by Simone Pond
As I observe the men placing their bets, dusty memories of family poker night come up. I haven’t played in years—not since Achilles disappeared—but I’m confident I could handle myself among these guys. My photographic memory helps with counting cards and with figuring out who’s bluffing or not. I take out the silver coins and roll them between my fingers.
I pull Noah closer and whisper, “Anything that sounds like Border-talk, let me know.”
When he leans down, his lips brush my temple, causing both of us to jump back. “I’m not sure what Border-talk sounds like.”
“Anything that seems off. Like someone complaining about the SOB. Anyone without a DOD is probably with the resistance. Got it?”
He salutes me. “And if you hear anything about a murder a few years back …” I don’t know whether to give him an empathetic smile or a hug, so I half-grin and head over to an empty seat at the poker table. Noah grabs my arm. “What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like? We need more than a few coins in our pockets.”
“You know how to play poker?”
“I sure hope she does, since she’s playing at my table,” grunts a stubby man chewing on the moist end of a half-smoked cigar. He shuffles the deck in his meaty hands.
I pull out the seat and sit. “I’m fine. Deal me in.”
Noah says in my ear, “Gambling isn’t very ladylike, Kalliste.”
The fumes rise up. I’m about to lay into him when the grouchy dealer abruptly clears his throat. It’s also not ladylike when I shove Noah away. The young guy next to me chuckles under his breath. Though his clothes are a tattered mess and his ratty top hat completely ridiculous, he’s quite handsome. He glances at me sideways, his dark brown eyes shining. We shake hands, and he says with a thick southern twang, “I’m Johnson.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance Johnson. I’m Kalli Reines.”
He motions toward Noah who’s lurking a few feet away. “You with him?”
I peer over my shoulder, and Noah’s pushing his hands through his unruly hair, seething. I laugh loudly enough for him to hear. “Oh, heavens no. We’re traveling together, but I’m not with him.”
“Where are you from?”
“Richmond,” I say.
“Whaddya doing in this podunk grid?” Johnson pulls his coat sleeves farther down when he sees me staring at his wrists.
“On our way to Savannah,” I explain, ignoring Noah’s previous request to withhold information. I’m not sure why, but something tells me I can trust this quirky character. He could be a lead.
A balding man with wisps of thin white hair slams his fist on the table. “Can we get this game started, or do you two want to talk about your childhoods?”
I smile cordially. “I apologize for the interruption. What are we playing?”
“Five-card stud,” the dealer says, setting his cigar into a filthy ashtray.
“Why not Follow the Queen?” The guy with wispy hair laughs.
The dealer doesn’t find this humorous and starts tossing out the cards.
“What y’all got going on in Savannah?” Johnson asks.
“Looking for my brother. He’s been missing for three years. His name is Achilles.” I pause, letting that sink in. If Johnson is with the resistance, then he should know a name like that. Noah’s sigh of irritation reaches my ears, but I don’t care.
Johnson observes me for a moment. “Hm. Interesting. And you say you’re down from Richmond?”
“Yes.”
Not saying anything more, Johnson returns his focus to the table. I look down at my three coins. I’d like to double them while I’m mining for information. Each player has one card facing up and one down. I memorize the up cards, which aren’t showing much promise. Except for my jack of hearts. I peek at my down card and hold my breath to contain my excitement. What are the chances of having a pair of jacks on the first deal?
“Your bet,” the dealer says, pointing at me with his cigar.
I overhear someone along the outskirts of the table give me highest odds of losing. These men expect me to take a licking, which means I absolutely cannot. I modestly slide my first coin into the middle, keeping a straight face. The other men place their bets. Another face-up card is dealt, a two of hearts. This isn’t great, but nobody else is showing anything close to competing with my pair of jacks. The men casually scope out each other’s cards. More cards are dealt, more bets placed.
“You never said where you’re from,” I say to Johnson, hoping to get something out of him.
“Savannah,” he replies.
