The Winners Circle

by Christopher Klim

  “Hey!” Jerry yelled, rocking the baby. “Cut the noise already!”

  He stood in the middle of the street, screaming at his partners. He was afraid to approach Tucker’s watt-guzzling stereo system with the baby. He cupped one hand over the baby’s ears, waving the other to seize their attention. “I’ve got it already.”

  Heads poked from windows in the shell-shocked complex. Two men wandered onto their lawns. Dogs barked and howled. Jerry considered retreating into Gina’s condo, leaving the fearless trio to whatever end befell them.

  Then he saw the dogs.

  A rottweiler, with massive haunches and a head like the working end of a front-end loader, tore down the pavement. It appeared disturbed by the noise, bearing down on the tall screaming man who flapped his arm in the street like an out of control water pump. Two dachshunds followed the bigger dog, their long bodies waggling like balloon animals with feet.

  Jerry stopped yelling and lowered his arm, but it appeared too late to slow the dogs. He watched the charging animals, shuffling through his options like a bad hand at a poker game. He decided to fold, running in the opposite direction. He’d handle any dog alone. Cortez was big, and Jerry could wrestle that animal down, but not with the baby, not with little Jerry.

  The German dogs kept pace behind him. The rottweiler ran well out in front. The dachshunds were one thing. He’d stamp them out with his shoes if needed, kick them clear across the road, but the rottweiler formed another problem, and Jerry had only one free arm.

  He leapt over the hedges and flowerbeds. The German breeds followed. The rottweiler hurdled the gardens, while the dachshunds trod through the greenery and mashed the pansies without much pizzazz.

  Condo Block C lay several yards ahead. Jerry searched for a safe spot—a place with elevation. Forget the stairs. That big dog might corner him there.

  The Germans closed the gap, as the bomb bursts returned. Jerry spilled over a chainlink fence, careful to keep little Jerry unharmed. His shoulder slammed the cement surface, and he braced his legs against a steel patio table to stop rolling. He saw the aqua blue ripples of a swimming pool lit up at night.

  Jerry stood up. The Germans penetrated the pool yard. The rottweiler cleared the fence, tumbling to a halt, while the dachshunds squeezed through the gate like rats. He jumped onto the patio table and hoped for the best.

  The rottweiler galloped to the table, scraping its paws upon the cement. Jerry waited for the powerful dog to spring off its paws. He crouched, preparing to dart in any direction, but the dog stopped short, releasing a growl that rivaled Tucker’s stereo.

  The dachshunds mounted the chairs and hopped upon the tabletop. Jerry shifted his weight, sensing his precarious stance. The table teetered and moaned. It wouldn’t be long before the whole thing toppled and he was into the shallow end of the pool, holding poor little Jerry above the water.

  Not surprising, the smaller dachshund was the most aggressive. It latched onto the cuff of Jerry’s chinos and tugged, snarling like a big house cat.

  Jerry stood on one foot, shaking his leg. The table wobbled. The baby wailed. The rottweiler growled like a diesel engine. Jerry shook his leg in a crazy dance, but the dachshund hung on.

  He whipped the blood stick from his blazer and stabbed the little animal in the rump, drawing another sample into the mix. The dachshund yelped and hopped backward. He stuck the other dachshund head on, lancing it in the front quarter like a bull in an arena.

  The pesky duo leapt off the table, retreating for the gate. He watched them fighting to squeeze through first.

  But the rottweiler stayed on, drooling at the foot of the table. It clawed the cement, jerking its head with each mighty bark, spraying saliva upon the metal chairs and corrugated cement.

  Jerry gently placed the infant on the center of the table. He noticed the baby wriggle on the cool metal. “I’ll protect you.”

  He stepped down. With both hands free, he was a different piece of meat to master.

  The rottweiler leveled a nasty look on Jerry. Nothing much in its dark inset eyes resembled sanity. Sometimes a normal dog got worked into a frenzy and past the point of reason, yet a rottweiler was no normal dog. It weighed one hundred pounds, capable of bringing most men to the ground. And that was no place to be with a dog like this.

