In the Cards

by Jamie Beck

  Agitated, I interrupt, “What’s he done now?” Facing a prison sentence is one of many risks of life with Pop I don’t miss at all.

  “Well, sir, I’m sorry to report he’s been killed. I don’t have all the details, but it appears he may have been involved in some illegal activity. Since you’re next of kin, they’d like you to come identify the body and answer some questions.”

  I fall silent, dumbfounded by the news. Jesus Christ. Dead?

  The cop holds out a card. “Here’s Officer Hopkins’s contact information.”

  My arm feels like it’s battling a riptide when I reach for the card. “Thanks.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” The officer nods and then walks to his patrol car.

  I stand in the doorway and watch him pull out of my driveway. Cars whiz along the highway. The sun is still shining. Life keeps moving along while I’m absorbing the news.

  May 24, 2013. My pop’s dead.

  Murky snippets from my past fill my mind. Pop’s disdain for the so-called educated elite mitigated any guilt he felt about running long cons. He joked about helping them out by teaching them a valuable lesson in humility. After stealing a pile of money from one, he’d target his next unassuming mark, dragging me along for the ride, all the while preaching the value of life lessons over school.

  Many probably consider him the devil, but he and I shared some good times along the way, too. I remember him swinging me over his big shoulders so I could fly, or wrestling me on the rug—my only real physical contact until I was old enough to take notice of girls.

  I’m sure some part of him appreciated having me around because, as a youngster, I was easily impressed. Even as I grew older, I never judged him too harshly—at least not to his face. He made a lot of mistakes, neglected me too often, and taught me lessons others would find appalling.

  But, looking back, he proved I mattered to him by keeping me with him, which is more than Mama can say. He did the best he knew how. In the end, perhaps one can’t ask much more of another.

  Startled by the painful lump swelling in my throat, I raise my unfinished bottle of beer in the air in a silent toast to the old man. Who knew even a poor parent was better than no parent at all? After my final swig, I walk into the bedroom and sit on the bed, subdued.

  While packing a few things for my trip, I recall the cop’s comment. Appears he may have been involved in some illegal activity. Even from the grave, Pop manages to drag me into a legal hassle. Fitting end to our short life together, I guess.

  Lake Havasu’s surprisingly striking, set among desert palms and rocky canyons and outcroppings. Home of the reconstructed London Bridge, it’s a touristy town. It doesn’t take me long to note its aging population, a key demographic for a grift. This city provided ample marks for my pop.

  For reasons I can’t pinpoint, I delayed visiting the morgue until this morning. Who on God’s green earth can work there? I can’t fathom the mindset of a person who fancies working with corpses. Even just toiling away in windowless rooms all day seems depressing as hell to me. Of course, casinos don’t have windows, but at least they’re full of hope and activity and good-looking cocktail waitresses.

  When I show up, the coroner folds back the body bag to reveal Pop’s face. My stomach lurches at the appearance of his frozen, gray skin. He barely resembles the man I remember. No Cheshire-cat grin, no dimples or pronounced laugh lines. Aside from his pastiness, he’s much older and thinner than I recall, suggesting these past few years weren’t easy ones for him.

  We’d lost touch two years ago after I’d caught him using me to perpetuate one of his frauds. Hadn’t heard from him since. Seeing my formerly bombastic pop now lying silent and petrified has me squirming like a worm in hot ashes.

  After I identify his body, the cops hand me a plastic shoe box containing his meager personal possessions and walk me toward some private room. How about that? Pop’s whole life reduced to one small box holding a wallet, a watch, a phone, and a gold wedding band. Nothing else left behind to mark his existence—except for me, that is.

  I suppose he doesn’t deserve much sympathy, but my chest tightens as I finger the unfamiliar objects in the box. Not much in his wallet. No credit cards. Only a driver’s license, a scrap of paper with my name and address, a folded strip of photos we’d taken at a carnival when I was probably ten or eleven, and some lawyer’s business card.

  The photo strip of our chipper faces causes everything, and everyone else, to temporarily disappear.

