Blind Luck (20 page)

“Eighty,” he said, raising his eyes from the sheet.

Thorrin lowered his coffee. “What?”

“Eighty per cent.”

“I see.” Grayson looked at Dave as if watching a poodle that had just bared its fangs. “There you go, I knew you weren’t that boring.”

Thorrin wasn’t as amused. “That’s a sixty-five per cent increase. Sixty-five per cent for someone who’s been nothing but difficult.”

“If I’m the one picking the stock, then I’m the one doing the work, and that’s eighty per cent.”

Thorrin and Grayson shared a look. These were the moments Thorrin waited for. With all the adrenaline, passion and desperation, it was difficult for him to contain his excitement.

“Twenty. I’ll give you twenty, but with the increase comes increased responsibility. As of now, you are responsible for the money I’m willing to spend on a potential stock. If you win, you get your cut. If you lose or if you choose to be stubborn and walk out of here without selecting a stock, then you owe me the money I spent or planned on spending.”

“Let him know how much money you’re talking about,” Grayson said, opening a package of almonds with his teeth.

“Two hundred thousand dollars.”

“And we will collect every penny,” Grayson added.

“I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Then it’s in your best interest not to owe it.”

“What would I have to do to convince you that I’m not lucky?”

“Just pick the stock, Dave.”

“Listen to me. I don’t want to owe you money I can’t pay you.”

“This isn’t negotiable. You know the situation, and you know what you need to do.”

“You’re not listening to me.”

“Stop talking.”

“But…”

“Stop talking.”

The limo turned into the driveway of a mansion and idled for a moment in front of ten-foot tall iron gates as they opened.

The drive to the house was at least twenty yards long and lined by lush trees with branches that cast a shadow over the road. Dave considered the possibility that they were going to murder him before reassuring himself that they wanted too much from him to kill him. The sight of a blue SUV and a maroon Acura in front of the mansion eased his mind a little.

“You’re going to love this,” Thorrin said, exiting the limo.

As Thorrin lead the way up a flagstone path, the mansion’s front doors opened, and Senthur stepped out. In an orange collared shirt and beige slacks, he looked ready for a resort.

“Welcome. Good to see you again,” he said, choosing to shake Dave’s hand before Thorrin’s. Dave nodded and followed the man through a gaudy living room the size of a baseball diamond where maroon and gold dominated, past a kitchen that looked like it could service a high-end restaurant and out sliding doors to a huge backyard. Twelve-foot-high bushes formed the property’s circumference, which was at least two hundred yards long and another fifty or so wide. Senthur took a seat at a round table overlooking a long stretch of grass. A comparatively small swimming pool was covered with its winter tarp behind them. Senthur looked older than the first time Dave had met him at the restaurant but just as serious.

Senthur gestured around the table, first at a lean, stoic East Indian man to his left. “This is Elango.” Moving clockwise, he gestured to a thick Slav in his forties. “Vlad.” Vlad nodded. His wrinkled brow looked like it had butted a few people in his time. “And Artem,” he said without looking at the man, who looked to be in his early twenties. Artem’s neck was the width of his head.

The more Dave saw Senthur, the more it became clear that he was extremely introverted. Unlike Thorrin, he didn’t need the spotlight or control. This was a different type of rush for him.

Senthur looked around the table and over at Thorrin, who couldn’t contain a grin. “Are we ready?”

The table nodded in unison, got up and made their way to the grass. Dave followed until Grayson put a hand on his forearm.

“Not us. We’ll be watching from here.”

The young Russian glared at Elango while he stretched his calves and waited for the Tamil to break the stare, but he never did.

Thorrin leaned into Dave and pointed to the two young men as if they were cars or motorcycles. “They’re going to have a race. Only they’re not running to beat each other, they’re running in hope that the dog won’t choose them.”

“A dog?” The word conjured up horrible images in Dave’s imagination.

Almost on cue, a man with a beer belly and a mane of greying hair came around the corner doing his best to restrain a thick, snarling pit bull. The handler’s pocked face gave him a hardened look that contrasted with his soft hazel eyes. Unlike his handler, the dog was pure muscle, compact, and from Dave’s perspective, all teeth.

Dave turned to Thorrin. “They’re going to run from that thing?”

