Undercard

by David Albertyn

  “Good to have you back, young brother.”

  Tyron almost says, “Good to be back,” but falsehoods are distasteful to his lips, and he is not yet sure if it is good to be back. “People keep telling me how proud my parents would be if . . . you know . . . they were still around.”

  “People remember what your parents did for our community,” Marlon says. “They were special people. And they would be proud.”

  The words hit him hard, coming from Marlon.

  “You coming to the rally tomorrow?” Marlon asks.

  “I don’t know yet,” Tyron says. He’s only recently learned of the march planned for the next morning, in protest of Keenan’s not guilty verdict.

  Marlon nods. “What are you going to do now that you’re back?”

  “Everyone’s been asking me that. Getting home seemed like a fantasy. Anything beyond was just too far away.”

  “It’s like that with prison. You have all these ideas, but can’t see anything beyond those bars opening. How old are you now?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “Important time. But what time isn’t important? Still, if you aren’t married yet and don’t got kids, you got options like a young man. You know what I think?”

  “What’s that, Marlon?”

  “I think it’s fate. You getting back here now, just as that cop gets off. He being your old friend and all.”

  “Fate?”

  “Yeah, fate. We need a Shaw more than ever, Tyron. You don’t know what to do with your life, I’ll tell you what to do. Take up the mantle of your parents. Teaching, community organizing, activism. Continue their legacy. It’s what you were born to do, young brother.”

  Tyron holds Marlon’s stare as long as he can, then looks out at the sweeping desert sky. He draws in a breath of hot, dry air. I need to be somewhere humid, he thinks. Somewhere wet and green. The only wetness in the desert is blood.

  He turns back to Marlon and says, “Continuing their legacy starts with me going to that rally?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You know the Quinns took me in after my parents passed.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m a Marine, Marlon. Loyalty is everything to me.”

  “And if that loyalty to a murderer conflicts with loyalty to your community, what do you do then?”

  “In that case, I stay on the sidelines.”

  “So you aren’t coming tomorrow?”

  Tyron gives a quick shake of his head.

  “Think on it,” Marlon says. “A miscarriage of justice like this can’t stand, no matter who the perpetrator is.” He puts a hand on Tyron’s shoulder and somehow grows even more serious. “Black Lives Matter is just getting started. Things are happening, son. At last, they’re happening. We need you in on this. People respect and believe in you. Sports star, war hero, and most of all, the only child of Terrence and Viola Shaw. You can inspire us. Not just young people, all of us. Me included. We need you, young brother. Promise me you’ll think on it.”

  Tyron clasps Marlon’s hand and they embrace.

  Walking back across the dry lawn, Tyron recalls when the general pinned those medals on his dress blues. But those medals didn’t come with the well of unease deepening within him.

  3

  2:18 p.m.

  The deep sea greens and dark blues of the Reef Resort and Casino make Keenan feel submerged, like he’s been transported to the lost city of Atlantis — if Atlantis had slot machines. He wishes he was actually submerged, actually at the bottom of the ocean, staring up at actual luminescent coral and not this knockoff crap protruding from the ground, the walls, the ceiling.

  Not the worst way to go, once the lungs close up. The pain would be brutal, but there has to be some kind of serenity at the end, he thinks.

  He walks past a nightclub and a shark tank on his way to the escalators, scratching at his beard, the fake black beard he glued on an hour ago. He can’t even show his face in public anymore, the smooth fair skin or light red stubble too recognizable from the media coverage of his trial. People get out of his way — they know he’s cursed, even if they don’t know his true identity. He crosses another row of slot machines to a set of elevators, the doors polished to a sheen. His reflection stares back uncomfortably.

  The Reef cap pulled low to cover his red hair, the aviator shades hiding his blue eyes, that stupid black beard on his face — he looks like a stalker. What woman would look twice at this chump, except to make sure he isn’t following her? At least this dope looks Italian and not like he just stepped off a boat from Dublin. The doors slide open and he’s split in half like a bad film edit.

