Ghosted (33 page)

The man knows how to do it
.

Seth played and drank and drugged and smoked—like the Mason of old, just better. Lighting a cigarette, his eyes shone in the flame—this is what they said:
It’s
worth
it—even if my judgment falters—to drink so well, to get so high, to watch you suffer so
.

And the Mason of new could but sit and watch. He fumbled the cards. His hands shook as he sipped his soda water. He dropped his chips, gritting his teeth as if in pain. But in truth, Mason wasn’t suffering.

Inside he was Zen.

It had happened four hands ago. Surrounded by triggers—the snap of the cards, the click of the chips, the strike of the match, the clink of the glass, the cut of the chrome, the pop of the poppers, the inhale, the long, lovely drawing in, the exhale, everything he’d lost—and forced to face the end, the never again …
not ever
, he’d thought, as violent a thought as losing the game. Then suddenly it had disappeared. And in its place a gentler one:
not now
.

He’d breathed this thought in deep.
Not now
. And then he’d breathed it out, aimed at all his triggers. It blasted straight through them.

He saw clearly, with focus. He kept on fumbling, just for show—shaking, dropping his chips. And now, six hands later, they were almost back to even.

There was $60 on the table, and a flop, but nothing on the board: nine, four, queen—all different suits. Mason checked.

“Sixty,” said Seth, betting the pot.

Mason hesitated, then mumbled, “Okay, plus two hundred.”

A moment of silence, then Seth slammed his cards down—a violent fold. “You’re kidding me!” he said, and glared at Mason.

Mason, still futzing around with his chips, lifted his head—and then he grinned. The air left the room—backdraft in a burning house. Seth burst out, “You’re
fucking
kidding!”

Mason swept the pot towards him. He was the chip leader now—not by much, but it meant a lot. If, say, in this next hand, they both went all-in and Mason won, then Seth was done, Seth
was dead. Mason stacked his chips. By the way he’d played it, his cover was blown—Seth knew he was strong and had been for a while. But the grin, too, was worth a lot. It said that Mason was more than strong. He took the cards to shuffle.

“All right,” said Seth. He did a last thick line, then swept the rest onto the floor. “You think you can get into my head? Is that what you think?” He pulled off his cap and threw it. The Kite Man flinched, pulling back with his forward hand. “Take a look!” He bowed across the table, giving Mason a bird’s eye view. The purple flesh seemed to pulse. “Get right in there,” he said, then lifted his head and stared into Mason’s eyes.

“Cut,” said Mason.

Seth tapped the deck. Mason began to deal.

They looked at their cards.

“Fifty,” said Seth, bumping up the blind.

Mason nodded, and put it in.

He burned a card, then dealt the flop: eight, eight, two. He always liked the way two eights looked—like infinite snakes.

“A hundred,” said Seth.

Mason looked at him, then down at his cards. “Plus a hundred,” he said, and reached for his chips.

“All-in,” said Seth.

It is a particular kind of stillness—when even an invisible kite stops moving.

Mason took a breath. “All-in,” he said.

Chaz was coming out from behind the bar.

Seth turned his cards over: an eight and an ace. He smiled.

“Oh, God,” said Chaz, in the voice of someone watching death.

Mason flipped his cards: a jack and an ace.

Chaz sat down. His mouth hung open. “Oh, God,” he said.

Seth grinned. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Mason didn’t answer. He looked up at the Kite Man and shivered. He turned back to the table, then looked at Chaz. “I was pot committed …”

Chaz said nothing, still staring at the cards.

“Burn and turn,” said Seth. “Burn. And. Turn.”

Mason reached out. He burned a card. Then turned a jack.

There was a quick inhale and Seth laughed. “Not a chance in hell,” he said.

Two running jacks is impossible
.

Like finding God … well, anywhere
.

Mason burned the last burn. Only the jack could save him.

“Hey, Chaz,” he said, his hand still shaking. “I think I could do with a drink.”

Then he turned the final card.

“Show me again.”

They were sitting on opposite sides of the bar. Mason did a wash, spreading the cards in all directions. Then he gathered them up and started to shuffle every which way: waterfall, chopper, one-handed. He split them one last time, then dealt the cards: Mason a jack and an ace, Chaz an ace and an eight. Then came the flop: eight, eight, two.

“Booyah!” said Chaz.

Then a jack and then a jack.

“Holy fucking crap.”

“It’s not as easy as it looks,” said Mason. “First you got to get a hold of ’em—all nine cards—and nick ’em like so. It takes a lot of hands.”

“That’s why you were playing so tight.”

“Yeah, sure. But that’s just the start.” He picked up the cards. “You got to shuffle the same every time, and get the guy to that special place—rile him up just right.” Then he snapped them together and put them down.

“So he taps the cut,” said Chaz.

“So he finally taps the cut.”

“What if he never did … or you couldn’t get the lead?”

Mason shrugged. “Then I’d just become the Warrior Monk.”

“That was your backup plan?”

“I did get worried a couple of times.”

“You’re fucking insane.”

He shrugged again, and grinned.

Chaz shook his head. “Why that hand?”

“I guess it ate away at me a bit,” said Mason. “That was a bad fucking beat.”

