A Christmas Quick Sketch

by Larissa Reinhart

  Before I made it to the door, Todd’s long arm snagged and reeled me into his side. “Don’t worry, baby.”

  I snatched his drumsticks and slipped them into the deep pocket of my coveralls. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t drum tonight.” I wondered if his nervous habit had blown the earlier games.

  “Kiss for luck?”

  Oddly enough, that kiss spoke more confidence than any words ever uttered from Todd’s lips. Which wasn’t saying much. But enough to give me hope.

  I returned to my wall sketching, wishing I could brave a quinacridone magenta oil stick on the builder white walls.

  Eleven

  The Fade

  As the moon rose over South Memphis, players from the tri-state region trickled into our makeshift parlor. Byron kept vigil in his back corner, covertly watching the players file in. With my HB pencil tucked behind my ear, I studied faces while ushering players into the conference room. I winked at Fred and Luther and whisked Jupiter into the room before he could study my wall art. Between greetings, I took pencil to the wall and roughed in faces.

  The next visitor made me itch to draw her face with crossed eyes, mustache, and devil horns. But I’m bigger than marking up the fine Elvis center’s walls with nasty graffiti. I would save that illustration for Jupiter’s sketchbook.

  “It’s going to be a long night.” Lucinda patted her forties-styled victory rolled cartoon red and black hair. “Hope you brought coffee for your guard duty.”

  “And I hope you brought a sweater. It is December.” I scowled at the polka dot print on her transparent blouse that barely hid her shoulder tats and lacy, black bra.

  Straightening my shoulders within the coveralls, I imagined I also wore an ivory pencil skirt, fishnet stockings, and towering heels.

  “I imagine it’ll heat up in that room pretty fast.” She flashed me a quick smile from her pouty, scarlet mouth and swung her psychobilly rump into a chair next to Todd.

  A handful of men walked into the room giving me no time for ugly thoughts about Lucinda. I waved them into the gaming room and glanced over my shoulder at Byron.

  He brought a cigarette to his mouth and flipped open a zippo, the flame flaring before his face.

  Taking another hard look at the three men, I jumped as a hand grabbed my shoulder. I slammed the conference room door shut.

  “What are you doing here?” said Chet.

  “Painting,” I spun around to face Chet and Little Jimmy.

  Little Jimmy looked from Chet to me, trying to conjure my face in his small memory.

  “This was the girl who drew pictures of the players last night,” Chet said, recognizing Little Jimmy’s lack of recall.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Byron slip out of the room.

  “Right,” said Little Jimmy. “The troublemaker.”

  The conference room door cracked open and the Colonel poked his head out. He stepped through the crack and closed the door with his back. “Problem?”

  Chet leaned against the wall, his shoulders rubbing against my pencil marks. “You tell me. You know this girl? She was in the Green Room last night.”

  “Sure, I know Cherry,” the Colonel slipped a cigar from his pocket and pinched it between his fingers. “She’s our visitor’s gal.”

  “What’s she doing out here?” said Chet.

  “Hired her to pretend to paint the room. An added distraction to provide us some cover.” Using his cigar as a pointer, the Colonel indicated the tarps and paint supplies.

  “I don’t trust her,” said Chet. “She made a book of our faces.”

  “That feeling is mutual,” I said. “By the way, the guys playing cards wanted their faces sketched.”

  “Cherry’s an artist.” The Colonel shrugged off my affliction and shot me a look that told me to keep my mouth shut. “I guess that’s what she does when she’s waiting for her man.”

  “Where’s your sketchpad today?” said Chet.

  “Don’t have one.” I met his scowl. “You shredded it, remember?”

  “You going to play or what? Let’s get this game started.” The Colonel waved Chet toward the door and turned to Little Jimmy. “Are you playing tonight?”

  “Little Jim’s with me,” said Chet. “He’s here to protect my interests.”

  “I’d keep your eye on them, if I were you, Colonel,” I said. “No telling what they’re likely to rip up in that room.”

  “You stick to your paints, girl.” The Colonel’s cigar jabbed in my direction.

