by Jess Walter
John looks down at his chips. He has exactly five hundred. He looks up at Vince again. His eyes are slits. His head moves in tiny figure eights. His tongue takes a full second to wet his lips. “How much money you got?”
“Well, I gave four to Coletti today and—”
John waves his hand. “How much fuckin’ money you got?”
“On me? I have another six thousand, but it’s all the money I have. Like I said, I’ve been saving to open a restaurant, but when I get back I figured—”
John holds his hand out.
“I was hoping I could pay you when—”
Gotti’s hand remains out, bobbing like a boat on rough water.
Vince looks around the table, then reaches in his pocket, pulls out the thick roll, and drops it in Johnny’s hand.
Johnny Boy drops it in the pot. “I see your five hundred, bump you…how much did you say?”
“Six thousand.”
Carmine and Beans stare at each other, then at Ange.
“Call me!” John spits. “Call my fucking raise, Ange.”
They just stare. Finally John leans across the table and grabs a handful of Ange’s chips and throws them in the middle. “Call my fucking raise!” He reaches over to Beans and Carmine, too, rakes chips with his arms, until Vince’s roll of cash is surrounded by mounds of chips.
“There!” John yells. “Pot’s right!”
The guys don’t know what else to do, so one by one they show their hands. Beans has queens. Carmine has a queen-high straight. Ange has two pair. They stare at Gotti, who looks past his cards at the twenty-five thousand in the center of the table. Then he looks up at Vince.
“Be on a fuckin’ plane tomorrow,” Johnny says.
Vince looks at the pot—where his money sits.
John looks at the money, too. “I don’t care if you have to hijack the thing, be on a goddamned plane by noon.”
“I will,” Vince says.
“You got two weeks to send the rest of my money.”
“Okay.”
The other guys stare at John’s cards, still curled in his big hands.
“And if you ever come back here, I’ll do you myself, you rat fuck son of a bitch.”
Vince nods.
They are all quiet for a moment, staring at John’s cards—even Vince, who has been handed back his life.
Finally, Ange clears his throat. “Uh, John?”
The big man sighs and drops his cards on the table. A six and a two. He’s got nothing. Not even a pair. The guys don’t know what to do. John stands up and walks to the window, stares out. Vince takes the opportunity to back away from the table and edge toward the door. He looks back briefly and sees the guys at the table, still staring at the pot, and Gotti at the window, his round shoulders pulled in on his chest like an old man. Just as he closes the door behind him, Vince sees Johnny turn back toward the table, as if he’s just gotten an idea—or had a change of heart.
DETECTIVE CHARLES DRIVES down Sixth, turns on B, and tools along the curb for a block. He sidles next to a hooker carrying her heels in her hand and she smiles, bends down, and jaws with him. “Hiya, Charlie. Buyin’ or sellin’?”
“Neither.” He offers her a drink from the bottle at his side. “You seen Mario?”
“He was down with the fellas earlier,” she says, and points down the block. She straightens up and Charles drives away, goes two more blocks, and parks in front of an old apartment building, soot brown with a rusty exoskeleton of fire escapes. He takes a long drink from the whiskey bottle, screws the cap, and climbs out of his car. He reaches in the backseat and pulls out two shoeboxes. Two Dominican men are sitting on the stoop, drinking from beer bottles. “Guys,” Charles says, “how’d you make out tonight?”
The men say they did okay and one of them soul-shakes Charles’s hand.
“Seen Mario?”
The guy jerks his head toward the building. “He upstairs wif’ some patch he pick up downtown. You want me drag his ass down here, Charlie?”
“Yeah,” Charlie says. “But don’t tell him it’s me. Tell him there’s someone down here wants to buy weight from him.” Charles hands each man a shoebox. They take out the shoes and smile at them. “Did I get your sizes right?”
“Yeah, you did good, Charlie.” When one of the guys has his new shoes laced, he climbs off the stoop and starts upstairs. His feet glow in the new shoes. While he’s gone, Charles walks back to his car, opens his trunk, and pulls out a tire iron. Closes the trunk.
