by Mark Joseph
“Nope,” Alex said, grinning with a mouth full of crab. “What I want to do now is eat.”
Protected by glass covers, the framed photos were on the wall: James Garner as Bret Maverick, Steve McQueen as the Cincinnati Kid, Richard Boone as Paladin in Have Gun, Will Travel, and Wyatt Earp as himself.
“I’m tired of these pictures,” Nelson said. “We should get new ones, maybe update a little.”
“Fuck that,” Charlie said. “In here it’s always 1962, the last good year.
“You’re nuts, you know that?” Nelson said. “Wallowing in nostalgia like a pig in shit. I bet you still drive around listening to Elvis. Am I right, Charlie?”
“I don’t listen to Elvis, honey. I put on polyester and do Elvis,” Charlie declared, frantically strumming an air guitar. “Bring your money?”
Nelson dropped the canvas bag on the couch with the others, and tossed five thousand dollars on the table. Charlie picked up a hundred dollar bill and began inspecting it with a magnifying glass he’d brought for that purpose.
“Have some of Charlie’s crab,” Alex said. “It’s good. How are ya?”
“Don’t ask,” Nelson said, switching on the temporary light fixture. “Let’s play cards.”
5
Dean Studley and his wife Billie lived twenty miles downstream from Shanghai Bend in Verona, a tiny hamlet with one stop sign, a handful of houses tucked along the Feather River, and a much-loved institution: Studley’s Machine Shop, Motor Repair, and Rocket Fuel. Dean stood six foot six, weighed two hundred eighty pounds, and wore a bushy Jerry Garcia beard and sweaty sleeveless undershirts stretched over a champion beer belly. Acres of Dean’s formidable person were decorated with tattoos: an eagle graced his back, a tiger growled across his chest, “Semper Fi USMC” and “Billie” with a heart adorned his right shoulder, and his left shoulder hosted the queen of diamonds.
A huge, friendly bear, Dean presided over his ramshackle empire with a grand mixture of country wit, Jamaican rum, and very fine sinsemilla. Dean and Billie repaired cars and trucks for honest prices, made tractors run like bull elk, and kept patrol cars racetrack ready for ambitious deputy sheriffs from four surrounding counties. Unprejudiced, the Studleys took equal care of the low-grade outlaws who inhabit the California hinterland, tuning Harleys and Camaros for delinquents from Woodland to Redding. When he felt like it and the weather was good, Dean buckled a cocky biker into his cigarette boat, the Queen of Diamonds, and unhinged his mind by blasting along the river at a terrifying ninety miles per hour. Three or four times a year Dean and Billie hitched the boat to a truck and went racing. Theirs was a sweet life, but Dean believed it was built on a house of cards, five cards, to be precise: a royal flush in diamonds. Even Billie didn’t know about that. She believed he got the tattoo in Bangkok.
From time to time Charlie Hooper drove up to Verona to smoke dope and drink rum, but Dean didn’t let him bring his city friends. When Nelson Lee popped in from L.A., usually at three in the morning for a tune-up on his latest Corvette, Dean made sure he didn’t bring any fellow cops. Dean and Billie grew marijuana on barges they moved around the rivers and sloughs where no one ever found them. The dope trade earned a fortune that was laundered through the garage and invested in conservative stocks and bonds. Neither greedy nor crazy, Dean sold no weed to locals, and none of his deputy sheriff pals or biker buddies ever suspected the existence of his illicit trade. His carefully selected customers all lived in cities far away, and it was they who’d named his product “Rocket Fuel.”
As much as Dean loved internal combustion engines, his true love was the Feather River that flowed past his backyard. No one, least of all Billie, ever questioned his passion for this great movement of water and silt. He swam and fished and buzzed around in his boat, and when rising waters forced a call for help with sandbags on the levees, he was first to volunteer. Dean’s strong back and relentless good cheer inspired his fellow volunteers to superhuman feats of levee building. And wherever there was new construction along the river, Dean wandered around the site, shooting the bull with the hardhats and expressing interest in any artifacts dug out of the riverbed.
