Dead Man's Hand

by Luke Murphy

“Since when are you a student at the College of Southern Nevada?”

  “This is my second year in a two-year psychology program.” She pursed her lips. “I want more for my life, Calvin. So far, it hasn’t been like I dreamed.”

  He wrapped his arms around her. “I think that’s great. I’m so proud of you.”

  She rolled her eyes and pulled him closer. “I want more.”

  He took her by the hand and led her back to bed. “Me too, Rachel. Me too.”

  Calvin woke up squinting at the blinding sun shining through the window. The curtains had been pulled back and tied with the strings. He took a moment to shake the cobwebs and then reached across the bed. Rachel was gone.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up on the edge. He tested his knee for stability and flexibility. It would never get any stronger. He had severely torn the anterior cruciate ligament in his right knee. Reconstructive surgery had replaced the ligament and two arthroscopic surgeries were necessary before he could walk. Even with the plates and rods, he was thankful when he made it through a day without agonizing pain.

  He used the muscles in his arms to heave himself off the bed, rising to his feet and stretching his long, muscular body. He began his ritual knee workout, easing into each exercise, holding at the first point of discomfort. Using light enough resistance, he performed three sets of twenty repetitions of the various exercises. This was the most important time of the day for his knee and he couldn’t overdo it.

  First, he lay on the floor, raising his leg up and down doing hamstring stretches. Placing a hand against the wall, he performed some quadriceps stretches, then moved to strengthening exercises—leg extensions, straight leg raises, buttock tucks, quarter squats (both single and double leg) and forward and lateral step-ups.

  For three straight years at college, he’d been awarded the ‘Hard Hat’ award for the team’s hardest worker on and off the field. The amount of time and hard work he had put into preparing for football was still paying off now.

  After twenty-five minutes, he was satisfied, though perspiration ran down the back of his neck. He showered and dressed, then strolled across the street to Ed’s Breakfast Grill. He’d wait until he had returned to his apartment to run the stairs, first walking and then progressing into a quick jog. His weightlifting was done at night before bed.

  It was past the morning breakfast rush, so he sat down at a booth in the half- empty diner. A scowling, uniformed waitress set a fresh mug of coffee in front of him and slid the morning paper across the table.

  “Good morning, Calvin. What’ll you have today, honey?” Her pen hovered over a notepad.

  “The usual, I guess.” He tossed the menu down on the table.

  She snatched up the menu and headed back to the counter. Calvin was no longer alarmed by how she screamed his order out through the window into the kitchen.

  “Hey, Calvin!” Ed, owner and cook, nodded in Calvin’s direction.

  He was a big man who sweated a lot, but Calvin thought of him as a friend, not just someone who was good to his steady customers.

  Calvin gave a quick salute and turned to the morning paper. As he always did, he skimmed the news to the sports section first. He enjoyed keeping up with some of the players that he’d once played against and dominated in college. He couldn’t believe the money that players made in the NFL. Players with half his talent were making millions.

  Should be me.

  The slamming of a plate brought him back from the past. The waitress pulled some silverware from her apron and handed it to him.

  “Thanks,” Calvin said. He always felt that eating was wasting time, so he gobbled it, paid his bill and left a modest tip.

  He checked out of the motel, paying cash. He was part of the cash-only economy—no banks, no government and underreported income. To keep the IRS off his back, he did file taxes for a third of what he made and listed himself as a “freelance messenger.” Close enough.

  He headed to work.

  Donald Pitt sat at the desk in his tiny office eating an egg sandwich. As he bit into it, a clump of melted cheese dripped and landed on files that were scattered across his desk.

  “For fuck’s sake! Dixie, get in here!” Pitt called out for his secretary.

  “Hello, Donald.”

  The voice that came from the doorway wasn’t Dixie’s and he dropped half the sandwich into his lap.

  “Ace,” Don said. “I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

  “Having trouble with the sandwich?”

  Don used a napkin to wipe the egg from his pants. Never one to waste time on hygiene, he finger-combed what hair was left on his balding head, parting it to the side. He rushed to the door, greeting his best-paying and most frequent client, his arm extended the whole way.

