The Big Shuffle

by Laura Pedersen

  I've never been to Cappy's house before. It's the only driveway along a road that makes up the northern edge of town. Or at least it used to. Now after two hundred yards you get to a development of brand-new McMansions with names like Shady Glen and Idyllic Forest, basically a description of what was destroyed to build them.

  Finally I come to a big rambling Spanish-style hacienda with wide stone walkways and a red tile roof. There's a similarly styled guesthouse in the back with Auggie's hunk-of-junk car parked in front, and so I pull up next to it.

  Adjacent to the main house is an enormous swimming pool surrounded by a wrought-iron fence decorated with big bronze suns. At both ends of the pool are tiled fountains that make pleasant trickling sounds. Large painted clay pots stand in every corner decorated with glazes of intense cobalt blues, radiant yellows, and rusty reds.

  It's quite a surprise, almost like a mirage. Cappy's office down at the pool hall contains some old metal furniture that looks like it was found out by the curb on garbage day. The walls there are a sickly yellow color, and whether it's paint or smoke, or more likely a toxic combination, is hard to tell.

  The door to the guesthouse is ajar, and I can see Auggie standing over a mound of laundry wearing a nice black suit with a maroon shirt underneath. Now that he's showered and changed it's clear that Auggie is still as attractive as ever, with his smooth face, slim hips, and fine features. On the other hand, I don't know why I'm bothering to notice after our last date was such a disaster—me falling in love with him while he was longing for another woman. And that's not even touching on the part of the evening when he casually announced his bisexuality.

  “Just give me a minute to throw in some wash,” he says.

  The guesthouse contains its own washer and dryer behind some tall shutters next to the bathroom. In the kitchen area hang a dozen or so bright copper pots, and along the far wall is a fireplace big enough to cook in. With the tiled floor and exposed-beam ceiling, the interior looks like a set for a movie that takes place in the old Southwest.

  “This place is unbelievable!” I say.

  “Grandpa has dealers in Mexico and South America send native crafts and handmade furniture. That way he freshens up his money and invests at the same time. Cappy says the stock market is up and down like a whore's drawers.”

  We both giggle because no one else would say such a thing but Cappy.

  I suddenly hear what sounds like someone crying for help. I'm aware that Cappy runs a thriving bookmaking operation, but he supposedly retired from certain moneylending aspects of the business a long time ago.

  Seeing the look of alarm on my face, Auggie quickly explains, “Peacocks.”

  “Peacocks?”

  “That's the way the males sound. Cappy hates them. But this guy couldn't pay for a bet, so he gave Cappy peacocks instead,” explains Auggie. “I told him you were coming. Go over to the house and say hi.”

  Everywhere I look are graceful arches, palm-dotted gardens, and big terra-cotta urns decorated with flowers, geometric patterns, and Spanish writing. If Cappy ever decides to head south of the border, he's doing a good job acclimatizing himself.

  “Hey, Red, what's the word?” I hear before I've even had a chance to knock on the screen door.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  CAPPY IS IN HIS STANDARD SUMMER OUTFIT OF A CHECKED BOATING cap, white shirt, white shoes, brown socks, and Bermuda shorts. He acts as if it's perfectly normal for me to be standing in a sundress at his door. “I've been meaning to stop by and see how you're getting along, but I'm terrible with stuff like that.”

  “Thanks for the food basket,” I say. It was about ten times bigger than all the others and from some fancy place in New York.

  “It was the least I could do. You can't eat flowers, right?”

  Cappy doesn't ask me about Auggie. He never asks who you're dating. Cappy says that when a person comes looking for a spouse or family member, perhaps with court papers in hand or a sawed-off shotgun, he likes to be able to honestly say that he doesn't know anything.

  “This is quite a place!” I say. On the far wall is a mural of galloping horses that look as if they're about to plow us right over. Leading up the spiral staircase hangs a tin mask collection. All that's missing is a herd of piñatas.

  “Come on, I'll give you the grand tour.”

