Burn Cards

by Christopher Irvin

  When I finally found sleep, I dreamed that I was sitting at our old dining room table. A small light overheard illuminated the table, but the rest of the room remained hidden. Scratches in the wood marked the five other spots where the gamblers would come to play. Two cards lay on top of each other in front of me, the backs a pattern of dark blues. Curious, I pulled them closer. They felt thin and rough, like the plastic coating had been removed. I lifted the corners, barely enough to see my hand, but instead of remaining stiff and snapping back down, the cards bent back, exposing a pair of diamonds face up, ace high and a two. A scraping sound set my teeth on edge. Doug appeared shirtless across from me at the table in his old wooden chair. His skin was alabaster and his head lolled forward as if someone was holding the strings from above. A card was duct taped to each of his hands. His eyes rolled slowly, back and forth between the cards and me. I tried to speak but I couldn’t find my voice. Three cards spilled onto the table from above the light. They bounced on their edge, flopping momentarily like fish out of water before landing face up. Six, seven, eight. All spades. A bust. I tried to flick my cards away but they stuck to the table, still exposed for the room to see. Another scraping sound to my left. My heart thudded in my chest. Antonio’s drunken head wobbled atop his muscular body, the four and ten of hearts pinned to his chest. I turned back to the table, I couldn’t bear to look at either of them. The fourth card fell to the table, but it remained face down. The sound of high heels on hardwood clacked around the table. The sound started behind Doug, making its way, step by step past Antonio. Goose flesh spread from my spine as I shivered, quickly covering my arms and legs. The darkness hid the source of the sound. The click-clacking stopped behind me. I couldn’t move a muscle. My hands were glued to the table. I felt warmth on the back of my neck and a sweet smell, candy, filled my nose. A woman? Something warm fell across the right side of my neck and shoulder. A hand, no, something bigger—skin to skin, a thigh. It felt so warm. Then the same feeling on the left side of my neck and shoulder. It felt like I was enveloped in a firm pillow. But then the pressure increased. Slowly at first, barely noticeable. Then my head dipped forward and I couldn’t breathe. Air wheezed in and out of my mouth. Doug and Antonio became dead blurs, then faded to black.

  I woke up gasping for air, scrabbling away from the arm of the couch that had pinched my neck. My head pounded and I was soaked with sweat. The sun streamed in through the blinds in the living room. The apartment was warm and muggy, the air conditioner still turned off from when I came home and found Doug. I winced as I stood, stepping in a wet spot left by the ice pack on the floor. One look at the clock drove me into a panic. I’d been asleep for hours. If Antonio had reported the car missing, there was a good chance he’d tell them to go looking for me. I clicked the air conditioning back on and walked to the bathroom to look in the mirror. My face looked like the aftermath of a Halloween party, when you wake up and half the zombie makeup is on your pillow and the rest smeared on your face. The swelling had gone down but the bruising spread to my upper cheek and right eye socket. It hurt to touch but I didn’t think anything was broken.

  I stripped my clothes and started the shower. The tub still held a faint red hue. I tried not to think about Doug but all I could picture was his emaciated form as I washed my own. The blood dripping from his wrists. The bruising from the beatings and the scar. I turned up the temperature, burning away the grime.

  Doug had run, his entire life on loan until the sand became too quick and he could no longer crawl out. He must have known there would be worse things than beatings waiting for him at the bottom of the pit. Because the debt caught up with him, or was it something else?

  When I got out of the shower I’d decided there would be no running. Doug had tainted every facet of my life while he was alive and that sure as hell wasn’t going to continue from the grave. As Antonio had so eloquently put it: Not my problem. Ms. Guzman might have been a mystery, but the image of the Bouncer with his ‘uniform’ turned inside-out was burned into my memory. For my only lead I could have done worse.