  He pulled a chair out for the casino owner.

  “You called?” Don’s young secretary came to the doorway, one finger twirling a piece of gum in her mouth.

  “Never mind, Dixie.” He waved the secretary away, who left rolling her eyes.

  He shut the door and turned back to his visitor. “Please come in, Ace.”

  Sanders entered but didn’t sit. They had met seven years ago and Don still didn’t trust him, but he’d already made a small fortune handling most of Sanders’ dirty work. He just needed to keep Ace happy for a little while longer.

  “So…is everything set?” Sanders asked.

  “Pretty much,” he replied, sitting back behind the desk.

  “What about Watters ?”

  “He won’t be a problem. I can handle him.” He smiled, but his partner didn’t return it. He thought that Ace probably didn’t like that Don was in control of this part.

  “You just make sure that he’s in Grant’s private office by 9:30 tomorrow morning.” Sanders’ tone was hard.

  Don leaned forward. “Tomorrow morning? Why so soon?”

  “It needs to be done ASAP. Time is running out and I can’t wait any longer.”

  “Will everything be ready?”

  “Of course. You just take care of Watters. It’ll be perfect. It has to be. You better hope it is.”

  “I don’t know. Sounds risky.”

  Sanders pulled a brochure from his jacket. He opened it to the centerfold and set it on the desk. “A piece of this will be all yours.” He pointed to the layout of the new Greek Hotel and Casino.

  Don’s eyes widened. The place would make millions. He tried to touch the paper, but Sanders grabbed it and stuck it inside his jacket.

  “How about a deal memo for a sense of security?” Don said. “I would feel better knowing I have some documentation for my share.”

  Grinning, Sanders slapped him on the back. “You’ll just have to trust me, Donald.”

  He frowned. I have no choice.

  When Sanders left, he relaxed back into his chair. All he could think about was that Sanders could no doubt pull this off and would be a real power in Vegas.

  Chapter 5

  Calvin didn’t get to work until after eleven, a good time for an impromptu visit. He walked into the little shop and the odor of cigarette smoke and sweat assaulted him. The noise he had grown accustomed to the last three years—fingers tapping keyboards, phones ringing and sports games from around the world on the televisions—greeted him like a punch in the gut. A couple of heads shot up from behind newspapers, but seeing a big black man, they returned to their reading.

  The lines for the day were already posted on the board and he scanned them as he nodded to the secretary, who was busy painting red-lacquered nails. “You got something for me, Dixie?”

  She opened a drawer and searched it. “Nothing here.”

  His pulse quickened, but he said nothing. He headed to the back.

  “Hey, Don.” Calvin nodded at his boss.

  Pitt looked up from his computer. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “What? I never punched a clock before.”

  “Sorry. Tough morning. I have nothing for
you yet today.”

  “What about my cut on Pierce? I know he paid you in full this morning.”

  “What? No, he hasn’t. Well…he paid part of it.”

  Calvin put out his hand. “Stop there. I don’t want to hear it. I got his attention the other night, told him to pay you this morning and I know he did, so stop trying to hold on to my money.”

  Pitt started protesting and he cut him off. “Now.” Calvin leaned forward and glared into Pitt’s piggy eyes. “He owed you $20,000 and I want $4,000 in my hands within the next minute.”

  Pitt sighed. “Not you too. What a morning.”

  “Me too? What do you mean? Who else was in here?”

  “No one. Never mind. I’m too tired to argue with you. You’re right anyway. Dixie said Pierce limped in this morning before I arrived and paid it all.” Pitt smiled. “I guess he got the message.”

  “My money, Don.”

  “All right. Calm down. I’ll get your money.” Pitt disappeared into the back of his office and returned with a large envelope. “Here’s your $4,000. Count it if you want. You finished?”

  “No. You still owe me $6,000 from the job before that. Harry Walker. Five days ago. I know he paid too, because if he hadn’t, you’d have already sent me back to see him. I want everything settled before I leave the office this morning, so don’t even waste your breath. Just get my money.”

