Balling the Jack

by Frank Baldwin

  “You should know better, kid. Cross the boss and it’s hammer time.”

  With that he brought it down. I felt the big two fingers of my right hand split and I went cold and started to vomit in the bag.

  It was a few minutes before I realized no one was sitting on me anymore. I rolled onto my knees, pulled the sack off with my left hand, and looked at my shaking right. What I saw made me sick again.

  Getting your fingers broken isn’t like you see in the movies. You don’t throw back a shot of whisky, tape ’em together and go on. I want to tell you it hurts. Each one is swollen half the size of my hand before the blow. And the doctor says I’m lucky. Says the bones could have shattered and then I would have been in for it. As it is I got a clean break, and they’ll be good as new in two months. Thanks, Doc. A lot of good that does me tonight.

  I’m sitting on a treatment bench at Saint Vincent’s. My fingers hurt like a bastard and all they’ll give me for the pain is a little codeine. Why not just tell me to blow on them? I’m waiting for the nurse to come back with it.

  Duggan.

  All along I figured he’d try something to stack the deck. I never guessed he’d go this far. Christ, now what? Come on, nurse. I walk to the door and look down the hallway. No sign of her. Six of us are on the bench, waiting for medicine, and every one of the others is ahead of me. I look at the clock. Five thirty.

  Screw it. I have some big-time figuring to do and not much time to do it in. I blow out the main door, down the steps and into the street, my fingers throbbing with every step. As I head for home, I can hear Duggan’s last words in my head.

  “No substitutes.”

  AT THE PAD, a little session at the dart board proves what I already knew—I can’t throw worth a damn. The two fingers they broke are splinted together and stand straight up. By trapping the dart against them with my thumb and concentrating on my release point, I can get it to the board. That’s about it, though. I can’t hit what I aim at, and in terms of the games we’ll be playing tonight—501 and cricket—I couldn’t beat a kid. I’ll have no chance in singles, and probably bring down anyone I partner with in doubles. If we go through with this match, we’ll have to beat County Hell fìve players on six. No sane gambler would take those odds.

  The phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “So when do we leave, driver?”

  Lisa!

  “Lisa … you … you mean it?”

  “I mean it, Tom.”

  I sit down. “Jesus. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say thank you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Hey, I called your office first. You’re not too popular there today.”

  “Yeah, we had a little falling-out. It’s been a bad day, Lisa. Damn … I can’t believe you called.”

  “Believe it, Tom.”

  “Lisa, can you come over? We should talk, and I want to see you.”

  “No, Tom. Not till the morning we leave. It will be more special that way.”

  “But that could be weeks. You’ve got to give notice, and also there’s something—”

  “Notice? Tom, you know how much notice I gave those creeps? Five minutes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I quit today, Tom.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not the only one who can act on impulse. You should have heard me tell off my boss, too. You would have been proud.”

  I put my forehead to the receiver and close my eyes.

  “Tom, are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. It’s just … well … man, just like that, huh?”

  “Just like that. Oh Tom—you were right. We can start all over again. I believe that now. And now that my dance card is clear, Reasons, I’m ready to go anytime.”

  I need a drink.

  “How does Monday sound?” I manage to ask.

  “Like a date.”

  I hang up and walk to the window. Christ on a raft. Now I know what they mean when they tell you to be careful what you wish for.

  If I back out now, I can save my ass. I’ve done all the math. I could pay everyone off and still have a grand in shoe money. For what, though? To hide from Duggan the rest of my life? Never mind that he was behind the hammer job. I can’t prove it, and if I don’t show tonight he’ll claim bad faith and sic Shakespeare on me. I’d rather dodge him than Vincent, but it’s not much of a choice. Next time it won’t be my fingers. And I’d be crying uncle.

  And what about Stella? For all I know she’s committed her money already, and maybe if we don’t show she doesn’t get it back.