  Everywhere I look there's ornate wrought iron and delicately carved wood, colorful tiles, and arched pueblo doorways. The upstairs hallway glows from a combination of golden-hued plaster and brightly colored tapestries. The master bedroom features a wooden bed built right into the wall that's covered with a brown and red Indian blanket.

  We head back down to the living room and Cappy offers me a seat on the rich chocolate-brown suede couch. There's a big bowl of onyx stones on the coffee table and stacks of woven baskets in every corner. Slightly out of place is a large black-and-white photo of a guy pitching a baseball, and the caption below it says, 1919 WORLD SERIES.

  While studying the photo I ask, “So was this the biggest scam ever?”

  “Heck no,” replies Cappy. “Chump change.”

  “What then—Ponzi?” I refer to the pyramid scheme Cappy told me about that operates on the rob-Peter-to-pay-Paul principle and has practically bankrupted entire countries.

  “Hardly,” says Cappy.

  “Then what, in your opinion, was the biggest con ever?” I ask.

  “Easy,” he says. “The British Empire. You've got an island less than one hundred thousand square miles in size running one quarter of the planet.”

  And here I always thought the reason Cappy became a bookie was because he didn't do well in school.

  Cappy sits down in a worn armchair that has a huge stack of racing papers on both sides. He reads the racing papers the way women go through old decorating magazines, looking for the answers to life's eternal questions.

  “Your dad was in the same grade as my son, and so I saw him play football when they were in high school. I always wondered why he didn't go pro. That's a team I wouldn't have bet against.”

  I'm surprised to hear all this, because Cappy doesn't normally traffic in personal details. I just nod.

  “How's your mom getting along?”

  “Doing better,” I say. “She came home. I'll probably wait a year before going back to school. Eric will almost be finished by then.”

  “Well, don't let the government shake you down for any interest. I give tax-free loans for education.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I've always felt that I could go to Cappy if things ever got really bad. I mean, as a last resort.

  “And don't become another Ruffian.”

  Cappy isn't referring to an angry young person, but rather the famous filly who drove herself so hard trying to win the Triple Crown that she broke down and had to be destroyed.

  Then there's a long pause, and it feels as if one of us is supposed to say something.

  “So, how's business?” I finally ask.

  “Business is bueno! I'm constantly amazed by how many people want you to take their money.” Cappy points toward the mantelpiece, where there are several photos of horses with wreaths around their necks standing in the winner's circle. “A racehorse is a magnificent animal in that it can take several thousand people for a ride at one time.”

  “The less you bet, the more you lose when you win.” I repeat Cappy's favorite expression for encouraging his customers to double their action.

  The door opens and in comes a woman of about fifty carrying two grocery bags. At first I think she's the housekeeper, but she's dressed a little too fancy for that. Plus her hair is all done up and she's wearing lots of silver and turquoise jewelry.

  “Sheila, I don't know if you remember Hallie,” says Cappy

  “Nice to see you again,” says Sheila with a sort of Texas twang to her voice. “What a lovely dress. Big date?” She winks at me, but of course we all see her do it.

  Sheila? Where do I know Sheila from? The longer I look and list
en to Sheila the more familiar she seems. It's the woman from last year's poker games! Only with half the makeup, a third of the upswept gold hair, and her majestic bosom now fenced in by fabric.

  “Texas!” I practically shout.

  “One and the same,” she says, and gives me a big smile. Texas/Sheila glances down at her absent décolletage and pronounces, “or at least half the same. Cappy here don't like it when I'm auctioning off the merchandise.”

  “Sheila, would you do me a favor and make us some coffee?” We all know this is Cappy's code for giving him some privacy.

  “I have a confession to make to you,” says Cappy. “Remember when you first moved to the Stocktons’ and your parents and that creepy guy from the school found you there?”

  “Yeah,” I say. Though it seems like a million years ago. And I can't imagine how it could matter now anyway.

