by M. J. Trow
They had forgiven him, of course. They knew that Mad Max would go through the shredder for each and every one of them.
‘Max,’ Hector said, ‘I can’t tell you how much I envy you Jacquie and Nolan. Even your cat … Talleyrand, is it?’
‘Metternich,’ Maxwell said with a smile. ‘Close, but not quite a cigar.’ The man was a good historian, then, and knew his nineteenth-century European survivors, even if he didn’t have much of a memory for names.
‘Metternich, of course. Even your cat is an amazing animal. He looks as though he understands every word you say.’
‘He’ll be disappointed to hear that,’ Maxwell said. ‘He likes to think he is rather inscrutable. But I will pass on your kind words; he’ll like that. Do you have pets?’ Maxwell knew the answer, but thought it would be polite to at least ask.
‘No, no pets. The condo board don’t really allow pets, although people do have them, of course. Fish. Turtles. One guy had a parrot, but it got to be a bit of a nuisance and since we have parrots flying wild in LA, or just outside it, perhaps I should say, he had to let it go.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t mean he stopped employing it, I mean …’
Maxwell was smiling already. He had a picture in his head of a parrot being given the sack before Hector Gold had finished the sentence. ‘We have parakeets in Sussex, too. In lots of British counties, as a matter of fact.’
‘Doesn’t the cold kill them?’ the American asked. ‘I wouldn’t have thought this snow would suit them too well, poor little fellas.’
‘It probably thins them out a bit,’ Maxwell said, ‘but there have been feral parrots in Britain since Victorian times, so they must manage somehow.’
‘That sounds swell. I’ll maybe take …’ Hector Gold paused. He knew it would not sound at all realistic to suggest that he and Camille would be going out birdwatching, so he changed tack. ‘Do you come from a big family, Max?’
‘Not really. I have a sister, Sandie, and she has two children, but we don’t see each other much. Her husband works abroad a lot – something hush-hush in the Diplomatic Corps – and they only come home once in a while. My parents are both dead; they rode into the sunset years ago. Jacquie has a mother, Betty.’ He crossed his fingers in the air against the Evil One, then laughed. ‘Actually, we get on well enough, but because we are the same age, it would be a surprise if we didn’t.’
‘Yeah,’ Hector said, a blush shading his pale sharp face just slightly. ‘We wondered about that. Second marriage, huh?’
‘Well, yes, but not how you think, probably. My first wife and our little girl, Jenny, died in a car crash a long time ago.’ Maxwell was not often so open with a relative stranger. Dark wet evenings still made his heart ache for his lost family, even now he had Jacquie and Nolan. When the rain lashed at the windows and the Count crossed his legs and thought of England before he would go outdoors, Maxwell found himself checking that Nolan was still asleep in his bed. Some nights he almost wore a groove in the carpet, checking back and forth, but Jacquie said nothing, simply holding him a little tighter when he slid back into bed. He realised he had sat for a few moments without speaking. He cleared his throat and went on. ‘So, yes, a second marriage. A different marriage, but happy. And Nolan is our pride and joy, as you may have spotted.’
‘Gee, yeah. I’d be proud to have a child at all, but one like Nolan would be a special pleasure. A great little man, and like his mother.’ He re-ran the sentence. ‘And you, of course. I didn’t …’
Maxwell laughed. ‘We’re all glad he looks like his mother,’ he agreed. ‘But surely, you haven’t decided not to have children already? Not at your age?’
Hector Gold glanced behind him to check the door was closed, put down his mug and leant forward. ‘Max,’ he said. ‘You’re an intelligent man and I doubt much gets by you. You must see what my life is like.’
Maxwell was disconcerted. That Hector Gold’s family made his life a misery was clear. That he had noticed, he had hoped was a little more opaque. ‘My wife is what they call a “cougar” in the States. She likes younger men and … well, that’s how that happened. She was out to get me and I guess I wasn’t really concentrating.’ He smiled his flash of a smile. ‘That’ll teach me not to pay attention. I met Jeff and Alana after the wedding – we went to Vegas, by the way. Not quite all it’s cracked up to be.’