In the summer of 1963, when they were eighteen years old, Dean, Charlie, Alex, Nelson, and Bobby McCorkle had set out on a voyage in Dean’s father’s boat, a twenty-seven-foot cabin cruiser, the Toot Sweet. Their goal had been to see how far up the Sacramento River they could go, but at Verona they’d taken the wrong fork—Dean could see the spot from his house—and had come up the Feather, mistakenly believing they were on the Sacramento. They’d made it as far as the falls at Shanghai Bend, the end of the line, and since it was almost dark they’d camped on a swampy island with no one around except the river, the mosquitoes, and the long, hot night.
The river had shifted course over the years, and the levees had been rebuilt many times. Now, in the spring of 1995, an extension of Shanghai Bend Meadows was under construction in the spot that had been their campground in the deep boonies thirty-two years earlier. After Dean read the story in the Marysville Register, he’d driven over and talked to the hardhats. That night he called Nelson, and Nelson agreed it was time to call Charlie and Alex and then track down Bobby McCorkle and tell him.
The canvas bags were stashed in the boat, and Dean was packed and ready to go. He zipped up a flame-retardant racing suit and walked out on the dock where Billie was securing an overnight bag in a compartment under the bow.
“Billie, you call down to Frisco and arrange a berth?”
“South Beach guest dock. They’ll be expecting you. But, Dean?”
“Yes, Billie.”
“Why don’t you drive down there in the truck like a normal person?”
Short, cute, chubby, blond, and forty, Billie cocked her hands on her hips and looked at Dean like he was nuts. He was, and that was why she loved him. The boat, thirty-eight feet of sleek, black fiberglass, tugged with the current against the lines.
“I ain’t normal, that’s why. I got a perfectly good boat and I got a perfectly good river that goes where I want to go. You want to go with me?”
“Not on your life, Bubba. Have a good time and don’t bring home any diseases.”
“Yes, ma’am. Ed Fisher needs his van back in the morning. Can you handle that?”
“No, Dean, I’ll be busy shooting up crystal meth and banging the Hells Angels,” she said with a hearty chuckle. “Ed can have his van this afternoon if he wants. It’s ready.”
“You’re a sassy old witch, you know that?” he said with affection.
He climbed into the cockpit and started the twin engines. A loud growl burbled from the pipes.
“Don’t try to drive that damned thing back if you’re hung over, honey. Please.”
“Tell you what,” Dean said. “You drive down with the trailer on Sunday, and we’ll haul it back the easy way.”
“It’s a deal. You call me Sunday morning if you can talk.”
“We just play cards, Billie. That’s all.”
“Right, and I’m the Queen of Sheba. Good luck. Can I say that? Is it all right to say good luck?”
“Luck has nothing to do with it. This is poker.”
He unhitched the lines from the dock and eased away. In the channel he turned to wave, put on his helmet, and, a mile downstream, when the twin Mercury Marine Bulldogs and Arneson surface drives were warm, he opened it up. The engines thundered in his ears, spray hissed along the waterline, and the river uncoiled before him like a ribbon of green felt.
An hour from Verona he slipped through Sacramento at low speed, not wishing to ruffle the denizens of the capital with his wake, then dodged tankers and container ships in the deep water channel to Martinez. After gassing up on the Carquinez Strait, he cranked up the twin V8s and ran flat out at ninety-five miles-per-hour across San Francisco Bay, shooting a roostertail high in the sky, a thrilling, bone-jarring ride that could be heard from Sausalito to Telegraph Hill.
He tied up the Queen of Diamonds at Sout
h Beach and called a cab. Unlike Nelson, Dean’s massive frame, menacing beard, ocean racer’s driving suit, and fighter pilot’s helmet caused quite a stir in the lobby of the Palace Hotel. The Rainbow Girls giggled and their daddies squared their jaws.
At the desk Dean set down a pair of heavy canvas sea bags, one larger than the other, and boomed, “Studley. Caruso Suite!”
Forewarned, the well-trained clerk contained his amazement, maintained his composure, and handed Dean a key.
“Welcome back, Mr. Studley. Can I do anything for you?”
Dean turned around to face the crowded lobby and grinned at the young girls all dressed up. “I’ll take two pink ones and that yellow one over there, medium-rare. Tell them they can leave their shoes on!”
With that he crossed to the elevators and went upstairs.