  “Well, it wasn't your little-old-lady neighbor Mrs. Muldoon who blew you in, the way you always thought. Sorry to be a stool pigeon, but your old man came to see me. It wasn't like turning on someone's partner—he was just a guy worried about his kid, and as a parent I understood where he was coming from. They were on the trail anyway. It's too small a town to hide something like that for very long.”

  I can't believe that Cappy ratted me out. I mean, at this point I'm not really mad about it, seeing as everything worked out in the end. Except of course for Dad dying. But still, what happened to the Convict's Code and all that?

  “Why did my dad go to you?” I ask.

  “Back when you were a kid and started showing up at the track, he asked if I'd keep an eye on you out there—you know, a twelve-year-old girl on her own. The place attracts a lot of sleaze.” Cappy says this as if he can hardly believe the sordid characters he's forced to deal with on a regular basis.

  “So how come you're telling me all this now?” I ask. “Are you about to die or something?”

  “Not that I know of—but you'll tell me if you hear anything, right?” He smiles at his little joke.

  I just stare at him.

  “I figured you'd understand when you had some kids of your own to worry about.” It's obvious he's referring to my recently inherited brood.

  “Well, I knew that all along,” I say.

  “Yeah, right. And I just won a daily double that went off the board at a hundred to one.”

  “Please, the first week I was living there my dad referred to Bernard as ‘that Addams guy.’ And who else but you ever called the Stocktons the Addams Family?”

  Cappy narrows his eyes, unable to determine whether I've nailed him or not. “So what about my grandson, Auggie Strindberg? He sure as hell can't add numbers, so I guess we should be relieved that he's interested in combining letters. His story about living in Russia won a prize from a Chicago newspaper, and now he wants to write a novel. It's the American dream—bootlegger to bookmaker to book writer in three generations.”

  “I thought you said that your father was a printer.”

  “He was, he was. And a damn fine one at that!” Cappy gives a gigantic Santa Claus laugh. “He was printing hundred-dollar bills when he got caught!

  “Get this—Auggie's novel is about a boy whose uncle is a small-town bookie,” says Cappy, and gives me a nudge. “But he insists that it's not about us.”

  “Maybe it's not,” I say.

  “Did I tell you that Sheila and I are getting hitched?” asks Cappy.

  “No way!” I say. “You have a different girlfriend every single week!” And that's being generous.

  “That was the past and Sheila is the future. There's no luckier man than I!” says Cappy.

  He can see that I'm doubtful about the idea of his settling down.

  As we head toward the kitchen he leans forward and whispers in my ear. “Hey, kid, you remember what I used to tell you about all the tipsters at the racetrack?”

  “Yeah, even a blind squirrel occasionally finds a nut,” I answer.

  Auggie is standing near the door all ready to go. I move toward him and wave good-bye to Cappy and Texas.

  “Get along, little doggies,” says Texas.

  “Don't take any wooden nickels,” adds Cappy.

  A peacock squawks nearby, and I swear it sounds like a woman having her throat slit.

  “Those birds are giving me the jimjams,” says the normally calm Cappy. “Seriously, do you know anyone who wants four peacocks? It's illegal to assassinate them—can you believe that?”

  “I think we're pretty full up at my house. But if you can find a way to relate them to Chinese history, then I'm sure Bernard will take them,” I joke. “He's on this huge kick to make sure his adopted daughters relate to their culture.”

  “Really?” says Cappy, brightening for a moment. “And how's it going so far?”

  “Not so good,” I say. “There's a slight chance they'd be interested in a Chinese Barbie doll.”

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  LOLITA'S RESTAURANT IS A REFURBISHED PADDLEWHEEL BOAT that plied the Ohio River in the late 1800s, taking passengers and mail back and forth between Cincinnati and Louisville, and is now permanently docked on the south shore of Lake Erie. Most everything is painted white, and there are mannequins of men and women in period dress leaning over the railing. The women wave good-bye with lace handkerchiefs while the men hold decks of cards in their hands.

