One-Eyed Jacks

by Brad Smith

  “You watch your mouth, Mr. Bell,” T-Bone demanded. “You my friend, but I don’t want to hear you talkin’ on Lee Charles like that. She would never do a thing like that.”

  “Just think about it, T-Bone,” Herm said. “Would she do it to save Tommy’s life? What about you, T-Bone — what would you do to save his life?”

  T-Bone looked at the floor. “She don’t need to. The fight called off.”

  “Does Lee know that?”

  T-Bone looked out at the street. “Maybe she don’t at that. Where is this place you say, this hotel?”

  “Right around the corner here. Big brick dump in the middle of the block.”

  They walked outside then and Herm pointed the place out. T-Bone looked out over the city. There was no way to figure where Thomas Cochrane might be. Or what shape he’d be in.

  “Another thing,” Herm said. “This Callahan carries a gun.”

  “Maybe the same kind of gun that shot Mr. Bert?”

  Herm hesitated. “Now that’s one angle I didn’t figure.”

  T-Bone turned. “Can you let me have twenty dollars, Mr. Bell?” he asked.

  Herm took out his wallet and handed over a pair of tens.

  “This city is yours,” T-Bone said then. “See if you can find Thomas. Maybe he at the Bamboo, maybe somewhere else. I figure you know better than me. But look ‘til you find him and then we meet back at the Jasper. That all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “I take care of the rest. Just find Thomas and bring him here, don’t tell him nothing, just bring him.”

  After Herm left, T-Bone walked down the block to the pawn shop he’d passed every morning on his way to the gym. The guns were there in the window, beside the tennis racquets and the trout creel and the lamp with the three monkeys on it. An old Lee Enfield with a bolt, a single shot .22 and a double-barrel twelve gauge.

  T-Bone went in and asked about the shotgun.

  “Twenty-five dollars,” the little man behind the counter said. “That’s a Stevens, that double barrel, a good gun.”

  “Only got twenty dollars, sir.”

  “Then you’re five dollars short. What do you want with this gun anyway, fella?”

  “Gonna do some duck hunting with that gun, sir.”

  “Well, duck season doesn’t open ‘til fall. Come back when you got the money.”

  “But I need that gun today, sir. Be headin’ out of the city, going up to the north country. Can’t you take twenty dollars?”

  The little man was interested in closing for the night. And he was suspicious of this coloured. “This ain’t much of a duck gun,” he said.

  “I ain’t much of a duck hunter.”

  “What’ve you got around your neck, fella? What’s that stone?”

  T-Bone looked down. “This a genuine Indian arrowhead. Given me by my good friend Thomas — well, it just an arrowhead, that’s all, sir.”

  “I’ll take the stone and twenty for the gun.”

  It nearly broke T-Bone’s heart to part with that flint. But he took it off and handed it over, along with the twenty dollars. Then he asked the man for shells.

  “Just a couple, sir, to try her out.”

  “You got a lot of gall,” the man said. He reached into a box and handed over two shells. “All I got is number twos — you shoot a duck with one of these and there won’t be enough bird left to stuff a pillow. But then maybe it ain’t ducks you’re after.”

  T-Bone just smiled and let it pass. “You got some sacking or somesuch to wrap that gun in?” he asked. “Some folks don’t care to see a coloured man walking about with a scattergun. Makes folks nervous, I guess.”

  “I guess it does.”

  When the gun was wrapped in burlap T-Bone left the shop and walked directly to the Jasper. There would be a maintenance room in the basement, he knew, and he found it easily. The lock was cheap and he was inside in a minute. There were tools there, on shelves and in red boxes and hanging from pegs above the workbench there. T-Bone got down to work.

  When he was a kid his father had a Cooey twenty gauge that he used for squirrel and rabbit and the like. And he taught young Thibideau to use the gun, and when his father went away to work, which was often, it was up to Thibideau to put meat on the table.

