Atomic City

by Sally Breen

  Jade gives me the ten-minute signal and I move on cue to the table. I won’t play the host role. I want them all to see I’m serious. I want a challenge. I haven’t come to do anything else but win. I get out the decks, cut them twice. Place them ready for the lead-in display. The music kicks in. Startles me for a moment. I lean over, two hands resting on the curved lip of the table, at home on the fake iridescence of green felt, ready, liking the feel of my suit, the power of being here, in this arc, behind this table as the lights dim around the curve slightly, leaving me in the light. Glowing in the corners of my eyes. I’m ready now. Ready for anything.

  A raucous night. The kind where we let things roll out, stacking up a fair stash in my drop box. I’m perked up, feeling generous enough to the open faces in front of me to tip them some joy. Letting them win hands just to get them high. Not that Jade hasn’t been doing a good job of that. Taking punters by the hand. Letting me and everyone else drink much stronger and with much more juice than she ought to. Jade’s letting everyone off the hook tonight.

  The spread is good. Lots of skin. Jade’s girls are circling tonight tops down, shimmering tassels dangling, tight black skirts hooked on their hips. Young girls with happy eyes and eight blokes at my table with not enough sense to keep their hands off. We let the girls into the circle tonight, to the sides and the laps of men. Keeping them happy. Keeping all of us happy because my own eyes seem to be shifting and shuttering.

  I deal at a cracking pace, watching Jade move as she turns suddenly towards the foyer. We’re not expecting anyone else and the doors are locked. I make a mental note to install another surveillance monitor near my table. The guy in front of me blows two grand on what I know to be a sure 22 and I like watching his face, the flicker of regret before he buries it. I rake the chips with exaggerated swiftness into the box, before the sucker’s last move gives them all second thoughts:

  Game on now, people. Who’s up?

  I’ll play.

  I glance over, startled by the voice. PJ walking towards me. My vision vacuums. Tunnels on his form. He’s alone. I can see Jade a few steps behind him, signalling me. She’s calling for a shut-down. I nod, gesticulating too quickly for the girls at the table to peel off. The punters notice my sudden distress, attuned as they are to the flow of my movement, but I’m too wasted and too disturbed to hide the fact or care. I know they rely on my resilience and my predictability, but this is too much. Heads turn, caught unawares by the hard direction of my gaze, by my shaking hand, my sudden movement. Why, I think, did she let him up?

  Jade reaches my side at the same time PJ stops in front of the table. He greets a couple of people, in a fatuous way, ease oozing out of him, making everyone instantly uncomfortable. There’s no one in this city as infamous as PJ. I watch out of the corner of my eye, turned slightly to Jade, relieved he’s pulled focus.

  He was talking a raid. I had to let him in. He’s got more friends than we do.

  She seems excited. I don’t believe her.

  I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking how he knows we’re here.

  Jade shrugs off the insinuation and says: Do you want to call it in?

  No, not just yet. Let me handle it.

  Jade looks into my eyes with concern, not for me, I think, but for how far gone I am.

  I’ll be fine, I tell her. Tune everything down.

  PJ is watching our exchange with interest, still standing behind the stalled forms of the other players.

  So, is there room for me?

  I baulk as every player on the table makes a move to accommodate him. So willing to relinquish their spot that I put out both my hands in an effort to try to stop them. PJ raises an eyebrow. Jade springs to action.

  Now, everyone, settle down. Neil, Grant, why don’t you come with me – you’ve been avoiding me all night. PJ, you take front and centre and the rest of you, do you need anything?

  There’s murmuring and shaking of heads, and some people even laugh nervously with her, but just like usual no one wants to speak up around PJ.

  I come in on cue.

  Let’s play.

  What’s the game? PJ asks, showing no sign he knows me.

  Blackjack.

  He sniffs, contemptuous.

  Do you mind if we shift to poker?

  We only do Caribbean Stud.

  What’s this – bloody kindergarten?

  No one responds. The punters know the Stud call’s not true. We play other versions, Texas Hold ’Em, High-Low Split, Razz, Omaha Hold ’Em, whatever, but I don’t think anyone in this room wants a stand-off with PJ. They want him facing me. I’ve got the feeling PJ knows his money is in my drop box.