  I don’t have any pictures from my childhood, mostly because there were so few. An outsider looking at these pictures would think Pop was real happy that day. But I know he wore that smile like a costume, so it doesn’t mean anything at all. Seeing myself with a big grin so soon after Mama left—now that surprises me.

  Staring at the two of us makes my nose tingle and tears cloud my eyes. I cough and move to conceal my reaction. Pushing the box aside, I squeeze my eyes shut and press my thumb and forefinger against the corners of them to stop the tears. One of the officers clears his throat, so I return my attention to the business at hand.

  “Sorry for your loss.” Officer Hopkins taps his finger on the table a few times, then narrows his eyes. “How much do you know about your father’s life, Mr. Hardy?”

  Wariness instantly replaces melancholy. Hell if I’ll end up charged as an accessory after the fact to any of his frauds. I may’ve pitted my skills against other card sharks running in Pop’s circle, but I’ve never deceived innocent people. Of course, I never turned Pop in, either. For better or worse, he was my only family and I didn’t want to see him rot in jail.

  “Recently? Not much.” I pick at nonexistent lint on my jeans. “We had a falling-out a few years ago.”

  “How about historically?” Hopkins leans forward, cocking one brow. “How much did you know about his comings and goings, his occupations?”

  I proceed cautiously. “Wanna be more specific?”

  “How’d he make money?”

  “Here and there.” I pause, considering what to reveal. “He never had a regular job that I can remember.”

  “I did a little digging and discovered you’re living quite a high life out there in Malibu.” Before I collect my thoughts, he continues, “Fancy house, fancy vehicles . . . How’d you come by all the money to buy those fancy things?”

  The thinly veiled accusation starts a fire in my belly, but I’m not about to let him think he’s intimidating me. Leaning back in my chair, I stretch my legs, cross my ankles, then meet his gaze with a steely one of my own.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you suspect?” I link my hands together behind my head.

  “I think your father took advantage of people, stole their money, and ruined their lives. I think you know a little something about it, and maybe you were even involved in some of his activities.”

  His presumption slashes my pride. I take a deep breath to keep my rage in check.

  “Not that it’s your business, but I earned my money working in Vegas nightclubs and winning multiple six-figure poker tournaments.” I lean forward in my chair without breaking eye contact. “Between the two gigs, I was pulling down megabucks for a few years, which I started investing after the markets crashed. The Dow’s nearly doubled since then. Skill, discipline, luck, and timing. That’s how I got the money to pay for my ‘fancy things.’ ” I lift my chin. “I’m no thief.”

  Hopkins tries to call my bluff with a scowl, but he’s got nothing on me. I know I’ve won this hand.

  “If we check your father’s phone records, they’ll back up your claim about not being in touch?”

  “Check whatever the hell you want.” When I push back from the table and stand, I grip the back of the chair and give it a little shove. “Y’all are real swell guys, dragging me here without giving me a minute to make peace with this situation before hurling unflattering insinuations at me. I gotta say, the disrespect doesn’t motivate me to cooperate with your investigation.”


  Woodenly, Hopkins replies, “Fair enough. We don’t have evidence linking you to his crimes.”

  He gestures for me to retake my seat and then launches into the details of my pop’s last scam. Turns out he pulled a Sweetheart Swindle—tricking some poor woman into falling in love and investing in his new “business venture,” and then running off with the cash. Neither the cops nor the victim, Mrs. Morgan, recovered the thirty grand he stole. How in the hell he talked her, or others before her, into giving him that kind of cash astounds me.

  His undeniable talent for spotting a patsy, combined with his handsome face, made women his easiest targets. The niggling sense of dishonor I’ve lived with my whole life because of him cascades over me, hot and sticky, like a warm coat of honey I can’t ever shed. Humbled, I return my attention to Hopkins.

  He informs me my pop was shot in an alley behind a bar late at night. Evidence suggests Mrs. Morgan’s son killed him. Guess he tried to exact revenge before Pop pulled out of town.

  “You don’t seem surprised, Mr. Hardy,” remarks the other officer, who has kept quiet until this point.

