Duces Wild

 





   

Bleary eyed and flat broke. The bathroom mirror at Roy’s Bar and Grill was dirty, faded and cracked. Yet, still capable of telling the truth and only the truth, like in a court. At the moment, it did seem criminal to bet against two duces and lose two hundred bucks. In the world of poker, five card stud will break your heart and wallet, fast. Three cards up, two down, that’s the rules. Here I am with a pair of aces in the hole. Ernie, this fat fuck with slicked back hair and stinking cigar is showing a pair of twos. I call and he flips his hole card. It’s another two. I lose. Ernie rakes the money and I end up in the bathroom, staring at myself.

  It’s all in the numbers, that’s what Roy would say. You can send a man to the moon, lay odds on a horse or calculate the trajectory of a thirty-eight slug if you have numbers. What are the odds of a junkie, running down a darkened alley, snapping off a single shot over his shoulder and hitting someone? The bullet passes by Roy’s ear and hits my Father in the throat. A million to one, that’s what Roy told me at the funeral. I cried and Roy took me in. He quit the police force, bought a bar and gave me a bedroom upstairs. Twenty years later and pushing forty, I’m still here. It’s all about the numbers. Taking one last look at the mirror, I go out to watch the game.

  Four players were huddled around the table. In addition to Roy and Ernie, two local businessmen were playing. Roy had a nice pile of chips and catching the cards he needed. I pulled up a chair just as the locked front door rattled, paused and rattled again. Someone was trying to get in. We had been closed for an hour but I hustled over to check it out. A young girl stood shivering on the sidewalk. Both arms were wrapped around herself for warmth. She was barefoot and clad only in running shorts and a tee shirt. Mouthing words at me, I cracked the door six inches. Cool air hit me in the face.

    “It’s kinda cold, you know?”  She said.

    “Sorry, we’re closed.”

    “Great. How about opening the fuck up. I need help. My stupid boyfriend is so…stupid,” she began crying.

    I stepped onto the sidewalk and hesitated before taking an elbow and guiding her inside. Steering her to a barstool, I draped my coat over her shoulders. She continued to cry so I slipped behind the bar to make a fresh pot of coffee. Roy appeared and sat his empty glass on the bar. I shrugged in the girl’s direction, whisked the glass away and turned to make a fresh one.

    I guess you could call Roy a dapper kind of guy. Even at three in the morning, he looked as fresh as a businessman on the way to brunch. Tonight’s cardigan was burgundy and worn over the usual white starched shirt, buttoned to the throat. His slacks were a dark charcoal with creases sharp enough to slice cheese. Roy liked his drinks to be neat and precise as well. I produced a clean and chilled martini glass, added a quarter scoop of finely crushed ice and poured three ounces of ginger ale. Two medium sized olives, pitted, were added to the mix.

    I set the fresh drink on the bar and listened. Roy was softly questioning the girl as she sniffed into his monogrammed handkerchief. No, she didn’t need for us to call the police. No, she didn’t need to go to a hospital. Her boyfriend was a jerk and what she needed was a ride. She had friends at the dorm. Roy assured her that we could provide safe transportation back to the college.

    “At least find her a pair of socks, her feet must be freezing,” he looked at me, scooped up his drink and returned to the card game.

    I rounded up a clean pair of socks, poured myself a cup of coffee and pulled up a chair. Our distraught guest was faring a little better. She had both hands around the warm mug and leaned in to take cautious sips of the brew. Damn, she was a beauty. Even with the disheveled hair, reddened nose and huge wet eyes, I was wishing I was twenty years old again.

    “My name’s Roy,” I said. “I was named after the guy who owns this place. He and my dad were buddies a long time ago. Roy calls me Junior. It’s less confusing that way.”

    “He’s a nice man.”

    “A prince,”  I agreed. “So, do you have a name?”

    “Shasta.”

    “That’s pretty, it sounds exotic. Remember the colas? I don’t know if they still make them. As a kid, I loved the stuff, grape was my favorite.”

    “I like Shasta and I like coffee,” she pointed at the mug. “Randy doesn’t believe in caffeine.

He’s all about protein shakes, six a.m. jogs and preening in front of the mirror. I can’t believe I ever fell for him.”

    “And Randy would be your boyfriend?”

    “Ex-boyfriend, as of tonight. I came back to the apartment early and caught him with another woman,” she sniffed.  “They weren’t doing anything, just sitting with glasses of wine. But come on, wine? Everybody knows what wine leads to…shit,” she turned on the tears again.