  Against my earlier concerns, I took my time getting ready, picking out a new pair of jeans and a button-down shirt. I found an old Reno Aces ball cap and tugged it down low. It would be hot outside but at least I’d look a little different than the night before. I packed a small bag with some extra clothes and wedged Doug’s journal with his borrowing records inside. Loaded up with ibuprofen, I scrounged some change in the kitchen and headed outside. Antonio would have his car back, but first I had to see a lady about a debt.

  12

  Mermaid’s was an old run-down casino on the east edge of town, in no man’s land between Reno and Sparks. It was a hot spot decades ago, when it was first built and before the downtown exploded with activity. The area around the casino had decayed over the years, businesses folding, replaced by fast food joints for the commuters or vacant lots. Somehow, Mermaid’s had outlasted its neighbors, but from the look of things, it was following close behind. Mermaid’s was the size of a small strip mall, the exterior painted somewhere between black and green, the color of mold. The roof and columns framing the front entrance were lined with large light bulbs, half of which were burnt out. The cursive neon sign was dim and flickered, like you were viewing it from across a smoke-filled bar.

  The Mermaid’s front door was situated at the corner of the intersection, but parking was in back so everyone used the rear entrance. Tape was still visible around the outline of a piece of paper that had been torn off, telling people to walk around. I doubted anyone other than regulars visited the joint.

  The lot was maybe a quarter full, if I was being generous. Compared to the building itself, the parking lot looked like it was pulled from a war zone. Any resemblance of paint was long gone and the pavement was warped with spidered cracks the width of my wrist. Old beat-up sedans grouped at odd angles around the handicap parking signs in front offset the rest of the cars that followed. I drove in a quick circle, scoping out the cars before parking in a small cluster on the right side, with a view of the rear double doors.

  Few cars parked near me in the hour that followed, the clientele entering through the back all wearing the same worry lines, drooping eyes and worn hands that gave the four-foot-tall wooden mermaid totem a lucky rub as they opened the creaky doors. There was no sign of the Bouncer, but it was early yet. I’d arrived with the senior citizen dinner crowd.

  Now the fun begins.

  I sat in the car and baked, listening to the radio. I idled the engine every once in a while to run the air conditioning, but I only had a half tank of gas and there could have been serious driving ahead. That and I didn’t need anyone asking questions. The early customers were always regulars and they would notice if something was up.

  Mid-afternoon the Bouncer showed up. He roared into the lot in a red custom two-door sedan, making his own spot near the entrance in front of the handicap parking.

  That’s him, I told myself. The Bouncer gripped the roof and pulled himself out of the car. The carriage wobbled a bit as he stood. He shook out a black-collared shirt and pulled it on over his head. It was the same shirt he had worn to my apartment, just right-side out with the Mermaid’s logo on the left breast.

  “Play it cool, Mirna. Get his routine.” I started the engine, bringing the temperature down inside the car. I took a deep breath and settled back in.

  The Bouncer came out twice within the next hour. Each time he lit up a cigarette, and walked away from the back entrance to the corner of the parking lot that looked like it had been used as a graffiti test kitchen. He sat on the bumper of a rusted passenger van that hadn’t been moved in years, its tires sunk into the asphalt. I hashed out a quick plan.

  I waited fifteen minutes, got out of the car with my purse and walked to the Bouncer’s favorite hangout. A dozen or so butts were strewn on the ground. I lit up and waited. A few minutes later the Bouncer pushed through the door and out under the orange sky. He stretched, letting out a big
yawn and made his way over to me, flicking his lighter as he approached. He looked up at me after digging a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. Between the sun and my hat pulled low he didn’t appear to recognize my face. He nodded to me, shaking a cigarette from the pack and cupping his mitts around it to block the breeze as he lit it.

  “What brings you out here?” he asked with a cough. Then he hawked a big ball of spit on the ground behind him. He’d obviously mastered the art of picking up a woman behind a casino.

  “Waiting for my boyfriend to pick me up. Place was a bit of a drag,” I said, turning to the casino.

  “You were in there? How’d I miss a looker like you?” He stretched his back muscles wide, inflating his chest. His shirt clung tight to his belly.