The first Dominican comes down the stairs with another guy—smaller, with black-rimmed glasses and a ponytail. The little guy is smiling at first, until he sees Charles. He holds his hands out in front of him, then breaks out in a full run. But the big cop has the angle and is on him before he makes it five steps.
“I din’t do nothin’, Charlie! I promise I din’t tell nobody nothin’!”
Charles doesn’t listen, just holds him by the ponytail and swings the tire iron; it thuds against the smaller man’s arms and head. His glasses go skidding across the sidewalk and clatter against a parking meter. “I told you not to fuck with me, Mario.”
Mario pulls away and scrambles against the stoop of the apartment. One of the guys there kicks him back toward Charles. Mario feints left and darts right and Charles drops the wrench to chase him. He catches Mario around the legs and they crash into the brick building, their long shadows grappling alongside them between the spaced streetlights. It takes Charles only a second to overpower the smaller man.
“I promise, Charlie! I din’t say shit to no one! Please, Charlie!”
Bent at the waist, Charles drags Mario by the hair back toward the stoop. He reaches behind himself to grab the tire iron where he dropped it. But it’s not there. He feels around, then straightens up and looks over his shoulder to the guys on the stoop.
“What the fuck?” But the guys on the stoop are empty-handed, too, staring past the big cop.
Charles turns and punches Mario as hard as he can, in the side and the face. “Where is my fuckin’ tire iron?” But Mario’s hands are empty, covering his head, and he’s sobbing, and it’s not until Charles turns his head a few more degrees that he sees Dupree step out of the shadows with his tire iron.
“Dookie?”
“You can’t do this.”
“Do what? I’m questioning a fuckin’ suspect here.” He lets go of Mario, smiles, and suddenly lunges toward Dupree, getting a firm grip on Alan’s shirt before the tire iron cracks against his skull.
Charles is knocked back a few feet and lets go of Dupree’s shirt, but amazingly, the big cop doesn’t fall. The men on the stoop scramble back into the building. Charles watches them, then turns to look over his shoulder at the open back door of a cab. “You tailed me in a fuckin’ cab?” He laughs, then reaches up and feels the bolt rising above his temple. “Gimme the wrench.” He takes a step toward Dupree, who hefts the tire iron again and steps back.
“Mario!” Dupree yells. The kid looks up at him. “You got relatives somewhere?”
Mario hesitates. Charles looks from Dupree to Mario and back. “Mario,” Charles growls. “Don’t you fuckin’ move, Mario!”
“Mario!” Dupree yells again. “Go!” Finally Mario scrambles up, picks up his glasses, and sprints away. Dupree and Charles watch him go.
Charles smiles, even and cool. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“You were right,” Dupree says. “You do need my help.”
Charles laughs at him, and rubs the lump on his head. “You just let a major drug dealer go, Seattle. You are so fucked.” There’s a slight rattle to his voice. “Now gimme that tire iron.” He laughs again and Dupree is amazed at his tolerance for pain. “Come on. I’ll drive you back.” He rubs his head, turns to go back to his car, and…with speed that belies his size—reaches into his jacket and has the gun unholstered and aimed in the same amount of time it takes Dupree to step forward and swing the tire iron again, catching Charles flush in the mouth.
Teeth crack, blood mists, and Charles’s face jerks to the right like it’s been yanked by wires. The gun clatters to the sidewalk and Charles lurches down the block, fighting to keep his balance, his body just ahead of his pigeon toes. “Waith,” he says, “waith.” He sprays blood as he speaks. Amazed that the man could still be standing, Dupree admires him just a bit as Charles tries to get his feet under him, listing down the sidewalk, until he finally topples: face, chest, and arms all hitting the sidewalk in a heap like a fallen tree.
VINCE’S FEET HIT the sidewalk; he breathes deeply the damp air. So that’s it. You’re free. You can fly wherever you want, be anything. And yet…haven’t you always been free to some extent? The question is whether you could do those things you had the freedom to do…the lake and the crows.
No, it’s not over. Vince watches a produce truck back up to the basement door of a restaurant, the owner using his hands to indicate two feet, then one foot. It’s as if the owner is signaling Vince—his proximity to danger.
