Dream Room: Tales of the Dixie Mafia

1

FRANCES

Little Henry

… My daddy had just told me that he was a thief and that he had whores. That’s what my daddy called them—whores. He said Henry would lock me up and make me a whore, so I better stay away from him. And Henry himself told me he had went to prison a long time ago when he was a young man. I think it was manslaughter. He had a Stetson hat, and he was in a bar in Oklahoma and this guy come in there and took his hat off and stomped it on the ground and Henry looked up at him and said, You shouldn’t have done that. And then the guy did it again. Well, that made Henry very mad. Well, he finished his drink, he went outside the bar without saying anything and hid in the bushes and waited on this man to come out. And when the man come out, he took a hatchet and split him between the shoulder blades. But they was a couple that saw it. Otherwise, he probably would have got away with it. So, naturally the po-leece came and they arrested him and he did, uh, ten years for that. Manslaughter.

—FRANCES SALISBURY GILLICH

henry salisbury was twenty-seven years old, a little on the short side, maybe five feet seven, with a rattlesnake temperament that added inches and poundage to his stature. He sat playing cards in the leftovers of a dustbowl honky tonk in central Oklahoma, the Wurlitzer braying in the corner, semi-pro working girls dancing with farm boys and oil field workers, the women sifting and testing the crowd, hustling drinks, lining up rent money.

I’ll take two, said Henry, his chair next to the dealer in the five-handed game of jacks or better, two of the five players having already folded. The dealer slid a pair of blue Bicycle-backed cards to him and looked at the next player. Henry put the two cards on the bottom of the three he held, running through the hand several times before looking. He laid his hand in front of him in a neat pile, reached up and took off his seventy-five-dollar gray Stetson, a top-dollar hat in 1944, setting it gently on the floor by his feet.

I’ll play these, said the second player, a middle-aged insurance salesman from Sapulpa, the big winner at midnight, six hours into the game. And boys, this is my last hand. I stopped in just to have a beer before I went home, and she just ain’t got a sense of humor.

Lying sack of shit, said the third player, an auto mechanic well on the way to losing his entire week’s pay. Lying sack of shit, he repeated. Give me three cards. I’m the only honest man here.

Henry’s shark-gray eyes clouded a little, resting for a moment on the mechanic’s forehead. The mechanic saw Henry take off his hat, thought about it for a moment, then let the liquor take over.

What the hell are you doing dropping your hands below the table like that while you’re playing cards?

I just took off my hat. Did you want me to set it on the table?

Last round, said the dealer. Openers bet.

Two dollars, said Henry, intent now on the cards.

See that and raise it two.

Four bucks to you, Walter, said the dealer to the mechanic.

He counted his money, looked at his hand for the fourth time, counted the money again, and threw three one-dollar bills and some change into the center of the table. Three dollars and seventy-five cents, he said. I’m all in.

Henry and the insurance man looked at each other. Each shrugged, glad to take whatever was left of the paycheck.

Three sixes, said Henry, laying down three of his cards face up.

The insurance man grinned. My lucky night. Three eights.

Oh, said Henry, turning up the tens of clubs and spades, did I forget to mention that I have the pair of black tens to go with those sixes? He laughed in that flat, nasal way that plainsmen and southerners have.

The mechanic, holding two pair, leaped to his feet. You little asshole, he shouted. You little son of a bitch. Putting down that hat and coming up with the full house is just a little too cute. He moved around the table to stand over Henry. Stand up, he said.

You don’t want me to do that.

The mechanic glared at Henry, sobering up a little, enough to recognize Henry’s total lack of fear or even concern at the situation. Impulsively he stomped the hat, flattening the crown, leaving a greasy impression from his Redwing work boot. He stepped back to see what Henry would do, ready to fight.

Henry reached out and pulled in the money from the pot he’d just won, counted out thirty-five dollars, handed the dealer a five, picked up all his winnings and put them in his wallet, leaving the change on the table. Like a taunting child on the playground, the mechanic stepped back toward the table as Henry took up his money and stomped on the Stetson again, grinding his foot, emboldened by Henry’s indifference.

