Queen of Spades

by Michael Shou-Yung Shum

  “Did you call me yesterday?” Chan asked.

  “Of course not,” Dumonde said. “You know I prefer the direct approach.”

  “So you’re just dropping by to say hello. Well, I’m happy to see you too, Dumonde. We’ll have a decent meal, catch up on old times, and then you’ll be on your way?”

  Dumonde stepped aside as Chan unlocked his car door and opened it.

  “Not exactly,” Dumonde said. After Chan got in the car, he stared at Chan, his arm on the door. His breath was minty. “You might say the tables have turned on your old friend. It’s I who need your help now, Chan. Remember,” he added, smiling apologetically, “you are under an obligation to me.”

  “Climb in,” Chan said finally. “I know a good place for breakfast.” Dumonde closed Chan’s door and walked around the front of the car—for a half second, Chan imagined gunning the engine and flattening his old boss underneath the wheels—and then Dumonde was sitting in the car beside him, filling up the small space of the vehicle with his minty breath.

  “I can’t wait,” said Dumonde, rubbing his palms together. He seemed to relish Chan’s discomfort. “You can’t believe how hungry I got waiting for you.”

  Chan did, in fact, owe Dumonde. Twelve years ago, when he’d first started dealing, Chan had allowed a customer, an old woman who reminded him of his grandmother, to become too familiar.

  When the customer had been caught stealing other players’ chips at the table, Chan’s close relationship with the perpetrator made him look especially bad. There was a question whether he’d been complicit in the customer’s actions over a prolonged period. He’d done none of the pilfering, nor had he facilitated it—but he’d witnessed it, his friend’s hand sliding a red chip or two down a sleeve from a tall stack, where their absence would be most unnoticed. But Chan had said nothing—he did not want to inform on her; she was not a bad person but a horrible addict, working odd jobs at the age of seventy, sleeping in parking lots in the back of a station wagon.

  Chan’s superiors were certain he must have known—the surveillance video showed the acts of stealing to be crudely executed, easily discerned even on black-and-white video. A report was filed with the West Virginia Gaming Commission, and Chan’s license was suspended indefinitely—he was called in unceremoniously on a Tuesday morning and fired. Chan had nowhere to go, now that the only thing he was qualified to do was closed off from him—suspension in one state meant suspension in all.

  Chan started appearing at the neighboring Blackridge Casino daily, whiling away his hours at the Blackjack table as a player. His life was well on its way toward becoming much like his unfortunate friend’s, a miserable progression-less grind. Dumonde, the pit boss at the Blackridge, knew Chan and was surprised to see the clean, austere dealer from their rival casino slowly transform before his eyes into one who flitted away his life on arbitrary turns of the card. One night, Dumonde took Chan aside and told him he knew some people on the commission—knew them well enough to be aware of professional secrets they would not want divulged. He would try to pull some strings for him, on two conditions to which Chan readily agreed, despite reservations about Dumonde’s oily reputation. First, 25 percent of his tips at the Blackridge. Second, future considerations that could be called upon. At any time.

  When Chan had headed west, he’d believed he would never see Dumonde again—after all, Dumonde had a good job, with obviously many important connections. But now, he had come calling—and as Chan drove through Snoqualmie in silence, his old boss snoring softly in the passenger seat beside him, he found that the wet, darkened streets were imbued with a fresh sense of dread.

  At the diner, Dumonde ordered a six-egg omelette and ate voraciously, wielding the knife and fork to great effect and refusing Chan’s pointed looks for an explanation as to his appearance until he was entirely done. Chan himself had just a cup of coffee and a plain, buttered roll. Pushing the empty plate away from him, Dumonde wiped his mouth with his napkin and folded it neatly before fixing his eyes upon Chan.

  “You wonder why I’m here. It’s simple,” said Dumonde. “I require a temporary resumption of our arrangement.”

  “What do you mean?” said Chan. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s finished.”