  Fess up, Tom. I could chuck the money and leave Stella out of this and I’d still have to show tonight. Lisa is the real reason I’m playing this match, and right now Lisa is at home packing. The second I asked her to go away with me I set my course. I’d break the rest of my fingers myself before I told her I blew it on this one.

  We play.

  Except, Christ, it’s not just up to me anymore. Bringing the gang in for the money took care of that. Somehow I have to keep them on board, and after the stunt I pulled with the horse it won’t be easy.

  I sit down on the sill. When I think of the gang, a hurt starts in my chest that makes me forget all about my fingers.

  What did I think—that I could shoot through to the end of all this without ever clueing them in? I look down at my splint. A real pal I am.

  Jimmy picked me out of the bushes the first time I ever got loaded. Tank sat me down and explained to me why you can’t put Hendrix and Roger May in the same sentence. And what has Bobby ever done but give me the go sign and say count me in, Tom? And Claire. The night of my first date with Lisa, who bought me a new shirt and told me straight up the tack I should take, back when I thought my haircut was enough? These are my best friends.

  Up at school we always knew who the pricks were. The profs who were just mailing it in, the rich boys wowing our girls with their money, always looking to start something. We knew who to trust and who not to. Out here it’s not so easy. Out here, the guy holding the door for you in the morning is the same one looking to stick it to you come bonus time. Out here, they like you on the job if you can feed the bottom line, and the super’s got a good word for you if you’re making rent, and the drunks along the bar are happy to see you if you’re buying. But they’re not friends. Friends like you all the time. Friends stick together, and look out for each other. Remember the tontine, Tom? I swallow hard.

  A tontine is a pact soldiers make in war. They cut their initials into a bottle of hard stuff, and each time one of them goes down, the others drink to their fallen friend. The last soldier left alive finishes off the bottle. Junior year, we did a tontine to marriage. Bought ourselves a quart of cheap wine, signed it, and locked it in the trophy case at Dave’s frat.

  We had it sent down to the city the night Jimmy got hitched. Ten minutes before the ceremony, Dave shanghaied the groom and waved the rest of us away from our dates. We piled into the church bathroom, six of us, tuxes and all, and as the organist knocked out Pachelbel’s Canon, we drank a last toast to Jimmy.

  A lot all that counted for, though. The first chance I get to sell them all up the river I take their trust and a good chunk of their money, put it on a bet they know nothing about, and tell them it’s on something else. Jesus.

  I shake my head hard. All right—what’s done is done. All I can do now is go from here. But no more lies. I keep the gang on board with the truth or I don’t keep them on board at all.

  Out the window I can see the little Catholic church down Twenty-third Street. I wonder if it’s too late to ask for a little favor. No fair, I know. If you don’t believe, you can’t come calling the first time you land in hot water. Still, if ever I was going to get a sign …

  I walk to the fridge. It’s too early to tank up, but I need something to kill the pain in my fingers, and the pain starting up in my head, too. I reach for a beer and then stop still. The
sight of the cans, neatly stacked, sets something off in me. Christ, Tom—it just might work. It isn’t exactly according to Hoyle, but after the hammer job anything goes, and it’s the one shot I have left at evening things up a little.

  Lucky for me, Sean Killigan is in the book. Fifteen minutes later I step out of a cab at Thirty-fifth and Ninth. A real swell block—probably gives the morgue half its business. On the corner, not twenty yards from Killigan’s building, is a little liquor store. The guy behind the counter is Irish.

  “Wha’ kenna get you, sir? A little something for the pain, eh?” He points to my hand.

  “Maybe. Tell me, do you know Sean Killigan?”

  “The darter? Sure. Lives just up the block. Use ta come in every day. ’Aven’t seen him in months now. Rumor is he’s off the stuff.”

  That’s an old rumor. Sean’s one of the boys again.”

  “Well, that’s good news fa’ me. Sean was one o’ me best customers.”

  “Tell me, when he used to come in, what did he get?”

