The Best of Lucius Shepard (108 page)

“Yes
sir,” Pellerin said expansively. “You might have whupped a bunch of Leroys and
Jim Bobs down in Tunica, but this here’s a different world, Frank.”

Ruddle
stood and, walking stiffly, left the room. Some of the other gamblers followed
him, doubtless to commiserate over the bad beat. Kim called for a short break,
and Billy stepped over to me and whispered, “What’s he doing?”

“I’ll
find out,” I said.

Billy’s
nose was an inch from my face—I could smell his breath mints. “I want the
bastard to suffer! You tell him that!”

He
went to join the commiserators. I pulled Pellerin aside and told him Billy was
upset.

“He’ll
get his pound of flesh,” said Pellerin. “This’ll make it easier to manage the
game. Ruddle will play tight for a while, and that gives me time to clear out
the garbage.”

“Don’t
do anything stupid,” I whispered. “The guy in the camel blazer’s a hired
killer. I know him from New Orleans. Alan Goess.”

“Is
he? No lie?” His eyes flicked toward Goess and he smiled. “Hey, guy!” he said
to Goess. “How they hanging?”

For
a split second, the real Alan Goess came out from behind his rattlesnake
deadboy guise, and I got a hint of his underlying madness; then the curtain
closed and he said, “I’m doing well. So are you, from the looks of things.”

“Looks
can be deceiving,” said Pellerin. “Yea, I am a troubled soul, but a firm
believer in the Light and the Resurrection. How about yourself ?”

“‘
Fraid not,” said Goess. “I’ve never yet seen anyone come back.”

“You
just think you haven’t,” Pellerin said, and would have said more, but I hustled
him out of the room and told him not to screw around with Goess.

“I
got it under control, boss,” he said. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

In
the living room, Billy was having a chat with Carl, and Buster had cornered Jo.
The other players were huddled up around Ruddle, patting him on the back,
saying that Pellerin had been lucky, encouraging him to get back in the game. I
gazed out the window toward the
Mystery Girl,
floating serene and white
under the dock lights, impossibly distant.

Ruddle
had had more chips than Pellerin, so the beat hadn’t wiped him out; but he
didn’t have enough left to compete and he made a second buy-in of a
quarter-million. The game resumed, albeit with a less convivial atmosphere. The
room, small already, seemed to have shrunk, and the men sat hunched and quietly
tense under the hanging lamp. Conversation was at a minimum ... except for
Pellerin. He drank heavily and whenever he won a pot he’d offer up a
disparaging comment, engaging the ire of one and all. After taking forty grand
off Buster, he said, “Where’d you learn poker, old son? From some guy named
Puddin’ in the jock dorm?”

Buster
said, “Why don’t you shut up and play cards?”

This
notion was seconded by some of the others.

“In
case you didn’t notice, I’m playing cards,” said Pellerin. “Damned if I can
figure out what you’re playing.”

When
Buster won a pot at his expense, Pellerin said, “Jesus must love a hillbilly
fool.”

I
had to admire Pellerin. Though he had a distinct advantage in the game, it took
great skill to manipulate the fortunes of six other poker players. Ruddle
gradually built his stack, winning back the majority of the chips he had lost.
His mood grew sunnier and he began to joke around with the table, but when
involved in a hand with Pellerin, he was barely civil, speaking brusquely if at
all. By one o’clock, two lesser players had been driven out and another was
teetering on the brink, down a quarter of a million, pushing in antes and
mucking his cards hand after hand. At three-thirty, Buster decided to cut his
losses and withdrew.

“Thanks
for the contribution, Busted ... I mean, Buster,” said Pellerin, grinning
hugely. “We going to miss you, sure enough.”

Kim
called for another break and everyone made for a buffet that had been set up in
the living room. Billy gave me a thumbs-up before heading over to the food.
Standing apart from the rest, I told Jo about Goess and said that we had better
do something soon or else I didn’t like our chances.

“I
thought we were going to wait until the last minute,” she said.

“Far
as I can see, this is the last minute.”

She
seemed amazingly calm. “I have go to the restroom. Just wait, okay? Don’t do
anything.”

I
watched her cross the living room, her long legs working the dress, hips
rolling under the silky fabric, and then went back into the card room, where
Pellerin was playing with his chips.

“If
you’ve got something in mind,” I said, “now might be the time to try it.”

“Right
now?”

“Whenever
you see an opening.”

He
nodded. “All right. Y’all be ready. I’ll give you a warning beforehand.” He
picked up a stack of chips and let them dribble through his fingers. “Life
ain’t never as sweet as it appears,” he said.

“What’s
that supposed to mean?”

“Just
my personal philosophy.”

“Fuck
a bunch of personal philosophy. Get your mind right! Okay? When it comes time,
I’ll handle Goess.”

“You
take care of Billy. Leave Goess to me.”

“You
think you up to it?”

“It’s
a done deal,” he said.

“What
are you going to do?”

He
spread the deck of cards face-up on the table and started nudging out the
painted cards with the tip of his forefinger.

“Tell
me!” I said.

“I
believe I may to have to violate his personal space,” said Pellerin.