  But that was going back some. A lot of years had passed since he’d touched a gun. There had been a time though. T-Bone had grown up reading the Bible and learning the Christian way from his mother and grandmother and as such he never cared for the killing of God’s animals. But he had brothers and sisters to think about, and he’d been told by his father that he had to provide. So he would take that old hammerlock Cooey out to the woods and he would kill when the need was there, but each time he did he said a silent prayer for the animals he’d taken, because T-Bone believed that when his time came he would go to heaven and he believed that in heaven there would be squirrels and rabbits and woodcock, too. And how else would they reach those gates if someone didn’t say a prayer for their creature souls?

  It had been a long journey from that Missouri farm to this city tonight. He’d left the farm early; with the Depression on he’d reasoned one less mouth to feed would be a blessing to his family. Worked at an automobile wheel factory in Joplin, fought bare-knuckles in a box-car in New Orleans, cut wood in Arkansas. Barnstormed with a thief named Jaystone, boxing exhibitions all over the south. Turned pro in Chicago but never climbed the ranks, never neared the dizzy heights scaled by his idol, Joe Louis. Ended up sparring with champs, contenders and bums. New Jersey, New York, Detroit. A few years in the Catskills. And Jacksonville.

  Jacksonville. Where Thomas Cochrane had saved his life. And he hadn’t done it for money, or to make himself look good to others or to feel good to himself. He’d done it because it was right. And if that seemed like the easiest thing in the world, it sometimes seemed to T-Bone that it was the rarest, too.

  And now, ten years later in this Toronto, Thomas Cochrane had bad trouble and Thibideau Pike, the Missouri boy who believed that squirrels and rabbits and woodcocks went to heaven too, had it in his mind to do something about it.

  In the workshop he cut down and filed the barrels and the stock of the shotgun and then slipped the shells into the breech. The gun was barely two feet long now. T-Bone tucked the weapon under his coat and went out of the shop. He was whistling tunelessly as he climbed the stairs.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Like T-Bone said, it was Herm’s city, but that didn’t mean he could find a needle in a haystack. He checked every place that was likely, and more than a few that weren’t, but he found no trace of Tommy Cochrane. Finally, about nightfall, he went into the Bamboo Club for the third time, thinking that maybe Tommy would go back to his job, now that the fight was off.

  Billy Callahan was leaving as Herm walked in. Callahan had somebody with him; from across the room the man looked handsome and well-dressed, but up close he was just another bum. Callahan tried to put his shoulder into Herm as he passed.

  “Move, cocksucker,” he said.

  Herm had a notion to push Callahan’s face in, then and there. Get it over with. But he realized that whatever was in the cards tonight over on Isabella would happen with or without the likes of Billy Callahan. When he saw that Tommy was not in the Bamboo, he decided to follow the two jokers just leaving.

  On Isabella Street Tony Broad was set up and ready to go. All he could do now was drink Kentucky mash and wonder if his actors would show. His equipment had been in a locker at the bus station. Lights and camera only. This wasn’t a talkie, this was an action film.

  Now Tony stood watching out the window, to the darkened street below, wondering where pea-brained Billy Callahan was with his actor, and wondering if Lee Charles would show at all. Tony knew the fight was off — no way Mac Brady could raise that kind of jack again on the quick. What Tony didn’t know was whether or not Lee was aware of the fact. He figured his chances were fifty-fifty at best on that count.

  As he watched now,
a cab pulled up out front and the great Bobby Dean stepped out onto the curb, followed by Billy Callahan, who tripped over the concrete and went down to one knee. From the window, Tony couldn’t tell if Bobby Dean was drunk or not. As far as Callahan was concerned, Tony didn’t care if the kid passed out for the evening. Be one less headache for Tony.

  As he was turning from the window though, he saw another cab, stopping along the curb half a block away. Herm Bell, the kid with the mouth and the luck at cards, stepped out under the streetlight and then made his way along the street toward the hotel.

  “Shit,” Tony said.

  He walked to the dresser and picked up the pistol. After thinking it over, though, he slid the gun into the drawer and took a Buck clasp knife from his pocket. He opened the knife and slid it into the inside of his boot.

  He went to open the door for Callahan and Bobby Dean.

  “You guys sit down,” he said. When he shook hands with Bobby Dean, he smelled only beer on his breath, and Bobby’s eyes were clear, at least for Bobby Dean. Callahan was a zombie, stumbling on the carpet and falling into a chair.