  “Always Guinness Dark, sir. Sean’s a man knows his malts. Even if he had but enough for one or two, he always bought the Dark.”

  “I’ll take a case of it then.”

  “Comin’ up. Hey, and you say hi to Sean for me, will ya? Tell him welcome back to the club.”

  I carry the case on my shoulder to Killigan’s building. I wait a few minutes, sneak in behind an old man and take the three flights of stairs to Killigan’s door. I can hear the TV going inside. I put the case on the doormat, pound a few times with my good hand, and hightail it out of there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I’M THROUGH lying, but this truth session is going to be a bitch.

  The whole gang is here, sitting round the kitchen table. I switched the pep talk from Adam’s Curse to my place to keep Stella from seeing my fingers. No sense getting her all worked up. I hand everyone a beer.

  “Somebody broke your fingers?” Claire asks. “Who would do that?”

  “I didn’t see them.”

  “So what’s the debate?” Bobby says. “You can’t play with broken fingers. Just put the match off for two months.”

  “We have to play tonight.”

  “Why?” comes in a chorus from the table.

  I feel I’m back in the confession box, only this time I really have to come clean.

  “Everybody take a drink,” I say. They do and I close my eyes. Here goes.

  “There’s no horse, guys. I took all your money and I bet it on a dart match.”

  “A dart match?” Tank asks.

  “This dart match. The one tonight. I bet it against Duggan.”

  Everyone is quiet. They look at each other, then all at me. I’d feel better if someone took a swing at me. Tank drums his fingers on the table and shakes his head. Finally he speaks.

  “You really are an asshole, Tom.”

  Bobby looks at me. “What he said.”

  Jimmy smiles a little, like when you get wise to someone who’s been putting it to you.

  “You wanted me to bet six more grand on this,” he says.

  I wince.

  “You’re really something, Tommy. Where did you end up getting the money?” Jimmy asks.

  “I borrowed it from a guy in Bay Ridge.”

  He shakes his head.

  “You’ve got other money riding on this match, don’t you?”

  I nod.

  “How much?”

  “Forty grand, all told.”

  “What?” Sounds of disbelief from around the table.

  “And when were you going to clue us all in?” asks Tank.

  “After the match.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Great.”

  “Goddamn.”

  Tank bangs the table. Only Dave is silent. Claire turns to him. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”

  He nods sheepishly.

  “Dave’s just a bit player here,” I say. “He knew about the bet, but he didn’t know I was hitting you guys up for money. That was all me.”

  Everybody is shaking their heads now. Bobby speaks up angrily.

  “I don’t believe you, Tom. You know, a thousand dollars may be shit to you, but it’s a lot of money to us. You took it and you bet it just like that, without a second thought?”

  “I figured we would win, Bobby. And then I’d cut everybody in.”

  “And if we lose?”

  I look down. “I didn’t figure we would lose.”

  “That’s just great.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us what the money was really for when you asked us for it?” asks Jimmy.

  “Because I didn’t think you’d play the match.”

  “Well, you’re right about that.” Jimmy throws up his hands. “Jesus, Tom. Believe it or not, some of us can make it through the day without betting everything we have. Some of us actually need our paychecks. For stupid things like, oh, help me out here, guys, what’s that big one?”

  “Rent,” says Claire.

  “That’s it. And that other luxury. What is that again?”

  “Food,” chips in Tank.

  “Right, right. And you know what? There’s more. Clothes, and Christmas presents, maybe a weekend away now and then. And, God forbid this should get out, Tom, but some of us clowns even stick a little in the bank for down the line.”

  I put up my hands and talk quietly.

  “Look, I’m not trying to get out of anything. What I did to all of you was dead wrong. You’re the best friends I have and I stuck it to you. I got this bet in my head and I went after it full steam and I didn’t think about anyone else. There’s no defending it, and I won’t blame any one of you if you walk out on me. I’ve got all your money, here, in cash, and if you want it back I’ll give it to you right now.”

