Queen of Spades

by Michael Shou-Yung Shum

  “Is that my future?” Mannheim asked. He turned frantically. “Why is everything still dark?”

  Dr. Eccleston signaled the child turn on the lights, and they withdrew to the waiting room, allowing Mannheim to put his socks and shoes on in private. By the time he emerged, he could see again, although his peripheral vision remained blurred. He felt slightly embarrassed, and apologized if his behavior had been untoward. Dr. Eccleston assured him that on the contrary, his intense vision proved that the measure had been a success, and whatever its meaning, it should be taken quite seriously. “I looked over the results from the intaker, Mr. Mannheim. You had the strongest reaction when you described seeing the dancers waltz by right outside the door.”

  “That’s when you were the most scared,” Theo explained.

  Later that evening, when Mannheim arrived in Gabriela’s office—she’d asked him to come in early again—she remarked that Mannheim looked a little peaked. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine.” Mannheim tried to smile and ran a hand through his thin hair, over his nose and ears. His fingers came back dry.

  “Good. So what did you learn from the Countess?”

  “Nothing,” Mannheim said. “I do believe she knows something. But she’s not telling.”

  Gabriela sighed. “I’ve gotten nowhere on Chimsky’s end either. I’ve looked through every surveillance tape since that night, and he’s been dealing straight, thirteen or fourteen seconds per shuffle, like a machine. We’re stuck for now.” She spun a pencil in her hand as she spoke. “We need something—a witness, an informant. Something that will make him talk, and won’t get us sued.”

  Still parched from the afternoon in Dr. Eccleston’s chamber, Mannheim told Gabriela he would remain vigilant and rose to leave. But she detained him a moment more. “On an unrelated note,” she said, pulling a file from a drawer underneath the desk. “One of yours—Arturo Chan, pit dealer. I don’t believe I’ve ever met him. Anyway, he’s been with us almost six months now. Anything I should note in his review?”

  “He’s an excellent dealer,” Mannheim said.

  “Any complaints? From either staff or the clientele?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Do the customers like him?”

  “He’s quiet and polite. Many of our players prefer a serious dealer. And he’s actually very funny when you pay attention. He won’t say anything for twenty minutes, and then he’ll make some sort of remark that will leave you wondering.”

  “Good. We’ll say he’s passed his review with flying colors. Do you think he’s going to stay with us?”

  “Yes,” Mannheim said after a moment. “I think he likes it here—I truly believe so.”

  Gabriela shut the file. “Great. Go ahead and let him know he’s through his probationary period.”

  Mannheim nodded and left the office. As he walked down the stairs toward the casino, the intricate spiral pattern on the carpet, which had never before affected him, made him feel queasy. He stopped and gripped the railing to catch his breath, and unbidden, he recalled something he’d unconsciously withheld from Dr. Eccleston and Theo that afternoon. During his vision, the tall woman in the gown had leaned close to his ear, so close that Mannheim could feel her breath tickling his earlobe. Her face was Gabriela’s. Mannheim thought she was about to whisper a name, a secret, something that would illuminate his situation. But instead, her tongue had issued out and entered his ear, inserting a hot, hard little kernel of something in the canal, a small pebble or pill of paper that remained there after her tongue withdrew.

  Downstairs in the casino, the music from the pit grew louder and louder. Like circling tongues, the spirals in the carpet swam under his feet, and Mannheim cried out, shutting his eyes. He seized the railing with both arms and blindly staggered down the stairs.

  Barbara Makes a Bet

  What Barbara desired was to never see Dimsberg again, but the more time she spent away from Gambling Help, the more persistent he became, calling her every couple days to “check in.” She even told him she was changing her number, but to her chagrin, Dimsberg refused to believe her, saying she was just confused, that she would come to realize this was one of those times that try all recovering addicts.

  “We’re all praying for you, Barbara,” he kept saying. “Remember that.”

  Barbara tried once to go back. She arrived twenty minutes late, so as not to run into anyone in the parking lot. She got as far as the front door, but stopped herself when she imagined the gruesome welcome she would receive upon entrance: how they would embrace her and rub her hand, nod at her knowingly, and try to make her feel as miserable and guilty as they did.

