“He hates to have to give it up. But he knows it’s inevitable.” I pushed some snow peas around on my plate.
“Too bad. He’s got a nice collection of fly-fishing books. One of the best I've seen.” He set his now empty plate aside. “Someone taking over might not recognize their value.”
“Paul… I was thinking.” I twirled my wineglass and wasn’t sure where to head next.
Paul looked amused, picked up his glass and took a sip. “Yes?”
“I wonder how much he wants for the business.” Before Paul could say anything, I rushed on. “I’m sure he’s doing very well, and his expenses must be minimal. I bet he’s paying a lot less for the whole store and for the apartment he has above it than we are for just our apartment back in New York, and…”
Paul broke in. “Actually, he owns the building, so he’s only paying property taxes—which are just a pittance.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh I asked him how much he wanted for the business.”
I was too surprised to say anything.
“He’ll take twenty-thousand down and will work there on salary for as long as he’s needed.”
“Do you mean you’d consider our buying it?”
“I would. Would you? After all, you’ve said often enough you don’t want to leave New York.”
“Paul!” I couldn’t hide my exasperation. “You know I’ve never been enamored of New York, or of any large city for that matter. It’s the job, not the place, that would keep me there.”
I paused, did some thinking while Paul studied my face. “Do you feel it’s a good buy?” I asked, finally.
“It’s really an excellent buy. I’ve skimmed through his books, and I’m going by in the morning for a closer examination.”
My thoughts were still in a whirl. “Well?” he said at last.
I sat there and suddenly realized my mouth was open. Paul laughed, raised his glass and said, “Besides, he tells me the best fly-fishing stream in the country is just a half-hour’s drive away.”
“Do you mean you’re actually willing to have us buy and run the bookstore rather than your going to Seattle?”
“Absolutely. Let’s buy out Jensen, settle up in New York and move out here just as soon as possible.”
Maybe I was still in shock at that proposal, because I not only agreed to it but then promptly said “yes” to the next one he made.
____________________
NEVER MIX LOVIN' WITH CARDS
The two pieces of advice that Dad gave me were: “Never try to fill an inside straight and, never mix lovin' with cards.” I guess he figured that that was all a man really needed to know.
I was twelve when he told me that, just before he got himself killed working for the railroad. I'd played enough poker by then to know about the inside straight but—even after a lot of rough times and a dozen years as a geologist in Texas oil fields—I really didn't find out what he meant about the other part until last week.
That was when we were having our usual Friday game. Buck Thornton brought along his cousin to fill in for Ches Levitt, who had the flu. I wasn't happy about the substitute. The cousin was a woman.
Now I'm the last man in the world to be prejudiced against women, but my attitude toward them wasn't exactly at a fever pitch that day, since Jenny and I had broken up just a few days before. Sure, I admit it was mainly my fault. I'd gotten a bit too close to a cute waitress at Ben's Broiler, and Jenny happened to pick up the extension when the gal called me. So, instead of a week's vacation together on Maui, Jenny took off alone, after telling me in no uncertain terms that she'd written me off. And, like the old saying about the well, I didn't realize how much I missed her until after she'd left.
But I had an additional reason for being unhappy about a woman joining our group, since I'd never seen one yet who could play poker without friggin' with the discards. Buck knew that was my pet peeve, so he called me aside before the game to tell me that his cousin was a sharp, career attorney, that she had plenty of smarts and—besides—he'd given her advance warning on the subject. I still had my doubts.
Cissy Thornton surprised the hell out of me. She was a damn good player—and she didn't frig with the discards. If there was anything wrong with her being there, it was that her looks made it tough for me to keep my mind on the game, especially since she was sitting right opposite me.
Buck was on my left, she was next, Gary LeChance was on her left, then Steve Conant. I watched her close to spot her style, and I have to admit that her long, jet-black hair and big dark eyes made watching pretty interesting. After a while, I figured her for a conservative player, keeping her cards close to her nice looking chest, and doing mighty well at the game. The two of us were fair-size winners by about the third time around the table. Buck commented on it as he dealt out the next hand.