Maxwell marshalled his received information on Vegas weddings, mostly gleaned from American sitcoms, his secret vice. ‘I’d always assumed that Vegas weddings were really rather tawdry and tasteless,’ he remarked, ‘officiated over by people who got ordained over the net for ten of your Earth dollars.’
‘Yes. As I say, not quite all they’re cracked up to be. So, anyway, we got back home and we moved into her condo. It’s in a nice enough area, but we are pretty much surrounded by singles and so the pool parties and so on tend to go on pretty much 24/7. That’s why Jeff and Alana came with us, so Paul and his family can have their house.’ He managed to say the whole thing with no inflection in his voice at all, but Maxwell detected hidden depths; Hector had these in shoals, unlike his wife, who only had hidden shallows.
‘So, you get on well with Jeff and Alana?’ Maxwell thought he probably knew the answer, but asked out of innate politeness.
Gold snorted and shook his head. ‘Max,’ he said, ‘you are so British, really! No, of course I don’t get on with Jeff and Alana. Well, Alana I might, I suppose, if I had a chance, but when she isn’t drunk she’s so cowed by Jeff and Camille she hardly speaks and when she’s drunk she’s … well, she’s drunk. I guess I’m lucky, really.’
All Maxwell could do was raise an interrogatory eyebrow.
‘She’s a falling-down drunk, not a mean drunk. Jeff’s the mean drunk.’
Maxwell reached forward and touched the man lightly on the knee. It was all part of the Special Relationship. ‘Hec,’ he said. ‘May I phone a friend?’
Gold bridled slightly and said, with frost in his voice, ‘I didn’t know I was keeping you from something else, Max.’
‘No, no, for heaven’s sake, that’s not what I mean at all. It’s just that Sylv is a whizz at all things like this and she could probably help with the address of a meeting, or something, if Alana and Jeff are missing their group.’
‘Elegantly put, Max,’ Hector said. ‘I apologise for snapping. I would like to speak to Sylvia, yes, but Alana doesn’t have any backup. Jeff and Camille refuse to accept she has a problem and what they say goes. Jeff doesn’t have a drink problem as such; he just takes a drink once in a while and it’s no improvement, sadly. No, Jeff’s little problem is gambling.’
Maxwell’s earlier conversation with Jeff O’Malley sprang into sharp focus. ‘Horses, dogs, that sort of thing?’
‘Oh, no,’ Hector smiled. ‘Jeff thinks that betting on sports is a mug’s game. Jeff plays cards.’
‘Serious cards?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Hector said, grimly. ‘To the death, Max. To the death.’
‘Not literally?’ Maxwell’s antennae were waggling madly.
Hector shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not so far as I know. But with Jeff, that means nothing.’ Then he smiled again. ‘Hey, let’s not talk about Jeff. He’s not a good subject for my karma. Say, the sun is shining, the snow is snowing. It’s like old times for me, except that back in Minnesota I used to walk to school in proper footwear! Is there something I can borrow in the lost property cupboard, do you think? I’ve a mind to go for a walk.’
Maxwell was aghast. ‘There’s nothing you’d want in the lost property cupboard, Hector. Trust me.’
The room was very dark, except for a single dim bulb over the table. It was so low that the people hunched around the baize could feel the heat. A pile of money was in the centre and it had been growing steadily over the past fifteen minutes. One by one, the players dropped out until just two were facing each other, cards gripped in hands slippery with tension. Even the non-players, the ones who had folded through lack of funds or
from a sudden rush of common sense to the head, were tense, with fingernails pressed into palms slick with the sweat of excitement turned to disappointment. Some looked longingly at the housekeeping money which made up part of the pile and would never now go through the tills of Messrs Tesco. One was looking at a sunshine break in the Balearics; he could almost smell the suntan oil wafting from the heap.
Balearic man bulged through his clothes. Hours of pumping iron left him edgy and with too much time to think. Here in the pool of light on the baize he could realise some, at least, of those dreams he dreamt as he strained on the weights and sweated in the sauna. Here was sweat of a different kind, the adrenalin surging through him as though he was in front of an Olympic crowd roaring him on to win. But he had the sense to know when he was beaten. He glanced at the girl to his left.