  Since the night she’d bought the lottery ticket, there were two things driving Barbara’s new state of mind. The first was the pleasant idea of becoming a member at Hair & Now, which seemed like the direct obverse of Gambling Help. The second was related to her work at the call center. The election was days away, and the polling numbers from her company were being paraded on the news as evidence that the Washington gubernatorial race was a fifty-fifty toss-up. Yet despite having been in charge of collating these statistics, Barbara’s hunch that Gardner, the challenger, would prevail had grown stronger in the last week, coupled with a resulting notion that—once it gained entry—refused to exit.

  The Monday evening before the election, she remained in her office until everyone was gone. Then she closed the door and placed a phone call, dialing the number from memory.

  “Hi, Chimsky,” she said. “It’s me. I have a favor to ask.”

  She waited for him sitting in their old booth at Rudy’s. A whisky sour was already in front of his seat when Chimsky arrived. His hair was slightly disheveled, as if he had rushed to the meeting. Although Barbara could not admit to harboring any residual romantic feeling toward her ex-husband, it moved her a little to see how excited he was over her invitation.

  “So?” he asked. “I’m all ears.”

  “It’s a gambling matter, actually. I remember a couple months ago, you said you lost a bet on a boxing match.”

  Chimsky winced. “Thank you for reminding me, Barbara. But yes.”

  “Does your bookmaker take other sorts of bets? I mean bets on things other than sporting events.”

  “For example?”

  “Who’s going to win the Oscar for Best Actor, say.”

  “The Oscars aren’t until March.”

  “Or who’s going to win the election tomorrow.”

  “I see. And who do you think is going to win the election tomorrow?”

  “I asked first.”

  “I suspect,” Chimsky said, “my bookie would take a bet on just about anything. Tomorrow’s election included.”

  “Can you tell your bookie I’d like to place a wager?”

  Chimsky was thoughtful for a moment. Then he smiled. “You know, Barbara, you almost had me believing you would never gamble again. Hold on a minute.” He left his drink on the table and strode toward the back hallway. Barbara watched as he inserted a coin into the pay phone and dialed a number. As he waited, he smiled and winked at her, and Barbara waved. Then he began talking, turning his back to her, the cord of the phone coiled around his neck. He talked for less than five minutes. When he returned, he was beaming. “It’s all set.” He wrote down a phone number on the back of the happy hour menu and slid it across the table to her. “His name is Fong. Call him tonight. Just tell him who you are. I’ve explained everything.”

  “Thank you,” Barbara said. “I mean it.”

  “I miss you, Barbara,” Chimsky said. He held out his hand, palm up in the center of the table. “Can’t we be friends now?”

  Barbara laughed. She placed her hand over his and squeezed. “Of course, Chimsky. Of course.”

  “Can I ask you to do me a small favor in return?”

  Barbara stiffened. “What is it?”

  “Whoever it is that you’re betting on—would you mind playing $500 for m
e as well?”

  “Can’t I just tell you who I’m picking?”

  “No,” Chimsky said. “I don’t want to know. I trust you.”

  On her way home that night, Barbara passed her lucky gas station, and she pulled over to have another look at the state lottery display case. Changing of the Card was no longer available, she noticed, replaced by a seasonal one entitled Thanksgiving Jackpotpourri. Barbara was debating whether or not she should buy the new card when she felt a presence sidle up beside her.

  She turned. To her utter disbelief, it was Dimsberg.

  “What a happy accident, Barbara,” he said, smiling. “Bumping into you here of all places.” His shirt, with its single vertical beige stripe, looked brand new.

  “Are you following me?” she asked.

  “What? No. It’s pure serendipity, Barbara.” He glanced at the display case. “Anything catch your eye?”

  “It’s none of your business,” she said, turning away. She was fuming.

  “Barbara, your gambling is our business. We’re Gambling Help, after all. We’re here to help you.”