You absolutely should not have done that, said Henry, reaching down to retrieve the hat. I’d ask you to pay for it, but I already cleaned your sorry ass out. You’re drunk and you just lost a week’s wages, if I’m not mistaken, so I’m going to let this alone. He raised his hat slightly without trying to put it on. I’m headed outside. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll give me some time to get on out of here. You don’t need to lay hands on me.

He never raised his voice, talking low and clear, but the lights dimmed and the mechanic could hear his heart echo behind his temple as Henry swept him with his remorseless gray eyes, gleaming red in the center, picking up the rich red neon. He pulled his jacket aside just enough to let the mechanic see the snub-nosed .38 revolver in his waistband. The crowd noise abated as the rough trade, accustomed to brawls, waited expectantly for the fight to break out.

See you boys. It’s been a pleasure, said Henry, brushing past the mechanic, through the saloon girls and the dancers and the handful of drinkers as he moved toward the door. The mechanic glared at him, but did not move and said nothing.

Let it alone, Walter, said the dealer, you can just look and see that he’s bad business. He handed the five-dollar tip to him. Here, buy yourself a beer and get on home. You got some explaining to do to your wife.

Outside, a front had moved in, the early October air now chilled, Indian summer fleeing in an evening. The wind moaned from the southwest, and the neon sign over the entrance crackled red and blue. Henry stood in the center of the unlighted, unpaved parking lot for fully two minutes, turning clockwise, counting the cars and trucks, noting the heavy line of windbreak hedges to the north and west, the blackness for a half mile up and down the hardtop county road in either direction, the heavy black-gray clouds sweeping aloft, hiding the stars and muting the moon.

He looked down at his prized Stetson. He was outwardly calm, but awash in body chemicals. He walked over to his 1939 Lincoln, opened the trunk, set the hat inside, and removed a carpenter’s rigging axe from his kit bag of burglar’s tools. He took off his jacket, not wanting to get blood on it, and laid it on the back seat of the car. A distant, deadly fugue resonated inside him, the killing rage at a pitch, by this time lifting him beyond reason, far outside the boundaries of control. The zen of retribution flooded over him, froze the parking lot and reddened the sky, so that the only objects before him were the heavy construction axe and the doorway beneath the sizzling red and blue neon sign through which the mechanic must come.

He lay concealed in the windbreak and watched as a man left the building with one of the roadhouse girls, the two talking quietly as they got into the black rumble-seated roadster, kissing for a moment in the front seat before turning frantically onto the blacktop in the direction of a nearby motel. In his mind the scene replayed itself over and over, the insult, the implied accusation of cheating, the invasion and contempt bound up in the hat. Henry let go completely, surrendering himself to the self-fueling abandon, letting the acid flow into his limbs, engorging the muscles, scalding the blood, pushing it outside his veins and around his bones.

The mechanic appeared suddenly, stopped for a moment in the doorway beneath the stuttering neon, his thick workingman’s body slumped in defeat, and moved slowly toward his car, oblivious to the berserker who waited. Henry hadn’t been sure of which vehicle would be his. He’d identified the three oldest, sorriest, and dirtiest of the fifteen or so in the lot, and had positioned himself to be able to move quickly to any of them. The mechanic shuffled his greasy work-booted feet across the gravel, stopping next to the old Dodge sedan with three different-colored fenders, and laid his hand on the door.

Henry was on him then, a whispered grunt of joy launching him from hiding, adrenaline-pumped bounce-steps covering the fifteen feet separating him from the man in an instant, the moaning of the wind masking it all. Halfway there Henry had cocked the heavy rigging axe above and behind him, his hand melded to the eighteen-inch wooden handle—two-pound head with a corrugated hammer face on one side and razor sharp axe on the other. He swept the axe forward in a slashing, blurred arc, timing it so that as he reached the mechanic the axe would be moving downward at maximum velocity. Henry buried the hatchet directly between the man’s shoulder blades, neatly severing his backbone and spinal cord, the shock killing him within seconds.