  Pitt sighed and raised his hands, then dropped them to his side. He went into the back again and brought Calvin a larger envelope and sat down.

  Calvin stuffed both envelopes into the deep pockets of his jacket. “I’m not counting now. I’ll do that later. If anything’s missing, I’m coming back to collect from you. And what Pierce received will seem like a slap on the wrist.”

  “What’s gotten you in such a bad mood? You forget to take your meds?”

  Calvin lunged across the desk as Pitt sprung back, his chair striking the wall hard.

  Pitt raised his hands in a defensive posture. “Whoa! Just kidding. Loosen up. You got your money. Go. I’ll call you when I need you for the next job.”

  “That’s what we have to talk about.”

  “I’m tired of talking. Let’s do that another time.” Pitt turned his back to Calvin and began typing on the computer keyboard. But Calvin stood still and stared, thinking about when he and Pitt had first met.

  After his humiliating injury, he’d moved to Vegas to start over. He had no contacts, no money and no prospects. He was feeling sorry for himself and blamed everyone else for his situation.

  His first night in the new city, Calvin had gotten drunk in a local pub, started a fight and beat up two customers, a bartender and two bouncers. Pitt saw the fight and even went to court to vouch for Calvin, saying he acted in self-defense—a total lie. One of the bouncers had gone to the local ER. A severe concussion, Calvin had heard. He could have gone to jail.

  “I like your style,” Pitt had said.

  When the man asked Calvin to collect for him and showed him the money, Calvin figured he owed the bookie. Besides, no other offers were that good. And even though he hated the collecting job now, he was still somewhat proud to be the best. Pitt’s rate of return had been 100 percent since Calvin had taken over.

  “I thought you were leaving.” Pitt scowled. “What’s your problem today?”

  “I want out.”

  “What do you mean, out?” Pitt said in an icy tone.

  “That’s it. I’m done.”

  “Oh, really?” Pitt got up, walked around the desk and sat on the edge of it, folding his arms across his chest. “Tell me, what is it you plan to do?”

  “I don’t know yet.” He thought about the ways he could hurt Pitt. But that would be a bad move.

  “Of course you don’t, because you can’t do anything else. You don’t have a degree, you have one knee and you look like a bum.”

  He took deep breaths and did a slow mental count to calm down.

  Pitt continued. “Remember when I found you? You had nothing. No job. No money. No home. Nobody! I saved you. I was the only one there for you. I saved your ass from the slammer. You owe me.”

  “I don’t owe you shit. I paid that debt off long ago.”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit. When you had nothing else, I offered you twenty percent of every collection, in cash. More money than you could ever dream of, with the shape you were in. I turned you into the perfect collecting machine, an intimidating giant with a psychopath’s lack of emotion and the capacity to be a madman when the job required that kind of terror. Did you forget that?”

  Calvin shook his head. “You came to me.”

  “That’s right. I did. I thought that an angry football star was perfect for the job and I was right.”

  “I should have listened to my brother when he tried to talk me out of it.”

  Pitt grunted. “Your brother. A lousy L.A. detective. I hate cops. I don’t trust ‘em.”

  “Josh just made detective first grade—a real job. He tried to warn me, but I was too stubborn to listen. I’m sick of this.”

  “Tell me…” Pitt smiled and Calvin would have liked to remove it. “Just how much money has Joshua made over the last three years?”

  “Not everything is about money.”

  “Maybe so, but I haven’t seen much that money can’t buy.”

  “There’s more to life.” Calvin shrugged. “Like being happy.”

  Pitt wiped his eyes in mock sympathy. “Ah, gee. The leg breaker isn’t happy. I’m all choked up.”

  “I want out now. We’re all square on what you owe me. I’m finished.”

  “Well, you can’t just walk out, Calvin. You’ve been torturing people for years and they put people in jail for that. When I wanted deadbeats terrified of you that was one thing. But let’s say that now I decide to get some of the deadbeats to go to the police and press charges against you. At first you were an asset, but maybe now you’ve gotten out of control.”