Thorrin nodded. “You want to pick who’s going to win?” The man was high on adrenaline. His eyes bugged, his words followed each other so closely they almost formed a new language, and both index fingers tapped the table with an anxious rhythm. This is what he lived for.

Senthur clasped his hands together as if praying. “Let us begin.”

Dave looked back at the dog straining on the thick, leather leash. Its short marble fur appeared more like painted skin, and with eyes set far apart and ears like a pig’s, it looked more demonic than dog. The dog personified evil, and the “e” in evil made Dave see the name Elango. “Elango.” Dave said the name without looking at Thorrin, who smiled, walked over to Senthur and whispered in his ear.

Elango walked to Grayson and the makeshift starting line.

“You’ll get a ten-second head start before the dog is released,” Senthur said. He did his best to address each man evenly.

Artem didn’t move until Vlad whispered into his ear. Artem joined Elango and assumed a sprinter’s position.

“Speed isn’t an issue,” Senthur said in his quiet way. “One of you will be down in twenty seconds, regardless of how fast you are.”

Dave looked at the dog and turned to Thorrin. “What do they have to pull the dog off?” Thorrin gestured to a sack and a pole with a noose in the handler’s hand.

“The key is not to look back,” Grayson said, looking at nobody in particular.

Senthur now stood parallel to Elango and Artem. Vlad lit a cigarette off to the side.

“We’ll start the clock on my whistle, and ten seconds later we’ll release the dog.”

Senthur’s eyes locked on Elango. “Ready?”

The man nodded.

Senthur pointed at Artem next. “Ready?”

Artem nodded. The pit bull strained on its leash.

The dog didn’t weigh more than fifty pounds, but the combination of its teeth, black eyes and guttural snarls made it seem monstrous.

Senthur raised a whistle to his lips, counted backward from five, and both men raced forward. Elango appeared focussed on anticipating when the dog would be released, but Artem raced ahead, hoping not to be the easiest target. The dog handler released the pit bull, and it charged right for Elango. He could sense it coming, so he glanced over his shoulder in time to see it bearing down on him, but instead of accelerating or zigzagging, he dropped to the ground hard enough that his chin snapped off the dirt.

The dog leapt over him and up to Artem. In a smooth motion, it tackled him to the ground and began thrashing until blood spittle flew through the air. Dave looked away, but he could not escape Thorrin’s screams of elation. He did not see a man being mangled by a dog; Thorrin saw the thousands of dollars he’d won.

Twenty-Five

“This can’t happen again,” the supervisor at 29 Palson Avenue told Dave from his seat behind a desk overcrowded with piles of paper. “Part of our function is to run a stable environment, and your father seems to be doing his best to make it just the opposite. I’ve put the details in writing to make this official. This is his last warning.”

Dave shook the man’s hand before heading to his dad’s room. Jack was watching celebrity poker on television. A housecoat covered most of his chest, and his bare feet rested on a hassock.

“I’d give anything to sit at a table with these pretty boys,” he said, turning to Dave. “Three hours, and I’d clear the table.”

“What were you thinking?”

“What?”

“A game of cards is one thing, but you had to know that was going to get you in trouble. I thought we had a deal.”

Jack’s arms flailed forward in a panic. “Is there a spider on me?”

“Where are you going to go if they kick you out?”

Heavy swipes at Jack’s housecoat caused his chair to jump. “Look at my chest. Is there a spider on my chest?”

“No, there’s no spider on your chest.”

“It sure as hell felt like there was.”

“Focus for a minute here,” Dave said, turning off the television. “Why would you get yourself in this kind of trouble?”

Company
, Jack thought.
And at my age, money is a faster way to company than charm.

Luckily for Jack, there were more escorts listed in the free weekly newspapers than plumbers, electricians and mechanics combined, so access wasn’t a problem. The challenge was raising the three hundred he needed to pay for the visit and the extra one fifty to get her to pretend to be a family member when signing into the senior’s home. Considering he was already on warning for sports betting, he decided on a game of poker. Assuring they wouldn’t be caught was as easy as inviting Chris, the day-time attendant, to play. Chris saw the invitation as an opportunity to win money from a group of fading minds, and in return, Jack could operate without fear of being reprimanded.

