by Ted Lewis
But instead of stacking Albert digs into his suiting and excavates a pile more money and says, “Here you go, then, Charlie. I’m fucking barmy, as you well know, but I’m putting in forty, so it’s down to you for twenty, all right?” Charlie’s glasses shimmer a bit and he has a good old think. Is Albert or is he not conning him, Charlie’s thinking. He must be, he thinks, because Charlie hasn’t even looked at his third card yet. Yes, that’s it, Albert’s trying to buy the pot, and besides, Charlie can’t be seen to avoid a twenty-quid raise in front of Con and myself so he pushes in his corner and sits back waiting to be proved right. Albert keeps his face straight and pushes in another forty quid. This makes Charlie even more convinced that Albert’s bluffing but being the person he is Charlie just can’t bring himself to back his judgment so he drops a lot of face by picking up his third card and taking a look. It’s Albert’s turn to smile to himself but his expression is nothing to the one Charlie assumes when he sees what his third card is. He looks as though he’s just thrown away his sticks at Lourdes with the organ playing and the sun streaming through the stained-glass windows. He’s got his spade and he’s made his flush. So Charlie now has to pay the same as Albert and not only does he do it with a will, he ups it by another twenty, making his contribution sixty quid in all. Con looks at me and we don’t even have to shake our heads. For the second time Charlie sits back and waits for Albert to pay up and look sick. But Albert is looking far from sick when he separates one hundred notes from his pile and arranges them in the middle of the table. Now it’s up to Charlie to back his flush or macaroni his strides. He’s beginning to wonder whether Albert’s got the four after all. He can see Albert but if Albert’s bluffing Charlie’s going to look fucking stupid in front of us. And if Albert’s got the four he’s still going to look stupid. Either way it’s going to cost him another hundred. Two, if Albert doesn’t see him next time. Charlie ponders for a while and then he takes his wallet out again, only this time the flourish is missing. He draws out some more fivers and manages to make them add up to a hundred and puts them in the middle although Charlie’s fingers make it look as though he’s trying to take the notes out. Charlie withdraws his lingering hands and now Albert’s really got him. Albert gives Mouncey the nod and Mouncey opens up his wallet and adds a sheaf to Albert’s pile and Albert arranges the notes into a neat oblong and places it next to Charlie’s disheveled contribution.
“Two hundred,” Albert says. “Two hundred to go, Charlie.”
Bob Shearer tries to stop himself laughing and the sound comes out like a snort. Charlie looks as though somebody’s told him he forgot to post a winning coupon.
“Two hundred?” he says. “Two hundred?”
Albert nods.
“You’re not seeing me?”
Albert shakes his head.
Charlie raises his hand to wipe his lips but he’s only imagining that they’re wet. He stares at Albert’s neat pile of notes as if it’s about to jump at him.
“You can always see me, Charlie,” Albert says. Charlie manages to force a grin. He’s got to make the best of things now. He shakes his head.
“No,” he says, still managing to maintain the smile. “No, no thanks. I’m not paying you two hundred just so you can show me the four.”
“Stacking?” Albert says.
Charlie’s smile disintegrates as he nods to Albert and Albert shrugs and leans across the table and rakes in the pot. Charlie lights a cigarette and tries to show us that it wasn’t very important anyway.
“Jesus, Jack,” he says. “I really thought the bleeder was bluffing. I really didn’t think he’d got the four.”
“And did he?” I say.
Charlie stares at me and when he’s working out what I’m saying he turns his gaze on Albert. Albert grins at Charlie and picks up his cards and turns them over. Instead of three four five, it’s a pair of threes that’s staring Charlie in the face.
When Charlie gets his voice back he says, “A pair of threes? I could have beaten that. I had a hand that would have beaten that.”
Albert nods in agreement. “That’s right, Charlie. You certainly had the better hand.”
“Shame,” Bob Shearer says.
