The Humanist

by Kenneth James Allen

  “I fucking told you. In the alley behind Louie’s Gin Bar. Some guy throws this shit at me. I take it on myself to get it back to you. I’m trying to make things right.”

  Suddenly, I was upright, spun around, and staring into a pair of very menacing eyes. He had grabbed me by the collar, but I felt faint. All the blood had rushed from me, and pins and needles attacked every inch of my skin.

  Stone reared a fist back, and I closed my eyes and waited. The impact was destructive. He might have hit me in the eye, or maybe the nose, I wasn’t sure. I just remember falling. At the time it felt like forever, like the ground would never come. But eventually, it did.

  I wasn’t sure how long I was out for. It might have been seconds or minutes, or it might have been an hour. However long it was, when I woke, it was sudden. The first thing was the metallic taste in my mouth. At first, I thought it was blood, but then I realized there was something in my mouth. My eyes sprang open, and I looked past the gun at Stone. He was crouching over me, his tackle hanging below his shirt, his pants still down.

  Talon was standing next to him. He placed a hand on Stone’s shoulder. Stone ripped the gun from my mouth and stood with a grunt. He shuffled off to put himself back together as Talon stood over me.

  “Get up,” he said.

  I worked my way to my feet and quickly secured my pants, trying to slow my breathing. When I looked up, Talon had his arms folded, with one hand working either side of his forehead.

  “Atlas, Atlas, Atlas. What the fuck am I going to do with you?” He looked at me. “You were very convincing, even when your ass was on the line, literally. But you held firm. And, in all honesty, I wouldn’t have known the truth unless I had the bar’s security footage.”

  Fuck.

  “You realize my conundrum, Atlas. You fucked one of my guys. But you returned the money.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “And you can bluff like a son of a bitch. You got balls, kid, I’ll give you that. Seen men twice your size whimper like little bitches when put in a similar situation.”

  We stared at each other. I could tell he was mulling something over. I hoped it had nothing to do with Stone, who had taken up residence at the table and lit a cigarette. Talon’s eyes widened, and I could tell he had decided.

  “What do you do?”

  “Investment banker,” I replied.

  “Oh,” Talon said. “Any good?”

  I shrugged. “I guess. I mean, I did just land a four hundred-billion-dollar revenue pipeline for the company I work for.”

  I could see Talon’s eyes open wider, his pupils dilating. The numbers I threw around clearly aroused him. He nodded slowly.

  “Well, well, well. Perhaps you should come and work for me, then.”

  “Maybe as a scapegoat,” Stone boomed from the other side of the room.

  Talon laughed, a chortle turning into a rumbustious growl. Stone followed in succession. It was so infectious I had no option but to follow.

  The laughter eventually died down, and Talon wiped a tear from his eye.

  “Goddamn,” he said. “And to think I was going to let Stone here blow your fucking brains out.”

  I caught my breath.

  In the blink of an eye, Talon’s demeanor had changed.

  “Do you like poker?”

  I took a second to respond, trying to keep up with everything that was happening. I shrugged. “Sure.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Just the basics. Each player has two cards and combines them the community cards to make their best hand in order to beat everyone else.”

  He gently rocked his head back, eyed me, stroked his moustache.

  “Well. It’s a start. Let me give you the tour.”

  He placed an arm around my shoulders and gently escorted me to the door. When we got there, he said, “Don’t forget to say goodbye to Stone.”

  “Goodbye, Stone,” I said.

  Stone grunted.

  Talon turned the handle of the next door down the hall and led me into his world. A large room, impeccably decorated with wood and steel. A bar ran the length of the left-hand wall, and a team of people tended to those requesting attention or took drinks to the punters sitting at the eight tables. Each table was busy with some card game that kind of resembled poker.

  We went to the bar and Talon clicked his fingers. An attendant appeared before him and he ordered two of something. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t listening—I was too busy watching the action unfold at the tables. The dealer dealt cards, some up, some down. The players moved chips around the table, sipping their drinks in small measures.

  Talon must have caught me staring because he said, “A little variant I created called Thief.”

  “Looks interesting,” I said, transfixed.

  “Well, this can be a little challenging, especially for the new guy.”

  “I’m a quick learner.”

  “Well, everything you thought you knew about poker you can flush down the toilet. There are approximately twelve hundred variations of the game, but what we play here is something different again, our own variant.”

  I turned to see him holding two tumblers with three fingers of clear liquid in it. I took the glass, and he clinked his against mine.

  “To being alive,” he said, and then downed his in one gulp.

  I lifted the glass. It smelt like petrol. I looked at Talon, who was eyeing me expectantly. After what I had gone through that evening, I was glad to have anything alcoholic to calm me. I slowly lifted the glass and poured the contents into my mouth, swallowing quickly, trying not to let the burn linger in my mouth. Not that it mattered, because it burned all the way down and boiled away in my stomach.

  He smiled as I slammed the glass down on the bar and exhaled what felt like flammable gas.

  “All right then,” he said, clapping his hands. “Let me give you the overview. Then you can figure it out as you go.”

  He spun me around and placed an arm around my shoulder as he explained the rules of his game.

