The Crimson Shaw

by Elyse Lortz

  He needed a drink.

  Brendan Keane—Professor Brendan Keane—flung back the bed clothes, refused to stretch away the dull ache in his neck and shoulders, and made a beeline for the amber bottle resting on the dresser. Rather than pouring himself a small dose to sip respectfully, he filled the glass to the brim and tipped the bottom up until the generous slug rushed down his throat. The fire of strong liquor was quickly quelled with familiarity. He repeated the process. Then, more at peace with himself than he had been for several hours, he poured himself a somewhat more moderate third and once more returned to the edge of the mattress. The creaking of springs perfectly correlated with the sluggish churnings of his exhausted mind.

  Three in the morning.

  The casino would still be open. It was always open. But did he really want to go back after last night? He would rather drink himself into a comfortable stupor. It may not be beneficial to his health, but it would be sleep. Sleep. That’s what he needed. Sleep. Keane took a long sip from the glass and closed his eyes. By God, those puritans didn’t know what they were missing.

  Suddenly he leapt forward with new vigor. No, he would go to the casino. He had work to do, and some sentimental longing would not—could not—sway him. If she were in the room then, no doubt she would be shoving him toward the door and cursing up a storm.

  God, he needed to get out of that room.

  IN THE PAST WEEK, BRENDAN Keane had found himself incredibly competent in the game of craps. He had grown to accept the odds balanced upon the dice clasped in his fist. Chips changing sides had somehow become welcome to him. Him: professor of psychology and defender of the human mind. Was he addicted? No. Not yet, anyway. But, after the events of the night before, an addiction—if temporary—would be a welcome distraction.

  Perhaps the endearment for the game came from the fact he had not, in total, lost any money. He had gained it. He could place a hundred on the table and walk away with an amount bordering the two thousand mark. From a single day alone, he could repay the sound total of James’ debt. He could have done that the moment he knew the sinful numbers, but that had never been the problem. Of course, Keane was never above reproach when it came to affairs of the heart. He’d had his loves and his losses. He had even considered marriage on a few occasions. There had been those times when he felt himself a fool for not stationing himself at the altar with some darling girl well-bred in the niceties of society. But then, a man is so often inclined to get set in his own ways or become attached to the independence of bachelorhood. But James? Keane tossed the dice on the table. No, James was a different matter entirely. He thrived on feminine companionship to see him through the night. It was his safety net. It was James’ hope away from the pills.

  “Hi there.” The high purr wavering at his shoulder came with brightly painted fingernails running along his lapel. A glance at the woman was all he needed to confirm she was just like all the other showgirls threading their way through the crowd. They searched out some lucky sap on a winning streak and sponged off some of the rolling dough. If those men weren’t to their taste, there were always a few cads willing to share their bed for a night. “Hi.” She whispered again, edging closer against his side. “Buy me a drink?” Keane spun instantly around, forgetting about the dice in his hand until a cigar smoking behemoth wrenched them from his crasp. He wasn’t exactly certain what persuaded him to do it—sentimentality perhaps—that caused him to lead the woman over to the bar. He waited for her to be served some intricate cocktail before putting in his own order of scotch and water. When the glass appeared at his hand, he took in the feminine figure flaunting itself before him.

  She was older than Lawrence by a considerable margin, but an exact estimate was muddled by the thick lipstick and eyeshadow smeared over her face. He sipped his drink. The scotch was adequate, but nothing so satisfying as a cold glass of whiskey enjoyed in the disciplined buzz of a pub along the Irish coastline, such as he had revisited just months prior.

  The wonder was bright in her eyes as she surveyed the unique selection of characters. The way she tried to hide her curiosity behind half a pint of stout.

  “So, you new around here?” Keane jerked his head away from the swirling liquor and peered down at the woman next to him. Her dark hair was carefully curled around her heart-shaped face. He shook his head.

  “I started coming here a little over a week ago. Take from that what you will.”

  “Only a week? You’re awful good at the table.”

