“No.’’ Arlen was an accountant for one of the big firms. He had a slim orderly face.
“Sometimes I think cats are smarter than people,’’ Arlen said, “but I love to hear the birds. They sing whenever they damn please.’’ He sighed, leaned back on his couch, and crossed his legs. An embossed boot swung prominently in front of him, oddly flamboyant.
“Yeah, Verdi’s my buddy,’’ Oliver said. “He likes you, too.’’
“Birds can be your friends,’’ Arlen said. “People don’t realize.’’ He looked out the window. “I had a parakeet once. His name was Tootsie.’’
“Tootsie,’’ Oliver repeated, sipping whiskey.
“An ordinary parakeet, green and yellow—but Tootsie could sing! A wonderful singer.’’ Arlen looked back at Oliver. “Parakeets are tough, you know. They are little parrots, actually, strong birds.’’
“Really? Parrots? I didn’t know that.’’
“Yes,’’ Arlen said. “Tootsie belonged to William.’’ His voice lingered on the name, and he looked out the window again. “I was just getting to know William. He asked me to keep Tootsie for him while he was away one summer . . . I suppose he was testing me.’’
“Ah,’’ Oliver said, vaguely.
“Tootsie and I got along very well. I tried to teach him to say ‘William,’ but he preferred to sing.’’ Arlen paused to drink.
“I moved in with William that fall.’’ He uncrossed his legs and crossed them again, waving the other boot in the air. “To make a long story short, I moved out three years later. William was away for the night. I was feeling shitty, and I explained the situation to Tootsie. ‘I’m leaving in the morning,’ I told him. ‘It’s not your fault; it’s not William’s fault; it’s not anybody’s fault. We just didn’t quite make it, that’s all. Almost, but not quite.’ Tootsie listened to me. You know how they do, with their heads cocked to one side. He was in a cage with a fail–safe door; the kind that are hinged at the bottom—if they aren’t positively latched shut, they fall open so you’ll know to latch them.’’ Arlen swirled the whiskey around in his glass.
“In three years, Tootsie never got out of his cage. The next morning, I got up and went into the living room. ‘Goodbye, Toots,’ I said. ‘Toots?’ He wasn’t in his cage. I walked over, and there was Tootsie on the table beneath his cage. He was lying on his side, stone dead.’’
“No way,’’ Oliver said.
“Stone dead. I don’t know how he got out. I don’t know what happened. All I know is that he died when the relationship did. I think his heart was broken.’’
“What did you do?’’
“I buried him beneath a tree on the Eastern Prom,’’ Arlen said. “I haven’t seen William for years. He moved out of town.’’ One of the parakeets burst into song. “There he is now.’’
“Who?’’
“William,’’ Arlen said.
“Oh.’’ They drank in silence. “Guess I’ll be going,’’ Oliver said. “Thanks. I’ll put a key under the mat when I leave on Friday.’’
“You’re welcome, Oliver. Don’t worry about Verdi.’’ Oliver went upstairs glad to have solved the problem but feeling sorry for Arlen. He was a decent guy. Usually alone. You’d think he could find someone to be with.
“Arlen will take care of you,’’ he said to Verdi.
Early Friday morning, Oliver retrieved his stash and placed the walnut box back on the mantel. “So long, Verdi. Don’t give Arlen a hard time.’’ He slid a spare key under the mat and took a last look around. He hesitated. The box. The box bothered him. What if I don’t come back? he thought. Get hit by a truck, or something.
It seemed stupid, but Oliver was used to following his intuition. He wrote a note: “Francesca, I made these for you. Oliver.’’ He put the note, the bronze heart, the lock, and one key inside the box. He put the other key on his key ring. There was only one Malloy listed in the telephone book. He wrapped the box with paper cut from two grocery bags and addressed it to: Francesca Malloy, Cape Elizabeth, Maine. He put all the stamps he had in a double row across the top. If something happened to him, the package would get to her.
Feeling better, he skipped down the stairs, threw his carry-on bag into the Jeep, and headed out of town. He stopped for coffee at the first rest area on the turnpike. The sun wasn’t even up as he got back in the Jeep. On the road again, he sang, picking up speed and passing a Shop ’N Save truck. “Fuck you, Malloy,’’ he said, leaving the truck behind. Francesca’s husband worked for Hannaford Brothers, who owned the grocery chain. On the road again . . .
