, I want to call it Hair & Now. But Simon doesn’t know whether he likes that name or not.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t,” Simon said from the driver’s seat.
“You said it might restrict our customer base. Why, because of the pun or the ampersand?”
Chimsky smiled faintly. It sounded like an odd venture, but he wasn’t an entrepreneur. His food entered by way of the window and Simon paid for it, passing the steamy bag over to Chimsky. It was a pleasant little thought, opening a business of one’s own. As Simon turned the car back onto the road and toward the Orleans, Chimsky ate his hamburger in silence. His nerves were completely shot from the events of the evening, and the food tasted oily and rich on his tongue.
“You know,” Chimsky said after a long period of silence, “what Fong expects me to do is nearly impossible.”
Quincy turned to face him. “We all believe you can do it, Chimsky. Mr. Fong doesn’t extend a deadline for just anyone.”
After they dropped him off, Chimsky tried to fall asleep, but was unable to. He missed his old life, his old bed—and yes, Barbara—terribly. Sighing, he arose and resumed practicing at the kitchen counter. By this point, Chimsky knew his movements were quite precise, but his accuracy was still only about fifty-fifty. Moreover, this was in his home, with no one watching. He could not guarantee to Mr. Fong that he would win; Fong just as easily could lose, and in a straight deal, he was likely to lose five out of six times. And then—well, there was no telling what Quincy and Simon would have to do to him.
But when Fong showed up at his door at precisely nine p.m., Chimsky found himself guaranteeing nonetheless that all was ready. Prior to their appearance, Chimsky had preset one of the decks. Then, under their naïve eyes, he simulated on his countertop a riffle shuffle and strip cut that was so fast that he could tell they were falling for it. He slid the deck into the shoe face down and dealt out the entire deck, including the last three cards in ascending sequence: the Deuce, the Four, and the Six of Hearts. Fong told him to do it again, and Chimsky did so, this time reversing the final sequence so that they came in descending order: the 6, the 4, and then the Deuce.
“I’m impressed,” Fong said. Simon and Quincy whistled their approval and applauded.
“This is how I imagine it,” Chimsky said. “My first down at Faro starts at eleven thirty. I’ll deal straight for as long as you want to sit there. Then when you’re ready, you’ll say, ‘Look at the time—I’ll stick around for one more shoe.’ That will be the signal. I’ll set the next deck so that the last three cards appear in ascending sequence. Bet however you like based off that information.”
Fong nodded. “And you’re positive surveillance won’t notice anything.”
Chimsky was much less concerned about surveillance than he was about the more pressing concern raised by setting a deck that he hadn’t prepared beforehand, doing it live, on-the-fly, on the blue felt at the Royal, with Lederhaus and all the other players watching.
“Everything will be fine,” he assured Fong.
The Faro table was already close to full when Chimsky tapped in that evening. The Countess sat in her special, elevated chair, her driver at her side, hardly breathing in his gray chauffeur’s outfit. He recognized some of the other players, regulars who were chatting with Lederhaus about the new lamps in the room, a set of three marble braziers. Chimsky said hello and began to deal. Ten minutes later, he looked up from a hand he was paying out and saw a bearded man in shorts and a purple Hawaiian shirt approaching, accompanied by Mannheim. It was Fong.
“Lederhaus, this is Mr. Murphy,” Mannheim said. “He’s come all the way from Florida to try his hand at our Faro table.”
There was a discussion about lines of credit, and within moments, Chimsky was pushing Fong, now seated directly in front of him, two full racks of black chips—$10,000 per rack. “Good luck, sir,” he said.
Fong played patiently. Chimsky dealt the first deck completely straight, with Fong betting between one and five black chips per hand. The other players at the table were wagering similar amounts. Only the Countess remained watching, marking down the appearance of each card with her eyes. When Chimsky got to the last three cards, Fong failed in his attempt to call them in order, and was down $300 after the first deck. Chimsky reshuffled and dealt the second deck, again straight from the box, and as before, bets were placed, pulled back, doubled, and lost. Once more, Fong attempted to call the last three cards and failed, and Chimsky eyed the man’s chips and estimated that Fong had now lost approximately $700 in the session.
Fong made a show of it. “Perhaps Faro’s not my game after all,” he said loudly. “I’ll play another shoe. If my luck doesn’t change, I’m switching to Baccarat.”