Charlie scrapes his chair back and stands up. He takes a last look at the pair of threes and walks out of the cardroom. As the door swings to behind him everybody bursts out laughing.
“What a prick,” Bob says. “What a flaming prick.”
“Well,” says Con, “that’s Charlie Abbott for you.”
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go and prop him up with a drink. Otherwise he might be too dry to talk.”
Con follows me through the frosted-glass doors. When they’ve closed behind us I say, “There’s one thing. Charlie sure as hell knows fuck all about Jimmy. Not a thing.”
“Yes,” Con says. “We’re wasting our time down here.”
“Not entirely,” I tell him. “Charlie’s ignorance might even turn out to be a help.”
Charlie is at the bar sorting through the remainder of his notes so that he can pay for the use of the half-bottle of scotch Storey’s just put on the counter for him. By the time Con and me get to him he’s already splashed out a tumblerful and he’s sucking it up, eyes closed, trying to blank out the last five minutes.
“Bad luck there, Charlie,” I say. “I would have backed him having the four, if I’d been sitting down.” Charlie opens his eyes and begins to feel a little better, managing to forget the money for a moment.
“Yeah, right,” he says. “But that’s cards, isn’t it, Jack, eh? That’s what it’s all about. Sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, Charlie.”
Then Charlie remembers his manners.
“Cliff,” he says to Storey, “get two more glasses, will you? Jack, you’ll have a drink, won’t you? And Con?”
“May as well,” Con says.
“Charlie,” I say, “can I have a quiet word?”
Charlie’s just picking up the new glasses and when I tell him I want to talk to him, all of a sudden he’s on the verge of doing the macaroni. Now he knows that I’ve come all the way down here to see him, and reasons why start flashing through his mind while he stands there like a waxwork with the glasses in his hand. I pick up the scotch and pour some in the glasses then I take the glasses from him and pass one of them to Con.
“Don’t worry, Charlie,” I tell him. “It’s only a word. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“What do you want, Jack?” Charlie says.
“Let’s take our drinks over to the corner and I’ll tell you.”
We move away from the counter and over to the far side of the hall, where there is a long bench seat on a platform raised six inches off the floor and flush to the wall.
Charlie sits down on the bench and Con and myself sit down on either side of him. The two games which were in progress earlier are still going on but they’re right down the other end of the hall. All the other table lights are switched off and where we are the only illumination is the counter’s reflection in Charlie’s glasses.
“Been in touch with your sister lately?” I ask Charlie.
“Jean?” he says, looking from me to Con and back again. “I haven’t seen Jean in a fortnight. Maybe longer. Why, has she—”
I cut him off short. “She hasn’t been in touch with you?” I say. “Tried to phone you or anything?”
“No, not that I know of. I mean, I move about a bit, you know, she might have tried to, but—”
“But you might be wanting to get in touch with her after tonight, eh, Charlie?”
It takes Charlie a minute or so to tumble.
“Oh, see what you mean,” he says, trying to accept the baldness of my statement as if it’s some kind of affectionate joke. “Well, you know, Jean’s always been very good to her old br
other, never sees me short, like. You know, I get things wholesale for her and she sees me all right, understand. I mean, after tonight I’ll perhaps be getting in touch because she owes me for one or two bits and pieces. Didn’t intend dropping so much in the game, know what I mean?”
“So what’ll you do? Go round the flat and see or meet her or what?”
“Well, it’s not always too convenient to go straight round, just like that. I mean, Jimmy works hard and he likes a bit of peace and quiet during the day, and evenings they’re out mostly . . . ”
“You’d just phone her up, then? Find out where she’s going to be.”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Pity,” I tell him. “Because, like, the next time you phone I shouldn’t hang on too long waiting for a reply.”
Charlie looks at me, not daring to ask.
“Nothing like that,” I tell him. “Just that her Jimmy’s been pulled by Old Bill. And since they pulled him, Jean and the kids have dropped out as well. We just had a sort of vague idea you might be able to put us in the picture. Let us know where Jean is so we can find out what’s going on. You see, Charlie, we really need to find out what’s going on.”
