“I’ve never been into drugs. None of those vices.”
“Except money.”
“Not even money. Betting money. Being on a roll, or winning a game coming down to the wire. You feel…godlike.”
“High highs, and low lows.”
“Exactly it, man. I had some good years and some down years. Of late, I’ve been down, and trying my best to get all caught up. The money doesn’t seem to come as easy when you’re on a losing streak. You take riskier bets, try to make up ground. Sometimes you win, but most of the time—”
“House takes it.”
“Bingo. House takes it. That’s the way it goes, though, right? You can’t expect to be the winner in the long run. What matters is who you owe the money to.”
“Why didn’t he just cut you off?”
“I was good for the money. I dug bigger and bigger holes, but I managed to get out of them. That’s how. And it doesn’t matter how much you owe, ultimately. As long as they can get some money out of you, it’s all good. And if the guy you owe money to is on top, it’s not problem. He’ll just keep extending that credit line. Hand you enough rope to, you know.”
“When did it all hit bottom?”
“When he was no longer top dog. So to speak.”
“Huh. I see.”
“Real estate crash in ‘07 hit him hard. He was into real estate around Atlanta, so money became more than just a toy. Wealth looks good on a lot of people, but poverty reveals the crow’s feet.”
“And when he lost his money, the collector came calling.”
“Right. I made good on some of the debt. Paid in dribs and drabs. Kept making bets, though nothing like before. I was going through a whole host of people at that point, trying to get put back to normal. Then, it just got worse. I got hosed on a few games. If a few things had gone differently.”
He searched for a handle on the situation. His voice became pinched with regret, and he struggled to get himself back under control. When he did, he was resolute.
“I fucked up. I made some high-dollar bets. Thought, well, if only I could make back some of the line of credit to the dude in Atlanta, the booster, then everything would be okay.”
“That didn’t happen, huh?”
“Not at all. It’s easy to think about winning. Most people, they think gambling on sports is, pick a side. Fifty-fifty shot. It ain’t like that. You want in, you’ve got side bets, over-under, covering spreads. It gets awfully complicated awfully quickly.”
“So why did he continue to extend you a line of credit?”
“Thought I was good for it.”
“Even when you were a bail bondsman in Lumber Junction?”
“People, they have the same opinion of ball players. Think they just retire with a stack of cash under their mattress. Or that they can get their hands on a pile of money. Like we have emergency investors, ready to inject cash into our bank accounts. Little did he know, he had always been that investor.”
“So, then, you’re down.”
“Down big.”
“What happens then?”
“Then some time passes. I don’t pay. Can’t pay. I owe big. It keeps getting bigger.”
“And now?”
“And now I’m paralyzed. Can’t move a muscle, even though I need to be getting my ass in gear to try and pay it off. I had a few good games — championship games, good money — and so I started paying off the debt. The vig, you know. Getting that interest down. But that wasn’t good enough.”
“What happened?”
“One day, I was leaving Virgil’s, and a dude walks up, mile on his face. Middle-aged white dude. Streak of gray. Loafers. Toothsome smile. Whole deal. Starts in on me, like, ‘You’re Deuce Gaines, right?’ I ain’t never seen this dude in my life, but he looks like a used car dealer, so I just kind of go along with it. Answer some questions about games I had back in the day. Sacks I made, that sort of thing. Then, of course, the pause. I know what’s coming then. He asks me for an autograph. I think, ‘Sure, why not?’ And then he pulls out this slip of paper. It’s an IOU. Got every bet I’ve made for the last ten years, with a big, red negative down at the bottom.”
“Jesus, man.”
“I know, right. Sometimes you know, and sometimes you don’t. With that dude, I figured. Knew it but hoped otherwise.”
“He just hands you this bill, like, ‘Here you go?’”
“Wish that was it, man. He gives me a second to ponder it, then I see him move. It’s a quick move, and then there’s a fucking gun in my face.”
“Not the first time it’s happened, I’m sure.”