She was leaning forward now, focused, heart thumping like a hammer in her scrawny chest. Balearic man was twice her width but he didn’t have the sharp intensity of concentration that she had. Perhaps she was rooting for the woman still playing, in some bond of sisterhood; perhaps she wanted, as he did, to see the arrogant bitch taken down a peg or two. She licked her lips and looked across to the third folded player.
He sat motionless, his chin resting on his hand. All night long he had been watching the latest addition to their game, the big American whose advent had already seen off three other players; his style was too rich for their blood. Newcomers unnerved him. You couldn’t read them; maybe you could beat them, but not tonight. But he was good at waiting and surely, one day, his turn would come.
Despite the excitement of the game, the pile of money in the middle, they all regretted the old days, somehow. They called them ‘the old days’, but they were only weeks ago. Bowls of crisps on the table. Folded players chatting quietly in a corner while the high rollers played for a pound a point. But the big American had changed all that in what was only slightly more than a syncopated heartbeat, rough with the fear of losing the mortgage money again.
The two players played on, raising each time until the last twenty was in the pile. The man, hulking in the dim light, spread his cards triumphantly out, to low hisses from the others.
‘Straight flush,’ he grated out, already reaching for the pot. ‘King high.’ The diamonds almost seemed to glow and pulse as he fanned the cards back and forth.
‘Coincidence,’ said the woman. She spread her cards, but deliberately, one at a time, putting each one in place with a small click as the pasteboard hit the baize. The other players craned round to see what she had in her hand. They held their breath as her opponent leant up on his hands to see. There was a ten of hearts, followed by a Jack, Queen, King and Ace. ‘Not a perfect coincidence,’ she said quietly. ‘Mine’s a royal flush, of course. But well done, Jeff. Very well done.’
The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the American stood up and grabbed the edge of the table, flinging it over, money flying everywhere. He stormed out of the room, setting the light swinging, and slammed the door. They could hear him thundering down the stairs and then another door slammed. Then silence.
The remaining players stood or sat as he had left them for some minutes. Then, suddenly, they all came to life, crowding round the woman, who had caught most of the money in her lap as the table went over. She looked like a leftover from a Greek wedding. They all picked up the notes and squared them in their hands. Balearic man picked up the table and stood it in front of her.
‘Here, Sarah,’ he said. ‘Use this. To count your winnings.’
‘I know what my winnings are, Tim,’ she said. ‘This is my last game. I’ve had a bad fright, the last few days. I’ve been spending … well, more than I could afford. More than I have, really. I’ve got someone who I owe a big favour to, and I don’t want to let them down. If you lot have any sense, you’ll pack it in as well. Jeff O’Malley has changed us, even in the last week. We used to have fun. We used to talk to each other, put the world to rights. Remember the muffins we used to bring for birthdays? Popcorn? Twenty-pound table limit?’
There were nods and grunts of agreement around the table.
‘Well, I’ve had enough. If any of you want to come back here and play with him again, that’s your affair, but I won’t be here. There’re always people wanting to join. There won’t be a gap for long.’
The only other woman in the room stood back from the table and looked as though she might burst into tears. She had only joined this card school because Sarah had joined and she was in an agony of indecision. She had come up through the ranks of playing the National Lottery, playing bingo online to playing poker online to here. She wasn’t sure whether she could go back to being fixated on the computer day and night but she knew she couldn’t keep on coming here without Sarah Gregson.
‘Sarah,’ she said, trying to keep her voice level, ‘don’t be hasty. I’m sure when you’ve slept on it—’
The teacher raised her head. ‘Sandra,’ she said sharply, as though to a naughty child. ‘I haven’t slept since Jeff O’Malley joined this group and I would love to have one, just one night of sleeping without worry.’ While she was speaking, she was counting the money into piles. Finally she was finished and she looked up. ‘Right, I was spent out, so five hundred of this is mine.’ She pushed the pile to one side. ‘I know O’Malley was spent out as well, so five hundred is his and I think that’s mine as well.’ That pile joined the other. ‘The rest,’ and she waved her hand over the remaining piles, ‘must by definition be yours. I know that Sandra was spent out, so one of those piles is hers.’ There was silence and no one moved. ‘Take it, Sandra. I’m not joking.’ Tentatively, the woman reached out and picked up the money, shoving it into her bag without looking.
