Left for Alive

by Tom Hogan

  The Gimp shook his head. “Liar’s Dice—it’s my game. You know that.”

  “Lucky doesn’t lose, Ken. He either wins outright because he’s good at reading people or he cheats. And Lucky doesn’t see the difference between the two.”

  “How the hell do you cheat at Liar’s Dice?”

  Josh looked over at Clark, who just grinned. “Why not? It’s been over a year since I lost anything to him. Hey, Lucky. Bring the dice over for a minute, would you?” Lucky said something to Sheila that made her laugh, then gathered up the two cups and walked over, smiling loosely.

  “Five bucks?”

  Lucky frowned. “I was going to suggest a dollar.” He saw Josh start to speak. ‘But if you want to, sure.”

  They rattled the cups, then slammed them to the table, the dice trapped beneath. Josh tipped his cup slightly and cupped his hands around the opening. “Three fives.”

  Lucky didn’t look under his cup. “William’s had a few, hasn’t he? Lookit him over there with Sheila, fillin her head with all the prison gossip. As if she was one of us.” He shook his head. “What was the call again?”

  Josh kept his eyes on Lucky’s cup. “Three fives.”

  “Three sixes.” Still without looking under the cup. “Yeah, he’s talkin about that new guy came in last week, hard case, all intimidation and violence. Had his ‘don’t-fuck-with-me face’ on from the git go. Got into it with Murphy before he was even admitted into the population.”

  “Four sixes.”

  “Knew you weren’t serious about those fives. You’ve gotten sneaky since I played you last. Anyway, he knows better than to take on the Aryans and the browns and blacks, so he picks on some of the older lifers. Sixes, huh?” He looked back under his cup, kept his fingers loose. “Anyway, Will was tellin Sheila about old Stan and that guy cuttin his fingers off in the jigsaw. Talk about…”

  Josh’s eyes flew to Lucky’s face. At the same moment, Lucky’s thumbs dropped beneath his cup. “Someone cut off Stan’s fingers? That’s his whole life, working with wood.”

  “No, no,” Lucky said. “Some new fella in the shop chopped two of his own fingers off. Stan was the one told me about it.” He looked at Josh. “Oh, I see. You thought I meant…” He shook his head. “Stan’s fine.” He looked back at Josh’s cup. “What was the call again?

  “Four sixes,” Josh said dejectedly, his eyes back on Lucky’s cup, which now sat flush to the table.

  “Well, I can’t bump your sixes, so I’ll have to call.” Both men raised their cups. Josh’s dice held two sixes and an ace—a total of three sixes. Lucky didn’t have a single six or ace. He shrugged. “Thought you had me sure. Want to go again, get even?” When Josh shook his head, Lucky picked up the money and headed back to the bar.

  Josh raised his eyes at The Gimp, who nodded and looked over at the bar, where Lucky was back flirting with Sheila. “Little bastard got me talking about when I was all-state in football. He ever lose?”

  “Only to Will. And he won’t play with Will anymore.”

  “What’s Will’s secret?”

  “Will knows people. He’s got the best eyes and ears I’ve ever seen. He can hear the bluff in Lucky’s voice when no one else can. And no matter what Lucky says, Will’s eyes never leave Lucky’s cup. Never.”

  “What’s his story, anyway? All the people who’ve walked through that door, he’s the last one I’d make as a con.”

  Josh nodded into his beer. “William should never have done time at a place like San Tomas. That place is for serious criminals. William was a professor at a state college in Oregon. He was doing three years in a minimum-security joint for destroying a local draft board’s files. He does quiet time, he’s out in a year, eighteen months max.”

  He took a sip. “They put him in charge of computerizing the files, bringing them online with the central state files. At first he just keyed the files in, didn’t read what he was entering. Just keyed. But then one day the computer system went down and he found himself with all these files and nothing to do. So he started reading. And that was the start of it all. Keep in mind that these were in-house hand-written files, officials writing to each other. No self-censorship. And there was William, reading, in their own words, how they were playing gods with men’s lives. How they altered sentences at a whim, how they used solitary to break a man’s spirit, how they used the medical records to hide their abuses.

  “So he started undoing the damage they had done. As he entered the data, he ignored some of the hand-written directives. He reinstated parole hearings that had been cancelled as punishments. He lost some of the charges that would have added years to sentences. It was like playing chess with the state, he said.”

  “He had to know he was going to get caught,” The Gimp said.

  Josh nodded. “It took the state six months to trace it back to him, and when they did, they found that he’d copied enough of the evidence and put them in dead drops, that if he died, all the material would be released. But they sure as hell made sure he served all three years. And they made those three years a living hell. Latrine duty, solitary for the littlest offense. Then they added that year for what happened up at Moetown. And they would have done more, if they could.”

  “Where’d he get that nose? From one of the guards?”

  Josh shook his head. “From another con. New guy, decided he’d make William his sugar boy. Caught up to him one night in the shower and made his move. When William declined the invitation, he slammed William’s head into one of the faucets. Broke four teeth and mashed his nose, left him there and said he’d be back the next night and William had better be more receptive.”