  The maître d’ leads us to a table by the water where we can watch the sun melt into the horizon, just far enough away from the band so it's possible to enjoy the music and still hear each other talk. Auggie says that the chicken Marsala is the house specialty, so we both decide on that and he orders some wine. The waiter writes this down without even looking up at us, forget about asking to see some ID.

  Lolita's is not exactly a cool young person's place. The diners are mostly older couples, and if teenagers or young adults appear, they can usually be traced back to a table shared with their parents or in-laws. But everyone seems to be having a good time.

  “Cappy told me that you wrote another prize-winning story,” I say. “Congratulations.”

  “It was just a contest held by a newspaper,” he says modestly.

  “What's this one about?”

  “A young guy who falls in love with a Russian woman and follows his heart—moves to Moscow and tries to find a job. I know it sounds autobiographical, but it's really not.”

  “Of course not,” I say. “Just out of curiosity, how does it end?”

  “The story or my relationship?” he asks.

  “Either one,” I say.

  “She marries the son of a rich banker because they'll have a big apartment.”

  “I see. And uh, what about the bi thing?”

  “I think I was reading too much Sergei Aleksandrovich Yesenin at the time.”

  “Huh?”

  “A Russian poet whose works lament the passing of rural life. He was a drinker, exhibitionist, revolutionary, and bisexual. For a while I was really into his 1916 collection Commemoration of the Dead. So I thought the secret to becoming a writer was to be free and open to all experiences. But to be honest, it didn't really work out for me.”

  “You mean that you're not bi?”

  “Not right now, at least,” he says. “Does it matter to you?”

  “Me?” I can't help but laugh. “I practically live at La Cage aux Folles.”

  “But you don't date them,” says Auggie.

  Is that what this is, an actual date? I suddenly feel a little nervous.

  “What about you?” asks Auggie. “Are you straight?”

  “I think so. Bernard is pretty much gay enough for the both of us,” I say.

  “Then why say you think so?” asks Auggie, but his tone is one of curiosity and not as if he's trying to trap me.

  “There's this movie I watched with Bernard called A Streetcar Named Desire. …”

  “Sure,” says Auggie. “It was a play first. By Tennessee Williams. And he was really gay.”

  “Right … well Blanche
talks about the word straight and says something like a line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart is curved like a road through mountains.”

  Suddenly a band featuring an accordion, tuba, and piano strikes up a particularly robust polka and Auggie asks me to dance. He must be kidding.

  “Auggie, I can barely dance free-style—forget a polka.”

  He takes my hand and before I know it we're sidestepping across the wooden floor in 2/4 time with eight other couples. It feels more like a soccer warm-up exercise than a dance, but everyone is laughing and the mood is rather infectious. During the crossed hands stomp we become hopelessly lost, but no one seems to care.

  On the way home I reach over and touch the clump of electric-blue fur attached to Auggie's key chain.

  “That's my lucky rabbit's foot,” he explains. “I found it on the steps of the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg.”

  “Doesn't appear to have worked for the rabbit,” I say.

  Auggie digs through a pile of stuff on the floor behind my seat. “Do you like Afro-Cuban music? Because I have this cut of a new group.”

  “I don't know much about it. I've been listening to a lot of Raffi lately.”

  He laughs and starts singing: “Did you ever see a goose kissing a moose, down by the bay?”

  I cover my ears and pretend to be in pain.

  Auggie abandons his search for the CD. “It must be inside with my stuff. I'll play it for you back at the house.”

  Back at the house? Then I suddenly remember that's where my car is parked.

  “What's wrong?” asks Auggie. It's weird, as if he has ESP or something.

  “Nothing.” Then I decide that I may as well tell him. “The past hour I keep thinking about what's going to happen—if you're going to park somewhere, just drop me off, kiss me good night, I don't know.”

  Suddenly I start to sob. Which is strange, because I was having a really nice night up until five seconds ago.

  “Did I do something to upset you?” Auggie pulls the car over.

  “No, no.” Gosh, I feel so ugly. If my skin was blotchy before, now it probably looks as if I have the measles.