  He exits on the fourth floor and walks down a couple of carpeted hallways to a metal door that reads Employees Only, taps his keycard to unlock it, and heads down more hallways to a series of offices with executive assistants staffing desks out front. He explains who he is and is told to go straight into the office of the casino’s director of security, Raymond Monk. Keenan is expected.

  At the door Keenan hesitates, poised to knock. He is grateful to his father’s old friend and former partner for getting him this job, yet an old feeling returns to him, a forgotten disquiet associated with this man. Keenan’s father, Craig, used to say that Raymond Monk was the kind of guy who couldn’t wait for a fight. In their narco days he would crack skulls without a second thought. Keenan has seen the man only a handful of times as an adult, and it was cool every time, but always some wariness from childhood lingered.

  “It’s open,” Monk calls out when he knocks.

  Inside, Keenan smirks: even Monk’s office has an underwater vibe. A long fish tank atop the mini-bar and cabinets; the plush carpet patterned in wavy, watery hues of green and blue; the walls a dark, almost black-blue, suggesting the office has sunk into a chasm on the ocean floor — did they never think they were overdoing it? Women seem to like this kind of shit, though. In Keenan’s experience the Reef is the best place in the city to pick up. Just have to avoid the sex workers. But Keenan can spot a hooker with his eyes closed. And he’s never had to pay for it.

  Not anymore, though. Maybe he will have to start paying for it; who’s going to want to sleep with the most hated man in Las Vegas? A disgraced cop. A murderer. Even his wife doesn’t want him anymore.

  “Keenan,” Monk says, rising from his desk. “You’re late.”

  Keenan checks his watch. “I thought I was early.”

  Monk laughs. “I’m just fucking with you. Like my digs?”

  The large office has a desk, a small conference table, chic metal chairs with black leather upholstery, filing cabinets, bookshelves, a safe; no windows, though. Keenan wouldn’t like to work in an office with no windows. “It’s great. Big.”

  Monk smugly folds his arms and bounces his head down like he’s Mussolini. Close-cropped grey hair atop his heavy, carved bones, Monk has the kind of face that could break knuckles without losing any of its rugged appeal.

  “Take a seat.”

  Keenan approaches and shakes Monk’s hand. Keenan looms over him; the man must be a couple inches under six feet, though he has the arms and shoulders of a brawler. Monk’s grip is so tight that Keenan’s hand aches, and he is forced to squeeze back like they are in some kind of competition. Overcompensation? Is that what Keenan recalls of this man?

  They sit on either side of the desk and Monk pours them each a scotch. “I tell you, Keenan, this whole situation is a blessing in disguise. Getting kicked out of Metro, I mean. The private side is the shit. If I had to do it over, I would’ve left the force sooner.”

  Keenan clears his throat, and says with some effort, “I resigned. But I see your point.”

  “You resigned or they forced you to resign?”

  A flash of what his life as a police officer would have looked like after the trial brings a lump to his throat. The mo
ment that boy dropped, Keenan knew he could never police these streets again. And that was before he found out the shooting had been recorded on someone’s phone. “I resigned. But maybe I saved some people headaches.”

  He accepts the scotch. They clink glasses. Keenan isn’t used to drinking in the early afternoon, but who gives a shit anymore?

  “Christ, this country has turned soft. To think they brought charges against you for that. The homeboys should know by now: you run, you get a cap in your ass. It’s natural selection. Clear out the dumbasses, we might get somewhere.” Monk takes a long, slow sip of the amber liquid. “Hell, but what do I know? It got you working for me, right?”

  Keenan has the urge to argue with Monk in some small way, to dissociate himself from Monk’s rhetoric, but when he attempts to do so in the most subtle, conciliatory manner, his body recoils. He drinks his whisky, because it is the only acceptable thing to do in the moment. He always obeyed his instincts without a second thought; now he doubts everything, every action, desire, decision. Keenan is afraid. He can no longer trust his natural inclinations. But what difference would it make to speak up anyway? He knows he’ll be lumped in with people like Monk regardless of anything he says — forever seen as “one of them” thanks to one atrocious error in judgement.

