Chasing the Sandman

by Meyers, Brandon

  Any card player worth his salt knows that the size of a chip stack in a heads up game is critical. If you’re down, you’ve either got to pick a decent hand to push all-in with, or get blinded out of the game. It seems easy enough when the highest risk you run is losing all of your money. It’s much different when your physical well-being is brought into the equation.

  When I hit the halfway point with my chips, I caught the best hand I’d seen so far. It was a pair of red jacks. Didi did me the favor of upping the bet. I pushed my measly stack into the middle.

  Didi called with a grin and the cards came out. It was when I saw Didi’s four-of-a-kind that I realized I was playing a game that I didn’t have the slightest chance of winning.

  “Aw, that’s too bad, Nelson. What are the odds of me having a monster hand like that? And here you thought it was a sure thing. I wonder what that must feel like. But don’t worry, my boy. You’ve still got lots of collateral that we can play with here.”

  One tense minute later, I was peering down at the two cards in front of me. A suited jack and five of spades: a lemming hand if there ever was one.

  As I had nothing to physically bet, all I could do was call whatever Didi bet and hope to god that Renfrey hadn’t tampered with the hand. Of all the things a bodyguard might need in his skill repertoire, I never would have guessed he was a deck mechanic. For all I knew, he had been setting up every single hand.

  When the flop gave me three fives, I knew I was in trouble. I didn’t even register Didi’s bets, but just blindly called. There was no point in folding. He wouldn’t let me.

  When I turned over my set of fives, Didi just smiled and revealed his full house.

  “Well, looks like I win that one. Hmm…I think we’re gonna have to start with toes, Nel. I want to save your precious fingers for last. Phillips?”

  Seconds later, the other of Didi’s two thugs had wrapped me in a half-nelson from behind the chair while Renfrey ripped the sneaker off my foot. Didi fingered his chips in the pot and said, “I think three will do for now.”

  Huge, pooling sweat rings had formed underneath my arms and across my chest. My breathing was short and shallow. I screamed like holy hell when the hammer first struck the chisel.

  Ungodly pain shot up my leg and I spasmed wildly in the chair. The following strokes of the hammer hardly even registered in my already exploding mind. Perhaps it was a pain overload, but I think I lost consciousness for a few minutes.

  When the world came back to me, the air stunk of charred meat and grime. I was sure that I knew where the stench had come from. My leg still felt like it was on fire. Caked blood flaked off my face and into my lap. At least they hadn’t bound me.

  Staring at my feet, I looked at the crispy remains of my left foot. The cuts had been clean, leaving me with a black and red deformity that was so inflamed that it resembled a balloon with two little nubs on the end. I vomited all over the floor.

  When I lifted my head, I saw with great disappointment that the Iron Beak was still perched in his poker chair.

  “Ready for your next hand?” he said wickedly.

  Maybe it was the natural opiates of my body, or maybe I was in shock, but I coughed and spat, “Let’s make it quick. I’ve got appointments to keep.”

  Didi laughed. “That’s the spirit. I want you to keep with the fight.”

  My next hand was an absolute mockery. Pocket aces. Considered statistically to be the absolute best starting hand in Texas Hold ‘Em. I didn’t even care to see what they had concocted to crack this hand. I could barely keep my thoughts in line enough to stay upright in my chair. If only I could have made myself pass out again.

  Didi laid down some hand or another that put my aces to shame. He watched me thoughtfully. “I always liked you, Buckwheat. Where’d you go wrong? Did you possibly think I wouldn’t put it together that you sold me out? The kid with the golden arm; the kid who only ever missed when I told him to. Did you really think you’d get away with it? Shit, kid, you really must have thought I was blind not to have seen you throw those shots. Did you just want to see me lose my ass?”

  I tottered for a moment before replying. “I really can’t see shit now, can I? Got my eye pecked by a damn huge woodpecker.”

  He reached across the table and clouted me with an open-handed blow that knocked me out of my seat.

  “Heh,” I laughed. “Peckerhead.”

  Didi was out of his chair and hovering over me, when he shouted over his shoulder. “Renfrey, get back in here. Time to collect more from this asshole. Renfrey?”

  “Flew the coop,” I said, in a daze.

