Chicago Noir

by Joe Meno

“You don’t know any of them. They don’t know you. You walk up to the door by yourself, knock. Don’t give your real name. No reason to. The players? Tall, skinny Negro pushing seventy years is Wallace Livingstone. Dapper. He’s Elder. Some kind of doctor from Detroit. Been around Wheel City tables longer than double your life. First time in Chicago in twenty years or something. Second guy is younger, maybe fifty, white, bad skin, bad breath, thin hair brushed over. Name is Dunwoody. Nervous little guy. He plays with cash belonging to a New Orleans trucking union local of which he is both treasurer and recording secretary. And that brings us to the Russian. I don’t like the guy. He fucking smirks.”

  Dusk paused as Two Punch made the turn at 53rd and headed west.

  “The Russian’s no Russian,” said Dusk. “He’s a Hungarian or something. Maybe not even that. Who cares where he came from. All three of them conned me into a game on Monday and took me for twenty thousand dollars and change. It was rigged. I want it back.”

  He paused, waiting for an answer to a question that hadn’t been asked.

  “With interest,” I said.

  “You know what Hank Sauer said? The only way to prove you’re a good sport is to lose. I’m not a good sport.”

  I could see Dusk Oliver nod in minimal satisfaction as passing streetlights flickered across his face.

  “House belongs to a former alderman with bad habits. He gets one percent from every pot and makes himself invisible. The man with the gun who’ll open the door for you is a cop. I don’t know his name. Don’t care. He’s there to keep out the unwelcome.”

  He sat back and said, “You’ll like the book. We’ll talk about it. We’ll pick up some Jew hot dogs at Fluky’s and talk about it.”

  Woodlawn south of 53rd was a line of stone and brick two- and three-story houses. Inside the houses dwelt the dwindling ranks of Hyde Park’s old wealthy and the latest wave of University of Chicago administrators and better-paid professors. The wealthy and the educated locked their doors to keep out the poor and the uneducated Negro kids who lived five minutes away across the snow-covered Midway in Woodlawn to the south and the huddled ghetto of Kenwood to the north.

  The whites and a few blacks who bolted the doors at night on Woodlawn Avenue honestly proclaimed their oneness with their banished, low-class neighbors. That didn’t stop the comfortable but wary of Hyde Park from closing those doors.

  Two Punch pulled up in front of a three-story white stone house on the right. There were no lights in the first-floor windows. There was a light behind pulled drapes on the second floor.

  Dusk reached past me and opened the door for me to get out.

  “Two Punch will be back out here before five. Think about Mae’s future, but don’t let it get in the way of your play. I want what’s due me, kid.”

  I got out.

  Before he closed the door, Dusk added, “Just imagine James Mason’s voice telling you to be calm and concentrate and you’ll be fine.”

  The door closed. The car pulled away and I spent no more than two seconds wondering how James Mason’s voice was going to help me.

  I patted the bills in my jacket pocket and the backup stack in my other pocket. Then I stepped over a knee-high pile of black snow, stepped in front of the door, and used the heavy knocker.

  A shadow flickered across the small glass peephole.

  The door was opened by the cop, in slacks and a jacket with a tie that didn’t come near matching anything either he or I was wearing. The tie was knotted clumsily to the left. It didn’t matter. What did matter was his jacket was open enough to make his holstered gun clear.

  He led me up a wooden stairway that creaked and, in one or two places, sagged. He didn’t ask my name.

  The cop with the gun opened a door, let me step in, and then closed the door and stayed outside.

  Handshakes and introductions all around. The thin, old doctor introduced as Elder, the jumpy New Orleans union fund thief Dunwoody, and Serge, the Russian. I smiled. The doctor examined my face. The thief wanted to get started. The Russian, who wasn’t a Russian, cocked his head to one side slightly to examine me. The Russian was about forty-five, lots of neatly brushed hair with gray sideburns and a salt-and-pepper, neatly trimmed beard.

  An antique sideboard against the wall held a variety of alcoholic drinks and sandwiches. I was hungry and dry. I took a Goebel beer, used an opener, put two sandwiches of something that smelled like ham on a plate, and took my seat at the table.