  “Times change, Chan. As I see it, you owe your current dealing job—and really, any dealing job you’ve had since the Blackridge—to me. So I’m only asking for what I’m owed: twenty-five percent of your tips at the Royal.”

  “What if I say no?” Chan said. “I’ve held gaming licenses in four different states since West Virginia. I doubt you have the power to revoke my current one.”

  Dumonde smiled and held up his hands. “You’re right, Chan. But I know you. You’re like me—a man of your word, as they say. A man of honor. The worst thing in our field is a welcher, and that you are not. The Chan I know would never renege on a promise made to an old friend, one who aided him in a time of crisis.”

  “As you say, times change.”

  “Have you?”

  “I feel under no great obligation to you, Dumonde—not anymore. But you’re right. You helped me out and I am willing to return the favor—within reason. How much money do you need?”

  “More than you have.” Dumonde glanced around before resuming. “I’m not merely drifting, Chan. You might say I’m on the run from my past. You know how I pride myself on knowing things—information that could be dangerous.”

  “Did you finally pick the wrong person to blackmail?”

  “Extortion is a delicate matter,” Dumonde said. “I’ve learned my lesson. But I can’t take a job now because I’d have to use my name, and that would make my whereabouts known. I just need to survive until my present situation resolves itself.”

  “I can’t afford to supply you with money indefinitely,” Chan said. “I’m working graveyard shift—as you know. And rent is far from cheap here.”

  “I can see why you like Snoqualmie.” Dumonde looked around at the tastefully decorated diner, its wooden walls lined with ancient logging implements. “It’s the perfect setup. Far off the beaten path. Good weather. Good food. Maybe I should settle down here.”

  Chan cringed. “As I said, I am happy to supply you with a one-time payment,” he said. “I can give you five hundred to get started—somewhere else.”

  “Five hundred!” Dumonde scoffed. “That won’t last two weeks out here. I need to disappear for a while, Chan. And a way to pay rent for a few weeks, a month. Two months at the most.”

  “That’s impossible,” Chan said. “I can barely make my own rent, much less pay yours.”

  Dumonde swirled a spoon in his mug of coffee, thinking. Chan was afraid of what he might suggest. “Well,” Dumonde said after a while, “how about if I stay with you until I can figure out my next move?”

  “No,” Chan said. “Absolutely not.”

  “It would only be a month—two at the most.”

  “No,” Chan said again. “I’d rather give you money than have to live with you.”

  “I appreciate the force of that remark, Chan. But I plan on staying, whether it’s with you or not. I can be at the Royal every night, like a festering sore. Watching you—bothering you.”

  Chan thought about his paranoia earlier that night—how discomfited and distracted he’d felt. And there was the matter of his interest in the Countess. He wanted Dumonde far, far away from her.

  “Of course,” Dumonde said, “I would consider your obligation entirely satisfied if you would allow me to stay with you.” When Chan continued to maintain his silence, Dumonde added: “I’m a very clean person, Chan. You’ll hardly know I’m there. You may even grow to like having me around.”

  Chan felt himself caving. “And you would promise—on your word of honor—to never come to the Royal while I’m working there?”

  “Cross my heart,” Dumonde said, smiling and showing his dazzling teeth.

  “And not a day over two months.”

  “I promise I’ll b
e gone by Thanksgiving,” Dumonde said, extending his hand across the table. Against his will, Chan allowed Dumonde to shake his hand.

  The server passed and refilled Dumonde’s coffee, while Chan declined another cup. His roll lay half-finished on the plate, and the server took it away. Chan’s stomach churned at the idea of living with Dumonde. But he couldn’t have Dumonde coming to the Royal! Chan wanted to deal in peace, and this was the only way he could ensure that. When the server returned to ask if it would be one check or two, Dumonde told him that Chan, perfect gentleman that he was, had been kind enough to offer to pick up the whole thing.