That was when I squeezed my cards to read the corners, then opened them wide, because it looked like pay dirt. Ace, King, Jack, Ten-all black. All spades! Now I could feel Dad behind me saying, “It's OK, Son, this is one inside straight you can draw to.” I didn't need coaching, figuring there were twelve cards out there that could give me a possible winning hand—better than one out of four chances.
The only problem was that Cissy opened with a big stack of blue chips. Gary threw in his hand. Steve matched her stack. I went along, and so did Buck.
Cissy took one card, checked it out, and never changed expression. Steve took one. I flicked away my red ten, took one card and didn't bother to look. Buck drew three, and acted like he was going to stay. I figured him for three of a kind. Cissy pushed in a big stack of blues. Steve grinned and tossed his cards, saying, “Too rich for my blood.”
That was when I looked at my draw. There she was. The lady herself, in all her glory. The Queen of Spades! An unbeatable hand, the first I'd ever held in my life.
I doubled Cissy's stack. Buck grunted and met my raise. Cissy pushed out enough to match mine and upped it by the same amount, cleaning out her chips. Steve insisted it was the biggest pot he'd seen in weeks.
I looked over into those dark eyes, and I could hear Dad behind me. “Never mix lovin' with cards, son!”
I called… and heard him groan.
Buck folded, saying, “I want to see what Cissy's holding, but as long as you're paying, no need for me to throw good money after bad.”
She turned over four sevens. I agonized, and it took me a long moment to decide before I threw in my cards—face down!
Cissy pulled in the pot… and then! The others were too busy talking about the size of the pot to notice. It was her deal coming up. She carefully collected the cards, and that's when I realized she'd kept my discards at the bottom. When she stacked the pack to shuffle, I saw her look at those bottom cards. For just the briefest moment her eyes caught mine.
The next day, when I called her to ask her out to dinner on Sunday, she accepted. Then she told me how she was looking forward to playing poker with the gang next Friday, adding, “I promise I'll never 'frig' with the discards again.”
So there I am, Sunday evening, getting ready for what I'm hoping will be a hot date, but really wishing it was Jenny outside of Martindale's where Cissy was waiting for me after shopping. Time was running short, and I'd just made a third pass at tying a Windsor knot to my satisfaction when the phone rang.
It was Jenny. The gist of our conversation was that, after a lot of painful soul searching, she'd decided to give me one more, but the absolutely for sure last chance—which I was quick to admit to her was more than I deserved—and that I could pick her up at the airport Monday evening. My wheels were turning at hyper-speed. A restaurant? Nah! I was already planning tomorrow night's welcome-home dinner: flank steak, scalloped potatoes, broccoli florets smothered in hollandaise sauce. I consider myself a superb cook, but with a limited repertoire, however. Fortunately, what I just described is Jenny's favorite and one of my better productions. I'm not much of a wine drinker, but Chet at the liquor store
would see to it I didn't go wrong. Oh, yes! I had to pick up candles.
And then, and then—I remembered Cissy waiting at Martindale's. I couldn't call her, because she hadn't brought her cellphone with her. She'd said this was a vacation, and cellphones meant only work. Could I just not show up and not answer the phone when she called to find out what happened to me? That was the worst option, if an option at all. She'd be sure to keep trying to reach me—probably call right into the middle of next night's dinner. There was nothing for it but to keep the date and make it as dull as possible.
Sometimes, though, dull doesn't work. It didn't take long for me to realize that Cissy was sold on me. Letting her beat my unbeatable hand had left an indelible impression on her psyche and a heavy tattoo on her libido as well.
I was desperate. I had to break it off, but I couldn't just say, “Cissy, we're not meant for each other.” Or, “I'm already committed.” Subtleties such as “Our mutual chemistry is oil and water” might have been honest—but I doubted that any of that would work in the face of this determined female who was charging forward like a wounded water-buffalo.
