Ghosted (32 page)

“The odds
are
in his favour!” said Chaz. “Even if what you’re saying made sense, how are you going to beat him? You play to lose.” He stood up. “I love you, man. But you’re a terrible poker player. You play with heart and no brains. You like the rush too much. You’re good at the game, but not at
winning
. You think that’s going to change?”

Mason faced Dr. Francis. “Why does everyone know me better than I do?” He looked at Chaz. “And since when do you talk like a normal person? What happened to Chaz the Goombah? Life start getting him down?”

Chaz shook his head and walked out of the office.

Dr. Francis sighed. “Why do you do that, Mason?”

“What?”

“You make people feel stupid for caring about you.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“Interesting …”

“You heard us in the Cave that day, didn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The
Man from Snowy River.”

“I don’t remember
you
saying much.”

“He loves you like a brother.”

Mason looked out the window. Chaz was crossing the street.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s a fucking curse.”

“For you or for him?”

“I’ve run out of statements, doc.”

Dr. Francis sat on Willy’s bunk in the QT room. She and Willy were talking, some of it medical, some of it not.

On the other side of the glass, the Cave was empty but for Mason and Chaz. They sat at a table near the bar.

“You know what you’re doing?”

“Yeah,” said Mason. “For the first time in a long time.”

“That’s not how it works, you know?”

“What?”

“You get sober and that’s it—like taking a pill and suddenly you’re an invincible genius or something.”

Mason grinned. “Then why do I feel like one?”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

It was five to nine. Mason finished his soda water, nodded at the ladies through the looking glass, then headed for the door.

    
65. The thought of dancing makes me nervous.

66. I have no favourite number.

Mason stood with his back to the wall, outside the Lucky Save—as if waiting on some normal dude:
maybe grab some beers, play some poker….
Then there he was, coming out of Harvey’s—a black hood over a baseball cap—like any guy on the street. It was a strange moment, standing there, as if they were about to shake hands or something.

“You look like shit,” said Seth.

But Mason looked sharp: clean-shaven, in a pressed suit, collar open, no tie. And the detox had done him good.
That’s a weak thing to say
. He grinned and held the Lucky Save door.

It felt unreal: Seth Handyman in the Lucky Save Convenience—like going for lunch with Darth Vader. Mason pointed at the cards, hanging on the wall next to the batteries. “A pack of Bicycle, please. The blue ones.”

“Red,” said Seth. Mason shrugged, and so did the Lucky Save proprietor. As the man turned around to get the cards, Seth took four vials of poppers from beside the register, put them in his pocket and walked towards the door.

The man put the cards on the counter. “That’s five twenty-five.”

Mason was suddenly nauseous. He paid and left the store.

“Okay,” he said. “A couple things you’ll want to know …”

“Don’t worry,” said Seth, ushering Mason into the Harvey’s vestibule. “I’ve been here before.” He pulled open the door to the Cave. “Your buddy runs this place, right?”

They descended in the dark, Seth behind him on the stairs. Mason’s nausea felt cold now—icy vomit waiting in his guts. They pushed through the curtains.

The Cave looked cool like this, open for business but empty, the dim light, black and burgundy, shadows and candle flame. Chaz was standing behind the bar like a saloon keeper, wiping out a highball glass. Seth crossed the room towards him.

“Howdy,” said Seth.

Chaz nodded, still wiping the glass.

“You’re the guy who broke my nose.” He sat down at the bar.

“Yeah?”

“With a motorcycle helmet, I believe.”

Chaz nodded, like that sounded about right.

Seth flipped back his hood, the cap still on. His face looked leaner in the light.

“Double Jack on the rocks,” he said. “And one for my buddy.”

Chaz looked to Mason.

“Soda water.”

Seth laughed. “Oh, how the worm has turned!”

Chaz poured.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” Mason said, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
Weakness
.

“Only when I’m on parole.” Seth leaned over and pulled up his pant leg. There were red lines where the tracking bracelet had been. “What’s
your
excuse?”

Mason took a breath.

“You’re playing over there,” said Chaz. He was trying to sound casual, like he was assigning a lane in a bowling alley, still wiping that fucking glass.

At the table were two chairs, and two stacks of chips. Mason walked over and put down his glass of soda water.

“No way,” said Seth.

“What?”

“I’m not sitting with my back to him—
or
to that mirror.”

Mason glanced towards the bar. “Your call,” he said, switching his drink to the other side. There was no angle from the mirror. He felt eyes on his back, and Chaz just trying to stay calm.

Seth walked around the table and unzipped his hoodie. He pulled it off as he took his seat, under the yellow light. He was wearing a dark blue T-shirt, the sleeves rolled up tight over cut, sinewy muscles. Mason’s glass was almost empty. Chaz came over to get it.

“Is he going to be here while we play?” said Seth.

“It’s his place,” said Mason.

“It wasn’t in the rules. If
you
have someone,
I
get someone.”

“What?”

“It’s only fair.”

“How are you going to …?”

Seth got up and drank down his drink. The pudginess had disappeared. He looked lean and mean. “Back in a minute.” He crossed the Cave and went out through the curtains. Mason looked at the unopened deck of cards. Chaz brought his drink over. “He’s been here before.”

“So it seems.”

“You think he’s coming back?”

Mason shrugged.

“He looks different, right?”