  “If you continue to harass me, I’m going to file a police report.”

  She tried to walk past him and out the door, but he held out an arm to detain her.

  “Barbara, please don’t act this way. We all care about you a great deal.”

  “Move your arm, Dimsberg. Or so help me God, I’m going to belt you in the mouth.”

  For the first time she could remember, Dimsberg appeared nervous. His arm lowered. “If that’s how you feel, Barbara—”

  She barged past him. Without looking back, she got into her car, locked the door, and turned the ignition. The radio came on, startling her—an animated DJ was introducing a new hit single called, bizarrely enough, “The Glamorous Life.” Barbara quickly switched it off. Then she calmed herself and drove off quietly, making sure there was no one in her rearview mirror.

  When she got home, she poured a glass of wine, lit a cigarette, and dialed the number Chimsky had provided. She asked for Fong, explained she had been referred by Chimsky, and placed her bet on the election for governor. She chose Booth Gardner at 6 to 5, for $1,500—a thousand of her own money, and five hundred of Chimsky’s.

  On the night of the election, Barbara stood inside her place of polling, the auditorium in a local grade school, watching the results coming in along with a small crowd gathered for the event. A few snacks and coffee had been provided by volunteers, and she nibbled at a cookie absentmindedly. Its frosting had grown a crust, sitting on the tray. Like the others, Barbara fixated upon the updates from the various precincts—but she also wanted to be in a public place if Dimsberg “accidentally” ran into her again.

  The early numbers were too close to call. Nervously, Barbara finished the cookie and started on the platter of crackers. She had hoped for a blowout, with the outcome all but confirmed by eight p.m., but now she knew she was in for a long sweat. When she was younger, she would’ve found that prospect exciting—she almost felt cheated if a win came too easily. Now, she wanted the evening as free from stress as possible, and the updates did not suggest that would be the case: a fifth of the precincts were in, and the race was dead even. “It’s anybody’s election,” someone next to her said. She looked up and it was a policeman, smiling at her. She laughed politely, grabbed a handful of crackers, and edged away.

  At ten p.m., the same policeman directed everyone to leave the building as the polls were closing. The election was still too close to call. Barbara walked out in the middle of a group of seven or eight people and hurried to her car. She saw no sign of Dimsberg. She parked in the alley behind her building just in case, and entered through the service entrance, to which only residents held the key. Avoiding the lobby, she climbed four flights of stairs to her floor, and once inside her apartment, bolted the front door.

  Immediately, she turned on the television, opened a bottle of wine—a nice Merlot—and settled into the couch. With over eighty percent of the precincts in, the tide was finally swelling in favor of Gardner—this news awakened Barbara, and she couldn’t sit still, her fingers and toes tapping in anticipation. It was a feeling she’d grown unaccustomed to, these last two years she’d spent in purgatory. But the tables were finally turning. At half past one in the morning, when the outcome was officially confirmed in her favor, Barbara, moved to excitement, applauded Spellman’s stirring concession speech. She knew that luck, good or bad, arrives in streaks, and she had always been among the streakiest gamblers she knew. Now Barbara could tell she was getting hot again, and she wiped grateful tears from her eyes.

  Thanksgiving Dinner

  Chan and Dumonde divided their winnings from Snoqualmie Downs unequally—Chan was happy to give Dumonde the lion’s share so long as that meant his old boss would be leaving town. Still, Dumonde lingered, saying he wanted to spend Thanksgiving, what he claimed was his favorite holiday, with his friend Chan before striking out on his own. Chan, who had become used to Dumonde puttering around the apartment, agreed he could accompany him to the unofficial Royal Casino Staff Thanksgiving Dinner, annually hosted at the home of Leanne and Bao. Chan learned from his colleagues that it was an intimate affair, with never more than seven or eight attendees, including Mannheim, a fact that gave Chan pause. But Dumonde promised Chan he would not mention any of their past dealings together. He would say he was an old friend from their school days in Westchester, out for a short visit. In addition, Dumonde swore to Chan he would leave Snoqualmie immediately after.