6
A cone of fiery white light hung over the table, waiting. Smoke from Nelson’s cigar drifted through the suite, the odor summoning familiar memories of games past. Dick Dale and the Del Tones thumped early ’60s surfer music through the stereo speakers, the nostalgic beat of an era before the assassinations, Vietnam, Nixon, drugs, computers, and the fall of the Soviet Union. Outside, streetlights overtook dusk on Market Street as the city geared up for a sultry Friday night.
Alex took a deep breath and let out a sigh, his mind in poker mode with no equations cluttering up his memory. New York was a lifetime away on the far side of the continent, irrelevant. He was in another world now, one that might look like fantasyland—the road not taken—but was in fact the truer, deeper reality. These were his roots—the game, the guys, and all the things they shared. He studied Charlie’s glossy black-and-whites of three Hollywood stars and a sheriff, mementos of an ethos that no longer made sense. Our private legends, he thought, forgotten heroes, Paladin and Wyatt Earp the avenging angels, Bret Maverick and the Cincinnati Kid the gamblers. The Kid lost, he remembered from Richard Jessup’s novel. He went up against Lancey Hodges in the big game and he lost. How un-American, he reflected, that we should honor a loser.
They heard a rumble in the corridor and Nelson predicted, “Dean’s gonna come in and ask what time it is, sure as shit.”
“How do you know that?” Charlie demanded.
“He always does. He doesn’t wear a watch.”
“Twenty bucks,” Charlie wagered, the gambling worm twitching in his cerebellum.
Nelson clenched the cigar between his teeth and hissed, “Sucker. You’re on.”
Alex watched Nelson puff his cigar and flex his chest, confident in his prediction. A strong man, healthy and fit, Nelson held his fear deep and almost inaccessible, perhaps because he dealt with it every day as a policeman. Charlie’s terror was as prominent as his tattoo. Even if Charlie won the twenty bucks, he’d lose the head game. If Charlie won, Nelson would slicker him into another silly bet and another until Charlie cracked and agreed to bet on anything. Then Charlie would be mincemeat.
A bellhop with a dolly wheeled in two canvas bags, saying, “The guy said put them in the closet with the others.”
“In there,” Charlie said.
Dean strolled in, peeled off his racing suit, and parodied a curtsy in Jockey shorts and bulging undershirt. He danced a jig, showing off his tattoos, then flopped in a chair, ripped open a small duffel, and rummaged inside until he found a pair of jeans.
“Hey, Stud, lookin’ good,” Alex said, giving Dean both thumbs up.
“What time it is?” Dean asked, inverting subject and predicate and flashing a toothy grin.
Nelson was ready with his watch. “Ten after eight,” he proclaimed.
“Shit,” Charlie said, snatching a bill off his wad. Nelson gave it to the bellhop and sent the kid on his way.
“Tempus fugit,” Dean quipped, eyes flicking to all points in the room and noticing the money changing hands. A year ago he’d walked out of the Caruso Suite after a weekend of poker and now it seemed as though he’d gone no farther than the lobby bar for a drink. Nothing had changed, neither the photos, the table, nor the guys. He clapped his hands once loudly and bawled, “Let’s play cards.”
“You don’t want to wait?” Charlie asked.
“For what?”
“For Bobby,” Charlie said. “What else?”
Dean dug into his bag and found a pair of beat-up old cowboy boots with steel toes and Cuban heels-no-nonsense boots and when he put them on he felt immune to bullshit.
“I been waitin’ for that guy longer than I been waiting for Godot,” he scoffed. “Fuck that. He may never show. C’mon, fellas. Let’s play.”
“Ooo, the man is hot to trot,” Nelson said. “You been practicing, Deano? Playing a little cards here and there?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, wise guy.” Dean cinched his belt under his belly and zipped up his bag. “What do you think, Wiz?”
Standing by the caterer’s trays, pulse slightly elevated, anxious to play but not wanting it to show, Alex put on tinted glasses and hat and wiped his mouth with a starched, white napkin.
“Thought is no longer required,” he said and took a seat.
Alex chain-smoked unfiltered Luckies when he played cards. Now, inside the cone of light with the felt stretching before him like a bottomless green pool, chips snug in the carousel, and cards in unbroken cellophane wrappers, he carefully opened a pack of red spot Lucky Strikes, took out a cigarette, tamped it on the table and lit it.