Two couples emerged from the tavern just in time to see Henry kicking and hacking at the still bleeding corpse. Bravely the men disarmed Henry and subdued him. The crowd from inside the road-house moved outside to the parking lot, thrilled at the excitement, lounging up against the parked vehicles and retelling the event.

"Little bastard is strong, said one, after the police had come and put Henry in the back of the patrol car. I had hold of him, and it was all I could do to hang on. I got six inches and sixty pounds on him, too."

I got the axe from him, said another. Jesus God, did you ever see anything like that?

I ain’t never seen the like of that.

Who is that guy?

From down south, I think. Bunch of bad asses down there. Crazy.

I noticed him playing cards, said one of the women. I thought he was kind of cute. Had that cool, mean look about him. You can just tell.

Violent little bastard, said one of the poker players. Just a matter of time, though, until Walter picked on the wrong guy.

I’m surprised this hasn’t happened long before now.

Dead? she asked, the disbelief reflexive, replaced almost at once by a grim relief in her voice. Detective Allen Shaunessy of the Sapulpa Police Department stood inside the dead mechanic’s front door on the ragged outskirts of the mostly ragged town, and she only nodded and sighed, letting it sink in, thinking first of the rent, already a week late. What are you telling me, Al? That Walter is dead?

Dead, said the cop.

Over a poker game?

Something like that. And a hat.

I don’t have to ask whether he was winning or losing. He was drunk and losing his ass. Today was payday. How much did he have left?

The detective handed her the five-dollar bill. Sorry, Biddie Ann. They cleaned him out right before it happened. What’re you going to do?

Who knows? Jesus. Dead?

What’s wrong, Momma? Why is Mr. Al here again? The nine-year-old, bundled in a rough linen nightgown against the cold that had settled in since sundown, emerged from one of the little house’s two bedrooms.

Go back to sleep, Janey. He’s just visiting.

Where’s Daddy?

We’ll talk about it in the morning. I have to go with Mr. Al for a while, but I’ll be back. Keep an eye on the babies for me.

She didn’t say anything until they were in the police cruiser heading out the half-mile-long gravel driveway toward the highway.

Is he shot?

No. He used a hatchet.

Jesus. She looked thoughtful for a minute. In the face?

No. Dead center between the shoulder blades. Probably never felt a thing. Cut the spinal cord.

I wouldn’t go and do this, you know, if he took the hatchet to his face. Everybody knows it’s him.

He’s got some bruising. The little bastard that did it was kicking him pretty good when they got to him. All you got to do is come near him, and we’ll fill out the paperwork.

She ran her fingers thoughtfully over her face, laying a rough, work-reddened forefinger alongside her crooked nose. The detective, who had been out to the house many times over the years, glanced over at her and laid his hand on her knee, patting it reassuringly. He reached up and touched her bent boxer’s nose as they reached the highway.

No more of that, he said.

No. At least all that’s done. But, Jesus, at least he was good about bringing his paycheck home.

He should have brought it home tonight. That’s for sure.

You know, Henry, the detective said, you kind of did the widow a favor. Bastard used to beat the shit out of her every couple of months. Hospitalized her twice. She wouldn’t never press charges. I went to high school with her. She used to be a good-looking girl.

Some women need beating. Some men need killing.

Ain’t nothing wrong with Biddie Ann. Used to be a good-looking woman, he repeated, his eyes dulling for a second as he drifted from the jail cell to wherever he went to look at her as she had been. I went to school with her before she dropped out pregnant with Walter’s baby. Seems like she was forever pregnant with Walter’s baby.

Henry sat back on his cot at the Sapulpa city jail, smoking a cigarette, calm and at peace three weeks after the killing.

She got kids?

Four. Walter kept her pregnant there for awhile. Wore out as she looks and with all them kids, she ain’t going to get another man, except maybe an old man who wants somebody to tend to him.