  They circled each other beside the pool. Reflections from the water rippled across the dog’s blue-black fur and its lumpy head. Jerry heard the baby crying and discovered his own rage.

  He picked up a chair and smacked the dog’s side. It lunged for the fat part of his calf, and he kicked the big animal with the toe of his pointed wingtips, separating a chunk of flesh above its eye. These shoes are good for something.

  The rottweiler looked angrier, if that was possible, slobbering sticky strings of saliva upon anything close by. It growled a base tone, hunching down, but after a few more cracks of the chair and stabs of Jerry’s pointy shoe, the big man backed the dog near the white coping of the pool.

  He knew one thing about this sort of fight: no mercy. He rammed the chair into the dumb animal with all of his strength and shoveled it into the drink.

  A splash of water rose and fell. The rottweiler surfaced and paddled in the water, fighting to pull itself over the coping.

  Jerry smacked his heel across its snout, dunking it back under the water. He watched the rottweiler’s fat head get wet, and he repeated this until the dog’s spirit appeared broken. He enjoyed it more than he thought. He even felt like smacking the dog’s owner a couple of times too.

  A set of recessed steps lay at the shallow end of the pool. Jerry stood over the defeated animal churning in the water. “Figure it out for yourself.”

  He retrieved the child from the table. The dog thrashed in the background.

  The dachshunds lingered beyond the gate, but as soon as they spotted Jerry, they vanished through the hedges, yelping into the night. He thought he saw the blood stick still poking from one of the dogs.

  He found the street and regained his breath. He was scuffed up and dirty. He bled from a scrape in his palm and where his pants tore through at the knee. Little Jerry cried and gasped. Thank God, the sound effects had ceased. Jerry cradled the unharmed child, setting his sights on the parking lights of Dick’s Navigator.

  The police were interrogating the members of the newly formed Winners Alliance. The cops blocked the street, listening to Dick’s fast-talk about the stereo. Jerry heard Dick turning the questions back on the cops, like only Dick knew how. Tucker and Tom hung nearby, idling like coats on a rack. But after everything that had just happened, Jerry only chuckled at the sight.

  The police appeared more befuddled than disturbed. Jerry understood their confusion. Here were three normal-looking men in a quiet upscale neighborhood, blasting doom from a huge stereo like a posse of rap gangstas on holiday.

  “My baby!” A woman in jeans and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt sped toward Jerry. Her arms were outstretched, and her long brown hair waved behind her.

  Jerry held the boy tight. Now what?

  “Hold up!” Gina tried to intercept the stranger. She approached in her shawl and negligee, shuffling her pink slippers with as much grace and speed as she could muster. She slunk across the pavement, like a fashion model trying not to sprint down the runway while making good time.

  “Oh God, my baby!” The woman cried.

  Jerry realized the woman was headed straight for him. He stopped walking. The child whined and wriggled in his arms. “Your baby?”

  The strange woman’s eyes were a bit too close together, kind of like Gina’s. She pawed at the baby. “You found him.”

  “He wasn’t lost.” Jerry stepped back. “I had him the whole time.”

  Gina wedged in between, palming the woman further back. “Calm down.”

  “Give me Anthony,” the woman pleaded.

  “Anthony?” Jerry twisted away, as the woman reached again. “His name is Jerry. Who are you?”

  Dick’s ears p
erked up. He pulled away from the cops. “I knew it!”

  Jerry peered down on Gina. “Who is this lady?”

  “My cousin.” Gina threw her foot, smacking the other woman in the ankle. “She’s very attached to the child.”

  Gina’s cousin ceased talking. She formed a crooked smile. Red blotches covered her neck and one cheek.

  “She said this is her baby.” Jerry was indignant.

  “Oh, did she?” Gina’s hard fought composure eroded. “Whatever. Give me little Jerry.”

  “She called him Anthony. Why would she say that?”

  “Don’t you get what’s going on here?” Dick got in Gina’s face. “You’re a despicable woman. You don’t have a child, do you?”

