This can’t last. It’s too fast, too improbable and, above all, too strange. But he was lonely and empty and greedy for what Randy offered him, so he hadn’t resisted at all, just took him, every part of him, body and heart and soul.
Randy had stayed with him awhile after, but Ethan had told him to go. He took a long, hot shower and got dressed. He stayed in the sanctuary of Randy’s room, sitting on the floor by the door with his back to the wall, staring straight ahead and breathing.
Now it was seven, and Crabtree had arrived.
He wasn’t Randy’s type at all. Not that Ethan was really in a position to judge, but still—this man wasn’t for Randy. Big, too big—fat, frankly, and normally Ethan wouldn’t care, but it was something to judge the man on, and he took it. Because there wasn’t anything else, except maybe Crabtree was too old. He looked kind, though, and handsome. Randy had been ready to see a ridiculous creature dressed in a striped suit, but no, Crabtree wore expensive but conservative clothes—gray pants and jacket with a lemon-yellow shirt, and a pink-and-blue scarf which should have been ridiculous but actually was natty. He did look like Santa Claus, not in a silly way but just in a way, and it suited him.
Ethan also caught the occasional glint of his many gold-capped teeth, and he remembered what Randy had hinted about how they’d gotten there.
Crabtree’s jacket should have made him sweaty in the desert heat, but Randy had turned down the air to near arctic temperatures, and they were all quite comfortable. All except for Mitch, who had come back from the bar still agitated but calmer overall, and who now sat beside his husband, Sam, beautiful in a simple suit with a blue shirt beneath his jacket. Mitch looked like an overstuffed piece of pasta inside his tan blazer, but he was quiet, and he behaved.
Randy wore a suit as well, dark gray with a crisp white shirt, no tie, unbuttoned at the collar. He’d shaved and smoothed his hair. He looked as good as the dinner he had prepared, which he served with elegance and panache, laying down beautifully arranged salads—the asparagus spears had been blanched, and he arranged them in five points coming out of the lettuce. He did all this without so much as missing a beat in the conversation, which was almost entirely between himself and Crabtree. It ranged from business at Herod’s to the elections coming up in city government to whether or not it was wise for the casinos to keep putting such deep discounts on their hotel rooms.
Ethan sipped at his wine and listened. But he noticed whenever Crabtree began to engage Ethan, prying at the edges of his past, Randy swooped in and yanked the conversation away deftly, with an edge that made him think Randy was telling his former lover to back the fuck off.
Then they reached dessert.
“What is this?” Crabtree picked up one of the ladyfingers and glared at it. “Store-bought cakes, just in berries?”
Randy, who had leaned over Sam to reach the next martini glass of desert, glared at his guest. “Look, you invite yourself over on short notice, you don’t get the full monty.” He slammed the glass in front of Mitch before placing another in front of Sam.
“Yes, but—” Crabtree snorted and scooped up some of the fluffy white from the side. “Whipped cream from a can?”
Randy rested his hands on Ethan’s shoulders. “Yes. I gave my good stuff to somebody else this time.”
For a second Ethan thought he had to have heard wrong, and then he heard a choke-snort of laughter and saw Sam, eyes watering and dancing, coughing into his napkin to hide his smile. Mitch didn’t bother, just grinned what could only be called a shit-eating grin, and for the first time Ethan realized the expression came from watching someone else eat the shit.
Randy’s hand slid off Ethan’s shoulder, and he went to pour the rest of the coffee. Ethan dared, through what courage he couldn’t say, to glance at the gangster at the other end of the table.
Crabtree stared back at him, his gaze ten times sharper and more dangerous than any scrutiny Ethan had ever borne under Randy. Ethan waited. For one brief second he thought he saw Crabtree’s smile. Then it vanished.
“Hmpf.” Crabtree bent his head and focused on his dessert.
Ethan reached for one of the ladyfingers himself, murmuring thanks as Randy set a cup of coffee before him and sat down again.