7.
Traffic was moderate. Oliver hummed along, enjoying the oranges, reds, and yellows of New England in October. He crossed the Hudson on the Tappan Zee Bridge, bypassing New York, glad to be moving again after weeks of inaction. His money and what felt like his entire future was in his pocket.
At five o’clock he cruised slowly through Atlantic City. He found Bally’s, parked, and went to his room. He washed his face, changed into his outfit, and went back outside. The boardwalk stretched out of sight along the beach. It was warmer and more humid than in Maine. Lazy waves collapsed on the sand. Beach–goers and gamblers of all ages strolled back and forth—studs with oiled glistening muscles, grandmothers with straw hats and outrageous sunglasses, Afro-Americans, Latinos, Asians. He was too warm in his suit. He returned to the air conditioned hotel and entered the casino.
Loud music. Hellish reds and blacks. The women that Jacky had remembered were seated in front of rows of flashing slot machines. The women pulled long levers mechanically; win or lose, they pulled again. Bells rang as an occasional jackpot cascaded from a machine.
Oliver recognized the crap tables—elongated mahogany figure eights, surrounded by players leaning over the action. Dice rolled, bounced, and tumbled to a stop on the gleaming green felt. People cheered or groaned.
The roulette wheels were in a different section. The blackjack dealers were beyond the roulette wheels. At the far end of the casino, behind bars, cashiers exchanged chips for money or vice versa. Cashing in your chips, for real, Oliver thought. He pushed $1000 toward a cashier.
“What do you want?’’ Oliver hesitated. “Hundreds, twenties, tens, fives, what?’’
“Give me one hundred dollar chip,’’ Oliver said, “the rest, tens and fives.’’
“You want to leave some in the cage?’’
“Five hundred,’’ Oliver said. The cashier issued him a plastic card with a magnetic strip.
“Give this to the pit boss when you want more.’’
“I got these complimentary dollars,’’ Oliver said, “when I checked in.’’
“Over there.’’ The cashier pointed to a barred room within the main room. “Promotions.’’ Oliver walked over to Promotions.
“Could I exchange these for chips, please?’’ A man with a neat mustache swept up the fake coins. He flicked his wrist and thumb. Oliver’s chips fell on the counter in front of him. Oliver counted. “Wasn’t there supposed to be thirty-five?’’
“Yeah, man. You short?’’ Oliver pushed the chips toward him. “Sorry, man. Mistake,’’ he said, adding a five dollar chip to the pile without changing expression. Oliver put them in his pocket and walked toward the crap tables. That was a scam, he thought. Get away with that once an hour, your pay would go up—a couple of hundred a week.
He straightened as a feeling shot through him. It was like waking up. It was time. He approached the front craps table and stood with his arms hanging down and his weight evenly balanced. Fifteen feet away, a man shifted sideways so that he was directly in front of Oliver. He was expensively dressed, medium sized with wide shoulders and a dark angular face. He stared at Oliver. I see you, he was telling Oliver. You aren’t like the rest of them. I’m watching. He was intense and deadly. Pit boss, Oliver realized. Well, fuck you. Oliver’s spirit and body fused as though they had been sleeping in separate rooms. For the first time in years, he felt his whole strength. A s
light smile crossed his face.
The pit boss was called away, and Oliver continued to watch the table. They’re not getting my money. The resolve came out of nowhere, clear and absolute. A woman left the table. He took her place, bent over, and placed a $5 chip on the pass line. An older man in a baseball cap threw the dice low and hard. They bounced off the far end of the table and skittered back to the center. A two, snake eyes. Most of the players groaned. Oliver’s chip was raked in. He bet again to pass. The next player threw a six. There was a flurry of bets. A four. Another flurry of bets. The player reached down with one hand and arranged the pair of dice so that threes showed on top. He was overweight, red faced with a closely trimmed white beard. He tossed the dice gently up into the air so that they stayed together until they hit the felt. They bounced to a four. “Yes!’’ Cheers and clapping. The players who had bet that a four would be rolled before a seven had won. No one had lost. The start of a good run. Burl Ives / Colonel Sanders arranged the dice again and threw a six—the point. Uproar. All were winners but those few who had bet “no pass.’’ Oliver had his chips back.