I
would have inquired of him further, but people began to wander back into the
card room, carrying plates of food. Ruddle, Kim, and Carl took their places at
the table. Jo patted my arm and gave me a steady look that said everything’s
okay, but it was not okay and she knew it ... unless she had slipped gears and
gone to Jesus. Billy, Goess, and a straggler came in. I sought to make eye
contact with Billy, but he stared straight ahead. The game resumed
three-handed, with Carl winning a decent pot. Pellerin made his bets blind, not
bothering to check his cards, tossing in chips until after the flop, and then
folding. As Kim was about to deal a second hand, he stood up and said,
“Gentlemen. And ladies. Before we begin what promises to be an exhilarating
conclusion to the evening, I’d like to propose a toast.”

He
lifted his glass. With his left hand, I noticed. His right hand was afflicted
with a palsy, the fingers making movements that, though they were spasmodic, at
the same time seemed strangely deft.

“Frank,”
Pellerin went on. “You have my deepest gratitude for hosting this lovely
occasion. I’d love to stick around and pluck your feathers, but ... duty calls.
I want to thank you all for being so patient with my abusive personality.
Which, I should say, is not entirely my own. It comes to you courtesy of the
folks at Darden, where your good health is our good business.”

“Are
you through?” Ruddle asked.

“In
a minute.” Pellerin’s voice acquired a sarcastic veneer. “To Miz Jocundra
Verret. For her ceaseless and unyielding devotion. You’ll always be my precious
sunflower. And to Jack Lamb, who—sad to say—is probably the closest thing to a
friend I have in this world. What are friends for if not to fuck over each
other? Huh, Jack?”

“Sit
your ass down,” said Carl. “You’re drunk.”

“True
enough.” Pellerin gestured with his glass, sloshing liquor across the table.
“But I’m not done yet.”

Billy
gave a squawk and leaped from his chair, backing away from Goess. I leaned
forward and had a look. Goess’s eyes bulged, his hands gripped the arms of the
chair, his face was red, glistening with sweat, and his neck was corded. He
began to shake, as if in the grip of a convulsion.

“To
Mister Alan Goess, who’s about to burst into flames!” Pellerin raised his glass
high. “And let’s not forget Billy Pitch, at whose behest I came here tonight. I
hear you like those reality shows, Billy. Are you digging on this one?”

The
Cuban bartender had seen enough—he ran from the room. Buster started toward
Goess, perhaps thinking he could render assistance, and Pellerin said, “Y’all
keep back, now. Combustion’s liable to be sudden. Truth is, I suspect he’s
already dead.”

“It’s
a trick,” said Carl. “The guy’s faking it.”

Pellerin
whipped off his sunglasses. “What you think, Tubby? Am I faking this, too?”

Green
flashes were plainly visible in his eyes.

Ruddle
threw himself back from the table. “Jesus!”

“Not
hardly.” Pellerin laughed. “You folks familiar with voodoo? No? Better prepare
yourself, then. Because voodoo is most definitely in the house.”

Everyone
in the room was frozen for a long moment, their attention divided between Goess
and Pellerin. Goess’s skin blistered, the blisters bursting, leaking a clear
serum, and then there came a soft
whumpf,
a big pillowy sound, and he
began to burn. Pale yellow flames wreathed his body, licking up and releasing
an oily smoke. I smelled him cooking. Kim screamed, and people were shouting,
crowding together in the doorway, seeking to escape. Billy dipped a hand into
his voluminous hip pocket. I grabbed his shoulder, spun him about, and drove my
fist into his prunish face, knocking him into a trophy case, shattering the
glass. His mouth was bleeding, his scalp was lacerated, but he was still
conscious, still trying to extricate something from his pocket. I kicked him in
the gut, again in the head, and bent over his inert body, fumbled in the pocket
and removed a switchblade and a platinum-and-diamond money clip that pinched a
thick fold of bills. The clip was probably worth more than the bills. With
millions resting in Ruddle’s vault, I felt stupid mugging him for chump change.
Jo’s hands fluttered about my face. She said something about listening to
reason, about waiting, but I was too adrenalized to listen and too anxious to
wait. I gave Billy a couple of more kicks that wedged him under the wreckage of
the trophy case, and then, shoving Jo ahead of me, glancing back at Goess, who
sat sedately now, blackening in the midst of his pyre, I went out into the
living room.

Ruddle’s
security was nowhere to be seen, but Ruddle, Kim, and the rest were bunched
together against the picture window, their egress blocked by tracks of
waist-high flame that crisscrossed the blue carpet, dividing the room into
dozens of neat diamond-shaped sections. It was designer arson, the fire laid
out in such a precise pattern it could have been the work of a performance
artist with a gift for pyrotechnics. Beside a burning sofa from which smoke
billowed, Pellerin appeared to be orchestrating the flames, conducting their
swift, uncanny progress with clever movements of his fingers, sending trains of
fire scooting across the floor, adding to his design. I recalled the scorch
mark on his bedroom wall. Along with everyone else in this lunatic circumstance,
Pellerin had been holding something back. I thought if you could see the
entirety of the pattern he was creating, it would be identical to one of the
veves
he had sketched on the napkin that day by the pool. I maneuvered as close to
him as I dared and shouted his name. He ignored me, continuing to paint his
masterpiece. The fire crackled, snacking on the rug, gnawing on the furniture,
yet the noise wasn’t sufficiently loud to drown out the cries of Ruddle and his
guests. Some were egging on Buster and another guy, who were preparing to pick
up a sofa and ram it against the window. I shouted again—again Pellerin ignored
me. Bursts of small arms fire, like popcorn popping, sounded from the front of
the house.

Billy’s
people, I told myself.