  The other three: Wallace Livingtone the Elder on my left, Dunwoody on my right, and Serge the Russian across from me. I took the small stack of cash from my jacket with one hand and worked on a sandwich with the other. The Elder took my cash and expertly measured out five thousand in chips of red, white, and blue.

  The game was five-card stud. Period. One card dealt down and one card turned over for the first bet or fold. Then three more cards, betting on each card.

  I started reading the table before the first card was dealt.

  The Elder knew his tell. I could see it from the way he stayed erect, not blinking, hands as steady as he could hold them; but they threatened to betray him when the ante went in. The Russian was up for the deal. The Elder was struggling to keep away a tiny tremor. I wasn’t sure what it meant. Dunwoody and the Russian hadn’t paid any attention.

  The Russian didn’t say much, but what he did say was open for a tell. Sometimes he dropped his t’s. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he pronounced his o’s as u’s. “Long” became “lung.” His knowing smile was frozen, less knowing than a truly confident smirk.

  The hardest one to read before that first card was dealt was Dunwoody. He kept talking, kept moving his hands, fidgeting; more moves than a third base coach. He didn’t have a tell. He had dozens of them.

  And then the cards came. We didn’t start till almost one in the morning. Four hours wasn’t much time.

  I started by checking, folding or staying in only when I had a pair. I bet into players knowing I would lose, just to see what they would give away when they were sure to pretty certain they were going to win. Dunwoody always reached eagerly to look at his hole card. Then he would put the card down and tap it. The Elder held the hole card for no more than an instant, not even lifting it from the table, just peeling it back enough for a glimpse. The Russian held his card in front of his eyes, touched his nose, smiled, turned his card in a circle, and placed it facedown on the table.

  By the time I was down by almost four thousand dollars, I could see how they were trying to hide every read. The tells took awhile to spot. All three of them were good. I wasn’t about to make any mistakes. I couldn’t afford to. The clock was ticking toward Mae’s fingers.

  By the time it was almost three I had a good idea of what kinds of hands each man played, how and when they bluffed. That left only luck of the draw, but even that could be overcome with smart bluffing.

  The problem was that it can take time to wear down a player you could read who was drawing lucky and betting recklessly.

  Dunwoody sometimes bet with no chance of winning on the table. The Elder came in hard when he had something, but came in just as hard about one hand in six when he had nothing. Sometimes he did it twice in a row. Sometimes he didn’t do it for a dozen bad hands.

  The Russian always bet to kill.

  I was down to four hundred of the five thousand I’d put on the table, when I pulled out the backup stack of five thousand at three thirty.

  I knew now that when he had something, the Elder let his hands rest lightly on the table, so lightly that they were almost not touching. When he had nothing, the hands came down just a touch heavier, maybe the width of a butterfly wing, but I saw it.

  Dunwoody was down even more than I was. It wasn’t his money any more than it was my money at stake. He had nothing to lose but other people’s money and his arms if he got caught. He didn’t go out till all was hopeless. If he had a good hand, that was the big tell. He ran his tongue gently along his upper teeth with his
mouth almost closed. It was hard to spot, but it was there.

  The Russian held his chips about half an inch higher when he bet with good cards.

  My father had taught me that everybody has a tell—boxers, betters, bankers, every blind man and Catholic bishop. Even if you cover your head and eyes, keep a stone face, keep your hands flat on the table and always count to exactly thirty-two before you bet or folded, something would give you away.

  I started to win. Slow at first. I would have won less and a lot slower if I didn’t know Dusk Oliver was probably sitting across a table from my mother somewhere, with a small but sharp garden pruning shears in his hand. By four fifteen I was almost fifteen thousand over the stake Dusk had given me. I passed the deal and gave up position so I wouldn’t be accused of manipulating the cards.

  “Lucky fuckin’ . . .” Dunwoody said.

  Larry the Elder shrugged.

  The Russian allowed himself a serviceable frown.

  I was going to make it. Table rule was you could not quit when you were ahead until the last hand of any hour.