One of the men, a short, weaselly-looking creature with glasses mended at the side with Elastoplasts, cleared his throat. ‘I have fifty left, but, honestly, Sarah, I don’t need you to give me the money back. I wouldn’t gamble with what I couldn’t afford to lose.’
She refused to believe that he had money to burn. For a start, who wore glasses mended with plasters if they had enough money? She knew his job didn’t pay very well, though he was cagey about what it was exactly. Rumour had it that he was a traffic warden for the council, but he always denied it. Perhaps if she were a traffic warden, she would deny it too. So she took two twenties and a ten from the top of one pile and pushed the remainder towards him. ‘Even so, Mark. That’s yours, then. And this one,’ she put the notes on top of the last pile, ‘must be yours, Tim. Go on, take it.’
‘You won it fair and square, Sarah,’ he said. ‘I don’t gamble to get my money back as a present.’
‘Tim, don’t come the he-man with me. I know that money is your holiday fund.’ She pushed it to him again.
‘How the hell do you know that?’ he snapped.
‘Because …’ She paused. They all tried to keep their private lives as private as they could, but sometimes poker and reality had to collide. ‘Because I happened to bump into your wife, who happened to tell me that you were probably going to have to cancel your holiday because so many of your colleagues were off sick that you had had your annual leave refused.’
Tim Moreton stepped forward and for a moment Sarah felt quite intimidated. The man was built like a brick privy and until Jeff O’Malley had joined the group had been the hulk at the table. He was a training instructor at the local council-run gym and, or so rumour had had it, had once been a bit of a lad with the women. As he had hit forty his charms had begun to fade as his hairline had retreated, and his extra training sessions with a guaranteed happy ending had brought him in fewer and fewer tips from grateful clients. He could ill afford to lose this money and so, after a suitably macho pause, he took it.
Sarah Gregson pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. ‘Well, I won’t say I’m sorry to be leaving you all, because that would be a lie. But I have enjoyed our Saturdays and Wednesdays over however long it’s been. I’m just sorry that I ever clappe
d eyes on Jeff O’Malley and am just glad that I will never have to see him again. If you are wise, you won’t be here on Wednesday, but I doubt you’ll listen to me. Just remember before you drag some other poor soul into this room to take my place that you should check that they can afford it.’ She turned away and started to collect the glasses on the small counter at the back of the room. Turning her head, she said, ‘Off you all bugger, then. It’s my turn to sort the room out. No need to change that.’
Muttering collective thanks and generic farewells, the three made their way to the door and she was alone. She methodically collected the glasses and empty bottles onto the tray, wiped the counter, tucked the chairs round the table and went over to the door. She turned out the light and took one last look at the room in the faint glow from the street lights coming up the stairs. There had been some good times here, some good friends made and lost – playing cards for money isn’t a good way to keep friends, she had found – but she wasn’t sorry to be going; Jeff O’Malley seemed to hang in the room like a sour fog. Maybe, in the real world out of the pool of light, Tim could drop a weight on his foot, Sandra could feel his collar or at the very least Mark could give him a taste of the Denver Boot. She shuddered and turned to go, pulling the door shut behind her. Her footsteps died away down the stairs and the room settled down to wait for the next time.
As she reached the car park she had no trouble remembering where her car was; it was the only one on the top floor, except for one which had clearly been there for days, with a crisp rectangle of snow still on its roof. The frost sparkled on her windscreen and she watched the twinkling lights out to sea where strange and silent tankers slid through the night waters like ghosts. After she opened the door to get the scraper she turned the key to get the blowers going to warm the inside up. Finally the windows were clear and she walked around the car to get back inside.