Ring Game

by Pete Hautman

  “How did you do this?” he asked.

  “Never mind that, goddamn it! Just get me loose.”

  Crow reached down and unsnapped Sam’s right suspender, then helped him out of the compartment. As soon as he was back on his feet, Sam gave the Dodge a vicious kick in the front quarter panel. The yardstick snapped and the hood crashed down.

  Sam jumped a good six inches, then shook his fist at the Dodge. “Goddamn fuckin’ Mopar. Tried to eat me.”

  “How long were you stuck in there?”

  “Long enough!” Sam produced a slightly bent pack of Pall Malls, lit one with a stick match and puffed furiously. As the nicotine penetrated his blood-brain barrier, he visibly relaxed. “No more’n five minutes. I could’ve ripped ’er loose, but these bibs are practically brand new.”

  Sam’s overalls looked about ten years old to Crow, but it was all relative, he supposed. “You’re lucky that hood didn’t crash down while you were in there.”

  “I lead a charmed fucking existence.”

  “You told me Axel was lucky. I think you’re the lucky one.”

  Sam snorted a jet of smoke through his nose. “Not by half. How you doing on monkey-wrenching that wedding?”

  “I’m not trying to monkey-wrench it, Sam. Axel just asked me to check the guy out. Make sure he’s not a psycho skinhead like the last one. I didn’t find anything, though.”

  “All’s that means is you didn’t look. Everybody’s got something nasty in their closet.”

  “Even you?”

  “’Specially me.”

  “You think I ought to keep looking?”

  Sam’s wrinkles rearranged themselves.

  “I’m not talking about you, Sam. How hard should I look at Hyatt Hilton?”

  “How hard’s Ax want you to look?”

  “That’s what I don’t know. He’s sort of ambivalent.”

  “That mean he can talk out of either side of his mouth?”

  “Yes. He’s talking like the wedding is going to happen, and he says he doesn’t want to know anything half-nasty about his future son-in-law. Unless it’s something so nasty that Carmen would back out of the deal.”

  “Sounds like Ax. I ever tell you about the time him and me got robbed in Brownsville? We was playin’ Bourre with a bunch of Cajuns—sharks, every last one of ’em—losin’ so fast I was about to just hand ’em the rest of my money and go home. Then Ax got hot, had a run of luck the like of which those Cajuns hadn’t seen since Huey Long. We quit winners, then drove out to this little ol’ roadhouse to celebrate.” Sam took a massive drag on his cigarette, flicked it at the Dodge, and peered up at Crow through a cloud of smoke. “Your old man was a real cock-a-the-walk back then.”

  “I never doubted it.”

  “But it was Ax got the girl that night. Little Mex gal, pretty as a pair a aces, charmed ol’ Ax like he was hit over the head with a sock full of lead shot. And that’s just what she done. Those two went down the road to the joint we was stayin’ at and the next thing Ax knew she’d knocked him silly and took all his money. Woulda took our Lincoln, too, only she flooded ’er. That thing always was a little tricky on the start.”

  Crow waited while Sam lit another cigarette.

  “Next night we was in Houston, playing stud poker.”

  “What’s that got to do with Hyatt Hilton?”

  “Got nothin’ to do with him. I’m tryin’ to tell you, son, how when it comes to a certain kind of woman, Ax don’t got the sense God gave ’im. You just got to take ’er as she comes.”

  Crow said, “Interesting.”

  “I didn’t tell you the interesting part. That little Mex gal? He couldn’t get her off his mind. Talked about her for weeks. And it wasn’t like he was mad at her, either. He just wanted to see her again. So there you go.”

  “There I go where?”

  “That Mex gal, I just seen her that once, but I remember what she looked like. She looked just like that Carmen. He’s still got a crush on her. He’s shackin’ up with the mama, but it’s the daughter’s ass that’s got his bone in a twist. Reason he don’t want her to get married don’t have jack-shit to do with Hyatt Hilton, and he knows it, too. That’s why he’s paying for the whole shebang.”

  “Now I’m totally confused.”

  “So’s Ax, son. He don’t know what the fuck he wants.”

  16

  Advice is like a dead fish. It stinks or it don’t.

