Drawing Dead (19 page)

Wicky smiled and saluted with his martini.

Another round, and the kid loosened up and started talking macroeconomics, a bunch of shit he'd learned in college. Wicky ordered some shots of tequila to shut him up. It worked, but then Jack Mitchell started in about Las Vegas. He went there for two weeks every year, acted like he owned the place. Wicky shared some of his hot stock picks with the kid, who dutifully typed them into his new electronic memo pad, punching the tiny keys one at a time. By seven o'clock the kid was zonked, complaining in slurred sentence fragments about women in general and about his new wife in particular, who hadn't gone down on him since the day they were married. A smiling Jack Mitchell kept prescribing new drinks for the kid's problems. “Ever had a Zombie, kid?”

Wicky said, “I gotta get going, guys. Gotta go win the rent money. You guys interested in playing some cards tonight?”

The new kid had never been this drunk before in his life—not even in college—and, after what awaited him in the morning, would likely never be this drunk again. But he wasn't so drunk that he didn't know he was too drunk to play poker. Unable to form words clearly by this time, he simply shook his head.

Mitchell laughed. “This kid's no dummy,” he said.

When Wicky floated out of Myron's, Mitchell was suggesting that the kid buy another round of Glenlivet for the road. No deals had been made.

Cars are like dogs. You can walk 'em around a ring, give 'em funny haircuts, pick up their do-do with your hand inside a plastic bag. I don't give a shit. A dog's a dog, and so's your car if it don't run right.

—Sam O'Gara,
explaining the nine cars in his backyard
to a city inspector

Beep.

“Joe, this is Jimbo Bobick. You get that package I sent you? Call me!” Beep.

“This is Cat Fish. You and me, we need to talk. Don't call me, I'll get back to you.”

Beep.

“Son? This is your daddy. I maybe forgot to mention, that red fucker's got a sticky gas pedal. I was gonna tie a cord to it, case it gets stuck down. Maybe you oughta do that, before it goes and takes off on you. Okay, son? Bye.”

The
first time the red fucker took off on him, Crow was on the Ford bridge, crossing the Mississippi. He wasn't used to the truck, and it took him two critical heartbeats to realize that even though he had pulled his foot off the gas pedal, the truck was still accelerating. He was almost climbing up the trunk of a little Mitsubishi when he stood hard on the brake and stalled the racing engine. He sat there for a minute, then another minute, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, then reached down and pulled the accelerator pedal off the floor, worked it up and down. It seemed fine. He restarted the truck and drove home slowly, working the pedals gingerly. It took off once again on Hiawatha Avenue, but he was ready for it this time and flipped the gas pedal back up with the edge of his shoe sole.

After hearing Sam's message, he found a piece of clothesline, tied it to the pedal, ran it up over the steering column so it hung within easy reach. A typical Sam O'Gara repair. He drove the truck around the block a few times, thinking about his dad, practicing with the cord. It worked fine. One thing about old Sam—as foul-mouthed, irresponsible, and full of bullshit as he was, he cared enough to call and warn his son about the gas pedal. Crow was touched.

He parked the truck, went inside, made himself a sardine, onion, and tomato sandwich, ate it, drank a fake beer, listened to an old Tim Buckley tape, and tried not to think about the message from Catfish. She got to him like a drug. The night stretched before him, huge, empty, and grim. He wished fervently for a crisis, solvable and impersonal, to give him purpose, but would have to settle for the poker game at Zink's.

Maybe he would drive up to Brainerd when he got his Jag back, look at that island. It would be something to do. It would get him out of town. Drive up for a day, about three hours each way, and get a few lungfuls of that northern air.

Crow showed up at Zink's a little after ten. He didn't like sitting at a table, waiting for the other players to show, so he always tried to be an hour or so late. Waiting at the table made him anxious and too ready to gamble his money, and he didn't have a hell of a lot to work with, so he liked to walk in on a game in progress—that was the way to control the action.

Tonight he was feeling cocky and ready for play. A dangerous attitude when it came to cards, but the feeling was good and he decided to go with it. He found a parking space for the red fucker right in front of Club 34. A good omen. Had he still been using, he would have done a couple of quick spoons, one in each nostril, right now. Instead, he sat in the truck cab with his eyes closed, letting his mind go flat. He pushed away all thoughts of broken cars, dark-haired women, islands, and empty pockets. He let the gray nothing rest in his head. A clean mind was a winning mind, a mind attuned to probabilities, strategies, and the intent to deceive.