The rest of the table was a mixed bunch. Gerry Nunes wanted in because cards reminded him of the kitchen game he used to play every Wednesday with his brothers and cousins. With everyone else dead, he saw the two hundred dollar buy-in as a small price to rekindle old feelings. Don Dickerson played for the company. Nobody had visited him in over two years, and other than reading the newspaper, no one saw him do much of anything. Tracy T figured it was worth playing for the chance at a drink. Her daughter wanted her dry, so sneaking a drink had become more difficult over the years, but Jack promised he would bring a flask. They called her Tracy T because her last name was difficult to pronounce, and she hated hearing it butchered. “Better T than the mess spilling out of your mouth,” she would say. “My father is rolling in his grave because of you.”

As far as Jack could tell, Byron Jennings posed the only threat. Byron had dealt cards for fifteen years at charity casinos, and while he swore he’d never gambled himself, Jack didn’t believe him. He was too smart not to be an opportunist.

Whether Byron talked about jazz or politics, he was equally charming, and Jack couldn’t remember anyone being angry with him.

Three hours into the game, the table was clear except for Jack and Byron. Jack had won more pots, but Byron struck when the pots were larger. Chris was bounced in the first hour, so Jack had to pay him fifty dollars to stick around. Jack took three deep breaths from his oxygen mask before looking at his cards to see a king and a queen. Byron led with an aggressive bet that Jack matched without hesitation before erupting into a deep cough. The flop revealed a two of diamonds and a four of clubs, but neither card upped the betting until the dealer laid down the king of hearts. Byron twisted his thick wedding band four times before raising two hundred dollars. Jack’s right eye began to twitch. He’d tried for years to control the tell, but adrenaline betrayed him. He took another pull from the oxygen mask before pushing in all of his money.

The room burst into a series of catcalls. Byron dropped his eyes to the table.

“You’re first,” Jack tapped the table.

Byron laid down a full house before allowing himself a smile that revealed both of his missing teeth. The table clapped and hissed. The twitch in Jack’s eye turned into incessant blinking, but no matter how many times he closed his eyes, the cards stayed the same.

“All right,” the attendant said. “Everybody out. We’ve had our entertainment for the day” He folded three chairs he’d brought and ushered everyone out, until only Jack and Byron remained. “Can I trust you guys alone?” he asked.

Jack stuck up a middle finger, but Byron nodded. Byron waited for the door to close before removing his ante from the stack of money and pushing it towards Jack.

“If you agree not to tell anyone, then it’s yours. I’m assuming you organized today’s game for a reason, and I don’t want to get in the way of that. Money’s no good to me in here anyway. But you know what is?”

“What’s that?”

“Favours. And I’d say you owe me a few after this.”

Jack nodded.

“Good enough then. You enjoy whatever it is you need that for.” The escort arrived just after five, which gave them an hour before dinner. She didn’t look like a typical escort. With short brown hair, a full face and an oversized green sweater with matching khakis, she would have blended into any university library. She accepted the envelope of money and sat beside him. The agency had told her she was going to a senior’s home, but she wasn’t ready for Jack’s appearance. His warm eyes relaxed her, but his sagging skin and numerous sun spots made her think of her grandfather.

“Should I close the door?”

“Please,” Jack wheezed.

She closed the door before returning with her hand out. “I’m Amanda”

“Welcome, Amanda, I’m Jack.”

“So uh, how would you like to start?”

“With the radio.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’d like you to dance with me.”

“Dance?”

“That’s right.”

“Just dance?”

“There’s no ‘just’ with dancing. Now press play on that machine. I’ve already set up the music.”

Amanda walked across the room to the tape player, which gave him time to shift his weight out of the chair.

“Do you know how to waltz?”

“I don’t. Sorry.”

“I’m joking. Regular slow dancing is just fine.”

Sinatra filled the room when she pressed play. From her point of view, it looked like Jack might fall at any moment, but he leaned his weight on the oxygen machine to steady himself. She grabbed his closest hand, wrapped her other arm around his waist, and as they swayed to the music, Jack closed his eyes. His movement was limited, but there was no question he knew how to dance. In contrast, Amanda hadn’t slow danced since high school.