Charlie stares at me as if he hasn’t believed a word I’ve said to him.
“Jimmy?” he says. “They’ve picked up Jimmy? But they wouldn’t. He’s like you. They wouldn’t pick up Jimmy.”
“They have done. And it’ll be me and Con and Gerald and Les filing in one after the other if we don’t find Jimmy.”
“But Jimmy’d never grass. Jesus, everybody knows he’d never do that.”
I don’t answer him.
“Jack? He wouldn’t, would he?”
“He probably already has done.”
Charlie tries to find his cigarettes, so to save time I give him one of mine and light it for him. He takes a few drags and then manages to put words to what he’s been thinking about.
“If you find Jimmy, what’ll happen?”
“Depends on Jimmy. If our information’s wrong, we’ll give him all the help we can, the way Gerald and Les help everybody they do business with. So let’s hope our information’s wrong, eh, Charlie?”
Charlie takes a pull at his whisky.
“I couldn’t do it even if I knew how, Jack,” he says. “Not to my own brother-in-law. Not to Jean’s husband.”
“Jimmy hates your fucking guts, Charlie. He’s the reason Jean doesn’t drop you as much as she used to. That’s why you never go round their place and get to see your nephew and your niece. So don’t shoot the shit. If Jimmy can put you in this one he will.”
“Jean’d never let him. She’d never let him do that to me.”
“Jean does as she’s bleeding well told. Especially to keep Jimmy off a twenty-five stretch.”
“Jack, listen. If they’re not at home, how will I know where they are? They could be bleeding anywhere.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Charlie.”
Charlie shakes his head. “Leave me out, Jack. You know I can’t help.”
“Your old mother might, though. I mean it’s just possible your sister might get in touch with her dear old mum so’s she won’t have to do any unnecessary worrying.”
“Christ, you wouldn’t involve her, would you?” Charlie says.
I don’t answer his question but instead I say to him, “Look, Charlie, I want to stop pissing about. I really do. So I’m going to put alternatives to you as clearly as I possibly can, and I want you to listen to them as hard as you
possibly can, because I’m not going to tell you again. One of the alternatives will just happen, right? Now. You can help us and in helping us you can do yourself a bit of good, because I can speak for Gerald and Les in saying that if Jimmy comes a cropper then Jean and the kids will be looked after, and if you’re Jack the Lad and help us they’ll look after you too. Either way you don’t lose. Where you do lose, Charlie, and where the rest of your family lose, is if we get no cooperation. Whether we find Jimmy or not is beside the point. Gerald and Les will want Jimmy to know how they feel, and they won’t care who they use to show him. So all that I’m telling you is for your own good. You see that, Charlie, don’t you?”
In the following silence Con, who has been watching Grafton’s game, says, “That bastard’s still giving that little girl the shitty end of the stick.”
“Yeah, well forget it,” I tell him. “We’re here on business, not pleasure.”
Charlie treads his cigarette into the floorboards.
“All right,” he says. “I’ll help you. I’ll do what I can.”
“That’s the idea, Charlie.”
Charlie stands up. “In fact I’ll drop over there tonight. You never know, the old girl might have heard from Jean already.”
He begins to move away from us.
“Charlie,” I say.
Charlie stops in his tracks and looks at me. He relaxes and says, “I suppose I knew you’d want me to stick with you. I just . . .”
His voice trails off and he slumps into his suit even more.
“That’s right, Charlie,” I say, and put my glass down on the bench and as I turn away from Charlie he throws himself into a sprint and hares round the end of the nearest snooker table and starts to make for the double doors of the cardroom. Beyond the cardroom there is a small passage with two doors at the far end. If you go through one door you’re in a karsi, and if you go through the other door you’re in a back yard with a six-foot slatted fence that drops you down into Villiers Street.