  “Like every variant of poker game, the goal is to get the best hand and win the pot. Like you said before, to win you need to make a more superior hand than the other players by combing your cards with the community cards. The starter moves around the table clockwise for each hand. Seems pretty straightforward, right?”

  I nodded

  “Players start with one card and there are two more visible cards in the community. For round two, an additional card is dealt along with two more invisible cards in the community. Follow me?”

  I nodded again and he continued.

  “Here’s the catch. For the first round, players must force any other player to exchange their card. For the second round, you can change out a community card of your choosing, visible or invisible.”

  “So, the world just keeps on changing?”

  “Exactly!”

  “How the hell does anyone win?”

  “The person who’s the most resilient, the one who can most effectively remain agile in a shifting, changing, dynamic world. They are the ones who win. Just like life. Those who can make the best use of the misfortune around them and come out on top.”

  I stared at a game in progress. A player displayed some fingers and another player had their card exchanged.

  Talon pulled me around so we were face to face and placed both his hands on my shoulders.

  “Now, Atlas, listen to me. This is my private parlor. Entry is by invitation. I invite you to be a member. But there are some rules you need to abide by.”

  “Go ahead,” I said, taking it all in. The lure of it all was far too much, let alone the exclusivity of it all. For not one moment did the thought cross my mind someone with the name Talon was inviting me into his den, with fuck knows who else, to potentially lose a hell of a lot of money.

  “The rules are simple. Membership is non-transferable, which means you don’t give your card away to anyone, like that dickhead Aston did. Membership is private, which means yo
u don’t tell anyone about this.”

  “The first rule of fight club?”

  He gave me a sideways glance, a toothy smile. “Exactly. There’s hope for you yet. My parlor is open every Friday night, at a different location each time. You can find out where by calling the number on your membership card. You know, the same way you found out about this location. We have eight tables, each holding six players. Turn up on time. You know, not like tonight. There’s no cap on how much you can win or lose at each sitting, and the house takes a cut of each winning pot. If everyone folds, the house keeps the pot. You can play in debt to recover your losses, but know if you do, and walk out of here in the hole, your obligation trebles. We only accept cash. No credit, no goods, no Walmart gift cards. You buy in and cash out with Tessa next door.”

  Against the far wall, someone swore out loud, stood up, and swept a stack of chips against the wall. A large man erupted from the corner. And by large, I mean huge. He was wearing a white shirt with jeans and donned a black vest (that was a size too small) that fought to stay connected in front. His hair was slicked back, but his beard was wild and disheveled, hiding most of his face, and his black eyes were wide and livid. He grabbed the offender—a middle-aged, black suit-wearing banker type—by the shoulder, swinging him around and punching him square in the face. He then snatched the man by the scruff of the neck and pushed him to the door as the man held his hands to his face, blood streaming through his fingers and onto his dinner jacket.

  “Oh, and you misbehave, you’ll be out, courtesy of Hugo here,” Talon added. “I can revoke membership at any time, which means your debts are payable in twenty-four hours, by money...or some other means.” He looked at me. “I’ll leave that up to your imagination, you sick little freak!”

  He squared me up. The friendly features had dropped from his face, and his eyes had become cold. I can’t say I’ve ever gazed upon such a pair of eyes in my life. Nothing came close. Not even my numerous shitty foster parents when they were hailing down a barrage of punches and cigarette burns.

  “You break any of my rules, and you and me will have a major problem. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you want a problem with me?”

  I shook my head.

  “That’s the right fucking answer.” A smile returned to his face. “Any questions?” Beneath that jovial externalism rested a man that considered business to be serious.

  “Just one,” I said. “What’s through that door?” I pointed to a blue door inset at the far end of the room.

  “That,” Talon said, turning and placing a hand around my shoulder, “is the invitation within the invitation. Once a month, the top players have the blessing of spending the evening with me. High stakes, no limit. Fifty thousand buy-in. Winner takes all. Half a million. You want to make some serious money, that’s where you’re going to do it. And you get to do that in the company of champagne, pussy, cock, coke, whatever your proclivity. I once had a patron request a donkey and a sauce bottle.” He leaned in close. “And who am I to decline a man what he desires?”

  I grinned. Not about the goat. Half a mill sounded like an unbelievable payday. But then I remembered the situation I was in—all the hoops I’d have to jump through to get there, and also the fact I’d need to win at my table in a game I had never played before.

  “I’ve seen dreams get made and also get shattered in that room,” he told me. “Take our friend Aston, for example.”

  “I see,” I said. “Well, I can’t wait to get started.”

  “Well, tonight, you can stay at the bar. If I put you in one of those games right now, you’ll be dead before the night’s through. You help deliver drinks or some shit as payment for lying to me.”

  “I’m a fast learner, like I said.”

  “You’re no good to me dead, kid.”

  Talon made his way to the door. “Consider yourself lucky, kid. You’re getting an opportunity most don’t. Now, I’ve got some...work to do next door with our friend, Aston.” He put his hand on the handle. “Should I say hello for you?”