“Not the first time, yeah. This guy doesn’t know it. Has a look like I’m going to shit myself. But I don’t. Course I don’t. I just drop the bill or whatever and wait for him to go into his spiel.”
We got interrupted by a guy in a faded Gators tee. He caught sight of us and wandered over. He was smiling. Familiar smile, I was sure, for Deuce. That look like somebody knows you. Bet he got that a lot.
He did just fine with it, though. “What’s up, man? What you need?”
“You remember me?”
“Nah, don’t believe I do. But, then again, I been hit in the head a lot.”
“Man, alive. I used to babysit you when you was five. Before y’all moved up to Georgia. My name’s Marcus Terwilliger. Remember me at all?”
Deuce served up his best smile. “Nah, man. Wish I did. You got any good playground stories?”
He shifted at that. Not an uncomfortable shift, exactly, but a shift, nonetheless. “You always was a ball player,” he said. “Even when you was five. Man, you’d sprint through the yard, yelling out the names of all them ball players you watched on TV. Mean Joe Greene, Mike Singletary, Howie Long. All them cats, man.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think you’ll see my name on any ‘Best of the Decade’ lists anytime soon.”
The old man smiled. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, young man. You were in the NFL.That ain’t a career to scoff at, and what did I do with my best years? I made babies. I turned wrenches at a gas station for twenty years.”
“Kids are something I haven’t gotten around to,” Deuce said. “That’s important. Passing down your genes, your name and whatnot. What else did you do for a living?”
“I messed around with some public works projects. Did construction. Some truck driving. But I never received no awards, and I certainly didn’t make it to the Big Leagues, as if there was such a thing in my line of work.”
“I think I’ll throw some of your wisdom back at you. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
He seemed not to hear the last statement. He stood, hands on hips, beaming like a proud papa. “Deuce Gaines, man. You don’t know. This made my day. I been telling people for years — for years — that you was a local boy, that I knew you. Can’t wait to go and tell them cats, man, about coming over here and saying hey.”
Deuce got up and shook the old man’s hand. “Same here. Thank you for all the kind words. They don’t come as often as you might think they do.”
“Either way, you were a fine ball player, and I do hope you stay a while in Jacksonville. Give your mama my best, won’t you?”
With that, the old man spun on one heel and shuffled back toward his yard.
He stopped several yards away and turned back to us. “I hate to bother y’all again, young man, but can I ask you a question?”
Deuce said, “Sure. Absolutely. Anytime.”
The man’s uncertain stride brought him over to the porch. “This economy, it’s done a number on the folks in this neighborhood. That son-of-a-bitch Bush, I tell you what. Anyway, I knowed you was a big NFL player, and, see, I got this mortgage that’s eating me alive. I don’t mean to—”
Deuce held up a hand to stop him from further embarrassing himself. “I hear what you’re saying, old timer. You want a little money.”
Out of whole cloth, he created an expression of pure disgust. “Nah. Nah, man. That ain’t i
t. That ain’t it at all. I just—”
“Thought you could come by and throw some compliments my way and get a handout. Okay, man. I hear you.”
“Deuce, it’s fine,” I said.
But Deuce was already standing, reaching for his wallet.
The old man’s eyes looked strained, but that didn’t keep him from peering at what Deuce had in his billfold.
Deuce yanked it open to show the old man it was empty. “Economy hit everybody pretty hard, old timer. Me same as you. I can sign something for you, maybe get you a few bucks on eBay, but as far as money goes, I’m as hard up as the next man.”
The desperation emanating from the old man’s side of the porch faded into simple despair. His eyes dropped. His mouth twitched. Wordlessly, he went away, throwing one hand up in a parting wave.
I Deuce him on the shoulder once. He smiled despite himself, and we returned to our story.
“So, gun in your face, what happens?”