  I blew out smoke and inhaled it back through my nose, tipping the brim of my hat up so he could get a good look. I saw the recognition in his eyes. His face instantly flushed and the cigarette fell from his fingers. I took a step forward, two fingers pressed against his sternum, pursing as he stumbled back, attempting to regain his personal space.

  “You…” He mumbled, at a loss for words. I wished I’d put the gun in the side of his neck and pushed him into the car. Gotten it over with before either of us had time to think. But if he’d called my bluff it would have been over. I wasn’t about to gun him down in broad daylight.

  “I need to speak with your boss.”

  He looked away, down at the cracked pavement. His shoulders tightened, hands stuffed into his front pockets as if he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. When he spoke his rattled nerves caused his voice to crack.

  “You—you got the money?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, kicking a fist-sized chunk of asphalt loose from the lot. “Then that’s not gonna happen.”

  He shrugged, mumbling about finding work here and there, trying to make ends meet. When he said, “It wasn’t personal,” I slapped him hard across the face. My palm stung, the pain registering before I’d realized what I’d done.

  Without a word, he turned his back on me, lips trembling, headed for the casino.

  I played my sole card.

  “Cops are asking questions. Your face is the only one I know.”

  He glanced back over his shoulder. “Threatening me now?”

  “I’m finding I got a lot of time on my hands. Take me to the bookie and I’ll forget you were involved.”

  He turned back, gave me a once-over.

  “That’s it, huh? Hope you got a plan better than that.”

  The Bouncer followed me to the car, commenting on the nice wheels. The bravado he’d lost in the reveal had returned. When I told him I’d drive he chuckled at the role-reversal and opened the front passenger’s side door. I kept my purse at my feet. I hadn’t shown my full hand, and with the quality of roads around Reno, I wasn’t going to risk accidentally blowing off half his face in traffic.

  He started to speak. I told him to sit still, shut up and stick to the directions. To my surprise, he did, and slumped against the window. I got the feeling this had happened before. Or maybe, since he was used to putting people in my position, he knew what came next. I locked the doors and we sped off.

  We drove back in heavy traffic toward Reno, taking I-80 for miles in silence. When we hit the city limits, my anxiety began to rise.

  “Relax,” he said, “it’s just around the bend.”

  13

  I exited the highway south of Reno and took it slower around the smaller, less crowded streets. The roads saw a steady stream of traffic from the evening commute home. My foot itched to slam the accelerator, rev the engine and tear across the city, but I kept my speed in check. Nerves on edge as they were, I didn’t need any more attention on the stolen Mercedes.

  Oakley Avenue was deep within the winding streets of the Willow Hills subdivision. The large houses were mostly of the cookie-cutter variety, but not quite part of the nineties McMansion explosion. I stopped at the intersection down from the house the Bouncer had pointed out. Brittle trees swayed in the breeze. Most of the grass on the neighboring lawns was dead. Either the owners didn’t care, or the neighborhood had been hit hard by the recession. As Reno was underwater, so too were most of the surrounding suburbs. The lack of cars signaled the latter.

  The street was empty but the driveway in question held two cars parked side by side. I looked for signs of movement. I didn’t see any on either side of the block.

  A driver honked their horn and I jolted against the seatbelt. When I hesitated, they swung around, accelerating through the intersection. A black town car with Florida plates. It passed the house, continuing down to the end of the street. The driver came to a full stop before making a right at the stop sign.

  “Nervous?” The Bouncer grinned. “Pull up near the drive. I need to make a call.”

  He turned the volume down on his phone and dialed a number. A male voice on the other end sounded surprised. After a bit of small talk, the Bouncer told the man he had a visitor. Before going any further, he opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. I shouted at him to wait up but he shut the door, ignoring my plea. By the time I turned the car off and got out with my purse, he’d finished.

  “Guzman’ll see you. Come on.”