  Gina looked a little green, a bad contrast against all that pink lingerie. “Who the heck are you?”

  “I’m your worst nightmare.” Dick lived for these moments. He eyed Gina like a thief cornered with the good silver. He planted his feet on the blacktop and folded his arms across his chest. He seemed ready to sick Tucker on her.

  She released a little laugh, testing the crowd to see who followed, and when Jerry kept staring, she tugged her shawl tight to her chest and launched into recovery mode. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  Gina’s cousin swallowed her stupid expression and yanked the baby from Jerry’s grip. She held the infant to her chest, and he quieted and shut his eyes.

  “An old fashioned con,” Dick announced, as if anyone needed a summary. “Well, you’re blown out of the water, sister, completely exposed.”

  Jerry turned away, disgusted. A minute earlier, he was rescuing his son, but as usual, it was for nothing. He had no son, no legacy to guide toward a better future. It was another disappointment. Another loss. Another bit of fake to fill up his soul. When there seemed to be no more pieces left of his heart to rip out, Gina had found another, fished it out and served it up to him. He was nauseated by the idea of having to swallow this too.

  “Okay,” Gina said. “So you don’t want a child. I read you all wrong.”

  Jerry clenched his jaw. He started walking with no specific direction in mind. If there was an arrow in the sky pointing ‘somewhere else,’ Jerry might follow it.

  “I was only giving you what you wanted,” she continued.

  “Spagnoli,” Dick said, “you’re lucky if he doesn’t press charges.”

  If the cops weren’t confused before, their brains twisted into knots now. They clearly regretted answering this call. They edged toward their squad car, hoping for another emergency to blare over the dispatch—a burning building, a bloody car wreck, anything to escape the loony tunes at the Princeton condos.

  Gina followed Jerry for a few paces. “Jerry, please.”

  Jerry kept moving.

  “You just can’t sleep with a woman and abandon her.”

  Jerry didn’t even glance back. Shut up. You got paid like everyone else.

  Twenty minutes later, Dick’s Navigator pulled beside Jerry as he meandered down the highway. The custom tires ground the dirt and glass in the roadside.

  “Hello,” Dick called from an open window. His blithe tone signaled victory. The others were laughing. Tucker sipped a large can of beer, probably a Foster’s Lager.

  Jerry didn’t have the stomach for celebration. He assumed that they’d cleared up their trouble with the cops, but he still felt as snake-bit as ever. He was a man with so-called options, but the world shut its doors as fast as he reached for them. “What do you want?”

  “Well,” Dick said, “I’d call that a success.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “Chalk up one for the Alliance.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Horse’s Neck

  For days, Jerry kept to himself. He drove along the peaks and valleys of the Sourland Mountains, tight in the cocoon of his highly tuned imported racing machine. The hardwood forests whipped past his windows. The spawning foliage blurred his sightlines and tented his thoughts.

  He slowed his car outside Taddler’s Horse Center. Purple and white violets peppered the sprawling lawns. He retracted the car roof and studied the corrals and barns from a distance. He’d stopped three times that week, but today, a gentle breeze pushed the scent of horses, trodden earth, and straw-covered manure to the roadside. He decided to pull up the driveway.

  A dozen horses strolled the western paddock. Jerry counted the trailers lined up for the weekend horse show. Wasn’t this the life he wanted? Hadn’t he dreamt of this before striking it rich? A barrier existed between his poverty and wealth, between his past and present. It created a myth of his past, which was now as fleeting and hard to prove as a lie. He tried to trace his fantasies to the other side, but they were impossible to imagine when they became reality with the mere tearing out of a bank check.

  The Porsche mounted the crest of the hill in second gear. In the old days, his rickety Ford barely reached the top. He gazed down on the main barn. He planned to speak with the owner. He wanted to be a horse trainer. He was going to learn how.