    Great. Mental note to self; don’t mention the boyfriend or wine. In fact, don’t mention anything. I didn’t mind playing the good Samaritan but didn’t want to wait around all night to do it. I slid Roy’s handkerchief over to Shasta and dashed out to warm up the truck.

    When I returned, Shasta was sniffing back tears and pulling on my socks. I lingered long enough to finish my coffee before guiding her into the cold night. As promised to myself, I wasn’t about to broach any subject, considering her fragile state. I simply jacked up the heater and headed toward Community College. We road in silence until turning onto Campus Drive.

    “Wait! We can’t…hold on!”

    The desperation in Shasta’s voice had me slamming on the breaks and jerking to a stop, right in the street. I looked over. She was huddled against the door and lost in the folds of my coat. With her head poking out, she looked like a cute little turtle. I waited.

    “It’s just that…I don’t have my things, you know? I mean, I live off campus at Randy’s place. The Tower’s, over by the park? I need clothes, make up, my toothbrush, shit…everything!”

    I didn’t need any more tears.  “ All right, calm down. If you need stuff, we’ll go get it.”

    As I drove, Shasta asked me a question. Why couldn’t Randy be happy with her and only her? I had to think about that one. Personally, I subscribe to the cave man theory. Our ancient fore fathers, besides inventing the wheel and discovering fire, liked to mate. Often. And with any woman close by. They simply used animal behavior to perpetuate themselves. Kind of like our modern day bull. The farmer will put him in a pasture full of cows so that he can mate at will. No wedding, dating or roses, just pure animal instinct.  Maybe guys like Randy had stronger caveman DNA than others. Then again, maybe I didn’t know what I was talking about. I opted for the condensed version as my answer.

    “Randy is a caveman.”

    Shasta stared at me. Then she smiled and began to laugh. I couldn’t help but join in because as they say, laughter is infectious as well as the best medicine. We began riffing on Randy the caveman. I offered the opinion that a caveman’s brain was the size of a pea and incapable of rational thought. Shasta giggled and countered that in her experience, cavemen were undersized in other areas. We cracked up over that one. It was nice to see Shasta’s tension drain away as she returned to being the bubbly, happy co-ed. Life seldom has a happy ending but considering her youth, she still needed to believe that it did. I smiled and turned into the apartment complex.

    Parking spot twenty-two belonged to Randy and was empty. This was a good sign. The numbers, painted in black on the curb wasn’t good. I had already lost two bills on three duces tonight. Seeing two more gave me a bad feeling. It was that old numbers thing, popping up again. Hoping for the best, I wheeled into the spot like I owned the place.

    The Towers were well lit with yellowish street lights. They cast a sterile glow across the manicured grounds and turned our skin a pale green color. Shasta sat and stared, her eyes going large and wet. I tried to offer something encouraging.

    “Did you know that one out of every one thousand sky divers will meet their death?”

    “What is that supposed to mean?”  Shasta dabbed at her eyes and looked at me.

    “Well…it means that the sun will come up today and every day after and life goes on. Enjoy the time you’ve been given, take the good with the bad and have no regrets. Besides, you’re a hot chick and won’t have trouble finding boyfriends.”

    Shasta offered a sad smile.  “Thanks for the kind words and helping me out.”

    She slid across the seat and offered a hug. Our exchange gave me a bit of a lump in the throat. I had never bothered to marry or sire children. I suppose living with Roy had rubbed off on me. Like my mentor, women were a physical necessity only. However, had I found myself with children, a daughter like Shasta would be pretty darn cool.

    I patted her shoulder and asked if she was ready to grab her stuff. She was and we marched up the sidewalk, entered a breezeway and took a flight of stairs. Randy’s place was on the second floor. His door displayed the number two twenty two in gold nail on numbers. I hung back, staring at the digits. Shasta didn’t have any qualms about numbers. She marched up to the door and tried to open it.

    “It’s locked,” she looked over her shoulder at me.

    “As it should be. Don’t you have a key?”

    “Sure but it’s inside. Maybe you can use one of those pointy things and jiggle it open. You know, like they do on television.”

    It seemed pointless to explain that life doesn’t imitate art. I wasn’t a burglar or criminal. Facts aside, there was no turning back at this point.

    “I have a tool box in the truck,” I said.