“He cleans me out. Makes me drive him to an ATM. I pull everything I can that day. It ain’t much, and he looks at me, like, ‘The fuck you think you’re pulling, ese?’ Part of me hates I’ve got nothing else, but part of me is like, ‘Yeah, that’s what you get.’ We have a long talk after that.”
“One, I’m sure, that included a nine being aimed directly at your face.”
“There was a good deal of that, yeah. We came to an understanding. Dude promised he’d go away, so long as I was able to scrape up half what I owed within six months.”
“At the end of the six months?”
Deuce held up his hand, making a circle. “Flying fuck at a rolling doughnut, my friend. Didn’t get any more shit for a while. Thought the threats would stop.”
I actually laughed at that.
“That’s how naive I was,” he said. “Long as things are going well, you can convince yourself your house is not on fire, even if the temperature is up near 400 degrees.”
“I haven’t been a thousand percent honest with you,” he said. “There’s some things I’ve kept to myself about coming back home, and I think you deserve to know.”
“I figured as much,” I said. “Got something to do with money.”
“And the dreams,” he said. “Those things, man, I don’t think you’d even believe.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said.
“Guess so,” he replied. “It’s like it’s all real, me walking through, you know, wherever: the woods, a house, a swamp. Feels like I’m awake. Somebody always with me, though not who I expect. Reason I’m down here is my brother, you know. Taj is dead, and, like, he’s the one I figured would show up in my dreams, be the one to shepherd me around and all that, but it ain’t him.”
Probably for the best, I thought, thinking of the horror movie version of his brother who had visited me.
“These ain’t dreams I’m used to,” he said. “As I walk around, I can feel this…presence over my shoulder. I’ll turn and look, but it won’t be there. Still, it’s there. I know it’s there. Judging by the look on your face, you know it’s there, too.”
“Rol,” he said, pausing for a long time, “the fuck’d we pick up in the house in the swamp?”
I sighed, thought about it. “I don’t know,” I said. “For me, maybe karma. I don’t get the visions way I used to.”
“Seems I came down with a case of the visions,” he said.
Glancing over at me. Watching me nod helplessly. It was true. Whatever I had, it was weakened — not gone — and Deuce was the proud owner of a demonic spirit.
“The question ain’t what I got,” he said, “but how I get rid of it.”
I weighed that thought, too. There was an answer floating around my brain, but I didn’t think Deuce wanted to hear it, nor did I want to verbalize it.
2
Reg asked me and Deuce to meet him somewhere public. Deuce chose a burger joint not too far from The Landing.
Smart move.
Deuce didn’t have any idea what might be said at this meeting of the minds, but I did. Reg had been inconsistent, to say the least, and there was a chance he was hiding something shadowy in his dealings.
I thought maybe this would be the other shoe dropping.
Deuce and I sat and chewed on cheeseburgers as we waited on Reg, watching the breeze tear at people’s clothes like handsy lovers.
I dunked a soggy french fry in ketchup and said, “I want you to be prepared.”
“How’s that?”
I shrugged. “Dunno. Whatever Reg had to say, seems like it needed to be said in public.”
“You know something I don’t, Rol? Because you’ve got that look like you know something that’s bothering you. You wear it like new shoes. Doesn’t fit you well.”
I lied. “No secrets. Just…intuition.”
“Don’t let that get the better of you. People who put too much stock in intuition end up paranoid. I can’t have you crazy and paranoid old friend.”
I took a satisfying bite from my burger and chewed. “Your cousin is weak,” I said, finally.
“Tell me how you really feel.”
“I just don’t want you disappointed in him. Whatever he tells you — whenever he tells you anything substantive — keep in perspective.”
“What, that my cousin is a weirdo? A snitch? A traitor?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Seems like you’re saying something related to that. Out with it.”
A pat on the back interrupted our chat. It was Reg.
“Why you two look so sad? We got another funeral to go to, or what?”
Deuce tossed his napkin on his plate, covering his leftovers. Me, I kept eating like nothing had happened. It was a damn good burger, and I wasn’t going to let Reg ruin it.