Ozzie LaRose opened the door at the top of the stairs.

“Crow! All right, guys, we got ourselves a real game now.”

The other four men sitting at the table all looked at him. Zink was shuffling through a deck, ready to deal the next hand. Dickie Wicky waved at Crow with what looked like a gin and tonic. To Wicky's right, Catfish's former love stud Tom Aquinas—or whatever his name was tonight—winked at Crow. Across the table, stacking a pile of chips, Ben Cartwright looked at him mildly.

“These are the fish?” Crow asked, looking at Ben Cartwright. He could feel his meditative calm crumble, breaking into chunks of illusion.

Dickie looked embarrassed. “Hey, who said anything about fish?”

Ben Cartwright smiled and looked down at his long-fingered hands.

Wicky said, “These are the guys I was telling you about, Joe. This is Ben Franklin, and this is T. K. Jefferson. Guys, this is Joe Crow, a good friend of mine.”

Crow stared at Cartwright/Franklin, then shifted his eyes to Aquinas/Jefferson. He could hear the clicking of broken information re-sorting itself in his mind, the sound of pieces thudding painfully into place. Jefferson was grinning at Crow, riffling his chips with one hand. Crow wondered if he was wearing his purple Batman underwear. Franklin, big and languid and pale, was stacking towers of chips, keeping his eyes averted, a faint smile showing through his sparse beard.

Crow waited for his mind to sort it out. One thing he knew for sure: if Catfish Wicky's frenetic “love stud,” Tommy, and the pale- eyed card mechanic, Ben, were behind the Galactic Guardians Fund, his units weren't going to make him a rich man anytime soon.

Ben Franklin cleared his throat. “Good to see you again, Mr. Crow,” he said in his deep voice.

Wicky looked surprised. “You two know each other?”

Crow looked at the Rolex on his wrist. He made a decision. “I gotta go,” he said.

“What the hell?” Zink said. “What's going on, Crow?”

“I don't think I want to play. This fellow”—he pointed a thumb at Ben Franklin—”plays a different brand of poker than you or I. Check your aces, Zink.”

Wicky looked quizzically at Ben Franklin.

Franklin stood up. “No big deal. You don't want me to play, I'll cash in my chips and leave.”

“Hey, who said anything about not playing? What are you talking about?” Wicky looked up at Crow. “Joe, what makes you think you can just walk in here and call my friend a cheat? You just got here. This is a friendly game, isn't it?”

Crow crossed his arms and shrugged. Zink was holding the ace of spades, feeling along the front edge with his thumb, looking past it at Franklin, his neck turning slowly red.

Counting out his chips, Franklin said to Zink, “You don't mind, I'll just cash in now.”

Tom Jefferson drummed his fingertips on the green baize surface of the table, holding his face in an uncomfortable-looking grin, his little black eyes jumping like fleas.

“I think you better pass on the cashing in, fella, and just cut right to the part where you leave,” said Zink.

Franklin froze. “I have invested two hundred dollars in this game,” he said slowly, pitching his voice so deep it seemed to emanate from his belly.

“That don't quite pay us for the time we've wasted entertaining you, fella.” Zink's complexion had advanced from red to a deep maroon, making his blue eyes seem to jut out and float a few inches in front of his face.

For a moment, Franklin fixed his pale eyes on Zink's face. Then he sighed, held up two long-fingered hands, palms forward, and stood up. “No problem,” he said. He walked softly past Crow, opened the door, disappeared down the stairs.

Tom Jefferson cleared his throat. “You want to cash me in?” he said to Zink.

Zink fixed his eyes on him. Jefferson gestured toward the door. “My ride,” he said apologetically. Zink pulled out a roll and cashed his chips. Jefferson took the money and followed his partner down the stairs.

Wicky said, “Jesus Christ, Joe, you sure know how to bust up a game.”

“There was no game.” Crow turned to Zink, whose color was just starting to mellow. “Zink, you know where I can find a pawnshop still open?”