  Once again, I held the overwhelming desire to snap the damn thing.

  I waited until they had disappeared into the room before seeking out Byron, hiding in an empty broom closet. “Did you recognize Chet or Little Jimmy?”

  He shook his head.

  “Are you sure? Chet’s got one of those faces that blends into the crowd.”

  Before he could respond, we heard the distinct padding of footsteps down the concrete hall. Byron ran for his ladder, and I grabbed a paintbrush.

  A medium-built man with thinning hair wandered into the room. As he walked, he packed a cigarette box against his hand and dusted us with his disinterested gaze. A thin, weasel-faced man wearing cowboy boots and a trucker’s cap accompanied the balding man. Behind me, I heard the snap and flick of Byron’s lighter. Silently applauding my correct hunch, I smiled at the men and pointed toward the conference room door.

  “That makes five,” I said to Byron after the door swung shut. “And you know who that was? Elvis and the elf. The elf’s wearing boots with lifts.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I sketched out their faces after following that van. Elvis obviously wears a wig and padding when he’s singing. He didn’t change the shape of his nose or the small scar on his chin.”

  I attended to my mural, this time choosing a cross mark overlaid with an oval. I filled in full lips and a broad forehead jutting over small, dark eyes. I skimmed in a long nose and added a scar to the chin. In less than a minute, I had penciled in the basic features for the man who had just walked past me.

  “Watch,” I said to Byron. With the flat side of my soft, B4 pencil, I covered the top of the head with stylized hair, added sideburns, and drew in cartoonish glasses.

  “Elvis lives.”

  Hours later, my excitement had waned.

  “Hell, this is boring,” I said to Priscilla, pointing to Byron’s curled and snoring body on the floor as proof.

  “They’ve been sitting around that table for an eternity. Todd’s got his back to me, so I can’t see his chip pile over those scrumptious,” I paused. “I mean big shoulders. And every time I try to step into that room, I’m shushed and shoved out by the Colonel.”

  “These tournaments take time. I’ve seen them go on for days.” Priscilla snagged a Red Bull from the community cooler and leaned against my angry elf portrait.

  “Days?” If I had a beer in my hand like I wished, I would have shot suds out of my nose. “We’ve got to catch the bus tomorrow morning.”

  “How many poker tournaments have you watched?”

  “None.”

  “Not even on TV?” Priscilla gaped at me. “Not even the World Poker Tour?”

  “Now that sounds real fun. Watching poker on TV. Sounds about as exciting as watching bowling or fishing.”

  Priscilla’s plucked and tinted brows disappeared beneath her hat brim. “What did you think you would do in Vegas?”

  “I’m fixing to do quick sketches of the players at twenty bucks a pop.”

  “Are you planning on cutting out chunks from this wall at twenty bucks a pop?” She motioned to my drawings and slid to the floor.

  I laughed and sat down beside her. “This was to alleviate my boredom and get back at the Colonel for making me stand guard. Although, if someone saw a sketch they’d like, I’d be happy to work one up on paper or a canvas and mail it to them. I’ll paint over the pencil marks.”

  “That’ll cost more than twenty bucks,” said Priscilla
, digging another drink out of the cooler. She handed me a Coke. “Now during the Vegas tournament, you can’t be drawing folks. You can watch, though. But you’d have to be real quiet.”

  “Then I’d better wait at the pool and work on my tan.”

  “You’re one of those girlfriends, huh?”

  I gave Priscilla a hard, what’re-you-talking-about look and popped the top on my Coke.

  “Todd’s your boy toy,” she continued. “You’re playing around until something better comes along and he doesn’t know it.”

  “Who’s talking settling down? We’re mostly friends anyway.”

  “Friends with bennies never works, no matter what the stories say. I guarantee that boy wants more than what you’re willing to dish.” She waved the energy drink can before my face. “Priscilla knows these things, baby. You got another man in the wings, don’t you?”

  I shook my head and chugged my Coke.

  “Oh, sugar, you are carrying some heavy baggage, aren’t you? What happened to the other one?”

  “He’s a soldier. I don’t expect to see him again.”