  Monk leans back in his chair and puts his black alligator cowboy boots up on the desk. “When the time is right I’ll introduce you to Mr. Bashinsky. Wait for this shit to settle down first.” He slides his boots off the desk and leans forward in his chair, surprisingly earnest now. “He’s a special man, Bashinsky. A visionary. The best casino owner this town has ever seen. Make a good impression on him and it’ll change your life. It sure changed mine.” He downs his drink and pours another one, motions Keenan to follow his lead.

  “Excuse me, Detective Monk, but —”

  “I haven’t been a detective for a long time, junior. You want to be formal, it’s Director Monk. But you were a kid back when I first met you, Keenan. Remember that? You would tell me about all your little girlfriends. ‘The little player,’ we called you.”

  Keenan doesn’t remember any of this.

  “Call me Ray. Your dad and me go back so long it should probably be Uncle Ray. Get over here on Uncle Ray’s knee, boy,” he orders, slapping his thigh and laughing.

  Keenan stares at Monk. “That’s pretty creepy, sir.”

  “Ray.”

  “Pretty creepy, Uncle Ray.”

  Monk’s face breaks into a grin and he hits the table. “Give me your fucking glass.”

  Keenan does as he’s told. “My shift starts at three.” He checks his watch. “That’s in half an hour.”

  “Your point?” Monk hands back the glass, full of whisky.

  “You want me showing up drunk on my first day?”

  “I do if your boss is the one getting you drunk. Then you should drink all he gives you, show that you know how to take orders.”

  Keenan takes a huge gulp to show just how good he is at taking orders. Too good, he thinks.

  They finish their drinks and, the bottle empty, switch to bourbon for the next round.

  “The shit your old man and me got up to when we were undercover . . .” Monk whistles. “But no son wants to hear those kinds of stories about his old man. Am I right?”

  “Right. Last thing I need is more of my dad’s cop stories. A hundred times is usually enough.”

  “Ha. That’s your old man right on.”

  The alcohol is getting to Keenan, his tongue suddenly looser, his worries less important. He has been drinking a fair bit lately; he isn’t used to being hated. Setting his drink down, he unconsciously reaches for his wedding band. He rotates it around his ring finger, his mind drifting to his wife, Naomi. He grimaces and wonders once again if he should just leave this city and all his problems in it. Or go a step further and lay his problems to rest for good.

  “Disguise ain’t bad,” Monk says. “When the dust has cleared and you meet Mr. Bashinsky, you can stop wearing it.”

  Keenan nods. “I want to thank you again for giving me this job. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t.”

  “Don’t mention it. It don’t cover half of what I owe your old man. And we needed extra people for the fight anyway. Huge night for us. You a boxing fan?”

  “When there’s a big fight. I boxed as a kid. I trained with Antoine Deco, actually.”

  Keenan can feel the change in Monk: sparks leap off him. Monk looks down, unclenches his hand like he just realized how tightly he was gripping his glass tumbler. Keenan stares at him, wondering what Antoine could’ve done to precipitate such a change in this man. Although Antoine does tend to have that kind of effect on people.

  Monk leans back, feigns a smile. “I knew that, actually. Your pops told me. Deco’s come a long way. Further than any of us imagined.”

  “You can say that again,” Keenan says.

  “You might bump into him tonight. You’ll be ferrying fighters back and forth.”

  “Cool,” Keenan says, even though he has no interest in seeing Antoine ever again. “So Gibbons and Suarez will be a big one, huh?”

  “There’s no fight bigger. Gibbons and Suarez have been ducking each other for years. At last the money got too much for them to keep saying no. Pussies. I never ducked a fight my whole life.”