  “Pure luck.” The woman smiled and inched closer to him, her hand mere inches from his chest.

  That self-satisfied grin on her face as she plucked on about a new subject. That had never been luck, her imagination. Certainly not. That was pure talent.

  “Most guys don’t come unless they brought their girls with them. Then again, there are plenty of those already here. Like taking a bag of rice to China. I’m Ruby, by the way. What’s your name?” Keane ran his finger along the side of his glass.

  “Leslie. Leslie McCormic.” The woman wrinkled her nose in a way that could be described as nothing else but abnormally feminine.

  “That’s a funny name.”

  “Not if you were born with it. My middle name is John, if that is any consolation.” In truth, it was not his middle name. John had been his father, and, from what he remembered of him, the name was hardly an improvement in dignity. Ruby; however, seemed satisfied with the explanation of his name as a whole unit and gradually moved on to just separate portions.

  “I like the name McCormic. Makes me think of a real strong man just waiting to sweep a girl like me off her feet.” Keane did his best not to laugh. By God, where were these sorts of girls in the war?

  “Is that so?”

  “Golly, yes. Why, gosh, it makes me tingly all over. But in a good way. Not like Mickey. You’re more good looking than he is, the bald buffalo. That man sure knows how to throw a party, though.” Ah. Now the rusted gears were starting to turn—tenetively—in his direction. Keane leaned against the bar, bowing his head ever so slightly as he took another sip of his scotch. And, by God, he could swear that the liquor was getting better by the second. He took another sip.

  “I can’t say I’ve ever been to one of his parties. But then, if he owns all this, they must be quite an event.”

  “Oh, sure. You should see what else he owns; diner clubs, jewelry stores, you name it. But Mickey’s parties are just a smash. Bertie—a close, intimate friend of mine—got so drunk last time that Sam had to cart her home in his new car. Even Ellen Nelson—an old preacher’s daughter, ya know—had to get bailed out of the slammer for running around the city buck naked after smoking one of Blind Benny’s cigarettes. Though, between us friends, I don’t think it was straight tobacco that made her swing on that chandelier. I mean, golly, I wouldn’t go streaking past all those strangers just after a normal cigarette. Would you? Course you wouldn’t. Oh, and then there was Helen Hewitt—we call her Helen Halfwit cause she’s so gawdawful dumb—and Billy and Sid and . . . ” The list was never ending, a testament to the degradation of modern society. Even so, Keane found it hardly necessary to conceal his disinterest in the many names on account, for the characters themselves were so ridiculously unique he could not help but find them interesting. However, when Ruby at last rose from the waters of civilization in dire need of breath, he pounced.

  “And your Mickey is at these occasions?”

  “Gosh, yes. Every Saturday. Would be a whole bag of shit—the party, that is—if he wasn’t. But he doesn’t have ‘em at his house. Always has them at a friend’s. Why? You wanna come some time?” Keane tipped his head thoughtfully to one side.

  “Perhaps, if I were to get an invitation—”

  “Oh, you don’t need no invite or nothing like that. Guy Brooks just gotta give you the okay. He’s over there playing cards, if ya wanna talk to him. Tell him I sent you. I’d go with you, but Guy and me ain't exactly on speaking terms, the son of a bitch.” Keane dow
ned the remainder of his scotch. (My, how good it tasted as it slipped down his throat.) A quick nod to Ruby was all he needed before he strode eagerly off toward a handful of men bent over their cards; smoking an endless supply of expensive cigarettes and cheap, fat cigars. It was not difficult to distinguish Ruby’s former lover from the others. His sharp facial features were deterred somewhat by a trim mustache, but there was no uncertainty to him. He glanced up at Keane as he approached, but that was all. A glance. A decision. A single look that would determine whether the unoccupied seat across the table was empty or momentarily abandoned by another man, who would no doubt be conveniently absent for the entire day. Keane did not wait for a verdict.

  He sat.