  He motioned for me to follow him across the dead grass of the neighbor’s front lawn, through the bushes that lined the house. I pulled the purse over my shoulder and hustled to catch up. My fingers tingled around the bands, feeling the weight, its hidden energy.

  Instead of using the front door, the Bouncer turned and led me around the side of the house. A glow emanating from a small basement window a few feet ahead caught my eye. I kept my shoulder against the siding and continued forward.

  A single bulb burned in the basement, hanging from a beam in the center of the room. Mud splattered the small window obscuring the view. I couldn’t help picture Doug being worked, his insides tenderized over a missed payment.

  The backyard contained a well-kept yard surrounded by a tall picket fence. A cement patio sported a white and yellow striped umbrella, table and chairs, and behind that a sliding glass door.

  “Have a seat,” the Bouncer said, standing off to one side.

  I sat in the seat furthest from the umbrella. The hint of brutality in the basement undermined the picturesque suburban backyard, the weight of my naïveté coming down fast and hard. I slipped the purse from my shoulder, balancing the burden on my knees.

  Movement within the dark house caught my attention. The sliding glass door opened and Guzman stepped onto the patio, followed by a thick, bald-headed man. Even with my heightened mix of anger and anxiety I begrudged her beauty. This was the bookie who swallowed Doug?

  She wore a yellow summer dress tight around her chest and loose fitting below. Her hair was tied back in a long ponytail and her feet bare. Her sunglass frames had a dark leopard pattern around the lenses. The man I took to be her bodyguard was dressed in a black button-down short sleeve shirt and jeans. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, dripping over his brow as soon as he stepped foot on the patio. His eyes were hidden behind black shades. In one hand he held a pitcher of lemonade topped off with ice, and the other a pair of glasses. Guzman sat in the chair under the umbrella, crossing her legs. Her toenails painted with orange polish. The bodyguard poured her a glass of lemonade.

  “Thank you, Damon,” she said.

  Damon set down the pitcher with a nod of his head and before I could react, stepped toward me and ripped the purse from my grasp. My breath caught in my throat. When I tried to push myself up he stuck a hand in my face and said, “Sit.” Suddenly dizzy, I melted back into the chair, gripping the metal arms with all my strength to prevent me from collapsing onto the cement. Damon placed my purse, with the gun inside, on the table next to the pitcher. Guzman touched his forearm, smiled a silent thank you as he retreated to the house where he leaned against the siding in the shade. I stared at the woman in shock. She took a
sip from the glass and cupped her fingers around a knee.

  “Doug Fowler’s girl,” she said. Her words felt like a knife sliding into my gut. For the hell of the past twenty-four hours, I was still just Doug’s daughter. “Do you like?” She gestured towards her freshly painted toes.

  “I hear you work at a salon.” She placed a palm to her chest, covering her cleavage. “My mother slaved as a hairdresser in her youth. On her feet twelve hours a day with me in her belly, hands always covered in this or that chemical. Do you know I’m cold the moment I step out of the sun? Damon doesn’t believe me. Look at him sweating.”

  “I…uh—” For all my planning, there weren’t two words I could string together. My attention flitted between Guzman and the purse.

  “So we have that in common. I saved us time and you the trouble of introducing yourself. Now what was it you wanted?”

  I felt my face burn. Sweat dripped into my left eye and I tried to blink it away. She took off her sunglasses and placed them on the table. Her eyes were fiery almond brown. She eyed me from head to toe, drinking me in. She took another sip of lemonade, running her tongue around the glass. I itched my throat, unable to reach the bone-dry insides.

  “I dunno, Damon. Maybe we should keep her,” she said, raising an eyebrow as if asking me if I’d like to stay. Damon stood silent, sweating in the sun. “Pour our guest a glass.”

  Damon poured a second glass without spilling a drop. I took the drink from him with both hands, gulping down the tart liquid.

  Guzman leaned forward, the sheen of sweat in between her breasts. “I see a bit of Doug in you. The quiet desperation. You have more fire. Doug would stare at the ground and kick the dirt. You offer a challenge.