by Kendric Neal
He'd given her a complete and thoroughly detailed recounting of his session with Kurtie Friedlander. She hung on all of it, nodding, agreeing, impressed that the expert she referred was so damned brilliant. Neely threw in contrite and confused, then threw in a bit of calm resolve which sold the whole package. He and Hope cooked that night as usual; they ate grilled salmon and asparagus, caught up on the news, the daily dramas of junior high, the thrilling down-to-the-wire finish of a swim meet Jess was in, and watched a rom-com Hope found on Amazon. Neely didn't recognize any of the actors, thought the jokes were lame, couldn't stand the supposedly hysterical puppy chase, and found the best friend character grating and obnoxious, but was a good sport about it and only expressed exasperation in veiled looks to Cullen. He used two well-timed bathroom breaks to monitor the score of a hockey game he bet on blindly, and despite being down 4-1 in the second, the Blackhawks came through in what the color man called “a downright miracle.” Neely lay next to Hope in bed with images of what he was going to do with all the money if this kept up. It was crazy, who ever thought he'd have this problem? He'd make an appointment the next day, he had the name of a lawyer he'd gotten from Donaldson (it figured that guy would know). Charlotte was headquarters to Bank of America, after all—there was no shortage of people who knew about slyly moving money around.
Neely went to sleep in a better mood than he had in years. If only he'd had more of this sooner, he might not have needed any of it to begin with. A crazy weekend, winning for once, not steadily losing and drowning his sorrows in booze. Losing did something to a man, it made him morose, it made him drink, it made him irresolute and pessimistic. How's a guy supposed to come back to his family like that? How do you listen to their petty worries and concerns when you can't catch a break yourself? Losing seems to feed on itself. Losing led to losing, which led to low self-esteem, which led to drinking, which led to losing. Winning was the opposite. It fed more winning. It gave him peace, comfort, patience—it gave him the inner calm he'd been missing for years.
And that's the thing, it didn't need to continue. It was comforting just knowing it was there. He'd taken on Vegas and won. He couldn't go back but he didn't need to. He had the money, the memories—he was marked by it now. Now he gambled for idle pleasure, there was no longer the desperation. He took a moment when Hope was in the shower to check the line on the Thursday night game but got an error message instead. He tried his other offshore account and got something cryptic there as well. Odd, since they were in different countries. He pulled up a sports site and got the current line from there. Things looked favorable indeed, he thought he might go $75K. A new Audi for Hope, he liked that. He could cover by saying it was out of the Jepp bonus. A new Audi, a fresh start, it would please the kids, the neighbors would notice—Hope's well-married sister might just stop bragging for a while and that was worth all the money in the world, wasn't it?
“Account Suspended.”
What did that mean? He pulled up another site at work the next day, door closed of course, everyone was at lunch, he was no fool. But “Account Suspended”? He'd been current, he knew that. Hell, he was up over $30K with them, he'd better be current. He emailed customer service and “Joe” immediately responded with a convivial “Hello! Please may I be calling you?” Since “Joe” seemed to struggle a bit with English, Neely wondered how that was going to be an improvement.
“Hello Mr. Thomas! How may I help you today!?”
“It says my account has been suspended.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Why?”
“This is necessary, sir.”
“Why is it necessary?”
“Your account has been suspended.”
“We covered that, Joe. I'm asking you why.”
“Why has it been suspended?”
“Yes.”
“Your name and information are on the suspended list.”
“Okay. Why?”
“We are not allowed to do business with you, sir.”
“Okay. Why?”
“Your name is on the list.”
“The suspended list.”
“Yes.”
“Who's on First?”
“Pardon?”
“No, look, Joe, just give me the reason I'm suspended. I know I'm on the list.”
“That's the reason.”
“What reason?”
“You're on the list.”
“What list are we talking about?”
“The suspended list.”
Neely took a deep breath. “Who gave you this list?”
“The sports books and betting services.”
Aha, they were finally getting somewhere. Unfortunately, Neely thought he knew now where this was going. “They have a list?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They share this list?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the people on this list—”
“Are suspended.”
“Why are they suspended?”
“Many different reasons, sir.”
“What is the reason in my case, Joe?”
“I'm really not supposed to—”
“Joe. Why am I on the list?”
“Your information is vague, sir. It does not identify why you…”
“This isn't a list from the authorities. This is a list from other betting venues?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So I'm not under investigation? It's not Interpol or the IRS or anything like that?”
“Oh, no, sir!”
“You're just not supposed to let me make bets.”
“That's right, sir.”
“Well, that sucks, Joe.”
“Yes, that is right.”
“That sucks donkey dicks, Joe.”
“Sorry?”
“And you can't give me a reason?”
“A reason?”
“That I'm suspended. Don't say I'm on the list.”
“You're on the list, sir.”
Neely bit his lip. “I'm going to go now, Joe.”
“Yes, Mr. Thomas, one moment, please. Can you tell me, have I answered all your questions adequately today, sir?”
“No, Joe. No, you haven't.”