  The atmosphere at the top of this tower has slumped. PJ’s always had this effect, the ability to switch scenes and change rooms. People on the roulette tables around us start to leave. I can see Jade ushering them out, hands on backs, proffering handbags and small hugs.

  PJ looks at me.

  Any limit on the wager?

  I’m wary of what he’s doing so I tell him that it’s standard, double the ante.

  He laughs and looks around. No one contradicts me.

  Jesus, he says in exasperation, reaching for his first hand.

  And I’ve got some idea of what he’s got. PJ hasn’t questioned the deck but I’m not happy about the switch; playing Stud gives me less chance to roll him, and less chance to pump up my own stock. It does, however, lower the likelihood of a major sting from him. I have to hope he gets bored quickly.

  The first few hands run smoothly, fairly quiet. PJ bets small, feeling his way around and watching me. He keeps looking at the chips as they fall into the box. My hands cut into action, rifle the cards into the game, maybe too fast, liking that he’s watching, that he can see the swiftness of my cuts and shifts and splays, trying to control the shockwaves of juice ripping through me. No distractions in the room now. Jade hovers on the periphery with a few people who can’t contain their interest at the bar, sensing what passes for history between this town and the three of us. Ice in their glasses clinks. Chips down.

  On the fifth round PJ ups his ante to one grand. The other players remain steady. Five in, I announce. Tap the table. Deal. I can see the two guys on either side of PJ have got nothing. No trump cards which are all marked, slightly on the back. I don’t wait to watch them in their hands, I watch as they go in. They need straights or flush runs and I can see by their eyes that this isn’t happening. They fold. Give up the ante. PJ, I know, has four trumps. A likely three. The rest of us one to two high cards each. They sit on the ante, PJ wagers the double. My burn card’s a seven of hearts, I use it to reveal the others the old-school way. Flicking the hand over with the card and not my fingers, one by agonising one. A pair of tens. Three kicker cards. I raise the tens and line the side cards in order of concession. PJ lays down his hand. Three nines, a jack and a king. Three to one. Lead in two grand. The fear and the juice up my back.

  I pay out, rake to the rack. Check and scramble the cards face up then face down. Moving in rapid fire and thinking about the last time PJ spoke to me about water under bridges and how the water caught in my throat. Thinking about the last time his eyes looked like they knew what was coming. I call the antes up. Sweat between my legs. PJ laughs.

  We cut, wager, shuffle and play seven hands in what feels like seven minutes, fast racks in, and the shaking starts. PJ’s chips stack up. He only sits once. I keep dealing, Jade in the corner of my eye burning like a vision, burning into me, trying to keep something, some part of me on her when the shaking hits my chest. Heart throttling in overtime, paying out big and flailing. PJ front and centre getting bigger in my mind, the glare of his loose white shirt like a fever in my head. Paranoid that he’s reading the cards, that he can see through everything, the backs of the cards, the front of Jade, all of me. Feeling that he’s reading me, that he’s looking to where my eyes drop. Sensing my reactions, the blink of my eye to wagers. The twitch in my fingers. PJ seeing
through me. I drop the ruck. Grip the edge of the table and call out: Clock request.

  A time-out that’s met with silence. And no one knows what I mean.

  The breath comes out of me hard and fast. I don’t look up. And the room is spinning. I see Jade coming over to me. And what I mean is I want all of it – the drugs, the cards, the showdowns – to stop. I hear PJ laughing.

  A single bead of sweat falls off my forehead and onto the discards. His laughter. Her hand on my back. Rubbing up and down. All the players except PJ back away and Jade is cooing at me, asking if I’m all right, am I okay? Do I want to continue? And all I want is for her to shut up. This has got nothing to do with her. This is about PJ and me. Whoever speaks first loses.

  One hand, he says. For everything in front of me and everything in the box.

  When I don’t answer he says: And let’s just say the ante’s her. He points at Jade. I turn to look at her, catch the flicker in her eye.

  Get everyone out.

