Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (31 page)

Finally he turned toward the house and began the walk back. The house blazed with light, the long windows laying their golden rectangles on the grass. A strange sensation gripped him as he sighted the first star of the evening above the inky pines.

His nerves felt raw, as if they had been exposed to a cold wind. Jamie couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so unprotected.

It annoyed him as he realized just what it was. He felt vulnerable.

WITH A SIGH OF RELIEF, CASEY LOCKED THE DOOR of the youth center behind him. It had been a long day of it. He’d had no less than eight boys come through, looking for food, advice, cash. One of the little beggars had pulled a knife on him and demanded all his money. Casey had merely raised an eyebrow and slapped the knife out of the boy’s hand, after which the child became intensely apologetic. Still, that sort of thing tensed a man up. He was of a mind to go for a wee walk, complemented by a wee drink, before coming back to the cramped quarters they called home. Pamela was off with Sylvie until late evening, so she wouldn’t miss him.

He walked eastwards, toward the city center, flipping his collar up to keep the rain off. Ground fog rose from the streets, mist clinging to the air as the rain drizzled down. The city, in the waning light, looked bleak and depressing.

It was, he knew, prime fodder for all the media that flew in and out for their sound bites, their shots from the top of the Europa Hotel. On camera Belfast looked like a mean little town, its bleak terraced housing more reminiscent of Dickens than Yeats. Admittedly, it looked different to him as well, after his time in America. Smaller somehow, when it had once been the breadth of his world. The worn doorsteps and narrow laneways had taken on an appearance of shabbiness in his absence and even the evening mist couldn’t soften the harsh rubble and distrustful faces.

Only so much could be blamed on this unofficial war, for he knew that long before the troubles began, Belfast was in decline. The demand for her goods—the ships she’d built, the linen she’d woven—had diminished, turning Belfast into an industrial slum for workers without prospects. It was an old city full of old houses, extinguished dreams, and roads not taken.

What
was
new were the military posts, the observation towers, the reinforced RUC stations that looked like jungle outposts, draped as they were in netting, surrounded by wire and guarded by young, pink-cheeked English boys. His city was now as weighted with trouble as it was shy on resources.

Turning off the corner of Fountain Street and onto the top of Commercial he saw a young boy struggling with someone who remained invisible inside a white car. The boy was half in the car, feet coming off the pavement when Casey started to run. The child was yelling something that sounded fairly obscene, but he was obviously terrified, long stork-like legs flailing ineffectually in an effort to wrest himself from his would be abductor.

The car was starting a slow roll, the boy in almost to his knees when Casey got to him and reached in, grabbing the boy around the waist. Putting his other hand on his jacket collar, he yanked him out. The movement knocked them both flat on their backs as the car squealed away in sudden haste.

Casey lay stunned for a moment. He’d caught the back of the boy’s head full in his face. His lip was bleeding and red stars were dancing merrily in the air, compliments of the hot pain in his nose.

“Are ye alright, lad?” Casey asked as the boy rolled off him, one hand clutched to his head, the other pushing himself off the pavement.

“Ya, no thanks to youse I’m sure. What the feck did ye think ye were up to there?”

Casey sat up, putting a hand to his stinging lip. “Saving yer arse, or were ye wantin’ to go with whoever the hell was in that car?”

“No, but I’d have got away. Didn’t need youse interferin’.”

“Well,” Casey said, voice ripe with sarcasm, “ye’ll forgive me, but ye didn’t look to be managin’ yer escape very well.”

The boy stood now to his full height. In the dim light, Casey could just make out that his shirt was ripped down the front revealing a skinny, hairless chest. He’d put his age at about fourteen, maybe. A baby. He put a hand to his throbbing nose, and gave it a ginger squeeze, bleeding but not broken. Fucking Belfast.

“Did he hurt ye?” Casey asked, getting to his feet and wincing at the sharp pain in his ankle.

The boy glared out from under a loose fringe of ginger hair, one grubby hand rubbing beneath a leaky nose. “Mind yer own feckin’ business next time then, would ye? I can manage meself.”

“Yer welcome,” Casey said, slightly shocked at the child’s hostility.

