Phoenix Fire (11 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Carlton's smile slowly faded, replaced by a mask of smoldering anger. The cards of the inanely grinning, obese, sweaty man across from him lay face up on the green felt table, having been placed there card by card in dramatic, gleeful, tedious fashion. Cigar smoke swirled in the air above the table.

Four deuces! Four frigging deuces, the fat man had, while he was holding a full house, kings heavy and tens. Four lousy deuces.

That did it. That wiped him out. He had waited all night for a hand like the full house. Pots was won all evening with pairs and an occasional three of a kind. What ironic, moronic, ridiculous luck! He gets a great hand, the best of anyone all night, and the jackass across from him wins with four deuces.

And, the pot! The pot which he had helped to build with his hefty raises, it was huge. He was so sure that he had the winning hand with his full house. Damn the abominable bad luck. Damn the cards.

Carlton watched the man across the table rake in his winnings and silently fumed. Finally, he lifted his eyes and peered into the corner of the large hotel room. Standing, leaning, against the wall, his arms crossed and a wry smile on his face, there was Frank Danzetti.

There was sweat on Carlton's forehead and on the palms of his hands. He felt flushed and disoriented by too much concentration on cards, bluffs, and booze. He had slept very little lately and he was sure that had to be part of his flushed feeling. He wanted to scream at the grinning baboon in the corner, throw a chair at him, hurt him badly. Another, more sensible, part of him knew that he could never confront Danzetti. Fear would win out over valor.

“You in, Prince?” the new dealer asked with some sharpness of tone.

“No, deal me out this hand,” he answered.

He left his chair and went to the bathroom just off the short hallway near the bedroom. His entire body was a mass of raw nerve ends. He stood for a long time over the water closet, unable to relieve himself. “Damn!” he muttered, “can't even take a leak.” The need was there but the body would not accommodate him. He was just too wound up from all the sitting, the smoke, the alcohol, and the games.

With uncertain fingers he zipped up his fly and went to the wash basin. He stood and looked at his reflection in the wall mirror. His eyes were glazed and void --- “like a dead man's eyes,” he growled to himself. He turned on the cold water and splashed his face generously several times, not caring that the water was falling over his shirt and trousers. His tie was hanging soaked and limpid against his chest.

He toweled off and leaned against the wall. What was he to do next? Another marker with Lupo? Danzetti would be so smug if he went to Lupo for more money. Danzetti was a miserable goon. Lupo's goon. Lupo's all-purpose goon. Damn him all to hell.

Just as Carlton thought of Danzetti, the latter rapped on the bathroom door and yelled, “Hey, Prince, you in there for the night? C'mon! I gotta use the john.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Carlton yelled back, “just a minute.”

Carlton went back to the water closet and relieved himself. The cold water splashes had helped and his liquid expulsion was near orgasmic. He flushed the toilet, took his time as he splashed on more water, took pleasure making Danzetti wait. At least he could enjoy something this evening. Carlton used the bath towel with deliberate daubs and pats. He hoped Danzetti was in agony.

Danzetti rapped again just as Carlton opened the door, brushed roughly by him, uttering some monosyllabic epithets under his breath. Carlton smiled thinly as he stepped out into the short hall. It was a small pleasure to be relished while Carlton contemplated his sad state of affairs.

Carlton went to the small bar in the front corner of the hotel suite and mixed himself a straight Jack Daniels on the rocks. He took it down in two swallows and filled his highball glass again to the top rim. The bourbon burn spread through him, and his mouth puckered involuntarily with each gulp.

The fall of poker chips, tinkling glasses, and muted voices at the green felt table filtered through the smoke in the suite. He stood watching for a few minutes, debated what he should do: leave, or, another marker?

He finished his Jack Daniels and had another, another, yet another, until he became fuzzy and light headed. “Too much too fast,” he mumbled. “Three minutes and I'm half crocked. Gotta slow down.” He looked drearily toward the gaming table where the thick pall of smoke hung overhead, where so much of his money was still in play. He heard the ice banging against the glasses, the voices raising the pot, anxious and impatient. He heard the barely audible music playing in the background.

Carlton's mind suddenly shifted to thoughts of Jenny Mason.

He had some fun with her. Hopefully, his ploys would cause some friction between Jenny and his brother. That was part of the plan, to cause grief for Jason, just some gratuitous grief for his 'holier than thou' do good sibling.

Ah, but there was another part to Carlton's fun and games. The truth was that Jenny Mason had indeed rang his bell. She was lovely of body and there was something magnetic about her, something intangible that made her all the more attractive and desirable. The truth was that he really wanted her, Games and all, saintly brother and all, he really wanted her. He wanted her even more than he thought he wanted her.