Chapter Eight
AFTER DESSERT RANDY cleared the table, and Mitch helped him. Ethan tried to help too, but Randy pushed him right back into his chair. He reappeared with a G&T for Ethan, a beer for Sam, and a scotch neat for Crabtree.
Crabtree took his drink with a nod of acknowledgment and regarded Ethan. Ethan tried to meet the stare, but he was suddenly possessed by an image of this man tying Randy up, and he had to look away.
With a quiet chuckle, Crabtree turned to Sam. “So, Mr. Keller. I hear you’ve graduated. Congratulations.”
Mitch glared at him as he picked up a plate from the table. “Keller-Tedsoe.”
“Ah, yes.” Crabtree threaded his fingers over his stomach. “Graduated and married. Where are you working, son?”
“Valley Hospital.” Sam sipped his beer. “I’m going to be working in pediatric oncology.”
Crabtree nodded, showing thoughtful interest. “When do you start?”
“In a week and a half.”
Crabtree’s eyes flickered to Mitch. “And the other Keller-Tedsoe—I understand you’ll be traveling to Kentucky soon?”
There was no mistaking the cloud that came over Sam’s face or the chill in Mitch’s reply. “Taking a special-order piece of machinery from L.A. to Bowling Green. Should lead to some good, steady contracts in both places later.”
“I see, I see. Will it be an oversized haul?”
Mitch passed a platter to Randy as he shook his head, but Ethan thought he looked slightly wary. “No, it’s regulation. I’ll have to take a particular route because of the weight, though.”
Crabtree nodded, a glint in his eye. “What will you be bringing west?”
Now there was no mistaking the apprehension in Mitch. “I’ll get a contract, probably from the company there.”
“Good, good.”
Randy picked up the last of the dishes. “Sam, would you take Ethan and go get the table?”
It was an odd question given they were currently sitting at one, but Sam only nodded and rose, excusing himself quietly to Crabtree, who raised his glass and continued to lounge in place, untroubled. Ethan didn’t excuse himself, but he found he couldn’t help but nod to the older man as he passed. It was hard not to like him, and even if he hadn’t gotten the earful about his awkward position from Randy, it would have been difficult not to show respect. Though the idea he’d been Randy’s lover got in his way no matter how he tried to dislodge it.
Once he was in Sam and Mitch’s bedroom peering inside the closet, Ethan laughed. Of course. They were fetching the poker table.
It was essentially a regular card table, except it was an octagon, had a padded rail, and was covered in green felt. A large piece of cardboard cut from the box of a large appliance was propped carefully against the front, clearly to keep the felt from being dinged accidentally from other items in the closet—a real statement, as the front was also placed facing the wall. Ethan followed Sam’s lead and bore the table out carefully into the living room, where Mitch and Randy had already moved aside the coffee table and couch and set the chairs from the dining table around the perimeter.
Mitch saw to the assembly without being asked, and while he did this, Randy brought out three collapsible trays and set them up strategically between the chairs. Crabtree remained off to the side, watching. Once everything was in place, he took a seat, and with only glances and nods for indicators, placed the rest of them. Sam on his right, Randy his left, Ethan to Randy’s left, and Mitch to Sam’s right. When Randy handed him a sealed deck, Crabtree inspected it, nodded in approval, and cracked it open.
“Mr. Keller.” Crabtree winked at Mitch as he corrected himself. “Excuse me. Mr. Keller-Tedsoe. Have I ever told you the Parable of the Cards?”
Mitch gave a quiet grunt, and Randy smiled enigmatically.
Sam shook his head. “No, you haven’t, though you did tell me I should never play poker with anyone but you and Randy.” His hand slid over to his husband’s leg. “Well, and Mitch.”
“That’s because you’re practically a book of tells,” Randy murmured, but Crabtree waved a hand to silence him. As he shuffled the deck with a casual and expert hand, he spoke, and Ethan knew immediately where Randy’s lectures came from.