  “To be honest, I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I spent the next few hours taking orders and running drinks. I even picked up a few bucks as tips from the players. Bless. Whenever I dropped off drinks, I would spend a few moments watching the game unfold. Watching the bets, the cards, the dealers, the players. There was one in particular who caught my eye.

  A lady, mid-fifties. She had fiery red hair and perfect makeup. She wore a black pantsuit, smoked fat cigars, and drank small glasses of brown spirit. There was something about how she played that got to me. How could I tell that about a player playing a game I didn’t even know? Well, I don’t know what to say, other than I just did. It wasn’t until I turned my attention to the dealer, I finally figured it out.

  I would be good at the game; I just knew it. It’s cards. There’s a science to it, there are calculations and formulas to predict the best outcome.

  When the clock hit one, people collected their chips and cleared out. Dealers tidied the tables and stacked the house chips. Bar staff cleared glasses and wiped down the bar.

  Talon came back in to see me, shaking hands with a queue of several people as he did so. Some wore gangly grins, and, with a wink, Talon slapped them on the back as they left. Others stared at the ground, avoiding eye contact with the world. Talon took those people under his wing and whispered in their ear.

  I thought maybe Talon was misunderstood, that deep down he cared about the people playing cards in his parlor. But then I remembered what type of person he was and figured he was most likely telling the losers their debt repayment timelines and what would happen to them if they didn’t pay up. There was only one person Talon really cared about, and that was Talon. His show of support was nothing more than a show to keep the winners coming back and the losers on the edge.

  After everyone had left, Talon sidled up next to me at the bar. “What do you think?”

  “I think I’m going to have a little bit of fun,” I said, cracking a smile.

  He pressed a metallic card down on the bar and looked at me as he slid it over.

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Chapter 6

  KOLTON: Okay, present in the room is Grant Taylor and his lawyer, Terry Barr. Grant, are you ready to continue?

  TAYLOR: [silence]

  KOLTON: For the record, Grant.

  TERRY BARR: You shall address my client as Mr. Taylor.

  KOLTON: [sigh] For the record, Mr. Taylor.

  TAYLOR: Yes.

  KOLTON: Thank you. Now, earlier I showed you a photo of the knife we believe was used in the murders of your wife and children. We have eyewitness testimony that you purchased the knife from a pawn shop. We have your fingerprints on the weapon. Did you want to make any comments about that?

  TAYLOR: [silence]

  BARR: I hope you’ve got something more than that, detective. It is circumstantial at best. You bring that knife and witness to a courtroom, and I’ll destroy it.

  KOLTON: Well, I guess we’ll tell our story, and you’ll tell your story. But why tell stories when we can talk about the truth right here, right now? Grant—sorry, Mr. Taylor—I’m still here to help you.

  BARR: If there’s nothing else, I’d like some more time with my client.

  KOLTON: We’ll get to that. But it’s not just one thing I want to talk about. It’s a big picture thing I want to get to. Now, Mr. Taylor, you mentioned you don’t remember the night of the murders. What about before then?

  BARR: Be specific, detective.

  KOLTON: Where were you that afternoon of the sixteenth?

  TAYLOR: Given what day it was, I think I was at home preparing.

  KOLTON: Are you sure about that?

  BARR: My client answered the question.

  KOLTON: Is there anyone to corroborate your whereabouts on the afternoon of the sixteenth?

  TAYLOR: My wife. My f
amily.

  KOLTON: That’s mighty convenient, don’t you think?

  TAYLOR: [sobs] No.

  KOLTON: I’ll ask you again, Mr. Taylor. Were you having an affair?

  TAYLOR: I told you before. No.

  KOLTON: This is your last chance.

  BARR: Detective, please. Is there a question for my client in there somewhere?

  KOLTON: Yes, there is. Mr. Taylor, what is your connection to Isabelle Chalmers?

  BARR: Don’t answer that.

  KOLTON: What, is there a problem?

  TAYLOR: Who’s Isabelle Chalmers?

  KOLTON: Mr. Taylor, I—

  BARR: I would like a moment with my client.

  [silence]

  KOLTON: Interview suspended.

  Chapter 7

  Grant spreads his large hands on the table. Or at least as far as he can, being chained to the table.

  “What was the sequence?” Taylor’s question is colder than I expected.

  “What sequence?”

  “The characters on the card you received from Aston.”

  “I—I don’t remember. That was a while ago.”

  “What about her phone number?”

  “Whose phone number?”

  “Olivia, the girl you met at the bar. What was her phone number?”

  “I don’t know!” I stand up. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “Forget it. What the hell am I listening to? Why are you wasting my time? This last bit of time I have?”

  “I told you, I want you to know.”

  “Well, you aren’t really telling me shit. There’s nothing you’ve told me that could possibly help me.”

  I sit back down and compose myself. I lean forward. “We’re getting there, Grant. We really are. I just want you to know the origins of it all. You know, every superhero and villain have their origin story. Whether it’s Bruce Wayne trapped in a cave, or Hal Jordan dying of cancer. Origin stories help people connect to the hero, help to build empathy, maybe even some sympathy.”

  “You want me to feel sorry for you?”

  “You? No. I really don’t give a shit. I just want you to understand. There are lots of steps in the journey.”