  “I’m not.”

  “What can you tell us about your father’s habits?” Hopkins raises his bushy brow again. “Do you know anything that might lead us to recoup Mrs. Morgan’s money?”

  “First, what’s the deal with her son? Is he being held on homicide charges, or are y’all letting him slide because you reckon my pop got what he deserved?” I’m dismayed by my own wish to see justice served despite Pop’s unclean hands.

  “He’s in custody now. We’ll gather evidence and work with the local DA to determine what charges can stick. Your father committed a crime, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered, Mr. Hardy. We believe in justice.”

  I stare into his icy-blue eyes, holding his gaze for a minute to determine his sincerity. He’s not blinking excessively or averting his gaze, so I decide to trust him.

  Satisfied, I slouch back into my chair and tap my toe a few times. “I’m not surprised you didn’t find the money. Pop always covered his tracks. He operated under false names and paid for everything with cash.” I shift positions and put my elbows on the table. “If he stuck to old routines, he either found a partner to split the take and he or she’s holding the money, or he rented a storage locker somewhere outside of town, under a different name, and stashed the money there before tying up loose ends.”

  “That’s helpful. Any ideas of an alias he might use?”

  A smile spreads slowly across my face. I know one thing would never, ever change. My pop never forgave Mama’s daddy for keeping her whereabouts a secret from Pop and me after she abandoned us. So, Pop deliberately used his name when hiding the booty.

  He’d brag about it when he was drunk, figuring if he ever got pinched, at least he’d tarnish my grandpappy’s good name. Of course, it started back when we still lived around Tifton, Georgia. People there knew the name Buford Sinclair. But with almost two decades and several states between now and then, I doubt the stain would spread that far. Still, I know Pop’s obsessions.

  I haven’t thought of my grandpappy much since Mama took off. Now I wonder if he’s even alive. Then again, that mean ol’ bastard will probably live forever.

  “Something funny?” Hopkins’s voice snaps me back to the present.

  “No, just recalling some things.” I drum my hands on the table. “Check for rentals in the name of Buford Sinclair. Good chance you’ll find what you’re lookin’ for.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hardy. Anything else before you leave?”

  “No, sir.” Beleaguered by the inquiry, I’m itching to move along.

  “Would you like to be notified of the charges and trial dates of Mr. Morgan, or talk to Mrs. Morgan?”

  “No, thanks,” I mutter.

  I don’t want to apologize to Mrs. Morgan for what Pop did any more than she probably wants to apologize to me for her son killing him. Pop taught me plenty, including not wasting my time on things I can’t change. And Mama, well, her leaving taught me how to let go and move on. Apparently she didn’t have the money, or the inclination, to take me with her or keep in touch, so I try to even the score by not thinking about her too often.

  In any case, whatever becomes of Mrs. Morgan and her son won’t make a real difference in my life. No need to prolong the circus or pretend my being here matters much at all.

  I pick up the box of Pop’s things and exit the station. The past twenty-four hours remind me of why I broke away from the game. Reliving my old life, even briefly, makes me feel dirty. Best not to invite trouble by kicking up my heels or allowing rose-tinted glasses to filter the grit from my past.

  I sit behind the wheel of my car and stare out the windshield. Pop’s box rests in the passenger seat beside me. With him dead, I’ve got no family—no ties at all. Just the things in this box. Normally I’m content with my solitary life, but now an unwelcome sense of doubt slides through my mind, cracking the walls I’ve constructed.

  I roll the gold band over in my fingers and hold it up to the sun. Was it a prop, or is it his real wedding ring? Nah. He couldn’t have been sentimental about Mama. All his preaching about keeping one’s heart safe had come from her breaking ours.

  I turn over the ignition, preparing to drive back to Los Angeles, when I realize I’m not far from Vegas. I may as well take a detour before returning home. Perhaps I’ll play a few games in honor of Pop. He’d like that.

  I’ll get my adrenaline fix, eat well, flirt with a showgirl, and then head home. I nod in silent affirmation. Life’s good. I can do what I want, when I want, without anyone’s permission. And just like that, I hit Highway 95 North toward Vegas.