  “Honey, I can hear it in your voice. He done you so wrong.” She sighed with the full dramatic license allotted to drag queens. “You’re from Scarlett country, aren’t you? You know that saying, tomorrow is another day. Let the past go and grab hold those scrumptious shoulders of Todd’s while you can. Although I think I’d rather grab that—”

  Before she could tell me which of Todd’s parts she’d like to grab, the room exploded in blue uniforms and badges.

  I froze with the Coke hanging before my mouth.

  Byron snorted, rolled over, and scrambled to standing.

  The Candy Cane Cop marched through the hall entrance behind the police and pointed at my resting spot on the floor. “There they are. Where’s the blond guy who was with you? Where’s the rest of your painting crew? I saw the vehicles parked nearby.”

  “Lord Almighty.” Priscilla jumped to her feet and threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know nothing. I’m just keeping these painters company while they take a break.”

  “You don’t know nothing about what?” Candy Cane growled.

  Priscilla clamped her lips shut and edged toward the door. A cop standing at the back exit held up his hand to stop her.

  Candy Cane turned his vengeful expression back to me. “I knew you were up to something. Lonnie must have faked that work order.” He spun a slow circle around the room. “Look at this. Vandalism on top of everything else.”

  “I told you not to draw on the walls,” hissed Byron.

  “So she’s the one who drew on the walls?” said Candy Cane. He tapped the officer standing next to him. “Are you getting this down? This ain’t even an Elvis mural. Who are these people on the wall?”

  “Ma’am,” said Cop Number One. “You’re going to need to come with us.”

  I couldn’t move. I stared at the officer until he leaned over and hauled me to my feet. When the handcuffs clicked over my wrists, I found my wits.

  “We’re just a painting crew,” I yelled. “Call Lonnie. He’ll tell you. I’m an artist. I know I was just supposed to put color on the walls, but I couldn’t help myself. They’re so big and blank.”

  “Where’s the rest of your crew?” demanded Candy Cane. “There’s got to be at least twenty people with you. Are you having a big party or something? Or are you some of those Elvis haters, looking to embarrass the King?”

  I hoped Todd and the Colonel had heard my hollering and were currently directing the players out the conference room window. I also hoped the Colonel was on the phone, calling his buddy at the station.

  “I’ll go with you. This is all just a big misunderstanding,” I hollered. “I’m sure we can get this cleared up at the station.”

  “Shut up. Why are you yelling?” Candy Cane tossed a ring of keys to Cop Number Two. “Start opening doors and find the perps who belong to those vehicles.”

  “I knew we should have parked somewhere else,” said Byron.

  “Shush, Byron,” I said.

  With a twist of the key, Cop Number Two swung open the conference room door. “Here they are.”

  Cops Number Three and Four covered Number Two as he entered. I could hear the scuffle of a fight, but the blue bodies blocked the doorway.

  “Hold it right there,” Number Two’s husky voice rang out over the din. “You are all under arrest for trespassing.”

  I strained to see into the room, trying to catch sight of Todd or any who were left. The sounds of muffled voices, shuffling, and shoving carried into the outer room, but the police made an effective screen to the events happening inside.

  “Y’all step this way until we’re ready for you,” said Cop Number One and herded Byron, Priscilla, and me into an empty room. He closed the door and locked us inside.

  “Well, Kate Jackson,” said Priscilla. “I guess this didn’t work out so good. Any more bright ideas?”

  Twelve

  The Dead Hand

  Thirty minutes later, our heated tempers had warmed the December chill out of our small room better than a pot belly stove fired with coal.

  “This is why I don’t believe in charity events that don’t have celebrity backers,” said Priscilla. “If Beyoncé ran this gig, we would not be thrown in the hoosegow.”

  “We’re thrown in the hoosegow because gambling is illegal in the state of Tennessee,” I said. “And if Byron had minded the law to begin with, none of this would have happened.”

  “You’re the one who thought we should win my money back,” said Byron.

  “You both stopped being amusing about ten seconds after I met you,” said Priscilla. “My limbs have been mangled all day because of your cleverness, Kate Jackson. Squished in the back of a van and now cuffed like a common criminal. And Byron, you are just one sorry excuse.”