Just another white trash Okie girl.

That ain’t true. You don’t know her. You don’t think much of women, do you, Henry? The anger-flush quickened in the detective’s face, although his tone remained steady and controlled.

Hey, I didn’t mean nothing personal about her. Looks like I might have done you a favor, said Henry.

Maybe at one time. I got my own family now. And I’m not offended. Just curious.

About what?

About why such a smooth operator like you has got such a record. Everybody despised Walter, you know. But all them brushes with the law is going to double your sentence. They’ll still give you manslaughter for sure, because everybody knows what an asshole Walter was, but you’re going to do more time.

It don’t mean nothing to me, said Henry. Prison. Time. No time. Wherever. Louisiana. Mississippi. Oklahoma. Wherever. The rules are a little different, but it’s still life.

Sounds like you might be tired of the burglar and robber business.

Beats working for chump change for some moron wearing a clip-on tie. Most of the time, anyway.

Speaking of which, I saw your lawyer’s name on the visitor’s sheet out front.

Yeah, he came in. Hell. I ain’t even been indicted and they’re offering me a deal. Twenty years on a reduced charge of manslaughter. They’re all laughing about what an asshole Walter was. I should be out in eight to ten. Henry was quiet for a moment. Four kids? They all just talked about what a drunk and a wife beater he was.

Why should that matter to you?

It don’t particularly. A woman’s just a woman. I rough up the women myself from time to time. Some women need beating every now and then. They won’t respect you if you don’t.

I think you been fooling around with the whores for too long, Henry. That ain’t the way you treat decent women. You don’t think much of women, do you? he asked again.

I think about women when I need one. I’m going to run me a string of whores when I get out of prison this time. Been thinking about getting into that line of business for awhile.

You know what the other inmates are calling you, don’t you?

I don’t talk much to them.

They’re scared to death of you.

They need to be, said Henry, nodding his head in assent, his simple, declarative statement emotionless, only the words signaling his approval.

You want to know?

What they call me? Henry shrugged.

The Hatchet. They call you the Hatchet. It’ll follow you up to the penitentiary at McAlester. The newspapers are calling it the ‘Hatchet Job.’

The newspapers been writing about me?

About the killing, anyway. And some about your colorful past. I guess for such a young man, you’re quite the outlaw.

The Hatchet. Henry tried it out. The Hatchet, he said again. "You know, I think I like that. Pisses me off that my whole life, people been calling me Little Henry. Little Henry. Little Henry Salisbury. Not to my face though. It irritates me."

Well, you ain’t real big, you know.

A lot of people have got the shit kicked out of them because I’m short. Don’t you know that the fucking hillbilly Okie mechanic I whacked would never have said a word to me if I was six-two instead of five-seven? Gives people the wrong idea. You think you could get me some of those newspapers? I’d like to see what they’re saying.

Got ‘em out in the front. I’ll send them back.

And one more thing.

What’s that?

It ain’t just women I rough up. Men, too. I don’t just beat women. I don’t let an insult slide, that’s all. Don’t matter who insulted me, a man or a woman. Old or young. Big or little. It leads to trouble sometimes, even when I’d just as soon not have it. But in the long run, if I’m at a place where they know me, they all let me be.

I can see why they might, said the detective.

Are you ridiculing me?

No, Henry. Just making an observation. Can I ask you something?

What?

I’m not being a smart ass. I just want to know.

So ask.

What did it feel like to kill that guy the way you did? You know. With a hatchet. You think about it much?

I think about it a lot, but not the way you might think. He looked off and to the side, choosing his words. I figure I’m looking at ten to twenty years; and I think about that dumbass mechanic who just didn’t have any sense. I think I made a bad trade. But the truth is, I had no choice. Something just happens to me sometimes, you know? I could no more have walked out of that bar and turned away from the trouble than the Pope can stay away from Mass. It’s the nature of things.

There was some middle ground there, Henry. You didn’t have to kill him.