  Then something went wrong. I started to lose and the Russian started to smile and I started to worry. I ate sandwiches. Nobody else did. I ate an egg salad, a ham salad, and two shrimp salads, all on white, no crusts.

  Dunwoody went bust at four thirty. The Elder bowed out a few minutes later, though he was almost even. I met the Russian’s eyes and didn’t like what I was seeing. Confidence.

  I was still five thousand short of Dusk’s demand with twenty minutes till five.

  And then I knew. The Russian was reading me. He saw a tell. I thought mine were covered. They weren’t.

  Then it got even worse. The tells the Russian had been flashing for almost three hours disappeared. He had played me, probably the way he had played Dusk.

  I lost four more hands going over my movements, finding nothing. Dunwoody and the Elder watched with interest. I was sure I hadn’t been doing something I’d done before.

  Then I got it. Big pot. Figured it out. Asked myself the question: why did he wait so long to nail me? Answer: I was doing something now I hadn’t done earlier in the game.

  “Bet two thousand,” the Russian said.

  He had a jack in the hole and a pair of jacks. I had a pair of fours. It was almost five o’clock. Two Punch was parked in front of the house. The Fountainhead was lying on the backseat. In an hour, Mae would lose a finger. She wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t let herself make a sound, not Mae. It wouldn’t kill her, but she would never be the same.

  My right eye stung.

  I didn’t reach up to wipe perspiration away.

  That’s what was telling the Russian all he needed to know.

  I bet a bad hand. He raised me.

  It was a few minutes to five. I went to the drink table for a last sandwich and came back. I wasn’t hungry but I ate.

  I looked at my watch and the Russian said, “You half somewhere to go to?”

  “Yes,” I said. “To see my mother.”

  “At this hour?” asked the Russian.

  “She works nights.”

  The cards were dealt. I had a nine in the hole. I bet it. The Russian raised. I stayed with him. He turned two spades, one a queen, one a king, and then a third spade. I turned a second nine to match the hole nine I’d been dealt.

  “Last hand?” the Russian asked.

  “Looks that way,” I said.

  “Make this interestin’ perhaps?”

  I wiped my upper lip with the back of my hand and said, “Why not?”

  “How much you wanting to bet?”

  “Ten thousand,” I said.

  Dunwoody paused, a glass of watery Scotch almost to his lips. The Elder shook his head at the folly of the much younger generation.

  “Ten thousand,” the Russian agreed, stacking his chips in the center of the table.

  “Cash?” I asked.

  The Russian opened his palms to show he was a sporting man. I put in ten thousand dollars and the last card was turned over.

  “Two nines,” said the Russian, showing his hole card.

  “Two tens,” I said, showing mine.

  I’ll give the Russian this. He didn’t break. I was sure he didn’t understand, not yet. I had let him read my last tell, but it had been a sham. When I was getting my sandwich, I had palmed a small chunk of ice and brought it to the table. When the last game started, I touched my upper lip. It was moist when I had made my final bet. The Russian, meanwhile, overconfident, had inadvertently touched his thumb to his finger.

  I pushed all the chips toward the Elder, who was the banker.

  I didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. I half expected the door to open and the cop with the badly knotted tie to come in and say I wasn’t leaving. Or maybe the Russian was going to reach into his jacket and come up with a sharp or explosive surprise.

  But nothing happened. The Elder counted his remaining chips and handed me the cash. Dunwoody looked at the draped window and shook his head. The Russian waited for me to look up and nodded at me.

  I forced myself to calmly gather and fold the bills before I said my good-nights, thanked them all, and escaped.

  The car was waiting. It was ten minutes after five.

  I got in the seat next to Two Punch and handed him the money. He turned on the dashboard light and slowly counted.

  “Forty thousand, six hundred and ten,” he said looking at me.

  “If you say so,” I agreed. “Let’s go.”

  We got to Dusk Oliver’s current headquarters, the Rib Emporium on 82nd Street, at ten minutes to six. The sweet smell of barbecue sauce made me wish I hadn’t eaten all those sandwiches. The place was dark. Two Punch had a key. I followed him in, trying not to stumble in the dark as we went through a door in the rear of the restaurant.