“We divide the deck into numbered and face cards, and so we divide the types of men. The numbered cards are the underlings, the parasites of the world. When you play a man who is a numbered card, he looks out only for himself with no consciousness that others are in the game with him. If you wish to be kind, you can say these men are the subordinates of the world, but they are parasites all the same. They attach themselves to someone greater, learning if they are young or inexperienced enough, leeching if they are strong or experienced enough to know better but would rather remain weak. They don’t contribute to the world. They only take from it, and if a man remains in this state, he is no better than a sheep. Numbered men are as disposable and interchangeable as the animals they mimic.”
Crabtree bridged the cards, shuffled them together then continued to pass them over one another between his hands as he went on with his lecture.
“The face cards are men who have seen the way the world works, who know the only way to survive is to kill or be killed. These men are the cannibals. They drive and lead the parasites, bluffing them into traps and bleeding them when necessary for their own survival or for that of the parasites they have chosen to protect. Depending on what level of face card they are, they bleed them to serve those they owe allegiance to. This is the way of the world. You may find it harsh or overly simplified. But in the end you will find these are your choices. You may be a face card, or you may be a number. The power to choose is yours.”
Ethan said nothing, only watched Sam, who considered this with distaste. “Well, I guess I’m a parasite then.”
Predictably, Mitch did not like this. “Ignore him, Sunshine.”
Sam tapped his index finger on the table. “No, it’s okay. I mean, how can I be anything else right now? I’m just out of school, just married, and starting my first job. And I’m the youngest.” He looked thoughtfully at Ethan. “I don’t know how old you are, but I know you’re older than me. I’m always the youngest now that I’m with Mitch. And I am dependent on other people. But I don’t want to stay there. I hadn’t thought about it like that, but—” His lips flattened into a determined line. “No. I don’t want to stay there.”
“You’re fine, Sunshine.” Mitch ran a hand down his husband’s back and glared at Crabtree. “You’re fine the way you are.”
Crabtree grunted. “But neither does he need to remain forever where he is.”
Mitch glowered and took another drink. Randy said nothing, his finger tracing idly around the edge of his whiskey sour.
Ethan studied him, a thought nagging at the back of his mind. “What about aces? Are they a number card or a face card?”
Crabtree seemed pleased. “Aces are unique because they can be both a face card and a numbered card. But no matter what they are, they will always be the lowest of the low or the highest of the high—and because of this, they will always be alone. An ace does not evolve, but rather he constantly explores his dual nature. When he leads, he is acutely aware of his underlings, unable to use them with the casualness that his fellow face cards will do. When he is brought low, he is equally aware of the thin veil separating him from where he is supposed to be, and he can’t forget how he and his fellows in servitude should be treated. An ace is seldom at home unless he is with his own kind, and many fall into despair and find themselves wedged quite firmly in the low side of their nature. There are few aces in the world, and so most aces, no matter who they are with, feel alone.”
Mitch coughed and shifted in his chair, looking unhappy.
Crabtree resumed his shuffling. “And that, my children, is the Parable of the Cards. Take it to heart, because the secret to life lies within it.” He turned to Randy. “What’s the game? Draw? Seven?”
Randy took a sip of his drink. “Hold ’Em. Slick needs the practice, and Seven-Card Stud is too difficult for Peaches.”
Crabtree began to deal. “Would you get the chips please, Randy?”
Randy reached behind him to the drawer of an end table. “Money to the mobster, please. What’s the buy-in, Crabtree?”
“Is one hundred too rich?”
Mitch plunked down a wad of twenties in front of Crabtree. “Limits?”
Randy paused with the tray of chips in his lap. “Three/six dollar open, no limit?”
Crabtree nodded. Sam seemed panicked, and Ethan empathized.
Mitch leaned toward Ethan. “It’s Crabtree’s home-game version of limit poker. You bet three dollars on the flop. You raise in three-dollar increments. After the turn, it’s six dollars and six-dollar increments. Blind raises would be one dollar for the small and two dollars for the big.”