  The reaction was lethal: thick, scarred hands diving into pockets that immediately inched upward. Guy Brooks hardly glanced up from his cards as he spoke.

  “Put your hands on the table and the boys might just decide not to pump your gut full of lead. That’s right. Now turn them over. Good. Alright boys, lay off, but don’t make any sudden moves, Mister. See, these men are like hound dogs; jumpy. If you don’t want bullets in your groin—”

  “I understand.” Keane interrupted flatley. “However, Ruby did not send me to be shot.”

  “Ruby sent you?” The man’s eyes shifted up from his cards. Ah. There is nothing like a familiar female to gain a man’s attention.

  “Yes. She said I needed your approval to enter Mr. Cohen’s.” The professor set his forearms on the table, leaning forward until his roman nose lingered somewhere above his intertwined fingers. His thin lips had been expertly set into the firmest, most commanding form of a smile. He had seen it himself on a few occasions by men being dragged off toward a firing squad; daring them to find the courage to shoot. But no handguns exploded through suit pockets, and Keane was still sitting by his own power when the man across the table gave his own predatory leer and laid down his cards.

  “So you want to go to Mickey’s? You know, some of them who goes ain’t ever come back out.”

  “Quite. And if I were a child, I might manage a flinch.” The daring words hung in the air for an excruciating moment before Guy Brooks let out a low growl of laughter.

  “Ya’ know, I might just like you. Tell ya what. You and me, we play a nice game of poker. One round. If you win, you get to come to old Mickey’s.”

  “And if I lose?”

  “If you lose, you pay me an even ten thousand and that wristwatch you’re wearing. Would make a nice gift for some friend pushing up the daisies, ya know.” Keane sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

  “How about fifteen thousand, without the watch?”

  “No cigar. Either the watch is in or the party is out. Got it? Now, if you ain’t gonna put that piece of gold on the table, I’d leave now before Ricco here gets antsy with his trigger finger.” Keane unfolded his arms and carefully undid the watch’s thin clasp; reverently laying the piece on the table’s dark felt. That done, he intertwined his hands neatly before him.

  “Will we be using those cards, or shall we get another deck?” The man across the table grinned; placing his neat stack of cards further toward the table’s center.

  “Why get another deck when I’ve got a perfectly good one right here?”

  “When I play for high stakes, I like to be certain the odds are even between both parties. Get another deck. And I will check both yours and the new one before a dealer shuffles.” Guy Brooks’ smile faltered slightly, but that did not deter him from sending one of the other men after a dealer and another deck of cards.

  All fifty-two cards seemed unmarked; no gravy stains or little tears or creases in the corners. This deck—though identical to Guy’s—looked new, as though just purchased that morning. Or was it close to afternoon? Did it matter? Keane rifled through each rectangle with special attention to the aces. In long, clean motions, he had lined all four of the little devils on the table, running his long fingers over each edge and side. In the ancient mythology of the Greeks, there had been three old fates to weave the tapestry of human life. But here there were four to either raise him up to heaven or damn him to the pits of hell. Four paper fates leering up at him as he replaced them one by one into the enormous pile and mixed them in with the others. The dealer—a nervous young man with a twitch in his right leg—slowly shuffled the cards; pausing only to allow a passerby to cut the deck before continuing with the ritual. At last the time had come. Keane leaned back and tugged at the tailored edge of his shirtsleeve just above where the wristwatch—his wristwatch—had been clasped. When each of the two men had been properly dealt, the younger swept up his cards, checked them, and casually laid them face down again with a nod toward his opponent.

  “You’re out of your league, old man. Better shove over that ten grand and gold now, cause there ain’t no way you’ve got something better.” Keane too laid his cards to rest, leaning over them with an expression attributed to the wake of a fine jest.

  “Isn’t there? Well, if that’s how it is, you wouldn’t mind making the stakes a bit more equal, now would you? I’d say five thousand ought to do it.”

  “Five thousand?” The man scoffed. “You’re bluffing.”