CHAPTER 17
His other book service said pretty much the same thing, only he got a supervisor finally who was able to give it to him straight. He was blacklisted. Yes, they all knew each other, the various betting venues, they cooperated in a way the U.N. could only dream of, and they blacklisted undesirables, people who created scenes, people who drank too much and threw up on tables, people who threatened dealers with physical violence, people who tried to palm chips when no one was looking, and people like good old Neely Thomas, people with the rude and annoying habit of winning. Apparently, “the list” started in the 1800's on riverboats. There were pros who made the circuit, pulling the same scam at one table after another. They were caught eventually and things didn't end well for them, but people lost money in the meantime and that was bad for business. Now “the list” had gone international. Every casino, gambling venue, sports book, off-track betting parlor, all of them knew who you were, what games you played, what strategies you used, what your tattoos looked like, whether you liked girls or boys, and what your favorite drink was. They knew more than the NSA. The NSA, after all, didn't earn its living off you.
Neely's head was reeling and he couldn't quite figure out why. It was disturbing, sure, but it didn't really make a difference, did it? That list wasn't public. Hope wouldn't find out, neither would his coworkers or anybody else, it was still his secret. He was done with gambling so what difference did it make? He'd have liked to lay the occasional bet, but that was no great loss. He'd made his bank. He'd proved his point. He'd gotten whole again. Whole again and more.
He got no work done that day. His head was buzzing and it didn't respond to the double-dose of Extra Strength Excedrin he popped with his afternoon cup. He finally complained of a headache and left the office early, feeli
ng a need to find out more about this list and what it truly meant.
He drove to Naccahaw. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, but the extended caffeine buzz from the aspirin took care of that. He had to use the cruise control to keep himself from speeding—there were two notorious speed traps along the route for people like him, anxiously trying to sneak in a little trip to the tables between work and home.
Everything seemed normal when he got there. He wondered why he'd worked himself up like that, it seemed nonsensical now. Why a small, friendly casino like Naccahaw would care about such things was beyond him. Here he'd imagined he was branded some kind of international gambling criminal, some sort of menace because he'd violated their most sacred rule. He decided he'd play a little Blackjack, then maybe an hour of poker and that was it. There was no sports book so he wasn't going to be able to put the $75K on the game, so sorry, Hope, no new Audi for you. Well… he thought he could do that anyway, take it out of his Vegas bundle. Sure, she deserved it, and the cover story held. That orange color she admired. She liked the green too, but it looked too much like baby shit to him. He wasn't blowing $75K on something the color of baby shit.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. An unbelievably large Native American security guard was standing at his side, looking at him with an odd expression of apology. The man wasn't large-imposing, he was large-obese.
“Mr. Thomas?”
“Yes.” Which was already odd, as he hadn't used his card yet. He was playing strictly cash.
“I'm sorry, sir. You're not allowed in the casino,” the giant guard said and he actually did sound sorry.
“Why not?”
The guard looked around, a little embarrassed, thought Neely. He looked like a guy who definitely wasn't cut out for this guard stuff. “You've been banned,” he said quietly.
“Banned by who?”
The guard took out a piece of paper folded twice and showed it to him. It was a photo of Neely taken by a Las Vegas security camera with all his personal information printed on it. Across the top was a warning bar, alerting whoever was in the memo loop that he frequented the Naccahaw. “I'm sorry, sir.” Again with the heartfelt apology. It was surprising to find a big-hearted guard. Neely always thought “asshole” was the main prerequisite for a job in the security field.
He ended up in the office of the head honcho, but receiving it from a human being was no more comforting. He got what they were all saying, he even got why, he was just having trouble accepting it. He was being banned for winning. They didn't even bother to lie, they said it was because he won too much. The dream of all gamblers was that they won and everybody was sort of happy about it. Champagne, party girls, photographers, back slaps from the bartender. Not getting booted out the door like you just crapped on the furniture. It was the injustice of it. They sure as hell didn't blacklist you for losing.
He walked out into the sunshine, still dazed, not realizing how bad it was going to make him feel. He rationalized it on the way home, maybe it was good, maybe this was what he needed since Hope's kind and loving intervention hadn't worked. He was planning to stop anyway—when you're up $5.7, you count your blessings and push back from the table. But doing it voluntarily was different from being banned. It was always a second home to Neely, a safe haven. When the stresses of work or home life got too much, it was something he could lose himself in. Every man needed that. What if it was taken away? And who knew even the subversive Croatian poker sites were on the same network at Caesar's Palace, The Bellagio, Harrah's? They all shared information? Who's lucky? Who ain't? He could see if he was a cheater, but a winner? But they did think he was cheating, or maybe they just didn't care, all they knew was he cost them money. They didn't care about the reason, they just wanted the losers, thank you very much. Take your goddamn lucky streak and shove it up your ass.
Of course, that's the genius of it. Here he was on the greatest lucky streak ever and he couldn't do anything with it. He couldn't even put a quarter in a slot and get a cheap thrill. He was done. He got what he'd always dreamed of and he was done. It was like that old comic book he'd read as a kid of a man who wished for all the money in the world and got it, only he made the mistake of never specifying which world.