He stepped away. He had won, and he had lost. He wandered over to a roulette table. Two Asian women, middle–aged sisters perhaps, or cousins, or lovers, sat side by side betting large sums on every spin of the wheel. Their hair was long and lustrous, elaborately wound and held by jade. Light disappeared into the blackness of their hair and re-emerged at different points as they tilted their heads toward each other and toward the whirling ball. They bet on lucky numbers, sometimes winning big, often losing all. They were indifferent to loss and satisfied when they won. Their faces were masks—beautiful and timeless.
Oliver bet $10 on red, a gesture after losing himself in admiration of the women. The steel ball whirred around the rim and bounced down into a red numbered slot. Everybody won. He picked up his winnings and nodded to the pair. They scarcely noticed.
Oliver was ten dollars ahead and hungry. He left the casino and found a coffee shop where he ate a turkey club sandwich and relaxed. So far, so good.
As he neared the crap tables again, a bar hostess with long legs in black mesh stockings asked if he wanted a drink. “Diet Pepsi, please.’’ She came back a few minutes later with the drink. “Thanks.’’ He put a dollar tip on her tray.
He moved to a place at the ten dollar craps table. The man next to him had a name tag on his short sleeved shirt that read, “R. Melnick M.D.’’ He was pale and sweating lightly. His fingers drummed on a stack of black $100 chips, twenty at least. He placed four chips on the no pass line, won, and added to his stack. He left, irritated, as though the inevitable humiliation was just being postponed.
Oliver bet ten dollars and won. He left his chips on the pass line and won again. He put one chip back in his pocket and won again. He put two more chips in his other pocket and lost the rest on the next roll. Twenty dollars ahead. He kept his original stake in one pocket and his winnings in the other.
When he lost three times in a row, he went over to the roulette tables to change his luck. He put one chip on red and lost. He doubled his bet and won, leaving him one chip ahead. He went back to craps and began betting larger amounts. He stayed with his system. He was $375 ahead when he lost three times and headed back to the roulette wheel. He lost the first three times he bet on red. He doubled his bet again, eight $10 chips, his largest bet so far. The ball went around and around and hopped into the double zero slot. Neither red nor black. The house won all bets. Oliver swallowed. What were the odds that he would lose an almost even bet, five times in a row? About one out of thirty-two times. He counted out sixteen chips, $160. The dealer looked at him with a flicker of interest—one of these guys who would go down with his system? The ball whined around the rim of the wheel a long time before it slowed, fell into the center of the wheel, and bounced to a stop.
Red. Oliver collected his chips, relieved, and put all but one back in his stake pocket. All that risk on the last spin to win a net total of one chip. If he had lost, he would have had to bet $320 on the next spin to have a net win of one chip. And then $640. The dealer had seen it all before. Sooner or later, the improbable happened, and a run of losses wiped out the double–or–nothing players.
Oliver put his $100 chip on pass. He lost. He lost twice more and returned to roulette. This time he won on the second spin. He went back to craps and lost again. His winnings sunk to $45 and then climbed back to $120.
“How’s your luck tonight?’’ A young blonde smiled appealingly.
“Not too bad.’’
“You want to bet a couple for me? You know, have a good time?’’
“I’d love to,’’ Oliver said, “but I’m too shot. I’m going to bed.’’
“I could help with that,’’ she said.
“No thanks, Beautiful—not tonight.’’ She shrugged and moved on. Oliver went up to his room and was asleep in five minutes.
At 4 a.m. he was wide awake. He dressed and returned to the casino. The room was mostly dark and shut down. Only one row of slot machines by the door was active. Overhead lights illuminated a single craps table, a bright mahogany raft floating in the darkness. Old men held on to its edges, playing quietly and grimly. Oliver put himself in their place. Why go to bed? Save themselves for what? They clung to a different kind of life raft than Jacky had been for him, but it was just as real. He watched for ten minutes and left. He found an open cafeteria and took a cup of coffee back to bed. The steam from the cup and the warmth in his hand were comforting.