I wasn't exactly overjoyed at the solution I came up with, but I could just barely make out the one possible exit to the tunnel of love. There seemed to be no other guaranteed way of avoiding untoward phone calls—with someone else, sooner or later, on the extension. So, I came on like gangbusters, regaling her with my plans for an early marriage to a woman who would be a simple, devoted housewife, with talk of our common brood of three children (I upped that to six before we got to dessert), and with my utter conviction that I had finally found my soul-mate.
The drive to her apartment had me pledging undying love and, since I was driving, she must have wondered where all those extra hands were coming from. Her exit from the car left me with only a horrified, over the shoulder glance, in which I could see the reflection of a cross between Charles Manson and Bill Clinton. After my dejected goodbye and disappointed wave to the fleeing figure, I pulled away convinced that there would be no disturbing sequel to the carefully planned dinner, no to-be-regretted phone calls.
The following evening found me happily humming Some Enchanted Evening while whipping up the hollandaise, with Jenny leaning on my shoulder, watching and admiring my technique. That was when the phone rang. Even if my hand hadn't frozen on the whisk at the sound, I would never have gotten to the phone in time, since it was within easy reach of one of Jenny's slender arms.
“Hello!” (Pause. Non-committal comment) “Sure, he's here.” She handed me the phone. I didn't dare to look at her.
It was Gary LeChance! Friday next was his night to host the poker game, and he had concerns. “We're down to four. Chet's still out and Cissy had to take off for Chicago. Sick relative or something. You know anyone who'd fill in?”
Jenny, while sampling the hollandaise, looked my way and raised an eyebrow.
I covered the mouthpiece and said, “The Friday night poker party. We need one more player.”
Jenny passed the tip of a pink tongue along her lips to remove the remnants of the sample, then grinned. “I hope you're not thinking of me. I can't tell a jack from a king. You know that.”
I nodded. “I sure do. Besides, I never mix lovin' with cards.
____________________
DUPLICATE COPIES
Lieutenant Turlow Jackson peered into Lieutenant Leola Van Damm’s office before rapping lightly on the doorjamb. The blonde police lieutenant looked up from her paperwork and asked, “What’s up?”
“I could use some help. Can I get you to take a look at a couple of sets of fingerprints?”
Van Damm was new in the precinct and was causing the turning of more than one male head at the station. So far, there were no indications anyone else was getting anywhere, so Jackson had whipped up his courage to try his luck—ostensibly in the line of duty. He was hoping her attitudes on race were at least as liberal as current PD policies–that she approved of affirmative action and that the approval carried over to personal relationships.
“Sure.” She pushed aside the papers and held out a hand.
From a manila folder, Jackson removed two glossy sheets, passed them across to her and settled down in one of the chairs.
Van Damm scanned the sheets briefly, looked over at Jackson and said, “They look identical to me, but I’m no expert.”
“They are identical. And that’s the problem. What are the chances those are the prints of two different individuals?”
“Well, if I remember correctly what the fingerprint expert in the last refresher session said, the chances of an identical fingerprint in two different individuals are about one in the number of atoms in the universe. And, let me see, you have three in this set, so the chances of three such matches would raise that figure to the third power.”
Jackson grinned, “I’m not sure what that number would be, but it sounds like I’d better look for a different explanation.”
“There are a lot of other possibilities. Could be it is the same individual. After all, mix-ups have been known to occur, even with fingerprints.”
“I’ve checked, both with the FBI and with the original source of the prints. Everyone has gone over the record and it seems so unlikely as to not be worth considering, especially since the owner of the original set has been dead for almost two years.”
“Maybe the second set is an old one, left over from when he was alive. I take it that was a gun you got the three prints from?”