  “I’ll be right back,” Tony told them and he went out into the hallway. He ran down the back stairs to the ground floor and then went into the storage room by the loading dock at the rear of the hotel. There was a broken-down freight elevator there; Tony stepped inside and waited. From where he stood he could see the main elevator and the back stairs. It’d take a couple minutes, he figured, for the kid to get the room number from the front desk and make his way up.

  Tony was guessing that Bell would make for the stairs and he was right.

  When Herm approached the stairs Tony jumped him from behind, socking him above the ear and knocking him to the floor. But Tony Broad was a slug, and Herm could handle himself; he came off the floor firing both hands at Tony’s head. Tony got hit hard and went down; when he tried to stand Herm went after him again, throwing right hand after right hand, knocking Tony back onto the floor of the freight elevator. In desperation Tony flung himself forward, grabbed Herm around the legs and bulled him to the floor. Herm got to his knees at once, took hold of Tony’s coat and hit him again and again.

  When first jumped, Herm had been alarmed, not knowing who or how many he was up against. Now he saw it was only Tony Broad and he knew he was all right. Sure, his lucky streak was going to end sooner or later. He knew that. But not like this. Not in this place, in this company. Not on this dirty floor of this cut-rate hotel.

  And certainly not at the hands of a cheap hustler like Tony Broad, a man who never played a straight game in his life.

  Now he slammed Tony Broad into the corner, hooked him in the ribs hard enough to double him over. Tony’s hand went for his boot as Herm clubbed him to the floor.

  Tommy wasn’t out drowning his sorrows, as everybody thought. He’d spent most of the day just walking, had even gone down to the old dairy where he’d worked as a kid, but there was nobody there he knew anymore. Tommy thought there would be — fifteen years wasn’t such a hell of a long time, especially looking backward. Forward was another matter. Forward wasn’t something he wanted to think about today.

  When he walked into the Blue Parrot that night, the band was playing and Doc Thorne was singing Leadbelly. Lee was not in sight. Tommy went to the bar and got a drink from Lucky Ned.

  “Guy in here looking for you,” Ned said. “Name of Bell.”

  “Yeah? Where’d he go?”

  “Dunno. Said he’d be back though.”

  The band came off then and Doc Thorne made for the bar where Tommy was standing. Tommy shook Doc’s hand and called for another shot for the horn player.

  “Where’s Lee?”

  “Not singing tonight,” Doc said. “Figured you’d know. Must be ailing or something.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Over home, I expect.”

  Tommy shook his head. “I was just over there. Landlady put the run on me. But Lee’s not there.”

  Doc put his fingertips to his whiskered chin. “I got no idea then where she be.”

  “I do,” Tommy said. “She was talking about touching her mother for a loan. Probably where she went.”

  “I heard the fight is off,” Doc said.

  “Yeah, it’s off.”

  Tommy was bumped from behind then and he turned to the charming face of Nick Wilson.

  “Give me some room, pops,” Wilson said. “Whatcha doing — celebrating the fact that I’m not gonna rearrange your face?”

  But Tommy just grinned at the kid, showed him his glass of whiskey and the big Irish smile that drove the kid nuts. Wilson looked at Doc Thorne.

  “On top of everything else, Cochrane, it seems you just love the niggers.”

  “You can kiss my ass, you honky punk,” Doc told him.

  “Watch your mouth, coon,” Wilson said. “I’ll be giving you a white eye, old man.”

  For a second Tommy thought that Doc would take a poke at the kid. Tommy got between the two.

  “Don’t push it,” he said to Wilson.

  But Wilson was learning from Tommy. He laughed out loud and moved down the bar, where he ordered a beer and a shot. Tommy looked at Doc and shrugged.

  “The kid’s oatmeal from the eyes up,” he said to the horn player. “Ain’t no cure for that.”

  “I hear ya, Tommy. But that kind of stuff catch up to a man sooner or later. At least I hope that’s the way it is.” He patted Tommy’s hand on the bar. “Gotta go blow a tune, Tommy. Catch you later.”