“There's one up on Broadway,” he said. “Al's Loans. They're open till midnight.”

“Thanks.” Crow said, looking again at the Rolex on his wrist. He headed out the door. He saw the yellow Cadillac pulling away as he reached the street.

Wicky caught up to Crow as he was unlocking the door to the truck, “Hey, Joe, wait a minute.”

Crow turned and looked at Wicky, his eyes tense.

“You aren't going to sell my watch, I hope.”

“You want to buy back those units of Galactic Guardians?”

“Hey, Joe, give it a little time.”

“Don't bullshit me anymore, Dickie. That fund is worthless, and you know it. You owe me fifty-seven hundred bucks, and I need the money now.”

Wicky drew back. “Joe, I thought you would understand that there is some risk involved in any speculative investment.”

“You told me you'd make it good, Dickie. Now's your chance. Where's that personal guarantee you were pushing yesterday?”

“Joe, I don't know what you think you heard, but I don't remember it that way. You say the fund is worthless, I don't agree. Give it time. If you aren't willing to let the vehicle perform, I certainly don't feel any obligation to honor any 'personal guarantee,' even if I'd made such a statement, which I don't think I did. As far as I'm concerned, the marker's paid.”

Crow said, “I'll mail you the pawnshop ticket. You come up with the money, you can buy the watch back from Al's Loans.” He opened the door and climbed up into the truck cab.

Wicky sighed. “I'm really disappointed in you, Joe,” he said as the truck door slammed.

Crow found a forward gear, revved the engine, and pulled out onto the street, one hand on the clothesline, holding it like a rein, jerking back on it every time the truck tried to take off without him.

Debrowski's
lights were on and her walls were thrumming. Crow slammed the side of his fist against the door five times. No ordinary knock could compete with the rock and roll. After a second round of knocking, which left his hand numb, the music stopped and she answered her door.

“Music too loud, Crow?” Her standard greeting, and usually a good guess. Tonight she was wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and an oversize Iggy Pop T-shirt, Iggy's staring face covering the entire shirt, eyes the size of grapefruit, the shirt spotted with perspiration. Her face looked flushed, her eyes blue and bright.

Crow shook his head. “I need company.”

“Come on in.” She held the door wide, and Crow stepped inside, his nostrils flaring at the smell of fresh, healthy sweat.

Debrowski was still in the doorway, looking toward the street. “What's that big red thing doing parked in front of my house?”

“It's mine. I mean, I borrowed it from my dad.”

“It's really ugly, Crow.” She closed the door.

“What were you doing?” he asked, looking around the living room for a place to sit. Debrowski's few furnishings had all been pushed back against one wall. Her Oriental rug was rolled up against the other wall, leaving the center of the room open.

She closed the door. “My tai chi sets.”

“You do tai chi while you listen to the Coldcocks?”

“That was Jane's Addiction, Crow. Get with it. You want some coffee or something?”

“I thought tai chi was supposed to be the mellow martial art.”

“I mix in some Muay Thai kick boxing. They actually aren't all that different. Hey, I got some of this wild Cameroon Arabica, little tiny beans that'll blow your head off. You want a little blast?”

Crow nodded. Debrowski, like a lot of ex-dopers, talked about cof

fee that same way she had talked about the real stuff—Peruvian Flake cocaine, China White heroin, Lebanese Blond hashish. Crow sat at the kitchen counter and watched her prepare two sugary doses of black energy. She operated her complicated-looking espresso machine with quick, efficient movements, running the superheated water through the finely ground beans, letting the dark liquid flow into two tiny brass cups. She added three teaspoons of raw sugar to each cup, stirred, handed one to Crow with a conspiratorial smile. The unspoken question: Was this cheating?

They sat on the floor, resting their backs against the rolled-up rug. Crow sipped and waited for the fingers of energy to climb the back of his neck. He felt something, but no one could ever mistake it for the real thing. If this was cheating, then so was a married man cheating when he shook hands with another man's wife.

Debrowski sipped and shuddered, acting out the buzz. “So what's going on?”

“You were right about the Galactic Guardians thing,” Crow said.

“You talked to Natch? Kind of like going back in time, isn't it? What did he think of the Galactic Guardians?”