The boy just shook his head as if to say, ‘ye’ve not a clue’ and then turned on his heel and sprinted off down the dark laneway, ginger hair a small bobbing spot of light that winked out as he turned a corner.

“Jaysus Murphy an’ the little green men,” Casey muttered angrily, the movement causing his lip to bleed afresh. He made his way to the head of the alley and turned back onto the street, needing the drink more than the walk now. There was a place he’d drank often as a lad that was only another block up. Hopefully it hadn’t been bombed or shot up in his absence, as he didn’t feel like traversing much further for his medicine.

It was still there, though parts of the street farther along had taken some recent hits from the look of things. A faded brown sign hung askew on the pitted brick wall, and the heavy oak door was now plated with steel. Other than that it looked like the same hole it had always been. Fucking Belfast, he thought wearily, and opened the door.

The pub was low-roofed and shabby, the long counter worn from countless elbows tucking in for a long night of it. The air reeked of stale Sweet Aftons and spilled drink, but it was warm and dry, and there was ale on tap. Sometimes a man required little else of the universe.

The pub was empty other than a couple of old men at the bar and a table of five snugged at the back, near the gas fire. The two old-timers at the bar were silent; glum faces hanging over their half-empty glasses, they’d barely glanced up at his entrance. Regulars then. The men in the corner were an oddly lot, two on the smallish side, one with a face hidden under his cloth cap, the other missing two fingers from the first joint on his left hand. Another with the face of a priest, but he recognized him as Sweet Bill, a down-on-his-luck bookie. The fourth man was the one who’d drawn his glance though. He was a big lad with a shock of glossy brown hair, and a pair of blue eyes that sliced through the wreath of smoke about their table.

The man had taken his measure as soon as he’d come in the door. Casey didn’t take offence; a lifetime of assessing every room he walked into for unfriendlies had accustomed him to being given the once over himself.

“Thanks,” he said as the publican set his Guinness on the bar. The barman nodded, then slid his watery blue eyes back to the flickering telly that burbled to itself in a corner behind the counter.

Casey took a long swallow of his drink, then turned on the rickety stool to watch the game in progress. They were playing poker—five card draw from the look of it. The man with the cloth cap had just thrown down his cards with a sound of disgust and stood, saying he was done for the night. Casey smiled, the drink had rinsed the day’s sour taste from his tongue and he was in the mood for a bit of fun.

He waited until the capped man left, before he stood and walked over to the table. The men looked up at his approach, but he knew it was the blue-eyed man he’d need to address. He fixed him with his most genial smile.

“I see ye’ve an empty chair,” he said. “Will ye mind if I take it?”

The big man looked up, fixing him with a cold blue glare. “Are ye askin’ to play?”

“An’ if I am?” Casey said, returning the blue glare with a very black one.

“Then ye’d best take the plug out an’ sit down,” the man responded, though his tone was still frigid.

Casey took the chair, which was directly across the table from the blue-eyed man. He nodded to the other men, who returned his greeting with grunts and curt nods of their own.

“Name’s Robin Temple,” the man said, dealing Casey in, “what’s yer own?”

“Casey Riordan,” he replied, taking his seat between the old man and the young one who was missing the two fingers. “What are we playin’?”

“Five card draw,” Robin replied coolly, flicking the fifth card onto Casey’s stack. Casey waited until everyone else had picked up their cards, before touching his own. It was his own bit of superstition, like wearing certain socks on game days had been back when he’d played team rugby. It also gave him time to assess the other player’s tells, expressions on their faces, sniffing, tapping fingers, etc. Most people had them, and sure enough the men around him began fidgeting. Right off he knew the two-fingered boy thought he’d a winning hand, the bookie had nothing, and Robin—well he remained inscrutable, face revealing nothing, cards neatly splayed in a hand that wore a curious looking ring. It was silver and heavy, with the outline of a phoenix, its rising mouth open to swallow a blood red ruby.

“Are ye goin’ to pick up yer hand or not?” Robin asked, voice openly hostile.

“Aye,” Casey replied mildly. He took his time fanning the cards out, arranging them to suit and then smiling about the table. “There, I think I’m ready now.”