  He took a sip of beer. “The next night the guards heard this screaming coming from the shower. They found the guy with his hands tied behind his back, hanging upside down, dangling. The only thing holding him up was a rope wrapped around his balls, then looped around the shower head.”

  The Gimp winced.

  Josh nodded. “Everyone knew what William had done with the files. And even if they hadn’t, everyone likes William.”

  As they drove back to the camp that night, Josh spoke over his shoulder into the dark. “Are you guys visiting or do you plan to stick around?”

  Lucky waited for William to answer. “Stick around, if we’re welcome.”

  “Me, too,” Lucky said.

  Josh pulled over, switched on the interior light and turned to face them. “You know I’d like nothing more than to have you guys around. But you need to know something. Especially you, Lucky.” He motioned back over his shoulder at the dark windshield. “The way I got the means to buy this camp. It’s…complicated. It’s not the kind of situation that will hold up well under legal or financial scrutiny. So if you’re going to live up here, you have to be legit.” His eyes bored into Lucky’s. “If you can’t sign up to that, you can visit but you can’t stay. Okay?”

  This time William waited Lucky out, looking out the window. “Okay,” Lucky said finally in an unsteady voice.

  They moved into Number Six that night.

  CHAPTER 12

  They were like an old married couple, The Gimp said to Josh. If it weren’t that Lucky had slept with the few single women on the mountain—as well as some of the married ones—within his first month there, he would have sworn they were queer for each other. They finished each other’s sentences, and smiled at odd, inappropriate times, as if they knew something the others didn’t.

  It never occurred to either man to want his own cabin. They had their own rhythm, their own routines. And two people in one cabin meant less upkeep. William was totally inept with tools and Lucky was one of the most naturally lazy people anyone had ever met. What little work was needed on Number Six, Lucky persuaded Clark to do.

  With a face fresh from a cereal box, Lucky had the look of a farmboy new to the big city. In his early forties, he
had the skin and hair of a teenager. Reddish-blond locks in a grown-out crewcut, a touch of freckles high on each check and a slightly buck-toothed grin, he looked the model of naivete—a lie, as William noted, that he’d cashed in on all his life.

  It took William almost a year of sharing a cell with Lucky to understand just how deep the lie ran. It happened one night, when he pretended to be asleep, and watched as Lucky took down one of William’s books and read the first thirty pages of an Existential Philosophy text.

  “You sonofabitch.”

  Lucky shut the book quickly, the innocent, slow-witted look returning. “I was lookin to see if you’d hidden any money in there.”

  “Bullshit. You were reading it. And you were understanding what you read. And…” His voice rose. “You were doing it with your mouth closed.”

  “Don’t make fun of me, Will. Just ‘cause I’m not…”

  “Save it. You always move your lips and stumble over a couple of words here and there when you read.” He cocked his head. “And, except for just then, you always keep your mouth slightly open, like you need it that way to breathe.”

  “You’re bein unkind, William.”

  William barked a laugh. “Unkind is playing your cellmate like a fiddle for the past year.”

  Lucky took on a cautious look. “What do you want, Will?”

  “I just want to know who I’m living with. And I just realized that these past few minutes are probably the first honest indicators of who you really are.”

  “So what if they are?”

  “Look, I’m not angry. I’m impressed. I’m usually a pretty good reader of people, but I feel like I’ve been long-conned. And I’m not the only one.”

  He looked at Lucky appreciatively. “The open-mouth breathing. Is that deliberate?”

  “It’s pretty much habit after all these years.”

  “Why?”

  “You said it. It makes me look dim. You lose to someone simple, you never suspect that person, you blame yourself. The simpleton was just lucky. It makes for repeat business.”

  William grinned. “Okay. That’s all I need to know for now. But do me a favor, okay? Dole these little revelations about yourself out a bit at time. It’ll make the time go more quickly. Okay?”

  Lucky held up the book. “Mind if I finish this?”

  “It’s yours.” As Lucky opened the book, William said. “By the way, what’s your IQ, anyway? The prison files have you listed at 110.”

  “I had those altered. It’s 172.” He picked up the text and began to read, his lips moving with each word.

  For reasons that escaped every man on the mountain, women found William devastating. His face, broken and lined, had character, but it was hardly handsome. He had a crooked smile that only came out when he was talking to a woman, but there was nothing forward or sexual about it.

  The Gimp knew what it was. “Sheila says he listens with his eyes. I always let him tend bar whenever she’s out of town. People love talking to Will. The ones who normally have two drinks in a night, they have three, maybe even four, if he’s working.”

  Lucky and William integrated themselves easily into the camp schedule. When Clark and Josh finished breakfast and went about their individual work, Lucky and William cleaned the kitchen and the L, then retreated to their cabin. Afternoons, when Josh and Clark worked on the L, William occasionally tried to pitch in, holding planks in place, hammering down the wayward shingle. But he was inept at any physical activity, which only deepened his discomfort. Lucky, with a practiced eye, gauged the scope of the afternoon’s work and then disappeared—no one knew where—until late afternoon, when the work stopped and the beer came out.

  This routine played out daily for the first three months, until one night, over dinner, William said, “Does it bother you guys that Lucky and I don’t do our share of the work up here?”