Hearing this produces an enormous smile. “How pleasantly serendipitous,” I say.
“Quit yer yammering over there!” the dealer barks.
I glance at my newest card—another two of hearts. Now I have two pair. In five-card stud, this is nothing short of amazing. I toss my last coin, knowing I’ll take the whole pot with this hand. I lay down my cards, glancing over my shoulder at Noah to rub it in. The shock registering on his face, coupled with the gasp from the doubters, is almost better than winning the hand.
“Nice job,” Johnson says, tipping his top hat.
I scoop up the pile of coins and shove everything in my pocket and stand up to leave the table.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The dealer picks up his stubby cigar and lights it again.
“I’m hoping to catch a train to Savannah.”
“If you sit at this table, you’re in for at least five hands. Give us a chance to win back our coins.”
“I don’t want to miss the train,” I say politely.
A tall man with heaping muscles steps behind me and pushes me back into my chair.
The dealer shrugs his shoulders and starts flipping cards at the players. “No more trains tonight, missy. Looks like you’ll be in Camden till morning.”
Something about his steely wink tells me that winning the first hand was a ruse. Those original three pieces of silver probably would’ve procured a ride to Savannah. Now our entire bankroll at risk. To be safe, I slip a few coins into my pocket for a prudent reserve. I turn to Noah helplessly, but he just shakes his head in the quintessential told you so fashion.
The cards are dealt, and bets placed. I lose the next game even though I’ve done a meticulous job at counting cards. It’s clear my assumptions are correct—I’m being hustled. I’m not sure how the dealer is cheating, but know he is. Cards don’t lie, but humans do. I keep my bets modest, checking or folding when I can. But somehow my coins keep disappearing. Noah’s burning glare isn’t helping the situation.
Johnson wins the last couple of hands, and I’m starting to think he and the dealer are in cahoots. But Johnson’s poker face is tough to read, unlike the wispy neurotic guy who lights up gleefully every time he gets a good card. We’re reaching the fifth and final hand and I only have a few coins showing. The game is Black Mariah, which means whoever has the highest spade in their down-facing cards wins the pot. I happen to have the king of spades facing down, which is second best. But there’s an ace of spades out there somewhere.
“Awfully quiet over there, missy,” the dealer says, sniggering.
“It’s poker,” I reply in a steady tone, though nausea twists in my stomach.
“You gonna place your bet?” he grunts.
That’s when I see it—a quick flick of his wrist as he slips a card into the deck. It was the ace of spades, which would be the highest spade in the hole. I scrutinize his stubby hands as he deals out the last round facedown. He gave the ace to the even-tempered man next to Johnson, who hasn’t said more than two words all night. I want to say something. I should say something. But I’d like to walk away from this table without any broken bones.
Old wispy hair shouts, “Stop pussyfootin’ and let’s finish this game.”
Johnson smiles, resting his hand on top of mine, and I catch a glimpse of his wrist, not seeing any traces of a blue glow. “You can fold,” he says quietly.
&nbs
p; “I fold,” I announce.
“You’re not going anywhere,” the dealer barks.
“I’m out of coins,” I lie.
He smashes the cigar into the ashtray. “You got three coins in yer pocket. I said you don’t leave until you done played five hands.”
“You can’t stop me from folding. That’s against the rules,” I argue.
The man with hulking muscles once again shoves me back into my chair. I reluctantly toss in my last coins, feeling like the biggest fool to walk the earth. We flip our cards. Of course, the stone-cold silent guy wins the pot. I stand up and address the table, “Nice playing with you, fellas. I’ll be sure to think kindly of you when I’m hopping the train tomorrow.”
The asshole dealer laughs, blowing a toxic cloud of smoke my way. “Don’t you wanna try to win it back, missy?”
“With what?”
“We could always play strip poker.”
The men break out into a chorus of laughter. Before I say something incredibly regrettable, Noah pulls me away from the table. “Nice going,” he says.
“I was hornswoggled.”