  Didi delivered a swift kick into my ribs, leaving me free of any unnecessary oxygen. At that moment, I became the world’s least-biggest fan of wingtips.

  “Renfrey, get your ass in here!” Didi raged.

  “Pecker,” I rasped, “head. What time is it?”

  Didi whirled and kicked me again, this time in the legs. “It’s eight fifteen, wiseass. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to cancel all your meetings for the rest of the night.”

  “I’m late,” I said.

  Didi paused and looked at me. “What’d you say?”

  “They’re gonna think I’m an asshole ‘cause of you. Eight is late. Late after eight.”

  “Oh, you’re just out of your rocker now. Well, maybe we won’t wait for Renfrey or Phillips.” Didi reached for the hammer and leaned down to his knees. “Come to think of it, I’d rather do it myself, anyway.”

  Two seconds later, my face was covered in blood.

  My ears didn’t even register the gunshot that had left half of Didi’s cranial fluids and brain matter blasted across on the front of my shirt. His body thumped heavily to the floor, beak clanking solidly on the concrete.

  “Sorry, kid,” Sammy Delacroix said from the doorway. In his ice-cream white suit, the man looked like an angelic version of Dean Martin. “Traffic was killer. Hate to think that I almost didn’t keep my end of the deal. Boys, in here. When we got to your apartment and saw that you weren’t there, I knew where we’d find ya.”

  Two strapping young men came in to help me limp out of the room. “I got a doc who can take a look at that for you. Least I can do.” He handed me a duffel bag. The look on my face must have expressed my obvious disbelief, because Delacroix looked hurt.

  “Listen, kid. There’s a lot of money in that bag, but not as much as you just made me by helping to take out that metal-head jerk-off. I never meant to kill him,” he said with a shrug, “but, hey, ain’t being bankrupted about the same damn thing? And my word is as good as gold, so go on and get out of here. We’ve got some cleaning up to do. Angelo will give you a ride home and I’ll send the doc your way, pronto.”

  I nodded my aching head and offered thanks before being led toward the exit.

  “Hey, Nelson. One more thing,” Delacroix shouted. “Come and find me when you’re feeling better, and we’ll see about finding you some work.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  One week later, I was resting beachside in Daytona. The warmth of the sun was enough to deaden the ache of my now lighter foot, which, all bandaged up, made my pale leg look like a Q-tip. Things were quiet, and for the first time in my life, I wasn’t worried about making money. With all that cash, I thought I might even start up a business.

  After all, this part of town didn’t have a pool room.

  Stone Cold Love

  “And that’s how Mortimer the Mad wound up using his own head for a candy basket. They say that if you listen close enough to the breeze on a dark Halloween night you can still…”

  “Hmmph.”

  “you can still—oh for god’s sake, Dad. What is it?” Half a dozen uneasily fascinated eyes turned toward the corner.

  “What?” said the crooked-nosed old man who sat hunched over his bowl of caramel corn.

  “I was in the middle of a story, and you keep interrupting,” offered the irritated younger man around whom the group of youngsters sat
circled.

  “Well, it actually sounded more like the end of the story to me,” he said. He leaned down toward the children and whispered conspiratorially, “And a bloody good thing too. Any longer and I’m afraid I’d have died myself…of boredom.”

  The boys and girls all giggled.

  “Alright, Dad. If you think you can top the tale of Mortimer the Mad, we’re all ears,” the younger man challenged. All eyes of the eager youths seated on the floor were rapt with anticipation.

  “Just you slide yourselves this way, lads and lassies, and Grandfather Roy will share a real story of All Hallow’s Eve.” As his son rolled his eyes, Grandfather Roy continued. “It was the night of Hallowe’en but a few weeks after my arrival State-side from the Isle. The tale begins with a dispute involving two bottles of ale and a box of matches...”

  Gilroy Fleming sat in the corner of the shabby tavern, looking morosely into his glass, whose contents he noticed, bore an uncanny resemblance to those of a piss pot. It tasted only slightly better.

  At the far side of the cramped and deserted watering hole, two men were arguing at the bar.

  “An’ I say ya can’t,” said the larger of the two.