  —Sam O’Gara

  CARMEN NOTICED THE SMELL as soon as she got out of her car in front of Hy’s house. At first it smelled good—like hot butter. As she turned her key in the front door lock, the odor became more powerful, reminding her of stale popcorn. Carmen pushed the door open. The smell hit her full force, sending her staggering backward. She put a few yards between herself and the open door, then stood there, breathing deeply, trying to quiet her heaving stomach. What was that? The odor reminded her of vomit. Even more vividly, it reminded her of an old boyfriend, a keyboard player named Crustola, who had earned his nickname by his casual approach to personal hygiene. Cautiously, Carmen again approached the front door. The smell seemed slightly less potent—either it was dissipating, or her nose had gone numb. She stepped inside and called Hy’s name.

  “In here,” came his voice.

  “Where?”

  “In the bathroom,” he shouted. “And don’t worry, it’s only V-8.”

  V-8? Was that what he’d said? Leaving the front door ajar, she walked through the living room, examining her surroundings suspiciously, breathing shallowly through her mouth. She could hear Hy’s low voice. “Yeah, no, that’s Carmen. Listen, I understand what you’re saying. A job is a job. But couldn’t you have just handed it to me? I mean, I’ve got the neighbors calling me up here, complaining about the smell. Not to mention you’ve wrecked my water business.”

  Carmen stopped outside the bathroom door. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Hold on a sec—” he raised his voice. “I’m on the phone!”

  “It stinks in here, Hy.”

  “I’ll call you later, okay? What’s that? Oh no you’re not. No way. I don’t care what she told you, Eduardo, you aren’t gonna break anything. You hear me? Not a foot, not a finger—nothing!”

  Carmen heard a splashing noise and the beep of the phone being turned off. She said, “What’s that horrible stink?”

  “You can still smell it?”

  “I could smell it from the street. What is it?”

  “Butyric acid,” Hyatt said.

  “Bee-you-what?” Carmen opened the bathroom door, took one look at her fiancé, and fainted dead away.

  Arling Biggie peeled the wrapper from his Casa Blanca Jeroboam. He crumbled the cellophane, making sure everyone noticed, then placed the enormous cigar dead center in his mouth.

  Levin said, “Jesus Christ, are you going to light that horse dick?”

  In answer, Bigg bit the end off the cigar and spat it onto the floor. He gave Zink, who was sitting on his left, a nudge.

  “What?” Zink muttered, giving the cigar a bland look.

  “You got a light?”

  “Uh-uh. No friggin’ way.”

  Bigg looked around the table, spotted a book of matches in front of Ozzie, bobbled his eyebrows. Ozzie sighed and tossed the matches across the table. The four men watched wordlessly as Bigg used three matches to ignite the cigar, creating a cloud of smoke that rose slowly toward the ceiling, mushroomed, then slowly settled to hover at head height over the table.

  “Looks like you’re giving the invisible man a blowjob,” Levin said, the corners of his mouth pulled down around his chin.

  Bigg grinned and sank his teeth into the cigar. “We here to play cards or whine about a little smoke? Whose deal is it?”

  “Mine,” said Ken Kirk. He offered the cut to Zink, then dealt each player two cards.

  Bigg leaned toward Zink, eyeing his stacked chips. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m doing okay.” Zink drum
med his fingers on his two cards.

  “I’m down three hundred already,” Bigg said.

  “That’s rough,” Zink said. He knocked on the table, passing the bet to Kirk, who bet twenty. Ozzie called; Levin folded.

  Bigg frowned at his cards. The game was “hold ’em,” two cards to each player, with five community cards dealt faceup in the middle of the table. Bigg had a deuce of hearts and an eight of clubs in his hand. If the next three cards were three eights, or three deuces, or two eights and a deuce, or vice versa, he could win a big spot. Or if the flop came up five, six, seven of clubs, he’d have a shot at a straight flush. There were all kinds of possibilities.

  “You in or out?” Kirk demanded.

  “I’m thinking,” Bigg said.

  Zink folded out of turn. “Let’s see what you got.” He leaned over to look at Bigg’s cards.

  “What d’you think?” Bigg asked, his left hand hovering over his chips.