Noah scoffs as if this couldn’t possibly be the real reason for losing everything.
“Trust me, the dealer was a no-good dirty cheat. I saw him with my own eyes,” I argue in my defense as though Noah has me on trial.
“So you just sat there and let him cheat you? What didn’t you say something?”
“Are you kidding? If I would’ve called him out, we would’ve lost a lot more than some silver.”
He’s shaking his head, irritated and annoyed. “I don’t know why you thought gambling was a good idea in the first place.”
“I just wanted to double our currency and try to get some info on Achilles.”
“You keep saying Achilles like that’s the only reason we’re here.”
That is the only reason I’m here, but I keep my big mouth shut. I’ve already done enough damage for one night. Instead, I try to sound optimistic in hopes of shifting the subject away from my bad decision making. “All is not lost. That guy Johnson is from Savannah. Maybe we can ask him for a ride?”
“I don’t trust him.”
“It’s getting late, Noah. He might be our only hope.”
“We can hop the train in the morning. But hey, you know what? I’ll step back and let you decide. You’re the one with the ticking clock on her wrist. I’ll be outside waiting.” Noah turns for the door, and I follow so I can talk some sense into him.
“Hey, Kalli. Wait up.”
We turn around to see Johnson waving me down from across the tavern.
“Great,” Noah says in a bitter tone.
I pinch his arm. “Be polite, Long-Timer. This might be our best bet.”
Johnson greets us, tipping his hat and grinning like a pig in shit.
“What are you smiling at?” Noah sneers.
“Let’s just say my pockets are heavy,” Johnson says.
“Glad someone’s are,” I mumble.
“Yeah, the dealer doesn’t like tourists.”
“That dealer doesn’t like playing fair,” I add.
Noah steps up to Johnson, broadening his shoulders. “Glad we’re all in agreement that the dealer is a scoundrel. So what do you want?”
“I didn’t want to say anything at the table, but I’ve also been looking for Achilles, on and off. Maybe we can help each other?”
I stumble a little. This is the boon I’ve been waiting for—someone off-grid who might have a clue about my brother. “Are you serious?” I manage to get out.
“Isn’t that convenient,” Noah bites, then takes my arm and mutters in my ear, “I don’t trust this joker, Kalliste.”
I push him away and return to scanning Johnson for any evidence of potential betrayal. The sleeve of his jacket is covering where his DOD assignment would be. “Are you a Border?” I take the blunt approach.
He nods. “Yeah, but let’s keep that quiet. Lots of ears in here.”
Noah taps my shoulder. “You have a moment?”
“Can it wait?” I ask, irritated.
“Not really. Do you mind, um,” he pauses, looking at Johnson, “what’s your name?”
“Johnson,” he says.
“Is that your first name or last?” Noah asks.
“Just Johnson.” He tips his shoddy top hat one more time and grins. “I’ll be at the bar.”
After he saunters off, I glare at Noah. “You’re wasting time. This guy is not only a Border, he’s looking for Achilles. It doesn’t get better than this.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“I have a good feeling. I’ve been searching for a long time to no avail. This is a huge win.”
“Don’t you find it suspicious? He just happens to be from Savannah? He just happens to be looking for your brother?”
“I don’t want to miss out on a potential lead. I’ve been through too much to get here. You can turn around if you want.”
Noah pounds his fist against the wall. “This isn’t just about you, Kalli. You conveniently keep forgetting that.”
I stand back, biting my lip as shame spirals through my body. Noah wants closure as much as I do, and I keep putting my selfish needs first. “I’m sorry. I’ve been so consumed with finding Achilles for so long I don’t know when to quit.”
“I understand. But every now and then, try to remember I’m looking for information on my brother too.”
“Deal.” I hold out my hand, and we shake.
“If you really trust this Johnson character, we should follow this lead while it’s hot.”
“You say his name like it hurts. You’re not jealous, are you?”
Noah cracks up and tugs my ponytail like I’m his kid sister. “Good one, Kalli.”