    Upon returning, I chose my largest screwdriver and went to work. The door was cheaply made but offered a credible amount of resistance. I had to splinter and pry wood from around the handle before popping it open. Every light in the place had been left burning. Shasta disappeared into the back bedroom and I hung back, checking out the room. It was definitely a jock’s hangout. An overstuffed brown recliner with matching loveseat was crammed into a corner. The center of the room featured a workout machine. The expensive contraption was a maze of steel tubing, shiny cables and weights. A fifty inch plasma hung on the wall and offered a nice vantage point while cultivating muscles and strength. The only other piece of furniture was a spindly legged coffee table. Several muscle magazines were displayed along with a deck of cards and two glasses of wine.

    Shasta called and I joined her in the bedroom. She had donned jeans, brown boots, a sweat shirt and hooded jacket. She handed me my coat and socks and scooped up four school books. After shrugging into my coat, I grabbed a pink suitcase. I followed her out and we stopped short. A guy was standing in the doorway, brandishing a barbell and staring at the broken lock. Randy was home.

    The guy was built like a linebacker on steroids. No necked with wide shoulders that filled the doorway, his cut off Nike tee showed a hairy stomach and way too many muscles. Thick legs with heavy calves sprouted out of matching shorts. His feet were surprisingly small and clad in comical black flip flops. When I looked up, the guy was staring right at me. His eyes were too far apart, nose too piggish and lips too thick. In short, I didn’t care much for Randy.

    “Who are you?” He asked.

    “I’m Roy Junior, a friend of Shasta’s.”

    “Well Roy Junior, stay right where you are. You broke into my place and I’m calling the police. After they haul your ass away, me and Shasta can talk.”

    “Talk?”  Shasta piped up. “I know what you were up to and I’m leaving! You’re nothing but a…a pea brained caveman!”

    “Come on, don’t be like this,” Randy walked into the room, moving like a bow legged penguin. “Paula works in management down at the gym. She just came by to discuss a possible endorsement deal with me. We’re talking major bucks here. I could move out of this place and buy a house! We could think about getting married after you finished school.”

    Shasta marched up to him. “That’s funny, Randy. Why don’t you marry yourself! That’s who you really love. I’m leaving and don’t bother to call.”

    Silence filled the room. Randy rubbed a hand across his buzz cut. I could hear the bristling sound from across the room. He threw a meaty finger at me.

    “Did this guy fill your head with all this nonsense? He did didn’t he!”

    “God Randy, you’re sick.”

    He did look kind of ill at the moment. He was showing large square teeth, brilliant white against a reddening face. I dropped the suitcase and began looking for a weapon. Bending down, I reached for a wine glass. Apparently, even bow legged penguins can move fast. Before I could straighten, he was two steps away and throwing a wild right hand. It connected. The right side of my face exploded and tried to leave my body. I followed, bounced off the wall and belly flopped onto the coffee table. Playing cards, magazines and splintered wood flew everywhere. Stunned and breathless, I stared at the white carpet. My ears were ringing but I could hear arguing. Painfully, I dragged in a few short breaths, blinked my eyes and tried to focus. A playing card was five inches from my nose. It was a red backed Bicycle, my favorite brand. I picked up the card and forced myself to stand.

    Most people don’t know about playing cards. I learned from Roy after moving in with him. Broken and fatherless, I grieved silently in my room. Roy would come in with a deck of cards and saying little, toss them one by one across the room. The target was a waste basket. He had a way of throwing backhanded and the cards would spin like a Frisbee, zipping through the air. He seldom missed. Soon, I was throwing cards with him. One day, he surprised me by setting up a cardboard target on the dresser. With a wink, he crouched and drew his right hand across his body to his left hip. Lunging with effort, he flipped the card. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The card stuck into the board and barely missed the bulls eye. I never became as good as Roy but hopefully, good enough.

    Staggering to my feet, I fell back against the wall. My legs were jelly, blood dripped off my chin and pain pulsed through my back, face and head. Randy had Shasta backed into a corner.

    “Leave her alone!”  I shouted.

    Randy’s head snapped around. I crouched, set the card between thumb and forefinger and drew back to my left hip. He charged. I targeted his left eye, relaxed my wrist and stepped into the throw. He never even had time to blink. His head snapped back as if he had been struck with an iron bar. Grabbing at his face, he stumbled sideways, tripped over a barbell and fell into his exercise machine.

    I wasn’t waiting around. Snatching the suitcase, I ran across the room and pulled Shasta out of the corner. She was wide eyed and speechless. I pushed her out the door and paused, looking down at the card that I had thrown. It was the two of hearts. What would Roy say? A million to one shot, kid. It’s always about the numbers. Always.