  A taupe mare strolled beside the fence. Its light eyes focused on Jerry, before it galloped into the pasture. Jerry thought of Chelsea. She possessed the body of a horse: slender neck, strong legs, fluid strides. She had a runner’s form, full of grace when she believed no one was watching. She’d have taken naturally to a horse. Now he remembered the dream. He was going to teach her how to ride. They’d grow old watching their children on horseback. That was it.

  The Porsche rolled downhill. He coasted in, sneaking up on the activity. The huge barn doors were drawn aside, as the handlers groomed the big animals. He knew nothing of this work, and his resume spoke of even less experience. Already he heard their questions. Who are you? Why do you want to do this?

  He stopped not far from the spot where the rattlesnake first pierced his veins. A tremor of excitement charged his spine. He neared the center of his universe—a place of dreams and nightmares, the vortex of change.

  A few handlers glanced, as he rose from the car. Did they remember? Some probably did.

  “Morning,” he called. He waited, but no one answered.

  Dozens of people roamed the barn. The horse show began in three hours, and the breezeway teemed with professionals and avid fans of the breed. Two men inquired about registration and schedules. A lame colt waited for assistance.

  “Sir?” A young woman from the barn clutched a bridle in one hand. The buckles jangled on the straps.

  “Hello,” Jerry said.

  “You can’t park here.”

  “I’ll bring it up to the house. Is Sam Taddler around?”

  “He’s very busy.”

  Jerry realized it was the same woman who’d phoned the ambulance on the day he was bitten by the snake. She didn’t recognize him in designer clothes and a perfect haircut. His hands were clean, and his glimmering car looked as if it were bathed more often than an infant.

  “Hey,” Jerry said in an odd way, trying to jog her memory.

  “Are you showing today?” She looked past him for a truck and trailer, anything to indicate that he belonged.

  “No, not today.”

  “Well maybe you should try back during the week.”

  Jerry stood by the open door of his car. Perhaps his former life wasn’t real. He scanned the pasture for a memory of his own, only spotting the taupe mare. She grazed in the heather grass, flagging her tail.

  “Sir?”

  He saw men and women walking about the fields. They moved with purpose, watering horses, assembling the color-coded steeples for the competition. He understood their motivation, because he’d once wielded that kind of confidence and determination. He used to rise in the morning and knew what needed to be done. He’d felt every task calling him, even the menial tasks that supported the others, and it never fazed him or pressured him into mistakes. But today, he’d pulled into the horse center on nothing more than a whim. He’d become one of those millionaires that he used to mock, a man who thought he c
ould walk among the working stiffs and cause them to stand at attention, even care about his concerns. His transformation was complete.

  “You’ll have to move your car,” the woman said.

  He didn’t answer, and although his feet hadn’t budged, he was already backing up. No, you can’t let a manure shoveler train horses, even a filthy rich manure shoveler.

  “Your car, sir?”

  Jerry ducked inside his overpriced indulgence for transportation. He saw the mare in the distance. It seemed like a far off point on the horizon, beautiful, intangible. “I was just leaving.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The Wealthy

  Willie Nelson

  A damp wind whistled through a crack in the window, as the Winners Alliance sped toward Cape May—the bottom tip of New Jersey. After the debacle at Gina’s, Jerry swore he’d never rejoin the Alliance, but three weeks later, he was buckled into Dick’s Navigator for another mission. Everyone understood why. It’d been two years since Jerry struck it rich, and his life was emptied out like a used box of cereal. He needed an excuse to lower his feet out of bed in the morning.

  “It’s an intervention,” Dick said in his Gordon Liddy kind of way.

  “I guessed as much.” Jerry kept tabs on each winner in the files. He’d begun reluctantly but became fascinated with the twists and turns of the other millionaires’ lives. He knew about the woman in Bridgewater who was obsessed with handbags and Latin lovers. A young couple who lived on a ranch at the Water Gap were forming their own religion, and of course, there was Chelsea and Haskell Cogdon. “Which case is it?”

  “It’s Willie Nelson.”

  “I thought so,” Jerry replied. He and Dick formed the brains of the Alliance. Dick conjured the grand schemes, and Jerry added the commonsense, he hoped.