Mason nodded. “He’s stopped the progesterone,” he said. “It made him fat and bloated.”

“It’s only been a week.”

“A very long week.”

Chaz went to the bar to watch the monitor. Mason concentrated on his breathing.

They stayed like that for a while, then eventually Chaz spoke: “He’s got someone with him.” The curtains parted.

Seth walked to his chair and sat down. The other man stayed standing, to the right of Seth’s chair. He was facing Mason, but looking over him, past him—his hands in the air circling each other slowly like he was reeling out line, or invisible string.

“Jesus!” said Mason.

“You want something to drink, buddy?” said Seth. The Kite Man said nothing. Seth held up his glass. “Another for me, Chaz.” He looked at Mason. “How’s that soda water treating you?”

Mason picked up the deck.

“Let’s crack ’em open,” said Seth.

The plastic foil put Mason’s teeth on edge. His mouth was dry. Another sip and his drink was empty again. Seth heard the clink of ice in his glass, and laughed. Mason felt his anger rising like quicksand around his shoulders. The Kite Man’s stare had shifted—the same line, just farther away. Mason took a breath, began to shuffle. Seth watched him, his eyes flicking with the cards. Mason placed the deck in the middle of the table: “Cut for deal?” he said.

Seth nodded with a smile, then reached out and cut the ten of clubs—Mason, the six of diamonds. Chaz arrived with the drinks. Seth began to shuffle: a classic waterfall for a while, then
he triple-cut one-handed, drinking from his glass with the other. Mason stacked his chips into five piles. “Small blind,” said Seth.

Mason tossed a five-dollar chip into the pot. Seth put in his ten bucks and placed the deck next to it. Mason cut the cards, then watched as Seth began to deal.

    
67. There is no try—only do and do not.

68. It’s sometimes hard to breathe.

Mason looked at his pocket cards: a suited connector—ten and jack of hearts. He put them down on the felt. They felt good beneath his fingers. “Plus twenty,” he said, sliding the chips into the pot.

“All-in,” said Seth.

To Mason it felt like a giant had grabbed him, picked him up and slammed him back into his chair.

Seth picked up his chips in two large stacks and placed them in the centre of the table. He looked at Mason, his face blank.

Mason’s mind stumbled, from gear to gear, his thoughts chugging out, then racing over everything—all the possibilities. The more he thought, the less it made sense: Seth ready to end it all—right now, on the first hand—with so much at stake. Not only life and death, but the game itself…. The bet was insane. It was ludicrous…. Wondrous. It was the kind of bet Mason would make on a grand or so—but on his
life?

An awesome move
.

And then, before he realized what was happening, Mason smiled at his opponent—an impressed, heavy grin, full of awe and respect.

Just fold the fucking hand!

“I fold,” said Mason.

Seth nodded and gathered up the chips. Mason sat back in his chair. He’d lost the first hand—not a lot of chips, but that stupid smile: a victory for Seth he hadn’t meant to give.

For a while they traded hands, big blind picking up antes, maybe forty dollars on the flop … nothing made it to the turn. Mason was focused on two things. One was keeping their stacks close to even.

It wasn’t until the seventh hand that they went all the way—from the flop, to the turn, to the river. But still the betting was low, $180 in the pot: Seth turned over three sixes, beating Mason’s two pair. But Mason was feeling okay: the game was young, they were finding their pace.

“What time is it?” said Seth.

Mason shuffled.

“Nine forty-five,” said Chaz.

“Aren’t the blinds supposed to go up?” said Seth.

Mason kept on shuffling.

“Blinds are ten and twenty,” said Chaz.

As if on cue, Seth pulled something from his pocket.

“Can you pass me one of those?” he said, pointing at the bar. Mason didn’t turn around, just shuffled. Seth got up from the table and came back with a metal coaster in his hand. He sat down, and without looking at Mason, dumped a pile of white onto the shiny chrome in front of him.

“No fucking way,” said Mason, trying to swallow the words as he said them.

Seth glanced up at him, some poor sucker’s credit card in his hand. He pressed it down—that crunching sound. Mason’s chest constricted, he fumbled the shuffle—and now Seth was chopping; chop-chop-chopping … little piles, thick white lines …

As Chaz came around the table the Kite Man lifted his hands quickly, as if trying to avoid snagging him.

“Sorry,” said Chaz. “No drugs at the game.”

Seth looked up. “Oh,” he said, still chopping away, “that’s actually not true.” He nodded at Mason. “Ask your buddy there. The Rules of the House apply.”

“It’s
my
house,” said Chaz.

“And it’s our game,” said Seth. “Should we take it somewhere else?”

They both looked at Mason.

Mason looked at the pile of coke. Never in his life had he wanted a line so badly. He dropped his gaze and shook his head. As Seth turned back to Chaz, a look of satisfied innocence on his face, Mason—halfway through a shuffle—stretched his arms across the table, the cards in an arch between his fingers. Then he let them go.

“Oops,” he said, as the cards riffled down. Cocaine blew across the table, into the air like a cloud. “Sorry about that.”

Seth turned to him. “Don’t worry, buddy.” He smiled. “There’s a lot more where that came from.

Seth snorted a rail before every hand—sometimes between bets—and he was sharp with it, too: cutting lines, cutting cards, his hands flashing in perfect practised motion. He hit the coke, then popped a popper. He drank down his bourbon in long gulps, struck a match one-handed.