  “Get out,” said Zink.

  Bigg wanted to bet. They would never suspect him of staying in with a deuce, eight. If the cards fell perfect he could win big. On the other hand, if Zink was right, and he lost another three bills, he’d feel like a jerk. With considerable effort, Bigg dropped his cards. “Fold,” he muttered.

  The first three cards came up deuce, eight, ace.

  Bigg said, “I’d a had two pair.” He put his cigar between his teeth and bit down. The cigar served two purposes, he believed. First, it irritated the other players. Second, it kept him from grinding his teeth together. According to Bigg’s dentist, he’d been losing about a millimeter a year. Another five years and he’d be gumming his cigars.

  “You’d a had shit,” said Zink. “Wait and see.”

  The last two cards came up king, nine. Kirk took the pot with three aces over Ozzie’s aces and kings. Zink said, “See what I mean?”

  Earlier in the evening, Zink had taken Bigg aside and told him straight out how he saw it. “I’m telling you this once, Bigg. Every time I’ve played with you, you’ve lost. Since I’m hosting this particular game, I feel it’s my obligation to tell you why. Your problem is, you think you got a hand when you got shit. You know what I mean?”

  In an intellectual sort of way, Bigg believed that what Zink had told him was true. But the cards were unpredictable, and it all came down to luck in the end. He was counting on the cigar to change his luck. He picked up his fresh cards and squinted at them. Queen, four, off suit. Bigg squeezed his eyes closed, then looked again. Queen, four. He concentrated, trying to make them into something good. You never knew what would win. If the flop came up three queens, or three fours, that would be something! Even a pair of queens would be good. He had seen guys win with less. His left hand moved toward his chips.

  By the time Crow showed up, a dense strata of gray smoke hovered a foot above the surface of the table, blurring the features of the five players. Arling Biggie, a huge cigar gripped in his stumpy teeth, clutched his cards and glared across the table at Ken Kirk. Crow knew instantly, without seeing any of the cards in play, that Bigg was about to lose. Kirk was the tightest player at the table, betting only when he had the best hand. Al Levin, Ozzie LaRose, and Zink Fitterman watched as Bigg called Kirk’s fifty-dollar raise, then lost to the inevitable nut straight. Bigg flexed his jaw, causing a walnut-sized ash to fall into his remaining chips. He stared balefully as Kirk gathered the pot.

  Crow picked up a chair and wedged it in between Bigg and Zink.

  “Mind if I squeeze in?” he said.

  Bigg rolled his eyes and moved about half an inch to his right. Zink skidded his chair over to make room for Crow.

  Crow sat down and said, “Evening, Bigg. How’s it going?”

  “Screw you, Crow. I got no more free memberships.”

  Crow smiled. The best way to beat a guy like Bigg at the card table was to make him want to beat you. Don’t play against your opponents. Let them play against you. The harder Bigg tried to get a piece of Crow’s stack, the more money would flow Crow’s way.

  Al Levin dealt. The bet was checked to Bigg, who bet twenty. Crow looked at his cards. Queen, four. He threw them away. Wait for the cards. He sat back and watched the hand play out.

  Two hours later, Crow was up a thousand, and Bigg was down two. Zink, who played his cards almost as tight as Kirk, was also a winner. The other players were all within a hundred bucks of even. At Bigg’s request, they had switched from hold ’em to seven stud high-low, which had the effect of increasing the number of bad hands Bigg could play.

  At one point, Bigg shifted strategies and began to make enormous bets at the beginning of the hand. He picked up several antes by betting two hundred dollars on the strength of his first three cards. Finally, with a pair of aces in the hole and a five up top, Crow called and raised a hundred. Bigg, who was showing an ace, looked startled, then called the raise. Everyone else folded.

  Crow picked up the case ace on the fourth card. Bigg was showing ace, ten. To Crow’s surprise, Bigg bet five hundred. Crow raised an equal amount. Once again, Bigg called.