  Hair & Now

  After scratching off all the spots with the edge of a dime, the happy outcome was indisputable. Beat the dealer’s hand, the card read, and win the prize indicated. Under his gloved fingers, the dealer showed two Kings for a 20. Barbara’s own hand revealed itself as an Ace and a Queen, for 21. Underneath, she scraped at the prize amount until there was no silver left, until there could be no doubt about the amount. A thousand dollars! Barbara was so thrilled she almost called Chimsky to tell him, but she restrained herself. She knew him well enough to know he would want to take credit for encouraging her behavior, when it had been completely her own decision, and a one-time thing. In her mind, the reason for the unforeseen win was clear: she had abstained from gambling for almost two years, and the gods of chance were rewarding her for her chastity. Tomorrow, she would return to her seven p.m. meetings at the Community Center as if nothing had happened, and her sober life would resume as usual.

  The next morning, Barbara woke up half an hour before her alarm, still buoyed by the knowledge of the win. She lay in bed the extra time, stretching and luxuriating in her delicious little secret. A cool grand, from nowhere. Afterward, she took a long, hot shower and carefully applied her makeup in the mirror—the lips proved especially difficult because she couldn’t help smiling—before drinking a cup of coffee and heading to work at the call center.

  It was a month until the election. Barbara was supervising over a dozen temps in polling for the upcoming Washington gubernatorial race, and they were entering their final stretch of calling. When she arrived, many of her workers were already on the phones, and a pleasant buzz of excitement filled the room. Barbara went to her office and closed the door. For the next several hours, she pored over the raw data coming in, in an effort to come to some sort of conclusion she could deliver to her client.

  Based on her calculations, both the incumbent, John Spellman, and the new candidate, Booth Gardner, had a good chance of winning—her estimates were 45 percent for Spellman, 43 percent for Gardner, and the rest undecided. But the more she examined the numbers, the more Barbara’s instinct led her to disbelieve them; she had followed both their campaigns closely, and thought Gardner, the younger, more charismatic Democrat, would win the election with room to spare. The report to the client had to be based on statistics, though, and not the kinds of hunches that had gotten her in trouble in the first place. Against her own judgment, Barbara spent the afternoon carefully composing a memo stating that entering the election’s final weeks, the incumbent Spellman was the favorite to retain the governor’s office.

  At six p.m., as she was finishing up, there was a knock on her door. A group of her employees entered, telling Barbara they were going out to celebrate a colleague’s birthday, and invited her to join them. Remembering her nightly appointment at the Community Center, Barbara declined, but they persisted. The project was almost finished. This would be the last time she would see two of her temps, who had found permanent positions elsewhere. As they pleaded this case, Barbara weighed the ebullience of her young staff against the pale and sickly flesh she would see at Gambling Help—their sad, dull stares. Where was their enjoyment of life? Wasn’t that at least as important as sobriety? She decided that yes, she could miss tonight’s meeting.

  While Barbara sat at the bar, however, she found that her thoughts kept wandering from the conversation of her employees, whose exuberance over the latest fashion trends (a shirt that changed color when you touched it!) she did not share, to the image of the thousand-dollar ticket resting snugly in the side pocket of her purse. For an hour, Barbara shifted in her seat, offering only the most perfunctory remarks for the sake of cordiality, and twice left on the pretense of smoking, although the second time she just stood outside and watched the stars emerge overhead.

  On her way home, Barbara stopped at the gas station to redeem the ticket. The cashier snapped out each crisp twenty on the counter: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, and so on. One thousand dollars. The cashier slid the entire fat sheaf across to Barbara, and it felt wonderfully substantial in her hands. She folded it twice over and carefully placed the tight roll inside her purse. She couldn’t resist touching it, squeezing it, as she walked back to the car.

  Barbara did not make it to the seven p.m. meeting at the Community Center the next evening, either.