"That’s where the size comes in. If I was six-two instead of five-seven, he wouldn’t have behaved that way toward me. But I got my limitations. I can’t fight some of the big guys without getting the shit kicked out of me, and I’m not willing to let them lay hands on me. I’ll fist fight ’em if I think it’s a contest, but I won’t yield to anybody. Never. So I learned a long time ago to even it up with weapons. And you want to know the truth? I like what I did to him. Fucking ignorant bastard. He didn’t deserve to live."

And that felt good?

Henry sat for a moment, collecting his thoughts. I’ve killed men before, he said. Twice. Self-defense, both times. They tried to indict me once, and the grand jury turned them down. The other time … doesn’t matter. Anyway, I shot those guys, and I didn’t feel much of anything. But in the heartbeats it took for—what was his name again?

Walter Koenig. German for king.

Whatever. But I got to tell you that while the hatchet was buried three inches in his back with his spinal cord sliced in two, I could feel the panic and misery boiling inside him, roiling around and looking for a way out of his body. Something from him came over to me, and as he was dying, I was living just a little more. It was like my battery was connected to his. And he knew what had happened to him, and knew he was through. He gave in to me just then, and I could feel it. I felt big as the sky. I was outside myself looking down on it. Then he said something to me, not with words, but something real clear.

What did he say?

It actually was a question. He wanted to know whether or not I cheated him on the full house.

And?

I ignored him. I’ll never tell.

2

MIKE

Razzle

… It’s an old carnival game. They claimed they took it to Cuba one time when Batista was still over there. But over in Bay St. Louis, this old boy Jim Monroe, him and Water Bill, they took an old gas station and fixed it up and put a breakfast deal in there … And the way they’d do it, say you and your wife would come in, and you’d sit down, they’d take your order. They had a waitress for that, and then Delores, she was like boss lady, and she’d walk over and talk to you and say hi, how are you folks, you know. Where you from, you know. Naturally tourists will tell you where they’re from and where they’re going … So when the customer gets there, you tell them the game, like you see on the layout. It’s marked ten points or more wins, and you tell them you get ten points or more you win the alligator handbag or the whiskey. Now this is not like blackjack where you can bust out and lose. The only way you lose is to quit before you make ten points, see. That’s the only way you can lose … It’s found money. You beat a man out of his money with your wits, you can’t ever go back to working for wages.

—MIKE GILLICH

welcome to the second base, she said. did you enjoy your breakfast? The old tooka girl, Delores, pleased at her station in life as the wife of a carnival hustler-cum-restaurateur, approached the young couple who had just finished their Traveler’s Special, a bargain at $1.25 and which included two eggs to order, two biscuits, bacon or country ham, hash browns and coffee.

Very good, thanks, said the women’s shoe salesman, who, along with his wife, were the only two customers in the café on the chilly December morning, the off season for tourists along the Gulf Coast. You can’t get biscuits like this outside the South.

Where you folks from? asked Delores.

Iowa. Not far from Cedar Rapids. You know it?

Nah. Don’t travel much. Where are you headed today? she asked, towards home or still moving on?

We’re headed back home. Short day today. We’re going to hit New Orleans just to see the French Quarter tonight.

Too bad you’re outside Mardi Gras. Everybody should see it at least once. You really can’t believe it unless you see it. They ain’t got nothing like it in Iowa, she said, lifting her chin in the direction of the license plate on the front of the four-year-old gray ’47 Chevy.

I wish we could. But we need to get home, and Des Moines is two hard days north into some bad weather.

So you’re on vacation?

Sort of. Business meeting in Jacksonville. Women’s shoes. Outside sales. The two months after Christmas is my slow season, so we thought we’d make an adventure out of it. His wife, a plump brunette still working on her double order of hash browns and smoked ham, tried to smile as she chewed, nodding her agreement. Seems very nice around here. Food’s great, he said again.

We like it. Delores looked thoughtful for a moment, and then with a practiced patter said, Too bad you can’t stay ’til this evening when our little casino opens.