  Jade ushers. The room rings with the sound of their procession and the unspoken. I walk to the bar avoiding eye contact, grab a towel, catch my eye in the mirror. See PJ in the background, not watching me, head fixed straight. I wipe myself down, steel myself for the stakes. Turn around, watch Jade walking back into the room purposefully slow, like she can’t contain her excitement. The clipped sound of her shoes mute as she hits the soft carpet, and I wonder which one of us she’s really rooting for. I’d like to think she’s in this for me. For me and her. That’s my play.

  Jade stands mock serious at the right-hand curve of the table. PJ doesn’t look at her. I look at them both and feel suddenly calm, in the eye, in the core centre of our storm. I join them. Produce a new deck, a pure deck. I want the gods, wherever and whoever they are, to decide.

  I shuffle the cards three times. Then box them. Placing ten cards off the top of the deck on the table, running it until the deck is done, protecting the flash. I put the deck on the table, clearly and obviously release it, then cut it onto the cover card with one hand. I deal PJ first, then myself. My burn card’s a queen of clubs. I place her face up on my stacked hand. PJ looks at his cards, the wager already set. I can’t read him but he moves enough cards to suggest he’s got something. Jade doesn’t move an inch, eyes boring, like she can hardly contain herself, into the centre of the table. I can almost hear her racehorse heart beating.

  Time to turn my hand. Jack of spades. Nine of hearts. King of hearts. Ten of spades. I shift the cards into order. One clean, beautiful, heavenly straight. I don’t smile. Notice a faint shiver run through Jade.

  PJ looks at me and drops his hand. Two pairs. Sevens and twos.

  Straight wins but I don’t make a move to rake. Inside, the relief is like rapids, white water running through me. Water I’m not afraid of. PJ’s given us back his twenty grand and then some. I keep the kick internal. It’s hard to tell what Jade really feels. I can see she’s tight all over.

  PJ stands. Leans in to kiss her. She lets him, but only proffers her cheek. He puts his arms around her, looking at me. His hands are in the small of her back. Jade presses against his forearms as if to push him away, gripping her too tight. I don’t rise to the move.

  The money’s nothing, he says over her shoulder. There’s always been other ways to beat you.

  I stay stoic, say nothing. He releases Jade and she eyes me curiously, both of us wondering about PJ’s last words. We watch, Jade and I, from the centre of the room, from the right side of the table, from the red eye of the place we run, as PJ saunters away, and not until the door slams do we acknowledge the space between us. Jade jumps into my arms and screams: Let’s go out and celebrate.

  I look in the rear-view mirror at the dark blue vehicle pulling up behind us two cars back. A Statesman with tinted windows. In the front I can make out the rigid forms of two men. I glance at Jade. Her eyes are round with worry despite a weak smile. The night is clear and fresh, but that thing behind us is dark. I lock the doors. Jade jumps at the sound. I should have known.

  We are on our way to Aces but I decide to keep driving, making a quick right when the light turns green so we can loop back along the highway towards home. The car follows. We drive in silence, Jade hunching down in her seat, her gaze locked on the passenger mirror. I try not to misread the faint gleam in her eye.

  I drive slowly and they stay deliberately back, wondering if heading home, back to the tower, might not be the best choice. There’s good security, but we have to get in there first. As if reading my thoughts Jade asks: Where are we going?

  I’m going to drop you off, okay? At the club. They won’t go you there, there’s too many people. I’ll turn around.

  No way. I still have to get out.

  And she’s right. At some point she’d have to find her way home.

  A hotel then, I’ll drop you at a hotel.

  That won’t work either; they’ll just follow me up.

  I look at her, grim with apology.

  Jade, this could get ugly.

  I don’t care. I can’t leave you.

  But we can’t just drive around forever.

  I know, I know, just relax and let’s think of something.

  I pause.

  I should have let him beat me, I say.

  Jade doesn’t answer. The car turns off the highway to the right.

  They’ve gone.

  Are you sure?

  Jade cranes her neck, trying to discern the car from the group of headlights behind us.

  Maybe it’s just another warning.

  Don’t even say it, Jade.

  I speed up.

  If they really have gone, I’ve got to get us back, I tell her.