  She began taking the scenic route home from work to her apartment in downtown Snoqualmie, which took twenty minutes instead of the usual twelve. One day not long after, she noticed in passing that the old Snoqualmie Theater, which had lain dormant for over a dozen years, was now undergoing a renovation. A banner hung over the awning proclaimed:

  ARRIVING NOVEMBER 15

  THE MOST INTENSE EXPERIENCE OF YOUR LIFE

  After parking the car in the lot at her building, Barbara walked the three blocks back to the site, and peered through the windows that had remained dark so long. They were covered from the inside by a sheer material, like drapes made of hose, and revealed to her what looked to be an array of plush salon chairs surrounded by sinks, trolley carts, and a tall, imposing stack of loudspeakers.

  The door jangled open beside her, startling her. An enormous head covered with red hair emerged. “Want to take a look inside, ma’am?”

  “What is this place?”

  “We’re a full-service, members-only salon,” the man said. “And much more.” He stuck out a massive hand, which Barbara shook. “My name is Simon. Allow me to tell you a bit about ourselves. We’re also an aerobics studio. We guarantee the most intense aerobics classes in town. And we also have a private cafe upstairs. Do you want a tour? I promise we’re not like any club you’ve ever seen.”

  “All right,” Barbara said. “What are you called?”

  “Hair & Now. Do you like it?”

  Barbara did. Simon opened the door wider to allow her to pass into the space. The floor was covered in sawdust, and the whole place smelled of fresh pine. A thin man with a clipboard was directing another man, one even more massive than Simon, in the construction of a counter. “Those are my partners,” Simon said. “I’m just showing a potential member around,” he shouted to them.

  Barbara turned and faced the entire wall of loudspeakers, black-carpeted cabinets with deep, menacing subwoofers. “Excellent sound intensifies the experience,” Simon said. “Studies show.” He walked her through a carpeted entryway to the hair salon. “The salon will be open the same hours as the rest of the building,” Simon said. “From six in the morning until midnight, seven days a week except Christmas and Thanksgiving.”

  “Impressive,” Barbara said.

  Simon asked her to follow him upstairs. She climbed the wide, hardwood staircase, and soon found herself in a large room that overlooked the studio. It had all the makings of a pleasant cafe, with shiny parquet floors, a bakery display case, a counter behind which stood several espresso machines, and a large chalkboard for the menu, which was currently blank.

  “Looks like a great place for coffee.”

  “We import beans from around the world and roast them right here,” Simon said. “For members only.”

  After Barbara had finished looking around, Simon tapped the glass wall separating the room from the gym floor below. “Soundproof,” he explained. “Check this out.” Simon flipped a switch and the room glowed a warm, dark red. Barbara heard a faint noise, like t
he sound of a stream. “Obviously,” Simon said, “it looks better in the dark.”

  Simon handed her a flyer, pointing out “Individual Memberships.” The “Body & Soul” package was $250 per month, or two grand for the entire year. Each month, this included two salon visits, twelve classes in the aerobics studio, weekly sessions with a personal trainer—“That’s me and Quincy,” Simon explained—and unlimited use of the cafe, plus classes that would educate her on the best diet and nutrition for her hair.

  “I’ll have to think about all this,” Barbara said. “It’s a little overwhelming.”

  “Of course. I’ll show you out.”

  They returned downstairs, and Simon said they hoped to see her again. After she said good-bye, Barbara exited the building and, instead of walking across the street toward her apartment complex, she went around the block. The autumn air was crisp, and Barbara savored it, breathing deeply. Unbidden, a smile crept at the corner of her lips. Life was mysterious after all, wasn’t it? She had had no plans to join a gym. Now she was actually considering it—the idea of meeting people who were improving themselves in a way that wasn’t completely demoralizing appealed to her.

  Her steps were light as she entered her building, and she was halfway across the lobby before Barbara saw him.

  Dimsberg, of all people, was standing by the elevator.

  “Oh, hey, Barbara!” he said. He took off his hat. “I was just coming up to see you.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, we’ve missed you the past couple weeks,” Dimsberg said, smiling. “As your chapter leader, I feel like it’s my responsibility to see if there’s anything we did that made you stop coming. Or anything we can do that will make you come back quicker.”

  “I haven’t been feeling well, Dimsberg. I’ll come back when I’m better.”