  This last condition was one Chan insisted upon. The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Chan had arrived at his door from grocery shopping and heard the phone ringing inside the apartment. He thought Dumonde might be home, but the rings continued unabated, and when Chan unlocked the front door and picked up the receiver, he was surprised to hear a female voice greet him.

  “Mr. Chan? This is Faye Handoko. We spoke previously at Scribes, several months ago.”

  “Yes,” Chan said, immediately alert. “Please hold on a moment.” He put the phone down and quickly scanned the apartment to confirm Dumonde was not hiding somewhere. Then he said, “Sorry, Ms. Handoko. Go on.”

  “We talked regarding a story my late father had written.”

  “I remember.”

  “I’ve discovered some information you may be interested in. About the car.”

  “Her car?”

  “Possibly,” she said. “I thought you’d want to know.”

  “I do. Very much so.”

  “Good. Let’s meet to talk about it. How about on Saturday, after Thanksgiving—around two?”

  “At the same place?”

  “Let’s meet somewhere a little more quiet this time.”

  On Thanksgiving Day, Dumonde spent the better part of the afternoon in Chan’s small kitchen, fussing over a curried pumpkin pie. Chan was worried they might be late, but when they arrived at Leanne and Bao’s attractive apartment, they found themselves the first guests. Two bottles of wine were open—one red and one white—and after a glass of each, Dumonde regaled their hosts with fictitious stories about high school life with Chan in Westchester. Mannheim and the other guests trickled in—a cashier and a poker dealer, neither of whom Chan knew.

  Chan had only ever seen Mannheim at work, and was surprised how pale his boss looked outside of the Royal’s warm glow. There was a kind of ghastly, unfocused energy to Mannheim’s behavior as he greeted Chan, shook hands with Dumonde, and inspected the foods, all the while saying how delighted he was they were all together. While Leanne and Bao prepped the mushroom-and-barley casserole in the kitchen, and Dumonde was explaining himself to the cashier and the poker dealer, Mannheim touched Chan’s sleeve and pulled him aside.

  “Chan, you’ve been with us for six months now. How do you like our neck of the woods?”

  “I’ve greatly enjoyed my time at the Royal, sir.”

  “Call me Stephen,” Mannheim said. “We’re not in the pit, are we?” He was d
rinking a glass of wine with one hand and waving an empty glass with the other. “Gabriela wants you to know you’ve passed your probationary period. We both think you’re doing a fine job.”

  Chan laughed nervously. “Thank you, sir—Stephen.”

  “I hope you stay with us for a very long time,” Mannheim said. Then he paused, sighing. “Like you, I have spent a large part of my life in casinos, Arturo. I feel at home inside them. The constant atmosphere of uncertainty, of unknowing, appeals to me. Oddly, I am less interested in gambling. I will dabble, of course—who doesn’t?—but I play the basic strategies and never vary my bet. I used to play more, but once, I suffered a very bad loss. . . .” Mannheim paused again, and appeared puzzled. “I swear I can’t remember the details. But it was very bad, very substantial.”

  Chan wondered about this old bet. Was Mannheim even talking about gambling?

  Placing his glasses on the sideboard, Mannheim looked around before leaning closer to Chan. “I prefer being behind the ropes, you see, watching the action from a safe distance. I have the final word without incurring any of the risk. And I always back my dealers, Chan, one hundred percent. You can deal with perfect confidence on my watch.”

  Chan nodded. “We appreciate your support, sir.”

  “We do have a good crew, don’t we?” Mannheim gazed around the living room. “I like that we can come together outside of work and enjoy one another’s company so. Excuse me for a moment—I have something important to tell you, but first I must refresh my glass.”

  Chan leaned against the wall to await his boss’s return. He could hear Dumonde in the kitchen, talking with Leanne and Bao about the preparations for dinner. Several minutes passed, and he began to wonder if he’d been abandoned. The other guests were spread around the couch, laughing about something the cashier had done at last year’s event, and he considered approaching them. Then Mannheim appeared, holding drinks for himself and Chan.