“No,” Deuce said. “Me and Rol just had some talking to do. Told me some things I needed to know.”
Reg gave me a wary look. “Oh yeah? He did, did he?”
Deuce stood up. “But that’s none of your concern, potna. Look, you and me, we need to go for a walk. Let Rol here finish up his meal. Then, maybe he can join us. Ain’t that right, Rol?”
I gave them a thumb’s up. I was chewing.
They wandered around in the sun and the wind for a while, stopping a few times to hash out some no doubt idiosyncratic point. A few times, Deuce pointed at Reg’s chest, and Reg responded by raising his arms in a defensive posture.
By the time they returned, I was sneaking some bourbon from my flask into a vanilla milkshake. If I wasn’t drinking, I was eating. It was becoming a vicious cycle.
Here it comes, I thought. Here is where he unloads the colostomy bag he calls a conscience and tells us everything we need to know.
At least then we’d be able to move forward, to figure out who the real enemy is, instead of the one standing right beside us.
“You got something to say?” I asked.
He looked from me to Deuce.
“Nah, man,” Reg said, “but maybe I’ll catch up with you later, aight?”
Deuce glanced from his cousin to me, and we both shrugged. Reginald’s eyes danced like candle flames.
Deuce engaged in a knowing handshake with his cousin, and I hung back, watching. Waiting.
He tossed two fingers up in a desultory peace sign. “Check you later, Rol,” he said, barely finishing up the words before heading off in his own direction.
“He’s clean,” Deuce said. “I trust him. I need you to trust him, too.”
“This is your business,” I replied. “Consider me mollified.”
“You sure you can handle that?”
“I’m like the other side of the pillow,” I said. “No need to worry.”
Deuce slid his plate aside, dumped his fork and knife atop the napkin. He said, “He did give up some interesting information on avenues we should explore.”
“Oh yeah? Like?”
“Prostitution. He said drugs don’t get the same traction they used to. People are the new s
muggling item for the vicious and the desperate.”
I tried to imagine Taj being a coyote for heartless thugs turning human beings into commodities, but I couldn’t do it.
So I gave up. I gave in. I gave Reg the benefit of the doubt, because Deuce asked me to. Didn’t mean I wouldn’t keep a speculative air about the man, but I wouldn’t actively pursue the guy anymore.
Deuce looked up from his hands and said, “Thanks, Rol. Glad I can trust you.”
“Always.” I smiled.
I couldn’t help but think Deuce was making a fatal error in hanging onto money that wasn’t his. My decision to keep some high-level drug dealer’s briefcase full of cash had cost nearly twenty people their lives, and the one that deserved to be stubbed out the most — my own — had somehow been spared. I’d walked into a few bullets and ended up sending a monster to his watery grave in the process, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I had crossed some existential wires. If I deserved to die, what had I frigged up by managing to sidestep it all?
I was so preoccupied with Deuce and illicit money and the prospect of my own death, I belatedly noticed the car tailing me through a red light.
It was a late model car. Four door sedan. Tinted windows. German. I couldn’t see who was behind the wheel, and part of me thought maybe I didn’t want to know. Still, I adjusted the rearview and tried to get a bead on its occupants.
White dude. Dark suit. Dark sunglasses. Lots of rings. The kind of guy you might find in a late ’80s Tony Scott flick.
When a few right turns did not shake my tail, I made my way to a northbound road and slipped out of town. If something was going down, it could happen in the midst of no witnesses.
Once the road cleared up, I floored it, and the car kept pace. Whoever it was definitely wanted to track me down.
It wasn’t my intention to disappoint.
A dirt road appeared, and I swerved onto it. The trailing vehicle fishtailed but eventually straightened out. I pulled a filed-down .38 snubnose from under the seat and placed it in the seat next to me. Oddly enough, that one little gesture comforted me.
An opening ahead.
Time to go to work, I thought, just as I slammed on the brakes.
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