  “Yessir, I tell you,” replied the drunker, “I can drink both of these here bottles of beer—huccup—‘fore you can light that whole box of matches. An’ if I’m wrong, you’ll be a—huccup—whole dollar to the good.”

  The large man looked the rather frail challenger over and laughed. Seeing that the scrawny fellow was already completely soused, he accepted the wager.

  It took the large man until his opponent had finished half the first bottle to realize that the matchbox was rubbed smooth, without a striking surface.

  Gilroy watched with mild interest and swayed in his approach to the bar for another draught.

  “You damn little sneak, Milton!” the man shouted. “You knew there weren’t no…” He looked around with fervor, eyes finally alighting on the candle that burned at the bar back, next to a dainty woman’s picture and a bottle of gin.

  The barkeep had just emerged from the store room to witness the frantic oaf climb over the face of the bar and toward the vigil, matches in hand. But, he was too slow.

  Just as the entire box had been ignited, the furious bartender pounced upon the disrespectful drunk.

  “Pardon me, Earl,” Gilroy said, nonplussed, with a wave of his empty mug. “When you’ve a moment.” He ducked to dodge a flying beer bottle that the bartender had intended for the drunk’s head.

  In the following seconds, while Gilroy frowned at his empty glass, Earl the barkeep managed to wrench the flaming box from the drunk’s triumphant hand. But, the success was short-lived. The stumbling drunk crashed into the bar, toppling a high-proof bottle of spirits from the shelf. Upon impact, it sent alcohol and glass in all directions, including Gilroy’s. The little that did splash onto Gilroy’s jacket was enough to welcome the flames from the matchbox when Earl tried to catch the bottle.

  A healthy bout of running and screaming followed. And the next thing Gilroy knew, he was rolling in the dirt. After tossing about on the frigid ground for a full minute, he finally got his wits back under control and sat up. He smelled like a drunken bellows pumper. Light from the pale partial moon gave soft illumination to his surroundings.

  “Bloody hell,” Gilroy said. He was sitting just inside the iron gates of the small cemetery that sat across the dirt road from Earl’s Tavern. He inspected his jacket and shirt, both of which were covered with blackened holes. “An’ don’t think I’ll be back to pay for that pissy pint, Earl!” he shouted. “Damnable idiot.”

  Gilroy gathered his bearings and decided to cut through the cemetery to the street at the opposite end. On any other night, he would have circumvented the graveyard. But, as it was, he looked dreadful, and his still drunk mind reasoned that he’d likely be mistaken for a vagrant and apprehended by the lawmen. Dry fall leaves crackled beneath his shoes as he proceeded to stagger through the graveyard.

  “Just bought this shirt,” he mumbled, fingering one of the holes. He had made up his mind to go back the next morning and demand compensation for the clothing when bickering voices pulled Gilroy from his vengeful thoughts.

  “He never wanted you, Matilda. In fact, he told me your hindquarters looked like ham hocks.”

  “Ooh, Elsie, you rotten little witch. My dearest Tobias was above all else a gentleman. I’m sure he’d have never uttered such a thing. Just as he would have been too kind to tell you that your face looks like a drum that an eagle has jabbed its beak through.”

  Hearing the aggravated tone in the women’s voices, Gilroy could not help but be drawn forward by his curiosity. As he rounded the next hedge, he saw the two young ladies, each sitting atop the same tall gravestone with their backs to one another.

  “Honestly, Matilda. Are you never going to get over the fact that I was the one blessed with strong facial features? I’d much rather look like a proud eagle than a chocolate bar that’s been left to the sun.”

  Matilda scowled and clenched her lace-gloved hands. The two women were dressed nearly identically, with frilled ball gowns and lifted hairstyles, as though they had just come from a party. Though sharing similar dark features, one was noticeably shorter and plumper than her rail-thin counterpart.

  Gilroy froze as both women turned their attention to him.

  “Oh…hello. Just…passing through.” He coughed and offered what he hoped was his most innocent expression. “So sorry to interrupt. Right. Don’t mind me.”

  “Oh, you poor dearie. Look at your shirt,” said Matilda. With a surprisingly spry hop down, she waddled toward Gilroy.