  “Then match the bet. I have over twice that amount laying out in front of me. And you did say my hand couldn’t possibly overpower yours. Of course, if you don’t wish to match, I could easily make it even another way.” Keane wrapped his fingers around the gold band of his wristwatch and tugged it away from the table’s center by a fraction. When that caused no reaction, he strengthened his hold and pulled it back to his side and made to clasp it once more over his wrist when the rustling of paper bills stopped him. Ten, crisp, five hundred dollar bills inched forward across the felt surface, and the gold wristwatch was unceremoniously dropped once more in the middle of the table. What confidence was lost in the heated exchange disappeared as the other gambler turned his cards over, one at a time, revealing three eights and two fours.

  A full house.

  Guy Brooks instinctively reached his hand out toward the heavily laden pot, but Keane—ever the thespian—had already begun to lay his own cards face up. A jack and one . . . two . . . thre . . . four aces. The young man’s face fell to an ashen white before slamming his fists onto the table, demanding the deck be counted.

  There were fifty-two.

  Again the supposed victim attacked the table, knocking both the used and original decks together until the entire corner of the casino was littered with playing cards. Even if it could have been guaranteed that no card had fallen into some nook or cranny undetectable by human eyes, the havok exploding over the table would have ruined all chances of ever again accounting for all one hundred four cards of the combined madness. It was in this chaos Keane clasped his watch back into place, swept up his winnings, and left the casino; shoving the hefty bills into his pocket besides his five original cards: a seven, a king, a four, an eight, and one very lovely queen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  KEANE FOUND A LONG—THOUGH late—breakfast, washed down with several cups of smoldering coffee, could dissipate the symptoms of an exhausted mind, as well as body. The diner was not nearly as competent as Mrs. McCarthy, nor was the food to the same caliber. It had been three days now since he had enjoyed a proper night’s sleep. Four nights and three days. His head felt increasingly sluggish, with only a minor jolt of stimulation as he forced another cup of coffee down his throat. The gears, corroded through long hours of use, gradually began to creak into motion; stuttering momentarily with the thought of having to endure the party that night, and, no doubt, well into the morning. At least his insomnia would be put to good use.

  Keane slammed down the empty cup, placing his paid bill and a sizable tip beside it. There was no use in going back to the hotel, but he gave the taxi driver some vague instructions in that general direction all the same. As he sank back against the seats, he became all too aware that the dull ache, which had planted itself in his bad
shoulder sometime that morning, had flared through his muscles; pausing in the center of his back. His eyes too felt a strike was suddenly necessary. The optical muscles stabbed into his weary skull relentlessly until he had staggered up the stairs to his hotel room and drawn all the curtains tight against the light.

  Damn.

  When had there been so many windows?

  By the time Keane had called down for some strong liquor and reclined against the chaise lounge along one wall, he could have sworn one of Lawrence’s baseball friends had spent the past hour swinging a bat into his back. Every inch of his body was sore, throbbing in pain, or about to buckle from exhaustion. The alcohol did little to alleviate any of these, but it did give him some sense of lost dignity.

  Dignity. Always dignity.

  Damn dignity. He was going to bed. At least there he would be able to endure the inconvenience of age and war wounds without feeling like some pitiful old man. Yes, he consoled himself as he undid the knot in his necktie, he was tired—overly tired. That was his problem. That was the only problem. He wasn’t old enough to be feeling decrepit. After all, he had only just turned fifty-four, and that was most certainly not old enough to allow his aching form to control every aspect of his life.

  Dignity. Always dignity.

  Keane chuckled dryly to himself. What had his father ever known about dignity? More to the point, what had he known about growing old? He had at least died in the best of health, while his son was now cursed to endure—not so much as the spoils of age—but the incompetence of the world. A world that, twice in his fifty-four years, was unable to find some peaceful solution to their differences. Keane toed off his shoes and laid back against the bed; the soft whisper of springs welcoming his tired body.

  Dignity?

  What the hell did the world know about dignity? What did anyone know about dignity? The only other person who even thought about the term was—