  Tommy kept his distance from Wilson, but what Doc said was on his mind. Maybe there was no such thing as justice in the world anymore. Maybe there never was. But maybe — like a lot of other things — it was whatever you made it to be.

  He felt a presence beside him and he turned to see the large arrival of Mac Brady. Old home night at the Parrot tonight.

  “Guess I got enough left to stand you to a drink, Tommy.”

  “Okay.”

  Mac saw Wilson then, the kid was talking to a waitress at the end of the bar. Mac shook his head. “I see my fighter’s still in training.”

  Lucky Ned brought shots for the two of them. Mac paid from a small roll.

  “Any chance of you taking my note, Tommy?”

  “Come on, Mac.”

  Mac nodded resignation into his drink. “I had to ask,” he said.

  “I know, Mac.”

  Mac tested the scotch gently with his tongue. “Ah, well, we almost had a fight,” he said. “And you know, I think it would have been a good one. Tickets were selling like hotcakes. And now I have to give all that money back. Damn, I hate handing out refunds.”

  “Lay your hands on five grand and you’ve still got a fight,” Tommy told him. “You know where I stand. When Bert went down in the alley, my farm went with him. You’re still my only chance, Mac.”

  “I can raise it, but not in two days,” Mac said. “I had to scramble to get it together the first time.” He gave Tommy a classic Mac Brady look. “Now if you were willing to drop your price down, to say — two thousand?”

  Tommy looked at the big man and laughed in spite of himself.

  “You know what I like about you, Mac?” he said. “Some people get nervous around you because they’re suspicious of your motives. I’ve never had that problem because I always know exactly what you’re up to. You’re always looking out for the fat guy in the three-piece suit.”

  Mac was offended. “You don’t like my suit, Tommy?”

  “Just paying you a compliment, Mac. Believe me.”

  “Believing you is something I’ve never had a problem with, Tommy.” He pointed a thumb down the bar to Nick Wilson, still making time with the waitress. “How’d I get stuck with that dumb son of a bitch?”

  “He’s your boy,” Tommy said.

  “He’s got talent, Tommy, that’s the truth. He can hit like a sledge hammer and he’s fast for a big man. Too bad he’s such a peckerhead.”

  “Being a peckerhead d
oesn’t mean he can’t go places,” Tommy said.

  “That’s true.”

  “It just means that nobody’s gonna like him when he gets there.”

  Mac laughed and called for Lucky Ned. “Give us two more here,” he instructed. “I’ll tell you though, Tommy, this kid could do it. To be honest, I really don’t think you could have handled him this weekend.”

  “Maybe not, but you’d have gotten your money’s worth,” Tommy said. “I mean, I wasn’t going to stiff you on that. After all, the money was all I cared about anyway and I would’ve earned it. I wouldn’t have been interested except I was trying to get something for after, you know. I never put anything away, was never any damn good at handling my money. Now I’m done and I got nothing. This fight was my one chance to have something.”

  “You mean the farm.”

  “If you’ve got land, you’re in pretty good shape, Mac. Because land is always there — you don’t have to worry about it getting old and rusty, it doesn’t fall apart on you or up and leave you.” Tommy laughed. “Like legs, like reflexes.”

  He paused to take a drink of the fresh Jameson’s.

  “And I wanted it for Lee. You know, I never really gave her anything.”

  “Lee Charles is a straight-ahead woman,” Mac said. “I think she’s got what she wants.”

  He was interrupted by Nick Wilson again. Wilson pushed his way between them and stood facing Mac.

  “I’m kinda short tonight, Mac,” he said. “Give me twenty, will ya? I got a thing with this waitress, you know how these girls at the Parrot like to fuck.”

  Mac gave him twenty to get rid of him. “We’re having a conversation here,” Mac told the kid.

  Wilson turned to Tommy, like he hadn’t noticed him. “Hey, where’s Lee tonight? She’s not singing with the band.”

  “Can’t put nothing past you,” Tommy said.

  “We’re having a conversation,” Mac told Wilson again.

  “Did Lee tell you about me and her?” Wilson asked Tommy.

  “Go back to your waitress,” Tommy said.