  Our makeshift jail door swung open and cut short the argument. Cop Number One’s scowl doused the room with more ill humor. He jerked a thumb toward the center hall and we filed toward the door.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Cop Number One.

  Apparently not all of the players had escaped through the window of the conference room. In the rotunda, Candy Cane Cop unwrapped another stick of peppermint and toured the walls, examining my masterpieces. I didn’t see Jupiter or Fred, nor Elvis and the Elf. The rest of the Zip Tie-cuffed party hurled threats at the Colonel and Todd. The Colonel took those insults and flung more at Todd while Chet, Little Jimmy, Luther, and Lucinda watched.

  Poor Todd stood with his tow head bowed and hands locked behind him, calmly suffering the arrows and daggers shot from the Colonel’s mouth.

  I scurried to defend my sweet gambler from the poisonous abuse directed his way.

  “That girl should have paid better attention,” screamed the Colonel. His hat sat askew and his bolo tie had loosened, the longhorn emblem dangling near the silver tipped points. “She was supposed to be our lookout. Instead she’s drawing on the walls.”

  “This isn’t Cherry’s fault,” said Todd. “Lonnie dropped the ball. He should’ve had us park somewhere different.”

  “Lonnie risked a lot just making up that work order. You’re the idiots who came early and got the wrong guard at the gate.”

  “You said get here at four,” said Todd.

  “I said after four,” fumed the Colonel.

  I noticed Cop Number One’s pen racing over his little notebook, getting the confessions word for word. If my hands weren’t cuffed, I would have done another palm to the forehead.

  My forehead had seen more abuse in two days than my twenty-six years.

  “Shut it, you two. Save it for the station.”

  “You,” said the Colonel, turning on me. “I’m going to kill you.”

  “Don’t mess with Cherry,” said Todd, jumping in front of me.

  “How exciting,” said Priscilla. “But Miss Artist is right. Now, who was your little friend at the station, Colonel? I’d like to
talk to him personally.”

  “Would you all just shut up?” said Lucinda. “The Colonel’s little friend is not available for station visits, Priscilla.”

  “What do you mean?” Priscilla’s voice dropped from tenor to bass. She flashed a look to Little Jimmy whose piggy eyes met hers with cold indifference.

  Cop Number Three walked out of the conference room carrying the laptop, chips, and cards in ziplock bags.

  “The money’s gone.” Todd swiveled his head to the Colonel. “You cheat.”

  “You should talk, wiseguy,” said Luther. “How did you win all those hands? Funny how you lost all weekend until this tournament. Were you switching cards?”

  “I’m no cheat,” said Todd. “What’d you think when I won big enough online to get a trip to Vegas? I’m Sticks. You’re the ones doing collusion and chip dumping. You and Elvis and the little guy.”

  Cop Number One scribbled furiously in his notebook. Cop Number Two snapped on gloves while studying the remaining players.

  “Sticks,” said Lucinda. Her crimson pout dropped open as she stared at Todd. “You’re Sticks?”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, confused. “What is Sticks?”

  “My online name,” said Todd. “‘Cause I’m a drummer, too.”

  “So why’s everybody’s jaw on the floor?”

  “You don’t know?” said Lucinda with a flagrantly contemptuous look. “He’s a legend in the online poker world. I’m Rockabilly Girl, by the way,” she breathed to Todd.

  He smiled. “I know. I could tell by the way you only raise when you’re holding aces.”

  My eyes narrowed. “You knew Lucinda before we came to Memphis?”

  “Now baby,” he said, “I only played against her online. That’s all.”

  “Who’s Elvis and the little guy?” asked Cop Number One, rereading his notes.

  I pointed to their likeness on the wall with my shoulder, as my hands were still cuffed. “I think you’ll need to ask Little Jimmy and Luther where to find them. Or Priscilla, since she does bookings for them. You can check the maps at Venture Realty for the cities they’ve already hit. You’ll find the towns that had a poker scam will match the Elvis shows. She doesn’t play poker well enough to work that end of the scam.”