Lederhaus indicated to Chimsky he was changing the setup. Chimsky handed the old deck over to Lederhaus, unwrapped the new one, and fanned it face up across the felt in an arc, confirming that all fifty-two cards were there. Then he collected the deck and fanned it face down. In his mind, he isolated three cards: the Deuce of Hearts, the 7 of Diamonds, and the Jack of Spades. He had to make sure these three cards—the Deuce, the 7, the Jack—appeared in ascending order at the bottom of the deck. He scrambled the deck face down, and then it was time to perform the three riffle shuffles, strip cut, and one-handed cut onto a cut card that would move those three cards where they absolutely had to be.
Usually, Chimsky’s movements were so practiced that he would kibitz with players while he shuffled, hardly even looking at what his hands were doing. Now, he hoped no one would notice that he was staring intently at the backs of the cards, so intently he could feel the collar of his shirt chafing against the back of his neck. Lederhaus was talking to Fong and the other players about property values in West Palm Beach compared to Seattle. But when Chimsky glanced over to the Countess in her chair, his blood froze. The eyebrow over her left eye was raised a shrewd quarter-inch, and the orb beneath looked straight into him—she knew!
Chimsky tried to swallow and nearly choked. It was too late to turn back now. The deck of cards lay face down next to the yellow plastic cut card, and Chimsky’s fingers trembled as he faced the most delicate of the steps necessary to complete the setting of the deck. He had to cut directly twenty-six cards deep, and in his agitated state, he had no faith he could do it. He grabbed at the deck and cut it. He then slid the entire deck face down into the black metal shoe. The soda was the Ace of Clubs, which he discarded. While the players made their bets, Chimsky continued to wilt under the direct scrutiny of the Countess, who, in a departure from her usual practice of hardly deigning to acknowledge him, was examining his every move.
There are twenty-five turns in a deck of Faro, and the first twenty-three transpired in unremarkable fashion. As before, Fong played each hand, betting lightly. But then, on the twenty-fourth turn, Chimsky’s heart sank when he saw one of his three cards—the 7 of Diamonds—appear in the window two cards too soon. So he had miscut it! In addition to the Deuce of Hearts and the Jack of Spades, there was now an interloper—the King of Spades, according to Lederhaus’s case-keep.
“Call the last turn anyone?” Lederhaus asked. Chimsky wanted to signal to Fong to abort mission, but he was powerless, stuck behind the table. He watched Fong push his remaining chips in—about $19,000—calling out Deuce, Jack, and King, in ascending order, as they’d discussed.
“Anyone else?” Lederhaus said.
“I would like to call the last turn as well,” the Countess said. She pushed across a single green plaque off the stack in front of her—$25,000. “In the same order as the gentleman here—the Deuce, the Jack, and then the King.”
For the first time in the hand, Chimsky felt Lederhaus pausing, sensing that something was not quite right. The Countess almost never called the last turn,
usually preferring to bet on a single card rather than three. But then Lederhaus recorded the bet and told Chimsky to go ahead and deal.
Fong looked confident, smiling even underneath his false beard. If only he knew that Chimsky had lost control of the deck, that the last three cards could come in any order—
“Chimsky, please proceed,” Lederhaus said again.
It was down to luck now—pure chance. Chimsky took a deep breath, seized the top card and yanked it off. The crowd gasped—so did Chimsky—for the card revealed was the Deuce of Hearts.
“Yes!” Fong exclaimed.
The other players oohed and aahed, but the Countess continued to regard Chimsky boldly, hardly glancing at the Faro box at all. Chimsky looked down at his hands—they did not feel like his own. He flexed his fingers and allowed them to hover over the opening in the metal box. The next card had to be the Jack of Spades or he was finished. Chimsky closed his eyes and said a little prayer. Then, with a sudden flourish, he snatched the next card off the top of the deck.
Even before he opened his eyes, Chimsky could tell from Fong’s cry of exultation that he’d done it. There on the felt for everyone to behold lay the Jack of Spades:
It was the most glorious card Chimsky had ever seen. In the midst of celebration, Fong high-fiving everyone at the table, the Countess’s lips pursed as she received her congratulations. Chimsky was sure she was not going to say anything now—she had just won a hundred grand. And Fong had won almost eighty. As the commotion settled, Chimsky revealed for the sake of formality the final card in the deck—the King of Spades. Then Lederhaus told Chimsky to remove the deck and count it down, which was customary on hands of this size. While Chimsky did so, Lederhaus called upstairs to surveillance, who replayed the hand back and forth to confirm its legitimacy. Because the outcome of the hand had been as much the result of chance as of manipulation, Chimsky was not surprised when they reported back after several minutes that everything seemed fine. The winning bets were paid out, and Fong toked Chimsky with a messy stack of black chips, smiling all the while.
Queen of Spades Page 6