Jenny should not have hung up on him. She should not have made her telephone unavailable to him. He had not expected that from her. At first, her hang ups and subsequent no answer had merely amused him. The amusement had turned to anger.

Carlton had another Jack Daniels. In the middle of his pouring Danzetti came out of the bathroom and up to the bar. He had a long stay in the john and he was in a playful mood.

Danzetti leaned on the padded rim of the bar, a phony and sleazy smile pasted on his face. He stared inanely at Carlton and spoke, “I got the room all ready for you now, hot shot. I gave it a little character just for you. Maybe it'll help your luck at the poker table.”

“You're disgusting,” Carlton said a bit too boldly, with just a slight hint of a slur. Danzetti quickly noticed the booze consumption.

“You don't drink any better than you play cards, Prince. What you need is another marker. You would be happy again for maybe an hour or two, and I would own your ass.”

“Danzetti, I don't believe Mr. Lupo pays you to annoy the players. Maybe he should be told of your pushy personality.” Carlton felt the bourbon dancing within his blood and brain, producing what he thought might be a higher awareness.

A player barked from the poker table, “Hey, Prince! You getting back in the game? Your seat's getting cold. The game's not as exciting without your money on the table. You in or out?”

Danzetti smiled again. He knew that Carlton would need to go through him to get back in the game. “What say, big shot? Another marker?”

Carlton did not speak. He drained his new Jack Daniels and returned his own sneering smile. Then, he surprised Danzetti, the other players, and even himself.

With only a brusque wave of his hand, he left the hotel suite.

“Hey, where you going, Prince? It's too early to be quitting ..”

The voice came from the poker table and faded with the closing door.

Chapter Seventeen

The night air felt good on his perspiring body, and he enjoyed the cooling chill it gave him. He looked up into the wide bright sky and slowed his jogging gait, finally stopping. Looking all around he found an odd shaped boulder on which to sit. He needed to take a break.

His breathing was fast and labored when he first sat on the rock, then diminished to a steady cadence. He had run for nearly five miles, something of a record for him. His normal run was three miles. He had gotten away from his running routine the past few weeks and really expected to falter long before now. Somehow, he had passed through that invisible wall that serious runners know about, had gotten his second and third winds, and had surprised himself with the length of his run.

Jason was unable to sleep. His mind had tormented him with thoughts until he had finally despaired of sleeping. The dull monotony of the bed, the tossing and turning, had eventually dictated his decision to run.

As he sat now hunched over on the boulder, his hands on his knees, he nodded and smiled. The smile was self-deprecating, an acknowledgment of his current mindset. He wondered if he might be the only man in the valley out jogging tonight. Although he did not know the precise time he reckoned that it must be near 3:00 AM in the morning. It was not very bright to be out at this time in the world today. The 'night people' were out, the 'slashers' and all the evil doers. He was not concerned so much. There were not too many evil doers in this area of the valley.

The long run had helped him to some extent. The roiling thoughts was not reconciled in any sense, but he felt better. He always felt better after a good run. “Better to face them with,” he mimicked in the silence of the night.

Jason lifted his eyes to the brilliant sky. The stars danced and the planets sat fixed in their destined space spots, beguiling and esoteric. He sat perplexed by what to do about the events strongly exerting themselves into his life.

He wiped his gritty brow on the upper short sleeves of his tee shirt and breathed deeply of the pleasant night air. The smell of orange blossoms was on the early morning breeze. Sounds of crickets and distant cars broke the otherwise exalted stillness. He allowed the thoughts to come.

His beloved Grandma Myrena was dying, and he was not handling this reality very well. Death was a fact of life, a rather devious positioning of words, he mused. Grandma Myrena had lived a full and rich life. Why could he not accept the fact of her impending death with less anxiety? Because she was bigger to him than life. In some ambiguous way he thought her indomitable and enduring. It seemed strange to him now that he had never really considered her death, not in all the years. Yes, that was weird, particularly with death all around. Perhaps it was a subconscious convenience for him not to consider her death.

Grandma Myrena was, after all, his entire world for all the years after his parents was killed in that fateful traffic accident. She was there for him, to encourage and to applaud his achievements. He had become so much more dependent upon her than he ever realized. The inevitability of it all overwhelmed him. He felt wimpy in his preoccupation with Grandma Myrena, his rather childish denial of a natural process.

His brother was another kind of reality. Jason wondered what he could have done differently over the years to have made their sibling relationship more compatible, more caring, and more important to them both. There was a time when they had seemed so close, there in those young days of hikes, camping, Cowboys and Indians; there in the high desert where they so often went. They had lost that sibling closeness and Jason was unable to determine which of them was more to blame.