I'm living in a comic book, he thought. That's it. Indian curses and sci-fi stories. What else was there to do, though? He'd have to kick it, he'd have to go cold turkey. Maybe it was for the best, take away the candy and the kid won't rot his teeth. No more sneaking around and hiding things from Hope. That thought alone lifted his spirits, he was royally sick of lying and hiding. She just wasn't a woman he could fool forever, and the strain of keeping it up was taking a toll.
He made it through the night. He checked on the Seahawks game, he would have won by the way, but that was it. New Audi, oh well. But he did okay, he didn't worry too much, he didn't think about what it meant. No more blowing off steam at the computer when he couldn't sleep. No more elation reading the morning sports section, what was the point? If he didn't have money on it, who really cared? He was okay, he slept. It took two rum & cokes and then two rum & rums but he slept.
The next morning he tried again. Suspended. With an email asking where he wanted to transfer his funds. They didn't even want to hold his money anymore. Like it was infectious. Like he was a pariah. His luck might rub off on their other players, the ones who lost steadily and securely, the ones who paid the bills. He was going to have to wind it all down, that was all. He was going to go off the juice. He'd have to find something else, that was the answer he'd come up. He'd even thought of taking up metalwork again. He'd done some sculpture in college. He'd hauled out some of his old tools after Hope's Ultimatum and set up a bench in the garage. He enjoyed it, he'd watched the games while he tinkered, but finally the sheer boredom of watching a game without money riding on it got to him.
Just like last time, though, he followed this little fantasy until he turned into his dad, sitting out at his toolbench, trying to fix something no one cared about or build something no one needed. What all old men did when the world was through with them—they tinkered. They fixed unimportant things, drilled unimportant holes, made unimportant bird feeders and painted jokey unimportant signs. They whiled away their lives out of view, out of trouble, out of earshot. That's where the dream ended last time, wasn't it? An image of himself, an old man, huddled over some weekend project, pretending that what he was making wasn't just more garage sale fodder. Hope had tried to encourage him, wanting him to take classes, take orders, go to art markets and show some of his pieces. She was a sweetheart, that woman. Like women everywhere, he supposed, more than happy to send him down the path to doddering old age if it kept him home safe and sober in the evenings.
Neely was only half-domesticated, he knew. He loved his life, but it wasn't the life he'd dreamed of. Watching movies or TV as a kid, he never imagined himself the good guy or the obsessed cop or the conflicted lawyer, he was the other guy. The crazy wackjob, the Pablo Escobar, the Joe Pesci, the Billy Bob Thornton dude with an arsenal in the trunk and an ax to grind with humanity. He actually admired those people who ran Ponzi schemes, who bilked foolish investors and had the houses, yachts and corporate jets to show for it. That was how men were meant to live. Close to the sun, flaring briefly, squeezing a hundred years of living into every sun-kissed second before their final speeding nosedive into the ground.
“I'd like to speak to Derek Dunn,” he said over the phone.
“And who may I say is calling?”
“Tony Montana.”
Neely suddenly heard Dunn's raucous laughter on the other end. “What's up, Tony? Hey, put your little friend on, I want to say hello.”
“Derek, I got something I got to talk to you about.”
“I glad you called. Look, you gotta tell Hope to swing by CVS and bring some KY next time. Used half a jar of coconut oil before we were done, I smelled like a pina colada for three days.” Dunn was the friend who never grew out of adolescent crass humor. Unfortunatel
y, it still made Neely laugh.
“Alright, now, that's my wife.”
“That's right, so don't make me do all the work. I mean, c'mon, a clown and a midget? The woman's insatiable. Whatcha got, Neely?”
“You got time for a drink?”
“Always.”
CHAPTER 18
They met in an exclusive uptown club that looked like the lobby of a million-dollar law firm—wood paneling, plush carpet and Cuban cigars. It even smelled like money.
Dunn was distinguished-looking, gray at the temples, with a hawk nose, cleft chin and intense gray eyes. He wore an expensive Thom Brown suit, not flashy, pure business, but with at least a $2,500 price tag. He held out his hand to shake, then pulled it into a fist tap, gang shake, and finally bro hug that made Neely laugh all over again. He hadn't changed at all, Neely thought, he was just a 15-year-old in a monkey suit. He'd always been a guy who could charm anyone: kids, women, feral cats, angry crowds, church ladies, cartel leaders, but it was all smoke and mirrors, like everything else about Dunn. No one knew who the real Dunn was, not even Dunn.
“Still a martini?”
“Fuel of choice.”
“Two martinis, the cheap stuff please, something that'll give him a headache.”
“Since when do you drink martinis?”
“They're both for you, you ass clown,” he said, turning back to the bartender, “Grey Goose, dirty, shaken, stirred and emotionally traumatized if you don't mind—” he turned to Neely, “I find it brings out the flavonoids.” He turned back to the bartender, “Two olives. Introduce them first,” he said to the bartender, who seemed to know him too well to be either amused or annoyed. “I hate it when the olives don't talk.”