  Dusk was seated at a table in the small kitchen, an iced tea clinking in front of him. Two Punch handed him the money. Dusk stacked it neatly in front of him.

  “It’s a good feeling to get back at those who cheat you,” he said.

  I nodded.

  No one had cheated Dusk Oliver; not the Elder, not Dunwoody, not the Russian. No one had cheated at the table for the four hours I had played. I had seen Dusk play poker. The Russian in an all-night game could have taken Dusk without cheating. No contest. Dusk’s high opinion of his skill was not merited.

  I said nothing.

  He pushed a pile of bills in my direction. I took them.

  “You think I’d really cut off one of Mae’s fingers?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. I would have. Consider her debts canceled.”

  I knew Mae’s debts would start up again in a day or two. Not owing money to a dealer didn’t get you to suddenly quit taking. If anything, it gave the taker a breather and the feeling he or she could start over, that they had bought time. Dusk Oliver was a lousy poker player but a smart drug dealer. He understood.

  “Don’t forget the book,” he said.

  “I won’t.”

  “Two Punch has a big bucket of ribs and chicken for you. Julius doesn’t sell day-old.”

  “Is it Christmas?” I asked.

  “Don’t be a smart-ass. You look into the mouth of a gift horse and you’re liable to get your dick bitten off.”

  The metaphor was mixed but it could turn into a reality if I didn’t shut up.

  “We’ll do more business now,” he said.

  Nothing to say.

  The Blue Note was closed for the morning. The sun was coming out. Two Punch dropped me at Stella’s on Diversey Avenue just off of Western. I recognized all four of the musicians playing. Three were black, one was a redheaded white kid with a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth and burning his eyes. The redheaded kid was a music student at Northwestern. He was coaxing the guitar on his lap. They were playing “Blue and Sentimental.”

  Five people, all male except for my mother, were seated on folding chairs, listening, smoking,
wandering into a back room to take something for the edge, something to bring on the dreams and hold back the nightmares. I laid out my tribute, a bucket of chicken.

  Mae’s legs were crossed. She looked up at me. I nodded. She understood. Her fingers were safe for a while. Why didn’t she look tired? Bored maybe, but not tired. I sat next to her and listened to the music. She touched my hand.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  And then the song stopped and without being told or invited, Mae walked forward and started to sing. I had never figured it out. I wasn’t a musician. If there was a tell, I never spotted it. Musicians like my mother and the Count didn’t need words. They knew what to play, what to sing. Two notes, just two notes from Mae, were enough for the musicians to start.

  “I’ll never smile again,” Mae sang, almost just spoke, looking at her hands. Then she looked at me and the sad voice of my mother sang, “Until I smile at you.”

  I felt rather than saw someone sit in the chair Mae had vacated. I didn’t look but I sensed and then was sure.

  “She is good,” the Russian whispered.

  “She’s the best,” I answered.

  “Dunwoody knew someone who knew where I’d find you. He knew who you were when you sat down at the table with us.”

  Nothing to say, at least not on my part.

  “You gave it all to Oliver?”

  “All,” I said, which was true though he had given some of it back to me.

  “I couldn’t leave this dark and glorious city without letting you know.”

  “Part of the game,” I said. “Sometimes when it’s over, going over the game is the best part.”

  We both looked at and listened to Mae. Before she started “Love for Sale,” the Russian stood.

  “Ice on the upper lip,” he said. “You must have been desperate.”

  “Lady singing is my mother. Dusk said he was going to be unkind to her at six if I didn’t win.”

  “I know. We knew it when you sat down.”

  “You let me win,” I said.

  It wasn’t a question.

  “Leaving the game ahead of Mr. Oliver seemed like a bad bet,” said the Russian. “He is obviously a very bad loser. We didn’t know how bad a loser he could be until after we took him for the twenty thousand and people let us know. Letting him have his money back with a little interest seemed like a good idea. Letting him think he had taken us seemed like an even better idea. Never again sitting down with him is the best idea of all.”