Carlton had an apparent hostility toward Grandma Myrena and Jason, and, if totally honest, there was a certain validity to that point. Looking back over the years, it was Jason who received the most attention, the most praise, the most love. Was that Jason's fault? The same uplifting emotions was there for Carlton, too, if only he had accepted them. It was Carlton who had continually pushed Grandpa John and Grandma Myrena away from him. He had pushed so much that they eventually began to feel a reluctance to try for closeness with him.

So, yes, Jason was the fortunate and happy recipient of love and praise. He never took advantage of that love and praise. However, now, in this unrelenting thought process, he somehow felt guilty, felt that he had unwittingly deprived Carlton part of his rightful emotional due.

Jason rose from the boulder and began the slow walk back to his house.

Forget guilt, he thought. Forget all of those elaborate concessions of the mind. Forget the assessing of blame. Forget the bitterness.

The fact was that Carlton had a problem, a very serious and no doubt complicated crisis. What could he do to help Carlton? He was the brother and, despite all the irritation, he loved him and cared about his life. He would talk to him, try to reason with him, help him to see the potentially tragic outcomes of his actions.

Even as Jason considered this option he knew what the result would be. Carlton would sneer and play his mind games. This would result in Jason becoming angry, blowing up, stomping away, and really doing nothing but exacerbating the problem.

He must try, though, to help his brother.

The remote idea of physically confronting Carlton came and went fleetingly. That was not an option. Although he might feel at times like taking swings at his brother he knew that brutish action seldom solved a problem. Besides, Jason was not a physical and confrontational type of person. Other than a few elementary school playground wrestling matches, Jason had never had a real fight. It was stupid, irrational, and certainly did not get to the core of any problem.

Jason would leave it at talking to Carlton. He told Grandma Myrena that he would try. Through his pessimism he would try. First thing in the morning he would call Carlton. No, he would not call him. He would go to Carlton's office. There would be no hiding behind the telephone. Jason needed to be in front of Carlton when he tried to reason with him. He owed his Grandma Myrena, Carlton, and himself that much.

He walked along the winding park path, feeling oddly relieved that he had reached a decision about Carlton. Of course, it was not a monumental thing. He had known all along that he would talk to Carlton. Still, he felt better now that he had done his rationalizing and decided the time of his meeting with Carlton.

Jason was unmindful of the night sounds and smells all around him. Now, they assaulted his senses. Damp from a recent irrigation, the freshly mowed grass smelled like a field of cut watermelons. The steady drone of crickets made the night seem safe and predictable. Staggered lighting along the path provided ample illumination and increased security. When he reached a bench on the edge of a municipal golf course, he sat again … and thought.

He thought about Jenny, how they had met, their first evening together, the dinner at Grandma Myrena's, their trip to 'Apple Brown Betty.' He knew that he was in love with her, and it remotely bothered him that he had fallen so quickly. That was the way of romance novels and syrupy movies. Yet, he knew. He believed, too, that Jenny was in love with him. If she was not, she was a superb actress or was easily moved to wearing her heart on her sleeve.

Jason had to admit that Carlton's words had bothered him. Despite himself, he had felt a semblance of jealousy when Carlton had told him of lunch with Jenny. He did not want to think of himself as a jealous man. Jealousy was another wasted emotion, serving only to complicate an otherwise orderly life. But, even acknowledging Carlton's propensity for mind games, it had bothered him to think that Jenny would have lunch with him.

He had wanted to see her earlier tonight after leaving Grandma Myrena's house. Although it was late he had tried reaching her, but her phone was busy each time he called. He had tried several times again for an hour and had concluded that her phone was out of order or off the hook. Then, his mind had done some oblique maneuvers on him, building possible scenarios: maybe she was out on a date; maybe she was with Carlton; maybe someone was at her apartment and she had disabled the phone so as not to be disturbed.

Jason had indulged these capricious thoughts until he became angry with himself. It was not at all like him to impair his mind with adolescent and stupid thought behavior. Again, he had reminded himself, there was no commitments made. Jenny was free to see anyone she wished and to do whatever pleased her. So, he was able to replace those unseemly mind matters with other equally disturbing ones.

Now, seated on a park bench in the wee hours of the morning, he accepted without reluctance the fact that he was in love with Jenny. He smiled into the magnificent sky, looking for the moon, finding it full and clear on the western horizon, and silently whispered words that mildly shocked him by their spontaneity: “Will you marry me, Jenny Anne Mason?”

He stood and began walking again. Then he jogged, a simple and serene night's glow upon his face, mixing with a sheen of salty sweat. He conjured up two wispy images, two angelic faces, to hover in front of him on either side of the path. Jenny and Grandma Myrena, smiling at him, conveying their love, converging, merging, becoming one blithely caring beacon to lead him home.