Sam still panicked. “I’m going to screw it up. I always do.”
“We’ll help you, Sunshine.” Mitch accepted a large stack of chips from Randy. Ethan noticed he didn’t divide them evenly, favoring his husband with a significantly larger portion.
Randy tossed some bills at Crabtree then glanced at Ethan. “Slick, you spend all the money you won off me already?”
Ethan fought a blush. “Sorry—I didn’t realize. My wallet is in your bedroom.” He started to rise.
Randy waved him into his seat, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. He peeled another hundred-dollar bill off his stack and tossed it at Crabtree. “I’ll cover you.” He handed Ethan a stack, and another to Crabtree, and finally a set to himself before flexing his fingers. “Are we ready to play, gentlemen?”
Ethan accepted his cards, prepared his blind bet and settled in for what he assumed would be a rather instructive ride. He wasn’t disappointed.
He’d drawn queen-10 offsuit, and after Mitch and Sam both folded, Crabtree called and Randy raised. Ethan met the raise, deciding he’d at least stay through to see the flop. Crabtree met as well, then laid the flop—jack of clubs, king of hearts, 8 of spades.
Randy tapped his finger on the rail for a few seconds before tossing three chips into the pot. “Call.”
Ethan glanced at Crabtree, who watched him intently in return. It unnerved Ethan, and he suspected he was playing into a trap, but he kept his eyes on the gangster’s, glancing down only enough to count the chips. He took six.
He tossed the chips in. “Raise.”
Crabtree watched him awhile longer, then picked up nine chips. “Re-raise.”
Randy stared blankly into the pot, tapped his fingers again, then nodded as he tossed in his chips. “Call.”
Ethan picked up nine. “Call.”
Crabtree laid the turn—another jack, this time of spades.
Randy called.
Ethan called.
Crabtree raised.
This time Randy studied the gangster, searching his blank face for almost a full minute. Then he tossed his hand into the muck. “Fold.”
Crabtree waited.
Ethan called, thinking he was probably a fool, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. He almost had a straight, and he had two ways to make it.
Crabtree laid the river. It was an ace of hearts.
Ethan had to fight not to smile. He kept his eyes on the pot as he tossed in his chips. “Raise.”
Crabtree tossed in a short stack. “Re-raise.”
Ethan frowned and studied the board. What could Crabtree have? Not a flush. Two pair, which Ethan would beat, or possibly four of a kind. That was it, unless he had the same spread as Ethan. Or if he had 9-10. But would he have bet aggressively if this were the case? And even then, Ethan’s straight was higher. Could Crabtree be holding two jacks? Or a
jack and something else, to make a full house? Possibly.
Ethan studied Crabtree, whose face still revealed absolutely nothing. He might as well have been made of stone.
No, Ethan decided. Crabtree was bluffing. He had to be.
Maybe.
What type of man is this one? Ethan looked at Crabtree.
Cannibal.
He picked up his chips. “Re-raise.”
Randy hid his mouth with his hand as he stared down at the rail, but his eyes danced. Mitch sat drinking his beer, and Sam watched, wide-eyed and attentive.
Crabtree raised Ethan again.
They went through three more rounds, each raising the other, and both were rapidly running out of chips. Neither backed down.
Randy sat up, leaned forward, and looked pointedly at Crabtree. “Be nice to my guest.”
Crabtree sighed. “Call.” He lay down his cards.
They were a jack of hearts—and a joker.
Ethan stared at the cards. “What—?” He turned to Randy, mouth opening and closing for several tries as he searched for the power of speech. “What the fuck?”
Randy reached for his wallet as Crabtree scooped up the chips. “Jokers are wild when you play with Crabtree.”
“That would have been nice to have been told.” Ethan stared at the board. A fucking joker.
“Would it have changed how you played?” Crabtree asked, sounding almost bored, but Ethan knew better.
“Yes.” The word snapped out of his mouth, but he didn’t care how many men this man had killed. That hadn’t been fair.
Double Blind Page 11