  “You’re a brave man.” Keenan regrets saying this immediately. He runs his tongue over the inside of his teeth, absorbing the pungent aftertaste of the bourbon, hoping Monk missed the sarcasm.

  “Want to see how brave I am?”

  “No.”

  “We can throw down if that’s what you want.”

  “No, Uncle Ray.”

  Monk laughs and they clink glasses for the final time.

  4

  3:02 p.m.

  The buzzer sounds, deafening, drowning out the parents cheering in the stands. Her point guard hands the ball to the ref. Her girls grin at each other. Another victory.

  As Naomi Wilks crosses the gym floor to shake hands with the opposing coach, she reflects that she might be better on the sidelines than she was on the court.

  “Great game. Good luck for the rest of the season,” she says to her counterpart, a middle-aged woman in a tracksuit. Naomi, meanwhile, wears a charcoal pantsuit, in the manner of her old pro and college coaches: got to look professional on game day.

  “I can’t believe how much your players have improved,” the coach says. “Seriously, great work.”

  Naomi smiles. “Thank you.”

  She high-fives the opposing players, and has an encouraging word for each of them: strong performance; solid D; the shot was dropping, nice job. Then she walks back to the sidelines in her flat, non-marking, dress shoes. They patter on the hardwood, so different from the spongy bounce of her old ball shoes and the squeak they made when she changed direction.

  At the bench, her team gathers around her. “You balled out,” she says to each of the delighted fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds as she high-fives their hands. “You balled out!” She switches from high-fives to shoulder bumps, and the girls love this, jumping up to collide their shoulders with their towering coach, who leans in gently. At her size and strength, she would knock the girls over if she put her full weight into it. Then she starts dabbing before each shoulder bump and the girls lose their minds. Why an arbitrary dance move elicits such excitement from these kids she doesn’t understand, but it pleases her to hear their laughter.

  Some of the parents come down from the bleachers to thank her. “It’s so special for them to have you,” one mother says after the girls have left for the change room. “To see you and to know that you’ve done it, it inspires them.”

  Naomi stares at the woman, thinking it ironic to hear someone say that she’s “done it” compared to what she thinks of her WNBA career. It wasn’t a failure, not by an
y means — she even won two championships with the Mercury — but she was always a bench player and never came close to achieving what she thought she would. “Thank you,” she says, lips stretching into a wide smile.

  She congratulates the parents on their daughters’ performance, excuses herself, and joins her team in the locker room. “You’re getting better individually and you’re getting better as a team,” she says to their flushed, expectant faces. “This is how we move forward. All of us, me included, finding ways to improve on our own, and finding ways to work better together. You’re doing exactly that. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of all of you. Team on three.”

  She reaches out her hand and the girls pile theirs overtop.

  “One — two — three — team!”

  Naomi is happy in that moment. Truly happy. But later, driving home beneath a bright, beating sun, melancholy drifts over her. Sitting at a red light, she looks at the tired faces in the cars around her, and wonders if hers looks as glum. Hard to imagine after the elation she just felt, although a glance at herself in the rear-view mirror is not promising. The light turns; she navigates the Saturday afternoon traffic.

  She cannot hang on to it, that sense of community; it evaporates as soon as she’s left the gym. She wonders if something is wrong with her, for her emotions to swing so far in so short a time. Or if something is wrong with the society she lives in, for her to feel this alone this often.

  She won’t find any solace at home, she knows that much. Keenan’s too depressed these days to appreciate anything of hers, not that he would anyway. Keenan could be fun when it was his scene, but he was never the type to take a backseat to something of hers. Not that she wants to share anything with him now. He’s been acquitted; he’s not going to prison. And she did her duty, stood by him when he needed her, even if he didn’t deserve it. She still hasn’t asked him how he could have done such a thing, killed an innocent, unarmed person. It doesn’t matter now anyway, what’s done is done; she’s just waiting for the dust to settle before she tells him it’s over.