  I promise, Jade says to me almost in tears, we’ll leave tomorrow.

  I turn off the highway, cruise slowly through Surfers Paradise. All the people on the footpaths make me feel better. But our street runs off the northern end of the highway, the quieter, darker end. I cruise down slowly, coming at our tower from the esplanade side, both of us keeping an eye out for the car. I go round the block once and there’s no sign. I pull into the drive, taking the garage card off the dash. I let the window down. My hand shakes and I drop the card.

  Damn.

  Quickly, Jade says turning around frantically.

  I put the handbrake on and open the door, lean out and grab the card. The security gate clunks open and we watch, eyes bulging, as it slides away slowly.

  Come on, come on, I say, hitting the wheel.

  I see the headlights before the car. It all happens in fast motion. The dark blue frame pulling up behind, locking us in. My foot reacts before I do, ramming down hard on the accelerator, then braking hard to get round the first pylon. Jade lunges forward and hits her head on the dash. She screams. I realise I should have reversed instead but it’s too late. I’m in the car park now, desperate for a space to turn but all the residents are in and there’s nowhere left to go but forward. Our space is at the end of the narrow gap, too far down. I can’t see anything behind me and then there’s a smash and glass rains down the back of my neck. Jade screams again, covering her head. The explosions seem to come in waves. I shield my eyes. Another smash and this time the windscreen collapses in a cascade of cracked pieces. An iron rod comes through the open space hitting me in the chest. I gasp for air.

  I shove the car into reverse and try and back up. The wheels squeal and the tyres crunch down on the smashed pieces. I go back but the gate is closing and I hit the wall at the end. The back of the car crumples. I can see them coming towards me, big, dark figures. An iron bar. My gearshift sticks. There are men beside me. My door bursts open. I’m dragged out of the car. I fall on the floor under the door. I scramble to fight them off but the driver’s window smashes and the glass rains down again, stinging my eyes. I can hear Jade calling for help. I’m dragged upwards, and I move my head to find her but a fist slams into my jaw from the left and then another on the right knocks me back. I hit the car, bounce forward int
o something black. A chest. A wall. I can’t see anything.

  A weight comes down hard and heavy on my back. My eyes are full of glass and white light. I throw a punch, kick out at them, but they’re moving me around so nothing really lands. There seems to be more and more of them and I can’t work out where anything is and blood is pouring from somewhere on my head into my eyes. Another blow takes out my legs, a hard thing, the thick rod, and I fall down on the shiny concrete, feel my mouth smash, my head split. The blood. I hear Jade screaming and I try and call out to her but my mouth’s not working. I cover my face and they go for the body, each blow like thunder. And then another.

  COMING IN ONE HIGH

  THE DEALER

  On the fourteenth floor Jade and I survey the bland horizon of our world, straddled over the Pacific Ocean and too used to it. We have spent the last twenty-four hours cowering from the city, from its light and its people, shaking off the claustrophobia, the stench of humanity, the doctors and the injury. Getting caught up inside some serious, sheer elevation. The metres of space we sit in are worth close to two million but the comfort doesn’t kill the fear. Doesn’t wipe out the strains of paranoia.

  Jade has a single red cut on her cheek from hitting the dash. I haven’t fared so well.

  I spend most of the day on the modular lounge suite, its deep suede cushions lush and comforting. The painkillers are starting to run out, I’m throwing them down so quickly. I drink bourbon straight, through a straw, lots, to keep the throbbing down. I find it hard to talk. My jaw has been wired back together with steel and pins and sometimes I feel like the metal is grinding inside my head, scraping against the bone. The skin around my eyes is turning a nasty shade of Technicolor blue and yellow as the black fades out. I try not to look at my face when I take a shower, but I can’t avoid the reflection of my body in the mirror: lean and fragile and full of red cuts, shiny under the hot water running down over the bruises that are so big they appear like squashed purple fruit spattered over me in patches. My right knee, knocked out of its socket, stays wrapped and tender. Jade rubs cream into my bruises, warming it up in her hands, and running it over me softly. I lie back and let her do it. I lie back and think about our next move.