  New York City

  Lindsey

  I appraise myself skeptically in the mirror once more before slipping out of the creamy-silk Amalia Carrara couture gown, careful not to prick my skin with the pins put in place for the final fitting. Smiling politely, I step out of the dress with the help of the seamstress while my mother finalizes the details of delivery and payment with the saleswoman. It still seems surreal. I’m soon to be a June bride—just before my twenty-sixth birthday.

  My life’s been an uninterrupted series of events falling neatly into place right up to this point. Now I’ve got my Ivy League education, a job at a high-profile fashion magazine, and a successful fiancé. Yet a nagging sense of dissatisfaction grows like mildew, steadily enveloping my spirit. Lately, the harder I throw myself into my work and wedding plans, the more clouded my thoughts become.

  I sigh and wriggle my body back into my stretch-jersey dress, throw my purse over my shoulder, and stride to the front of the store to find my mother.

  “You could use a little lipstick, honey, before you meet Rob,” she suggests.

  “I’m fine, Mom, but thanks for noticing.” I wrinkle my nose. She rolls her eyes.

  “Never hurts to look your best, especially when your fiancé is surrounded by attractive, ambitious female colleagues at Goldman.” As if to emphasize her point, she reapplies her own lipstick and combs her bejeweled fingers through her fabulous golden hair. “I speak from experience. More than one of the women at your father’s bank tried to tempt him. Don’t expect other women to respect your wedding vows, and don’t give Rob any reason to wander.”

  Her brittle tone raises questions, but this is neither the time nor the place to seek answers.

  I set my bag on the counter, retrieve my lip gloss, and quickly apply it. Smacking my lips together in exasperation, I turn to my mother. “Better?”

  Annoyed for capitulating, again, I blame her perfectionist attitude for why I revert to being a child in her presence. Almost everywhere else I have confidence, but with her I’m always yearning for approval that’s never fully given.

  “Yes!” She smiles and opens the door for me, then follows me onto the crowded sidewalk of Fifth Avenue. “So, where are you off to now?”

  My phone trills, interrupting us. “Hold on.” While I read R
ob’s text message, my brows gather. “Huh. Change of plans. I’m to meet him at the apartment. Apparently something’s come up. I hope he’s not canceling our trip this weekend.”

  “I’ll bet he’s planning a surprise for you.” Mom looks delighted. She loves Rob for his maturity, his million-dollar pedigree, and his million-dollar salary. “Do you want a ride?”

  “No, I’ll walk.” I kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks for meeting me this morning. I’ll call you from the airport. Our flight leaves at six thirty tonight.”

  “Have fun, honey.” She waves good-bye before seating herself inside the limousine waiting to whisk her off on the forty-minute ride home to Greenwich, Connecticut.

  Strolling toward Central Park, I relish the gentle touch of a late-spring breeze against my arms. On my way uptown, I cut through the diverse parade of people, a grin on my face. Some don’t enjoy the river of fast-moving crowds flowing through the granite-and-glass canyons of Manhattan, or the cries of street vendors competing with the traffic noise, or the aromas of the hot dog carts. I love the energy and prefer the bustle to the pristine, isolated estate of my childhood.

  When I arrive at my Upper East Side building, the doorman nods and tips his head to greet me in the lobby. Waving hello, I go directly to the elevator. I burst into our apartment and call out Rob’s name but hear no reply. I reach our bedroom to find Rob’s suitcase packed and ready to go, on the floor beside the bed. My own, sadly, lies open, partially packed, and surrounded by outfits and accessories yet to be selected.

  Crossing my arms in front of my chest, I mentally pick through the items strewn across the bed. Why am I making such a production of packing? Typically I’m not that particular about my attire, nor do I struggle with basic decisions. I pray the overwhelming details involved in planning my wedding are the basis of this recent mental paralysis. If so, I’ll return to normal soon. If not . . . well, I really can’t consider that option.

  I stand at the edge of the mattress, lost in thought, until his voice breaks the silence.