“We could wait all night,” he declared. “The game is on.”
Dean plopped down to Alex’s left so Alex would have to bet before he did, and this maneuver prompted a wry smile from the Wiz. Nelson took the seat to Alex’s right and Charlie to his right, leaving the chair between Dean and Charlie empty.
Each place was provided with a comfortable captain’s chair, cup holder, and ashtray. The players fiddled with their chairs, tested the cupholders, and waited for Alex, the acknowledged captain of the table, who said graciously, “Welcome home, Mr. Studley.”
“Same to you, Alex. Hello, boys.”
“Hey,” Charlie said. “If it ain’t Mr. Natural his very own self.”
“I got something special for you, Charlie, you rotten old faggot. Blow your mind.”
“Later later, man. I’m not gonna let you get me all fucked up before we even start. I’m gonna take it easy.”
Nelson reached across the table in front of Alex and shook Dean’s hand. “Come down in your boat?” he asked.
“Aye, aye. I’m a watery kind of guy.”
“I can tell. You smell like the mudflats of Oakland.”
Dean laughed. “Beats hell out of the jail stink you carry around, copper. Disinfectant and jism.”
“How’s your old lady?” Nelson asked without skipping a beat.
“Billie? Billie’s just fine and dandy,” Dean said, expansively spreading his arms. “She blossoms like a sunflower in the summertime.”
“Did you tell her anything?”
“Nah. Ignorance is a wonderful thing. We’re just gonna play cards, right? That’s all she needs to know.” Dean stretched and carefully looked around the table. Nobody wanted to talk about the Feather River. Maybe they wouldn’t talk until tomorrow or Sunday. He asked Nelson, “How’s your new old car?”
“Yellow.”
“You paint it?”
“Yeah, the original color. I took it down to the plastic. What the hell.”
Charlie cleared his throat and looked at Alex. “Gentlemen,” he said, “let’s get clear on the rules.”
“Let’s not and say we did,” Dean snorted, and Nelson muttered, “Oh shit, here we go. Fishman, you are one predictable dude.”
They all knew the rules would be established by Alex; nevertheless Charlie accused Dean of being an anarchist and started a no-I’ m-not yes-you-are pissing contest. Dean often played the lout, but the others knew it was an act. Unnerved by the discovery at Shanghai Bend Meadows, the big man with a heart of gold was trying to disguise his fear with an extra dose of br
avura.
“Children, please,” Nelson pleaded.
Alex serenely began counting chips, a look of bliss on his face as he made neat stacks of whites, reds, and blues, the traditional hues of an old-fashioned poker game. The smooth clay chips had heft, a weight that registered as money and a feel no plastic could duplicate. A chip tossed into a pot landed with a solid chink and never bounced. One that hit a hardwood floor would break, but the carpet in the suite prevented such mishaps. Nothing could stop Charlie from throwing a handful of chips against a wall, as he had in Alex’s parents’ garage on Alvarado Street, or Dean from crushing a blue in his fist if he felt like it. It was understood that anyone who broke a chip had to pay Alex its value for that game. Over three generations so many chips had been lost, broken, cracked, stolen, and in one case eaten by Crazy Nelson on a dare, that Alex had sought out a specialty shop that had replicated his grandfather’s chips, matching weight and color as closely as possible. In addition, he’d added a stack of black and yellows.
“All right,” he said. “Whites are twenty-five, reds are fifty, blues are one hundred, and bumblebees are five hundred American greenback dollars. Buy-in is five thousand.”
“Until Bobby gets here,” Charlie said.
“We’ll decide whether or not to raise the stakes after we’ve talked to him a while,” Nelson said. “Maybe we will and maybe we won’t.”
“We will,” Alex said. “You know damned well we will.”
“If we raise the stakes, so will he,” Dean said. “If he shows.”
“Whatever it takes, we’re going to have the game of our lives.”
“If it comes to that, you better win, Alex,” Dean said. “We’re counting on you.”
Alex picked up a stack of reds and let them ripple through his fingers, the sound as hypnotic as a Siren’s call. “What you get for five grand is twenty-five whites, twenty-five reds, twenty blues, and three black and yellows,” he announced. “Help yourself.”