  Everyone is quiet again. At last Tank speaks up.

  “What happens to you if we don’t play this match?”

  “I’m fucked.”

  “What happens if we play and lose?”

  “I’m fucked.”

  Tank looks at each of the gang in turn, then at me.

  “Reasons, go out in the hall a minute, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  I step into the hall and close the door behind me. I sit on the stairs and stare at my busted fingers, not thinking of anything, really. No backup plans, no sales pitches. I’m past all that. It’s all or nothing now, and it’s up to them. Five minutes later the door swings open. I stand up and walk back into the apartment. The gang still sits around the table. They look at me in silence. Tank sighs and breaks the quiet.

  “Don’t just stand there, Reasons—talk strategy. Haven’t we got some Irish ass to kick?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  TALK ABOUT a home-court advantage.

  The County Hell Pub squats on the corner of Tenth Avenue and Thirty-third street. There isn’t a way to approach her that doesn’t take you onto one of the worst blocks in the city. If you do make it inside you get to face the dartboard itself. Stuck in the far corner, past the end of the long wooden bar, it features bad lighting and a big dip in the floor right at the throwing line, so that even though the distance to the board is the same as any other, you feel as if you’re shooting uphill. Throw in the cigarette smoke, the suffocating heat, and the rowdy crew of drunks who root on the home team for the free drink it gets them when they win, and you’ve got one tough little place for the visitors. It’s worse than Boston Garden.

  We huddle up on the corner just outside. “Okay, guys,” I say. “We can expect a real lion’s den in there. So keep your focus on the board and tune out the rest. Ready?” They all nod.

  One step inside and it’s clear that word of this match has gotten out. The place looks like an Irish wake, two hours into it. Mulligans stand three deep at the bar and all along the back wall, too, and from the looks of them their first pint was a while ago. In the middle of the room, holding court between the bar and the jukebox, I spot him. His arms crossed
, a pipe in his teeth, it’s the bull of the woods himself—Papa O’Shea. Come to see his investment pay off, no doubt.

  It wouldn’t surprise me if O’Shea is behind the big turnout tonight. My guess is he rounded up all the soaks he could find and opened the taps for them for a few hours, just to put them in the mood. They sure look primed to be one loud cheering section.

  Through the smoke I see that the only empty space in the joint is the area around the board, which has been roped off from the rest of the throng. The Hellions are back there now, warming up. All except Joe Duggan, that is, who gives a hearty greeting from behind the bar.

  “So the Drinkers have the guts to show, eh? Tell you what—just to start ’er off friendly, how ’bout a round of ales for the visitors?” He ducks down behind the bar and comes up with a case of Guinness Dark. “Some good heart dropped her off at Sean’s today.” He winks at me. “Nice try, college boy, but I been staying with him.” He slides a six-pack down the bar. “Enjoy these, fellas—they’re all you’re taking from here tonight.” From the other end of the bar Sean Killigan salutes us with a seltzer. So much for evening the odds.

  Duggan’s face goes dark when he sees my fingers.

  “What kind of trick is this?”

  “Not one of mine, Duggan. Somebody broke ’em today. And somehow I don’t think you’re surprised.”

  “It warn’t me, college boy. I don’t need any help.” He looks at them real close, then hard into my eyes. “Sorry for the break, if that’s what it is, but a deal’s a deal. We play tonight. And no substitutes.”

  “I’m not here to cancel, Duggan. And I know the rules.”

  A low murmur runs through the crowd and all of us look to the door. Filling it is my new friend, the court clerk. Right on time. His instructions were to look mean and say nothing, and he’s off to a good start. He scowls his way over to me. Duggan starts to shoot a look at Shakespeare but I put up a hand.

  “He’s with me,” I say. “Here to handle our money, and to make sure no one on your side gets out of line.”

  “Has he got a name?”

  I pause.

  “Call him Keats.”