  “It’s nothing, really,” Gilroy insisted. “Just a bit of an incident with a couple hooligans.”

  “Ooh, I’ll bet you showed them, didn’t you?” chimed the other woman. “Big, strapping man like yourself.” Gilroy frowned. He had been called many things in his life, but at five-and-a-half feet tall, the words big and strapping had never been on the list.

  “Well…sure,” Gilroy said, puffing out his chest a little when he realized she was not poking fun. “I suppose I did give them a few words to sit on.” It wasn’t often that women openly complimented him, and so he returned an awkward smile with too many teeth. And then he remembered his surroundings. “Wait a moment. What are you two—”

  “My name is Elsie,” said the taller of the two. “And this is my unfortunately simple sister—”

  “Matilda,” the shorter sister intervened. She gave a wink. “Please don’t mind Elsie. She doesn’t behave well in the company of men, you know.” They elbowed at each other firmly while still presenting forced smiles and batting eyelids.

  Still trying to understand what appeared to be an odd turn of fortune, Gilroy grinned wider. “My apologies. Gilroy Fleming. Quite honored to make your acquaintances.”

  “Gilroy, is it?” said Matilda. “What a name that is. So strong and, and…”

  “Noble,” continued Elsie, sliding around to one side of Gilroy, looking him up and down as though inspecting a dessert tray, which by the looks of her, had never been one of her great passions. “Forgive my sister for being at a loss of words. Most of the time she’s no use for them, as one cannot both chew and speak at the same time.”

  Matilda giggled with the restrained malice that only an old grudge can batter into wicked cordiality. “Do correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Fleming, but does a man not prefer a woman with a bit of substance to one that he could use to lace his shoe with?” She flapped her glittering eyes as she spoke, and pulled at Gilroy’s coat collar.

  He cleared his throat and looked away from their moonlit faces. “Sorry missu—er—madams, but I do my best to stay out of family matters.” Gilroy shifted from between the two women so that they were once again locked in sneering gazes.

  “Look what you’re doing then, Matilda. Driving him away with your stupid questions, just like my poor Tobias.”

  “Oh, of course, Elsie
. And just like Tobias, will I be driving him directly into the tip of your knife?” Matilda seemed to have made what both deemed to be the final point, because Elsie dropped the subject and instead turned her attention back to Gilroy.

  “Please don’t let our childish antics drive you off, Gilroy. You don’t mind if I do call you Gilroy, do you?”

  “Well, no. I’ve just said it’s my name. But, pardon me, did she just say that you’ve stabbed a man?” Gilroy fidgeted. With a mild chill, he double checked to make sure that both of her hands were empty of pointed culinary objects.

  “Goodness, no,” Elsie laughed. “My sister does know how to spin a yarn.” She shot her sister a look that could have frozen a water pitcher.

  Matilda gave a huff a crossed her arms defiantly.

  Elsie took his hand and pulled him to the stone perch upon which he’d found them. The flattering effects ushered along by alcohol had begun to wear thin, and he reluctantly followed, but was wary not to let the other sister out of his sight.

  “Do have a seat, Gilroy. I’m very sorry we don’t have a chair to offer, but as you can see, there’s somewhat a lack of amenities here.” At Elsie’s push, Gilroy slipped backward and onto the flat, wide top of the headstone. She seated herself beside him, while Matilda plopped to sulk on the leaf-strewn ground at their feet.

  “I was actually wondering about that. You see, I can’t figure—”

  “You have wonderful eyes, if I may be so bold,” interrupted Elsie. “One can only wonder the many spectacular things they’ve seen on your journeys. Will you please share with us?”

  At present, he found himself wondering if Earl’s home-brewed ale might have spent a little too long in the cask, causing his inebriated self to have night visions on his charred and filthy walk home. On the other hand, women never paid much attention to Gilroy, and so he obliged.

  “Well,” said Gilroy. “The ship I traveled on was quite impressive. And the open air and swelling seas.” At first thought of the roiling waves, Gilroy’s flimsy stomach churned. He brought a hand automatically to his mouth in anticipation. “I…I was below deck for most of it,” he mumbled. “Terrible allergies.” Gilroy coughed lamely. “Er, there was more than one spot of rough waters.”