Embarrassed, I swiftly take down my hair and shake it free. “Well, it’s difficult trying to decipher your inscrutable moods.”
“My inscrutable moods? You’re something, you know that? For the record, I don’t trust the guy. But I can see you’re not changing your mind, so let’s get this over with. Clock’s ticking, remember?”
He heads over to the bar and sits next to Johnson. From behind, they could be brothers with their matching dark hair and sturdy shoulders. But up close, it’s clear they’re very different people. Johnson’s been living on the edge, making him hardened and a bit weathered. While Noah’s smooth skin and chiseled bone structure is more refined. I’m not about to let Noah screw this up, so I run over to the bar and get straight to the point.
“We need a ride to Savannah. We can’t pay you, but I can help you find my brother. I know he’s down there. Also, we’re in a bit of a time crunch.” I hold up my wrist.
“Nine days, huh?” Johnson takes a sip of his beer.
“Technically, eight days since this day is shot to hell.”
He glances at Noah. “What about you? You counting days?”
Noah lowers his hands into his lap. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a Long-Timer self-conscious about having so many days.
“Oh, he’s fine,” I blurt out.
Noah pipes up. “Actually, I’m looking for information on my brother.”
Johnson sets down his pint glass and chuckles. “What is this? A missing brother support group?”
His words would be funny if it weren’t for the fact that Noah’s brother isn’t missing.
“My brother is dead.”
The silence seems more raucous than the roaring crowd shouting and laughing behind us.
Johnson sets down his pint. “Sorry. My mouth gets me into all sorts of trouble.”
Noah nods and looks at me. “Well?”
“So, Johnson. You feel like giving two strangers a ride to Savannah?”
“Sure, why not.” Johnson stands up and directs us to the exit.
We follow him outside to an old-timey red pickup truck. All three of us cram into the front seat and begin our drive to Savannah.
14
(8 days remaining)
We cross the border into Georgia sometime after midnight. The glow on my wrist shifts to reveal only eight days remaining on my shelf life. I tug down on the sleeve of my jacket—Noah’s jacket—and conceal my DOD. I try to relax, resting my head against the back of the seat and listening to the drone of rubber on the road. I’m exhausted, but I’m afraid to fall asleep and miss something. Despite my best efforts to stay alert, my eyes keep shuttering closed. The lanes blur in and out of focus, and each time I catch myself dozing off I quickly snap my head upright off of Noah’s shoulder.
“Just sleep, Kalliste,” he says.
“Kalliste?” Johnson asks.
“That’s my name,” I mumble as sleepiness lilts through my body.
“I like that … Kalliste,” Johnson repeats, trying to get the correct enunciation.
Next to me, Noah chuckles. “You don’t want to call her that. Trust me.”
“You just did.”
“Well, I didn’t mean to.”
Half asleep, I grumble some incoherent nonsense, which makes both of them laugh.
Johnson nudges my side with his elbow. “You should probably get some shut eye.”
“Good luck getting her to listen to you,” Noah says.
“Oh, be quiet, Noah. I listen.”
“Selectively,” he adds.
Johnson laughs. “Okay, then. Why don’t you tell me about yourselves. We have a bit of a drive.”
“You already know about us. We’re from Richmond and we’re looking for information on our brothers. Why don’t you share a little about yourself?” Noah prods. His tone is forceful and sounds less like a suggestion and more like an order.
Johnson’s confident demeanor doesn’t fold under pressure. He sits up straighter. “Sure. Whaddya want to know?”
Noah remains quiet for a moment, so I jump right in. “I’d like to know why you’re looking for my brother, on and off.”
“He’s got information that my people need,” Johnson says, glancing at me.
“I’d like to know why you’re so eager to help us,” Noah says.
“Seeing that we’re both looking for the same man, thought it’d be better to help each other.” Johnson cranes his head and looks at Noah. “Maybe even find out what happened to your brother.”