Robin smiled suddenly, but the feral parting of lip held no friendliness. Casey had a decent hand, with a good card or two he could likely win, but he’d lose a few, make some blunders, and put the men at their ease. When he did win, he’d make a show of crowing, which would lull them all into thinking he’d not played with men of their caliber before.

As things went they were a fairly easy lot to read. Two Fingers touched the tip of his tongue to his upper lip when he’d more than a pair. The bookie tapped his foot under the table when he thought his luck was on the rise.

Robin won the first round with three nines, Two Fingers trailing him with three eights, the bookie taking third with two pairs and Casey bringing up the rump with a pair of fours.

Casey did modestly well in the next three rounds with two pairs, three of a kind and another set of pairs. He remained amiable throughout, asking the odd novice question.

The deal came back round to Robin on the last game. Casey eyed his hand, three of spades and diamonds, jack, king and ace of hearts. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, furrowing his brow as though stymied by the hand.

In the first throw down he discarded his three of spades and picked up the queen of hearts. His own heart started to speed up a little, though he sighed lightly and gave his head the faintest of shakes. He watched the other discards and based his guesses on what they held accordingly. He was fairly certain that Two Fingers was working on a couple of pairs, a decent hand and often a winning one in other situations, but likely not so lucky for the laddie today. The bookie was going to go out on his turn; he’d no more than a pair and knew it wasn’t going to be enough.

“I’ll take one,” Casey said, throwing down the five he’d been dealt in the last round.

Robin dealt him the final card, his index finger pushing it across the table to Casey, eyes never leaving his face.

“Thank ye,” Casey said politely, waiting until the other man blinked first before turning his attention to the card that lay now under his own hand.

He didn’t pick it up until everyone had been dealt their cards.

“Bets lads?” Robin asked.

The bookie shook his head and put his cards down. Robin threw another fiver onto the pile with a flash of white teeth.

Casey sighed heavily and took the last bit of money he had, if it went higher he’d have to fold. “I’ll see yer fiver an’ raise ye another.”

Robin eyed him speculatively over the top of his own cards, still as stone and, if Casey was any critic of these things, sober as a judge.

“I’ll see yer five,” he said finally, putting a crumpled note on the table that was hopefully the bottom of his own fund. “Gentlemen?”

Two Fingers sighed in disgust and threw his cards down, “That’s me done then.”

It was down to the two of them now. Casey didn’t so much as blink, but merely held Robin’s gaze with his own. Any sign of weakness would be exploited without mercy. He wasn’t about to give Robin an opening.

No one breathed; the tension was high enough to walk clear across. Robin laid his cards down one at a time, clearly enjoying his moment.

On the table lay the five cards of a flush, ace of spades, nine of spades, four of spades followed by another four and nicely rounded off with a ten.

“Now do ye know of many hands that can beat that, gentlemen?” Robin asked, blue eyes gleaming triumphantly.

“I suppose a royal flush would do it,” Casey said mildly and laid his cards on the table. The ten, jack, queen, king, and ace of hearts met three sets of incredulous eyes.

The two-fingered boy slammed his complete fist into the table, causing a cascade of chips to spill onto the floor, “He’s cheated, do ye know the odds of such a thing?”

“About one in two an’ a half million,” Robin said, a reluctant smile playing with the corners of his mouth. “But I know a cheat when I see one, an’ I’d wager a hundred pound the man didn’t cheat. Do ye care to oppose me on that?”

The boy looked up and saw something beyond the lazy smile that cautioned him in his answer.

“No,” he said, “If ye think he didn’t cheat, I’ll take yer word on it.”

“Aye well then
sin sin,
man.”

Wisely the two other men vacated their chairs and, within minutes, the pub as well, leaving the two big men opposite each other at the table.

Robin idly shuffled the cards, narrowing his eyes in assessment of the man across from him. He knocked the cards on the table, placed them face down and toward Casey.

“Double or nothin’?” he asked, dark blue eyes meeting the black of his opponent’s.

“You call it,” Casey said, not so much as blinking.

“Right, kings are high and deuces are wild. Cut.”

Casey obliged, spinning the top half of the deck neatly to one side, and fanning them out in a perfect line.