“But you still should have told me the plan …”

“It works!” said Dr. Francis, pushing through the curtain. She looked happy, waving her hands in the air. “I can see him wherever he goes! You should come to my office and take a look.”

Chaz got up to pour her a drink. It occurred to Mason he’d never seen Dr. Francis excited—in an enthusiastic way. “Give me a double,” she said, and sat down at the bar.

She’d bought the GPS microchip and software online. The puncture gun she got from the vet who looked after her cat when she went away on vacation.

“I still can’t imagine you on vacation,” said Mason.

She held up the glass, then drank it straight down. Within forty-eight hours Seth was supposed to kill himself. And now they could track his every move.

She hadn’t said a word to Seth. It was like watching a gangland hit. She came out of the darkness, took a hold of his head and pumped the chip with a blast up through the back of his neck, into the base of his skull. A brain surgeon would have trouble getting it out.

“I can’t believe he just sat there,” said Chaz.

“Actually,” said Dr. Francis, “neither can I.”

“You wanted death,” said Mason. “So we had to renegotiate. The stakes went up at the end.”

They looked at him.

“To what?” said Chaz. “What do you put up against a chip in your head?”

“It should be obvious,” said Mason, and lifted his hands. “You put up your goddamn scalp.”

This was to be their last night in the QT room, and Mason and Willy were happy.

“In some ways I’ll miss this place,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Mason, though he didn’t exactly agree with her. Even now the knowledge lurked: how easy this room could turn—if your friends disappeared, if the door refused to open—from a hideout into hell.

“I still can’t believe you bet your scalp! You’re hair’s so thick and nice!”

The nervous energy of watching the game through a one-way mirror had made Willy giddy, then just tired, and soon she fell asleep. Mason lay with her awhile, looking out through the bulletproof window. The Cave would be opening in an hour or so. He got up, put his left hand to the wall, then rolled on out.

Chaz was alone at the bar, still holding a deck of cards. “So tell me,” he said. “How’d you learn to do it?”

“Fifteen years of practice,” said Mason. “And a lot of shuffling.”

“Yeah, but how?”

Mason sat down and looked at him. “I had a good teacher.”

“No way …,” said Chaz.

“Yup.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“Remember what he said that night?”

“Boom, boom … and boom.”

Mason nodded. “Yeah. Then he said, ‘If you’re going to stack the deck …’”

“So he taught you how? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“He told me not to.”

“That bastard! Why didn’t he teach
me?”

Mason shrugged. “I guess he just liked me more.”

“Okay. Well if you’re so good at cheating, why do you lose so much?”

“I won today, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. You did.”

“To Tenner.” Mason raised an empty glass.

“To Tenner …” There was silence as Chaz swallowed down his drink. Mason watched him.

“It was hard to play sober—I guess a lot of things are going to be hard.”

“You played better.”

“Maybe. Cheating helps.”

“I guess so…. You think he’ll do it?”

“Who, Seth? We’ll see. At least we got him tagged.”

Chaz picked up the bottle and gestured to Mason. Mason shook his head. “I got a question,” he said. “Those paintings in there. They’re Soon’s, right?”

Chaz poured a glass. “I found them in the Dogmobile.”

“What do you mean?”

“I needed somewhere to store things. Didn’t want you detoxing in a room full of coke and guns.”

“Good thinking.”

“I got it towed back here—nice driving, by the way.”

“Sorry about that.”

“So I thought I’d stash it all in that big empty hat. I took down the drop ceiling, and there they were….”

“Hats off to you….”

“What?”

“A note he left.”

“Well, he left you another one, too.” Chaz dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope and put it on the table.

Mason stared at it.

Chaz looked at his watch. “The rabble will be here soon.”

“Thanks,” said Mason. He picked up the envelope and headed back in, to the cave within the Cave.

Fishy was supposed to have been watching the monitor. As it was, Chaz was on the wrong side of the room when he heard the thunder: Detective Flores and fifteen other cops in flak jackets, six of them holding shotguns.

Willy was still asleep. Only Mason saw it happening—drinks and chips scattering, Chaz hurtling over the bar. But that was it—he didn’t drop to the floor, didn’t roll through the trap door. He stood up straight and Mason knew what he was thinking: his friends were safe, and that’s all that mattered. Why push his luck?

He and Mason were facing each other now, and although Chaz couldn’t see though the glass, they found each other’s eyes. Chaz gave him a smile, then turned around with his hands up—shotguns trained on his generous grin.

BENEATH THE BLACK HELMET

Mason stood on the subway platform. There was hardly anyone around, even here at St. George station, where the University line crossed over the Bloor. His hands were shaking, he was looking down at the track. Air rushed in and out of the tunnels, the distant sounds of metal on metal, radio buzz, fluorescent humming.

At 12:07 a.m. the sound system clicked on—a low hiss from the speakers in the ceiling, a computerized bell:
bong, bong (two
notes deemed suitable for getting people’s attention). And then a level, vapid voice: “Attention TTC commuters. At this time, travel both east and west on the Bloor line has been suspended until further notice. We apologize for the inconvenience. Attention TTC commuters …”