Casino? he said. His wife stopped chewing. I didn’t know gambling was legal here. He smiled broadly, pleased at his discovery.

"Well, I wouldn’t exactly say it’s legal. But this is a very friendly place around here, and as long as you’re just having fun, nobody cares. She paused for a full four beats, then picked up the invitation, her still impressive breasts swelling to the rhythm of the con. Since you’re here and we’re not busy, would you like to see our gaming room?" She cocked her head slightly, loving the new tricks.

The salesman and his wife looked at each other and wordlessly agreed. He unconsciously patted his wallet as he rose from the table to follow Delores to the back room, noting with some excitement the fullness of her hips and their exaggerated motion as she walked ahead through the green beaded partition. While the salesman ran to catch Delores, his wife reached down and dipped a finger through the catsup on her plate, picking up the last shreds of the fried potatoes, licking her finger as she hurried behind her husband.

This is Mike, said Delores, acknowledging the sandy-haired man in his early twenties sitting at the blackjack table playing solitaire. The casino consisted of a teakwood bar, six feet long, with four tall stools in front of it, a full-sized craps table, a roulette wheel, a blackjack table, and a green felt Razzle table, B-OL-I-T-A in large block letters. Mike is just cleaning up from last night, and he helps out with the Bolita game. The young man, part of the Serbo-Croatian enclave in Biloxi, broad-shouldered, with thick wrists and a space between his top front teeth, grinned and offered his hand, his grip powerful from handling the ice tongs on the shrimp packing plants in Biloxi.

Mike, why don’t you give them a little tour and explain the game to them. Bolita is kind of unique. They play it in Havana. When Jimmy was playing triple A, they’d go play winter ball in Cuba, and he picked it up there. It’s fun, but kind of tough. Mike will explain it to you. Delores backed through the beaded curtain, which wrapped around her seductively for an instant, then swirled like swamp vapors, sealing off the room, locking the couple from Des Moines inside.

What’s Bolita? he asked.

Bolita. I call it Razzle. Come here and I’ll show you. I got time. It’s not as hard as she says. Do you need to leave right away?

No, we have time. Today’s a short travel day to New Orleans. We’ll be there in less than an hour, and the French Quarter doesn’t open up until tonight, anyhow. So show me the Razzle. His wife licked the last of the catsup from her finger, inserting it in her mouth up to the second knuckle.

Mike moved behind the Razzle board, the table roughly the size of an executive desk, the game board centered on the table, a foot and a half by two. Its green felt top had a sunburst in the center and was covered throughout with fifty numbered squares, each with a cryptic design.

I don’t know why she keeps saying it’s hard, Mike said, because the only way to lose is to quit too soon.

The salesman flinched, at some level recognizing the danger. That sounds too good to be true, he said. If that’s true, then nobody ought to lose. How do you play?

Mike walked around behind the table and took the croupier’s position. This is a dice game, he said. Dice and arithmetic. He turned over a dice cup to reveal eight sparkling cubes, all of them partially white, but on three sides colored plastic that ran the primary color wheel, the indentations colored black, flecks of gold and silver embedded in the translucent cubes. Mike paused, gathered up the dice and with a fluid movement of hand and wrist drew an arc over the center of the table, the bones flying out in formation, coming to rest in a roughly symmetrical two-foot line that swept from his left to his right. That’s the combination that I think people like about this game, he said.

The combination?

"Dice and arithmetic. It’s a game of chance. If dice are involved, you know that’s true. But it’s got a … a pattern, a sense about it … something that you see if you play long enough. I mean, four plus four will always equal eight. Two times six will always equal twelve. Arithmetic. If you can add and you play long enough to pick up the patterns, you can’t lose. A lot of people just bail out too early, though. And if you do that, it’s just a game of chance. And we know about those, right?" He smiled, an insider sharing an intimacy with a sophisticate.

So what’s the object of the game?

To win. Mike grinned and shrugged. Tell you what. Why don’t we play a little? See what you think. You get the first dump on the house.