  The fifth card gave Crow a deuce and Bigg a nine. Bigg bet another five. Crow gazed at Bigg’s cards, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip. Little danger of a flush. The best thing Bigg could have would be three tens, or four cards to a straight, or three cards to a good low hand. Crow called the bet. Ozzie tossed out two more cards, a ten for Bigg and a seven for Crow. Bigg pushed the last of his cash into the pot—three hundred forty dollars.

  Because the game was table stakes, players could only bet the amount of money they had on the table. However, according to Zink’s house rules, if only two players were involved in the pot, they were free to negotiate additional bets—I.O.U.s, cars, houses, whatever—so long as it was understood that such arrangements were agreeable to both players.

  At this point, against anybody else, Crow would simply have called the bet and let the cards fall. But remembering the dent in his GTO, he said, “You want to dig deeper, Bigg?”

  “That’s all I got,” Bigg growled.

  “Maybe you got something else you want to bet.”

  “I already told you, no more free memberships.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a limo rental.” It would make a great wedding gift. Crow pushed a small stack of chips toward the pot. “Another two hundred against a limo rental. What do you say?”

  Bigg’s tongue darted across his lips. “I get six hundred a day,” he said. “That’s the limo and driver.”

  Crow added another stack. “I’ll go four against a free ride.”

  Bigg nodded. “Done.”

  Carmen had a large lump on her head where it had struck the bathroom door. She was treating it with a bag full of crushed ice and a triple vodka tonic. The combination was remarkably effective. Not only did her head not hurt anymore, but she could hardly smell the butyric acid, which, according to Hyatt, was the worst smelling substance on the planet. Carmen believed it. Hy’s Evian business was ruined. It would take months for the odor in the garage to go away. Maybe longer. Carmen didn’t mind that so much—the water business was small potatoes—but she did not appreciate the fact that her fiancé smelled like aged vomit. Taking another sip of her drink, Carmen watched Hyatt sitting in his red silk boxers on his black Naugahyde sofa watching an infomercial.

  She said, “You know what was the first thing I thought?”

  The corner of Hyatt’s mouth twitched, but he kept his eyes on the television. Carmen fished a piece of ice from her drink and flicked it onto his bare belly.

  Hyatt’s body snapped to attention; he brushed away the ice and said, “Hey!”

  “You know what was the first thing I thought?” Carmen said again.

  “You thought I’d killed myself. You already told me that.” When Carmen had opened the bathroom door, she had discovered Hyatt sitting in the bathtub four inches deep in V-8 juice.

  “That was actually the second thing I thought. The first thing I thought was that you
were having one hell of a period.” Carmen pulled the ice bag away from her head.

  Hyatt processed that for about a nanosecond, then returned his attention to the infomercial. “This is interesting,” he said. “You can get rich on 900 numbers. You get a 900 number, put a few ads in the paper, and let some other jerk field the calls. Every time somebody calls in for their horoscope you get a piece of it. That would be perfect. Just sit back and wait for the checks to come in.”

  “I thought, well, at least we know he’s not preggers.”

  Hyatt gave her a sardonic look. “Which thought was that? Number two or three?”

  Carmen rattled the ice in her glass. “That was number one and a half, asshole.”

  “Hey, I tried to warn you. I told you it was just tomato juice.”

  “‘It’s only V-8,’ you said. What the hell was I supposed to do with that?”

  “I wasn’t trying to scare you. I thought it might kill the smell. It works if you got a skunked-up dog.”

  “Yeah, well it didn’t work on you. It still reeks in here. I probably reek, too, just from being here. It’s a good thing we aren’t getting married tomorrow.”

  “It’ll wear off. What do you think about us getting a 900 number? Wouldn’t that be cool? You got a pen?”

  Carmen shook her head. Hyatt jumped up from the sofa and ran into the kitchen.

  “We’re gonna have to move, that’s all there is to it,” Carmen said.

  Hyatt returned holding a stubby pencil. “We’re going to move anyway, Carm. We can live wherever you want, once the money starts rolling in.”

  “What are we going to do for money until then? I don’t care what kind of label you slap on it, nobody’s going to buy water that smells like puke.”

  “I’ve got a little money.” Hyatt copied the number on the screen onto the back of a magazine. “You believe this? To find out how to get rich by owning 900 numbers, they have you call this 900 number. That’s what I call perfect.”