“Oh, Jesus,” I say. “The silly fucker.”
Con is already close behind Charlie by the time I get up off the bench seat. Charlie makes the double doors and smashes them to behind him. There are angry cries from behind the frosted glass. Con yanks the doors open again and disappears from sight. By the time it’s my turn to open the doors the card players have got down on their hands and knees and are trying to pick up as many notes as they can from the floor in the hope that they can argue from strength when the divvying starts. The card table is on its side in the fireplace, I imagine more as a result of Con’s progress through the cardroom than Charlie’s. I walk down the passage and find Con in the back yard, levered up on the fence and looking down into Villiers Street.
“No signs of the bleeder,” he says, lowering himself down. “But the yard door was swinging to and fro so he must be able to move a sight faster than you’d think.” Con grins at me and winks and I nod at him.
“Well, that’s it, then,” I say. “The crafty little bleeder’s fucked us.”
“Looks like,” says Con. “Could be anywhere by now.”
We walk back into the passage, closing the yard door behind us. We walk as far as the door that leads back into the cardroom and Con reaches forward and closes it with a rattle and we both stand there in the dark, not making a sound. After a minute or two there is the sound of the karsi bolt being drawn back and then there is more silence. Then the karsi door creaks and Charlie begins to make his exit. I can just make out his shape as he creeps over to the yard door.
I let him get as far as opening it a crack and then very quietly, I say, “Boo.”
“Jesus Christ,” Charlie says. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” and as he says it he falls to the floor as if he’s been pushed over.
Con opens the cardroom to let some light on the scene. Charlie is lying there with his arms covering his head as though he’s waiting for a kicking. I walk down the passage towards him. Charlie screams but all I do is lift him up and lean him against the wall and straighten his glasses for him.
“Come on, Charlie,” I say. “It’s time we were going home to bed.”
I put my arm round Charlie’s shoulder and help him back down the passage. We negotiate our way through the cardroom and back into the billiard hall. Storey has come round to our side of the counte
r and is standing in the aisle made by the counter and the nearest billiard table, blocking our way to the proper exit.
He stands there nodding his head and then he says, “There was no way I could have been wrong, was there? I mean, I was right, wasn’t I? The minute you came in I knew it.”
“Well, you won your bet,” I say, and with my free hand I loosen a couple of fivers from the roll in my inside pocket and pass them to Con, who sticks them between the salt and pepper on the counter. Storey shrugs and shakes his head and begins to walk back to his flap and we start to move towards the door again.
Then Grafton’s voice breaks the silence.
“Are you having trouble, mate?” he asks Charlie.
The three of us stop and turn and there he is, standing behind us with his billiard cue gripped in both hands. I can tell he’s made up for backing down by pouring even more lotion down him and if Storey offers Grafton his advice again, this time it won’t make any difference.
“I said were you having some trouble?” Grafton asks. Charlie shakes his head but he can’t manage to get his mouth to operate properly.
“No,” I say to Grafton, “he’s not having any trouble. Are you?”
Grafton lurches a little closer. “You going to give me some?”
“That depends on you,” I tell him.
“Let him go,” Grafton says.
I smile at him. “No,” I say.
“I’m telling you,” Grafton says. “Let him go.”
I don’t say anything and so with that Grafton tightens his grip on the cue and prepares to swing it where he thinks the side of my head is going to be. But he’s so clumsy with booze that I have time to push Charlie at the billiard table and step inside the cue’s arc and take hold of it just above the spot where Grafton has his grip. I pull hard and brace myself and Grafton’s nose connects with my advancing forehead and just to finish it off I grab hold of his shirt as he begins to slide down my body and I give him a little tap on his shin with the point of my shoe. Grafton hits the floor and begins to hunch himself into the classic footballer’s foetal position. I notice that Grafton’s mate who was expressing all the concern earlier isn’t exactly rushing over with a magic sponge.