Delores had returned to the beaded doorway and leaned on the inside of the door jamb, smoking a cigarette, the long strings of beads clicking with her movements. In the dim light, her features were indistinct from across the room at the Razzle table, the beads lying in sensuous cords across her hips and thighs, tapping and clicking a message as she smoked, the haze growing thicker, the air more viscous.

Mike looked over the salesman’s shoulder in her direction as he smoothly scooped the dice back into the cup and lifted it, shaking it by moving only his hands, his arms and shoulders fixed. Delores, how about a little music? Mr. and Mrs. … say, he said. I don’t think I got your names.

Jerome Petty. My wife, Gladys.

Pleased to meet you. He looked back towards Delores, still rattling the dice, on tempo to a beat he felt in the tension between him and the Pettys as he unconsciously focused in and attuned himself to them, the intuitive empathy of the predator for his victim.

Look, Jerome. What you have to do is tally ten points with the dice, and you win. That’s it.

Yeah, but how do you score points?

Give me a dollar. Here, let me show you, said Mike, laying the dollar bill next to him on the table, collecting the dice into the cup, ritualistically shaking them, sweeping his hand across the game board. In the dim lighting of the gaming room, it looked as though a plastic rainbow trailed from his fingertips as the multi-hued dice tumbled in an arc in front of him, colors and glitter from within the interior of the cubes hopelessly distracting to the eye.

Mike ran his hand over the dice and said, Thirty-seven, pretending to count, gathering the dice in front of him as he did. And then we look here, at the square numbered thirty-seven, and see that it says two-for-one, and I know that’s worth two points for you. But because it says two for one and you have less than five points, you just doubled your money. He took another dollar from a roll in his pocket and laid it on top of the one dollar bill already on the table. You already doubled your money, and you got two points towards your ten. When you hit ten, you roll for the prize, which can be anything from a multiplier on the cash down on the table, see, or one of these alligator handbags over there, he said, pointing, easily worth two-fifty, three hundred dollars. Here, Jerome, he said, sliding the cup towards the player, you get the dump now. You shake ’em out, and I’ll count ’em up.

The traveler vigorously shook out the dice, spreading them over a wide area on the table, no pattern to them, and Mike picked them up like a child playing jacks, his supple, cupped hand snatching up his eights, the dice disappearing back into the cup as Jerome still struggled to add up the two closest to him.

Twenty-three, said Mike. Not bad. I think your luck may be running strong today. That’s another point and a half. That makes three and a half. Six and a half more and you win. You’re rolling. Let me have another two dollars, doubling up. That makes four, see? Two doubled is four. See how it works?

I think so, he answered, not wanting to sound foolish or slow.

This is a fast game. Delores’s right. You got to be quick. Not everybody can play. But you can. Here, shake ’em up again. Mike turned to the woman, whose tongue ran back and forth, moistening her too-red lips, eyeing the alligator bag, the salty taste of the hash browns lingering pleasantly in her mouth. What do you think, Gladys? Is this guy a natural, or what?

I’ve always thought so, she said. He’s good at whatever he does.

I can see that. Absolutely. Delores, come open the bar and get Jerome and Gladys a couple of Swamp Coolers on me.

I been stuck at nine and a quarter points for half an hour now, Jerome said after awhile, glancing down at three hundred sixty dollars of his money in a pile in front of Mike. Christ, you got most of my traveling cash, and I’m throwing it at you at ten dollars a shot.

Hey, Jerome, you just hit a cold streak, that’s all. Hang in there. I’m telling you, you only lose if you quit. Didn’t I tell you that at the start?

Yeah, you did. But I’m not sure that I really understand this game yet.

Like I said, it’s intuition. Mostly intuition and math. That’s why not just anybody can play. That, and nerve. He looked coldly into the salesman’s eyes.

Nerve?

"You know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s why so many people quit and walk away losers. They have a failure of nerve."

Do you take traveler’s checks?

I think so, but I better ask. He motioned for Delores, who made a production of walking across the room, her eyes lidded, cigarette smoke trailing.