  Calvin lost it. With both hands, he grabbed Pitt by the collar and slammed him against the wall, which cracked behind Pitt’s shoulders.

  “Listen to me, you son of a bitch,” he said between gritted teeth. “I’m leaving this business. Understand?”

  The Adam’s apple in Pitt’s throat shifted when he swallowed. He raised both hands in surrender. “But what am I going to do? You’re my only collector. Where will I find another one?”

  “I don’t care. It’s not my concern.” Calvin loosened his hold, but only a little.

  “Okay, okay.”

  Calvin let him go.

  “But I need you for just one more pickup,” Pitt said. “It’ll be soon. I won’t have time to find a replacement, so you’ll have to do it.”

  “I’ve already said I quit. It’s over.”

  Pitt sighed. “After this one, you’re done with me. You’ll be a free agent. I promise.”

  Calvin thought for a moment. One more pickup—one more payday—and he could take Rachel along with few worries.

  “What’s the job?”

  “Douglas Grant owes me some money. A lot of money, in fact.”

  Calvin’s eyebrows shot up. Grant was one of the richest, most powerful men in Vegas. Why would anyone like Grant have anything to do with Donald Pitt? And why would he borrow, or even have to borrow, money from Pitt when Grant’s estimated net worth was over $300 million dollars? “Why would Grant be doing business with you?”

  “None of your business. Are you in or should I have someone else collect the $40,000 commission?”

  “It’s $40,000? How much does he owe you?”

  “Exactly $200,000. He borrowed $150,000. Now the interest is $50,000.” “And you’ve waited this long to collect? Even at your rates, it takes a long time to get the interest up to fifty grand.”

  “I thought lending to Grant would lead to business with his friends. You know how many dealings I’ve had with Sanders? Hoped to start with him, work up to Grant and then move around.”

 
; “How’d that work out for you?” Calvin asked dryly.

  “Not good. But it was worth the try. Also you don’t push a man as powerful as Grant. I know he’s good for it, but if I put pressure on him, I’d lose him all the way—and the two hundred grand. So I’ve waited. He called last week. Said he wanted to get this matter settled and he’d have the money in cash sometime this week.”

  The job didn’t make any sense, but it wasn’t up to Calvin to figure out all the whys. His job was simple. He was the collector and the only collector who could pull this task off because of Grant’s status and power. In that sense, Pitt did have a point.

  And the extra $40,000 would make taking Rachel with him a lot more affordable.

  “I’ll do it. But for a job this tough, I want $10,000 cash up front now. And $30,000 more when I bring you Grant’s money.” When he saw Pitt gearing up to protest, he added, “No one else could do this one and you know it.”

  “You want my blood too?” Pitt screamed. “I’ve already paid you the $10,000 I owe you and now you want me to pay you $10,000 more before I get paid? That’s crazy.”

  “No. Those are my non-negotiable terms for this last job. Take ‘em or leave ‘em. If you don’t give me the $10,000 now, good luck finding another collector who can get that much from Grant.”

  Pitt made strange sounds in the back of his throat and his face reddened. It looked as though he was trying to pull his hair out by the roots.

  Calvin chuckled. “I think you’re losing it.”

  “I am. And it’s your fault.”

  “Yes or no. I’ve got better things to do than stand around waiting for you to decide.”

  After a couple of shallow breaths, Pitt said, “I’ll get you another $10,000. But never again.”

  “I think that’s the one thing we do agree on.”

  Pitt mumbled his way to the back offices for the third time and returned with a fat envelope. “Take it and get out of here. I’ll call when it’s time.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Watters. Right on time as usual.”

  “Hey, Chet.” Calvin slung his duffel bag onto the front counter. It landed with a thud.

  “What are you using today?” The young man unzipped the bag and rummaged through the contents, pulling out weapons. “SIG P 210-6, Smith & Wesson Model 940, Beretta PX4 Storm, Colt Government and a Browning High-Power. Nice selection.” Chet checked each gun to verify they were unloaded.