  Josh looked from William to Lucky, who shifted uneasily. Then to Clark. “It bother you?” Clark shook his head.

  “Me neither. Look, you don’t like our kind of work, that’s obvious. And to be honest, you’re lousy at it. You guys do your share of the cleaning and most of the cooking and shopping. It evens out.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Not even close.” William hesitated. “Look, I don’t need to know where you got the money to buy this place. And if you tell me there’s an inexhaustible supply of it left, I’ll shut up.” The three men looked at Josh, who said nothing. “Okay, then.”

  Clark pushed his food around his plate. Josh cupped both hands around his bottle of beer and stared over everyone’s head.

  It was Lucky who broke the silence. “What about if me and Will threw in some money each month. You know, on some kinda regular basis.” The three men stared at him, dumbstruck. He returned the stares. “Look. If this is gonna be home, then I don’t want to feel beholden. So if throwin in a couple of hundred bucks each month…” He raised an eyebrow at Josh, who nodded back. “…is what it takes so it doesn’t feel like Josh’s my dad and Clark’s my older brother, then that’s what we’ll do.” He looked at William. “Right?” William nodded.

  “Okay,” Josh said. “The money will help, I won’t deny that.” His eyes fixed on Lucky. “But it has to be legit. Can you do that?”

  Lucky nodded uncertainly and went back to his dinner.

  CHAPTER 13

  “A psychologist?” Josh said, frowning.

  “It’s good pay. Flexible hours. It’s interesting. And it’s as far from manual labor as I can get.”

  “How’s it going to work?”

  “I’m still working the details out. The key is the initial clientele. After that, I should be able to get by on word of mouth.”

  “Should I ask about the license?”

  “Best that you don’t.” He raised his hand. “I’ll keep it away from here. It’ll be okay.”

  He outlined the parameters of his practice. Fifteen hours a week, tops. Afternoons only, since he liked his mornings at the L and evenings at The Gimp’s. Which meant his clientele would be primarily women, housewives most likely.

  He walked the streets of Kinsella, looking for some direction. On the fifth day, he chanced on the laundromat at the corner of Boranda and Arlmont. He went in, took out a magazine, and watched the traffic for the rest of the afternoon. The next day he bought a laundry basket and an arsenal of clothes, including a number of women’s and children’s articles that he picked up at Goodwill. He stayed in the laundromat all day, washing and rewashing the clothes, observing the flow and patterns. He repeated the process the next day and the next. Then he reported his findings to Josh and The Gimp.

  “One woman in there alone—that happens three, four times a day. Conversation’s easy—I just have to ask for help with the conditioner. Two women together—I leave them alone. But three or more, they think I’m hapless and make room for me.”

  “Okay, but I don’t see any money changing hands,” said The Gimp.

  “Yet.”

  He found his rhythm after a couple of days. “I had my starting lines down,” he told Donna one night, “How I couldn’t believe how tough kids were on their clothes, or how I just started doing the grocery shopping and my God, the prices. Or my favorite: ‘Have you ever stopped to count how many hours a year we spend in this place?’”

  “So who were you and why were you all of a sudden doing the wash and shopping?”

  “A psychologist. Marriage and family counseling. My wife had just gone back to school. And since she’d sacrificed her career to help me with mine, the least I could do was return the favor.”

  Donna whistled. “You’re good, Will. But why are you in a laundromat if you’re a successful psychologist?”

  “Janice and I were adding on to the house so that she could have her own study and Robby and Karen could each have their own rooms. They were getting to that stage where privacy was
important. So our laundry room was out of commission for the next four months.”

  He then introduced regularity into his laundering schedule, explaining that he was back to work and working around his counseling load. The results were encouraging, with many of the women altering their schedules to coincide with his.

  “We talked about everything under the sun,” he said. “But it usually came back to men. I explained about the issues we men have with intimacy, the problems we have verbalizing our emotions, how some men are married more to the idea of being married than to their spouse. Things like that.”

  “You’re shameless.”

  “I know. But I’m helping at the same time.”

  After a month of a predictable schedule, he made his move. He quit the laundromat for a solid month. He went back east for a week to visit some old university friends; the rest of the time he stayed up in Moetown, getting in the way of the renovations. When the month had passed, he loaded up the basket and headed back.

  He had been missed. Sorely. He explained that he was back to work full-time and their new housekeeper did the laundry at her home most of the time. The addition was about finished. He’d really come by just to say goodbye.

  “Some of them pulled me aside or had me walk them to their car. Wanted to know if they could see me professionally. But here was my problem: I charge seventy-five an hour, and while I’m not pretending to know their financial circumstances, that’s pretty steep for anyone. But it’s the fixed rate for all of the psychologists in our practice.” He looked at Donna. “You could see my dilemma.”

  “You poor dear. How in the world did you ever resolve it?”

  “I let them come up with the solution. Angie, the redhead who always used Machines Three and Four, proposed a group rate. I said give me a day to think about it.” He smiled. “There was a whole group of them waiting for me the next day. I said okay, how about this: twenty bucks an hour, just enough to cover operating expenses. But we couldn’t use my offices.”