The whole thing reminds Vince of the way he wakes up just before his alarm goes off—the knowing burst of anxiety he feels just before a hand lands on his shoulder. He turns around and sees the smiling round face of Ange, in his tan jumpsuit. “Hey, Donuts! Good news. John axed me to drive you to the airport.”
“Drive me?” Vince asks. Going for a ride? “You…uh…you know what, Ange? That’s really okay. I can make it.”
“Aw, I have to insist.” Ange sticks out his bottom lip. “John wants to make sure you get there safe. And he wants me to have a little talk with you. Okay?”
“Sure.” Vince’s mouth goes dry. Of course. They can’t just let you go. You can’t snitch and then go. The whole system breaks down if they just let some rat waltz in and apologize for breaking the only rule these assholes have.
Ange holds up a roll of bills. “John axed me to buy your airplane ticket, too. Since he took all your money.”
“That’s really not necessary,” Vince says. “I can borrow the money.”
Ange waves him off. “John insists. Look, he’s really not a bad guy.” Then he leans toward Vince. “But you do have to get out of town. Between you and me, Donuts, I don’t think John likes having you around.”
Vince nods. Of course John doesn’t want him around. And yet Vince is somewhat glad that it’s Ange; of all the guys at the poker game, he’s the one Vince liked the best, the one who seemed to understand the appeal of getting to be someone else for a while, of getting to be Vince Camden. No, if someone is going to push the button…Ange will at least make it quick. Painless. And maybe Vince can even talk him out of it.
“Come on, Donuts. Let’s go.”
They walk to Ange’s car, a red Dodge Diplomat. Vince could try to run, but even if he got away from Ange…if they could find him in Spokane, Washington, they could find him anywhere. His mind is racing, trying to think of a way out, when something else occurs to him. “You think we could make one stop first?”
Angelo considers. “The boss wants you gone.”
“There’s this girl…I’d like to see her once before…”
Ange looks back over his shoulder and then nods. “Yeah. Okay.”
“And then it’ll go quick—right, Ange?”
“Don’t worry about it, Donuts. You’ll be home in no time.”
DUPREE SITS IN the hospital waiting room, eating a donut and drinking a cup of black water. He’s staring at an empty nurses’ station, when Mike, Charlie’s union rep, edges down the hall, unsure what awaits him. Dupree stands up and forces a smile. “Hey, Mike!” he says, as if they’ve been friends for years. “Thanks for coming down. It’ll mean a lot to Charlie.”
The PBA rep—thin, gray hair, drawn face—comes on him expectantly, as if thinking, This had better be good. An announcement goes over the hospital PA for a doctor and Mike looks over his shoulder for just a moment.
“He’s fine,” Dupree says. “Don’t worry. I guess they’re gonna have to operate on his jaw, though. It’s gonna be wired shut for a while. He’s not gonna be able to talk. Which might not be such a bad thing, huh?”
“The nurse said he got jumped?” Mike says.
“He was helping me on my case. We were interviewing some people in—what is it, Alphabet City? And someone just stepped out of the shadows, jumped him, and hit him with a tire iron. Twice…I think.”
“Someone…” Mike says.
“Yeah,” says Dupree. “Someone.”
They stare at each other for a long time, and then Dupree shrugs, smiles, and looks away. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help him. I’m no good in situations like that.”
“That right? You don’t like to fight?”
“No. Not much.” Dupree checks his watch. “Look, I gotta take off. But I thought it’d be a good idea to have someone with him when he comes out of surgery. He’s gonna be pretty confused. Be good to have someone calm him down, tell him to lay low.”
“Lay low?”
“Yeah.” He looks carefully at Mike. “Tell him I appreciate his help. Tell him as far as I’m concerned, we’re done.”
Mike gives a quick nod; he can’t promise anything, but he seems to understand the terms of the truce. “Look, I don’t know how much you know about Charlie…what happened to him…”
“More than I want to know.”
Mike shrugs. “He was a good cop…”
Dupree just stares.