Oliver woke up late in the morning. He cashed in all but fifty dollars of his chips and ate a large breakfast. He walked along the beach to the Taj Mahal casino and found that it was much the same as Bally’s. He returned to the hotel and checked out. Before he left, he placed a fifty dollar bet on pass. He would leave seventy dollars ahead or a hundred and seventy dollars ahead, a winner either way. My kind of bet, he said to himself. He won. Yesterday’s pit boss was not there. Oliver imagined himself nodding to him—superior, free, out of there. It didn’t matter. He could tell Jacky.
Finding the Delaware Bridge was the next challenge. Two hours later, Oliver was in Maryland easing around a curve on a gravel driveway. Stones crunched under his wheels as he stopped in front of a white colonial. Jacky came out to meet him. She was wearing a Red Sox T-shirt and a wrap–around cotton skirt.
“Well, well,’’ she said looking at his suit and holding her arms open. “What have we here?’’
“A player,’’ Oliver said, coming close. Her arms drew him against her. He smelled honeysuckle, and his hands found their familiar places.
“Mmm,’’ she said, “I’ll bet you’re hungry.’’
“You win.’’
Jacky stepped back. “Good. I’m going to show off. I’ve been practicing my crab cakes.’’
“Yumm.’’
“I thought we’d eat home, relax, maybe go out later . . . I’ll give you the Bay Tour tomorrow.’’
“Finest kind,’’ Oliver said. “Nice house. That T-shirt isn’t going to make you any friends.’’
“Just because I’m living in Maryland, doesn’t mean I’m a traitor,’’ she said, leading him into the kitchen. “How was Atlantic City?’’
“Weird. I won. It wasn’t what I was expecting.’’ Jacky took the crab cake mix from the refrigerator. She turned on a burner under a Dutch oven half full of oil. “I thought I might get into a big deal all–or–nothing scene, a go–down–in–flames kind of thing. I brought all my money.’’ He told her about the pit boss and the icy focus that had come over him and taken control. “I didn’t even drink,’’ he said. “It was tiring, but I won.’’
“Very good,’’ she said. She flicked drops of water into the oil. The drops sizzled and danced. “You’re safe now. There’s a nice Sauvignon Blanc in the refrigerator. I think it’s time.’’
Oliver responded to her choreography. He uncorked the wine and poured two glasses. “To us,’’ Jacky said. Oliver clinked his
glass against hers and sipped.
“Yowzir! You must have gotten a good raise.’’
“Wait until you taste these,’’ she said, lowering crab cakes into the hot oil.
The crab cakes were delicious. “What’s your secret?’’ Oliver asked.
“Mustard and capers,’’ she said, pleased. The bottle was quickly empty and they opened another. Drinking with Jacky usually made Oliver softer and more open. Today, he began to feel focused again, revved up, not unlike the way he had felt in Atlantic City. Jacky was smiling.
“Oh, this is so much better,’’ she said. Let me show you the rest of the house . . . I could use some of your special attention.’’ She led him through a comfortable living room and up the stairs. Oliver looked at the ceiling in the bedroom.
“No eye bolt,’’ he said.
Jacky giggled. “Funny you should mention that.’’ She opened a drawer and took out a large bolt. “I thought maybe you could help me with this. Maybe tomorrow.’’ She laid the bolt on the dresser. “Take your clothes off, Oliver.’’
The focus inside him strengthened. He dropped his clothes at his feet without changing expression, kicked off his shoes, took three steps, and pulled her to him. “Aren’t we strong, today,’’ she teased. He turned her backwards onto the bed. She fell beneath him and wrapped her legs around him. “My fierce little man.’’
This was the way it was going to have to be, Oliver realized. Talk wasn’t going to do it. A counselor wouldn’t work. This was their language.
He pulled up her skirt and curved his right hand between her legs. His left hand reached up under her head and took a fistful of hair. He pulled her head down, immobilizing it, and rubbed slowly with his right hand. Her shoulders strained upward twice in resistance or surprise. Oliver held her head back and continued to rub.
Jacky adjusted quickly. She pushed up against his hand. “Take them off,’’ she said. Oliver rolled sideways without letting go of her hair. He pulled her panties down, and she bent her knees. He slid them over her feet and then moved back on top of her. “Give it to me,’’ she said.
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