“Right. And that’s the problem. The gun comes from a botched-up burglary. The homeowner took one in the chest, but it sounds like he’s going to make it. Since the room was dark, he can’t identify the burglar, who dropped the gun and ran. What with the gun having just been fired, and the fact prints that old would show their age, we have to write off that possibility. And there’s one other thing. The registration number on the gun indicates it was manufactured less than eight months ago.
“How about lifted and transferred prints? I haven’t kept up with what’s going on in the field, but I suppose the lab crew would spot that right off.”
“Maybe not right off, but they’ve verified these. They insist the prints came direct from whoever fired the gun.”
“How about a dead man firing the gun?”
Jackson looked puzzled.
Van Damm’s smile was his reward. She went on, “The British back a century or so ago used to pay pensions to retired Far East soldiers. Since most of the soldiers were illiterate, the checks needed only a thumbprint as endorsement. You can guess what happened.”
The puzzled look faded as he filled in. “When the old boys kicked off, the relatives would cut off and save the thumbs.”
“You’ve got it. Except I’m sure your lab crew could tell the difference between fingerprints from a dead hand and a live one. Forensics has come a long way in the last hundred years. Besides, that would call for firing the gun, then wiping it clean, then using the dead man’s hand. Let’s write that explanation off, too.”
“Got any other explanations?”
“Sure. I can think of three more, offhand.”
There was a pause, and Jackson waited as Van Damm held his gaze. “Possibility number one,” she said, “you’re shitting me.”
The remark was so unexpected Jackson sat back in his chair as though he'd been hit. Recovering, he asked, “Remember the figure you cited for the chances these prints are from two different individuals?”
She nodded.
“Well the chances of my shitting you are slightly worse than that.”
Van Damm laughed and said. “OK. I believe you. Now what are the chances someone’s shitting you?”
It was Jackson’s turn to laugh. “No one’s about to do that in a criminal assault case. Besides, I was the one who picked up the gun, and I followed it through the lab examination.”
“I’m about out of explanations. Just one left.”
“I can guess. The dead man isn’t dead.”
“Right.”
“I checked that out as soon as I saw the duplicate prints. I even interviewed the Sergeant who took them. The suspect, name of Antonio Belli, was going to be charged with murder after shooting it out with a rival gang member. They both lost. The other guy was already dead, and the suspect was well on the way. His death certificate was signed that same morning. Granted the hospital was a madhouse, even more then it is these days, it’s hard to see how there could be a mix-up with a corpse being wrongly identified.”
“Sounds like all this was nearby.”
“It was. At Holyoke, just a half-dozen blocks from here.”
Van Damm stood up, slipped on her jacket and said, “You’ve piqued my curiosity. Let’s go talk to some administrators and nurses and doctors. And let’s look up the old records. What was that famous saying of Sherlock Holmes? ‘When…’”
“‘When the probable explanations have been eliminated, then one must settle for the improbable.’ I’m not sure that’s exactly right, and I doubt it was Holmes who said it, but I’m with you.”
“Whatever.” The remark was accompanied by that very nice smile.
It was obvious Dilbert Comadorn, Holyoke’s Managing Director, was annoyed by the visit from the police.
Jackson had led off the questioning and received only the most unsatisfactory of answers. Surreptitiously, Van Damm tapped Jackson on his arm and broke in. Smiling sweetly she asked, “Would it be possible for your secretary to run down the records on Antonio Belli? I know it would be an inconvenience, but the circumstances surrounding his death are being reinvestigated, so we would like to know who was in attendance at the time of his death. Any help you could give us would be very much appreciated.”
Comadorn’s stern, no-nonsense expression faded, and there was even the trace of a smile on a face that seemed unused to smiling. “Well. Since the patient is deceased, there should be no privacy problems. I think I can manage to get those records for you. If you care to, you can wait in the outer office while my secretary does the necessary research, once you’ve given her all the details. And do help yourself to coffee while you’re there.” With that, he rose and ushered them out, placing a friendly hand on Van Damm’s shoulder as he did so.
Dear Diary, I'm In Love Page 29