Mike can see that it doesn’t matter and he shrugs. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do. You need anything else?”
“As a matter of fact…” Dupree pulls out a pad and writes down the name Martin Hagen. “He was supposed to get me a file on this guy. Can you help me with that?”
Mike says he’ll try.
Dupree starts to leave, but Mike calls after him. “How long are you here?”
“As long as it takes to find this guy.”
“Well,” Mike says, “if I was you, I’d hurry.”
IT’S LIKE A vision there in front of you—a memory you haven’t actually had but could describe completely. Eight o’clock Saturday morning, cool and overcast, and right there, across the street, Tina comes out on her small porch to get the paper. Barefoot, wearing a short terry-cloth robe that stops right in the middle of her muscled thigh. Her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. A glimpse of white silk inside the robe. Everything Vince once believed he could ever want in life is contained in this picture: a woman, a house, the morning paper. And for a moment he feels some bitterness about the smallness of his dreams—it’s not as if he wants to be president, and yet he couldn’t be further away from even this simple life, this thing that other people fall into without even trying, that other men rebel against, abandon on their way to bus depots and train stations and taverns. Vince stands across the street, against the hood of Ange’s car. Inside the car, Ange is leaning on the wheel, pointing and smiling, and his thick lips mouth the words: Is that her?
She stands stock-still, reading the paper, flipping the pages, and he wants to go over, he really does, wants to stand next to her, to feel her breath on his chest, to feel the tiny blond hairs on her thigh, just below the robe’s edge.
A car drives by between them and Vince is shaken from his thoughts. But Tina doesn’t look up from the paper. Inside his car, Ange holds up his hands and raises his eyebrows. His thick face shows alarm and he mouths again, Talk to her! But before Vince can decide, Tina turns with the paper toward the house. She opens the screen door and steps back inside. The door closes behind her. And Vince stands there, across the street, leaning on the car.
Ange climbs out and leans on his doorframe. “Hey, wasn’t that her, Donuts?”
“Yeah. It was her.”
“Then what the fuck? You make me drive all the way out here and you ain’t gonna talk to her? I thought you was gonna talk to her.”
“I don’t think I can,” Vince says. “I don’t know what to say.”
Ange looks at the house and then back at Vince. “She’s pret
ty.”
“Thanks, Ange.”
Vince considers the house—narrow and clapboard, just like the two houses wedged on either side, painted white and yellow, with window flower boxes and an American flag. It’s just the kind of life Vince would’ve wanted to give her, and what she insisted she didn’t need—at least when they were together, back when Vince was incapable of this kind of life.
Ange stays leaning on the car door. Scratches his black hair. “So you’re telling me we drove all this way and you ain’t even gonna fuckin’ talk to her?”
“I guess I just wanted to see her.”
“How long has it been?”
“Three years,” Vince says.
“You never called her? Or wrote her a letter?”
“No.”
“How come?”
Vince watches the windows, for any sign of her. “I promised her brother I’d leave her alone. He didn’t want her to get hurt.”
“Huh.” Ange nods. “That’s kind of…Jesus, that’s sad.”
Vince shrugs. He starts back for the car, opens his door, starts to climb in, and then stops. “Look. I know what’s goin’ on.”
Ange’s eyes narrow. “Yeah?”
Vince nods. “John would never just let me go, would he?”
“Donuts…” Ange shrugs. “Look, it’s complicated. You gotta understand about John. He’s got a lot of responsibility. There are rules. It’s a whole system of precedents and ways of doing things. Everything has value. Everything costs. You can’t just let someone walk away. Not without getting some”—Ange searches for the right words—“compensation. This thing is bigger than you or me. Or even John. This thing goes back generations. This thing is bigger than all the people involved. That’s why it works.”
“But we don’t have to go along. You and I…we can just step outside of it.”
Ange smiles. “What would I be, I step outside this life? I’m gonna make donuts? Come on.” Shrugs his big round shoulders. “Get in the car.”
Vince looks once more at the windows of Tina McGrath’s house, but they’re as cold and flat as Johnny Boy’s eyes. He climbs in the car.