Sure. We’ll take them, she said. We charge a small check-cashing fee, though. We really have to. It depletes our cash, particularly in the off-season like now.

Mike and Delores stood together in the dining room, watching the couple at the rear of their car in the parking lot. Jerome popped the trunk open and leaned in, searching jerkily through travel bags and luggage. His wife Gladys stood at his side, pleading with him as he pulled a suitcase from the trunk, carried it around to the hood, opened it and sifted through the underwear and socks. His face was flushed, and his wife cried as she pulled at his sleeve.

You’re doing great, Mike. I’m impressed, said Delores. Nobody would ever guess that this is your solo run. She pressed against him, brushing her breast against his arm.

God, this is fun.

It’s found money, she said. You beat a man out of his money with your wits or your tits, you can’t ever go back to working for wages. How much do we have?

Almost five hundred. And it looks like he’s taking their luggage apart looking for the traveler’s checks. What’s twenty-five percent of five hundred?

Count it when you’re done. This is where you want to go slow. You don’t want to clean them out. You don’t take servicemen or people who live in the area. Too easy for them to complain. And don’t take it all. That guarantees they’ll go to the law.

Yeah. You don’t want to tap them out completely. I can see that.

Water Bill is coming over from Biloxi later today. He’s going to like this. A lot.

"Water Bill is the man."

Definitely. He definitely is.

He related to the sheriff? Mike asked, intently following the salesman as he found a business envelope beneath his wife’s size fourteen cotton panties. Somebody said they were cousins.

Water Bill related to Egloff? Nah. Just been paying him off so long it’s like they’re double first cousins or something. Egloff and his brother, that fat-ass deputy Paul. Somebody’s going to do that fat ass one of these days. But Water Bill wouldn’t claim ’em even if he was related. She held the smoke inside for a long count, exhaling with a thin hiss, remembering the touch of sausage-hands on her breasts as the deputy came to collect the tax. We got to keep the law happy.

"Jesus. Would you look at that?"

He’s got the fever. Take it all. Piss on it. Take it all. Asshole.

"All of it? That’ll lead to a beef."

No beef. He’s from Iowa. First thing I asked him. He lives too far away to come back on a beef.

Jerome barged back through the door, Gladys pulling at the back of his shirt.

Please, Jerome. Stop, she said.

Goddammit, Gladys. This is no time for me to lose my nerve. They’re into me too much for me to quit now.

She dropped away from him and turned back to the car, stooping to pick up clothing from the graveled parking lot where he’d dumped the suitcase in his frenzy to find their traveler’s checks.

Delores and Mike stood aside as he came in, Delores moving to the cash register, Mike toward the beaded doorway.

Are you sure you want to keep playing Razzle? she asked. Your luck seems to be running a little cold.

He slapped the traveler’s checks onto the counter. A thousand dollars. Is there a thousand dollars in this whole crummy county?

Take it easy, Jerome. I think you ought to quit. Your luck is down today.

Cash the checks. Can you cash the fucking checks?

Hey, she said. Just ’cause you lost a few bucks doesn’t mean you can talk that way.

I’m sorry. Okay?

Okay. Let me go to the safe. Hold on to your checks while I’m gone.

Mike put his arm around his shoulders. Come on, Jerome. Let me pour you a drink while she’s getting your money. As they moved through the beaded doorway into the Razzle room, Mike slipped a twenty-dollar bill in his hand. Here’s a little refund. Some seed money to get you moving again. Hang in there.

How long did it take you to get the rest of the money? asked Water Bill. Couple of hours. I played him real good.

Took it all?

All of it. Over fifteen hundred dollars. I felt a little bad for him. His wife bitched for awhile inside. She sat out in the car and cried for the last hour before they finally left.

Suckers. Thank God for the suckers of this world. If you don’t take the money, they’ll just give it to somebody else.

Water Bill hefted the stack of bills, pulled the traveler’s checks out and raised each to the light, breathing heavily as he did. Here’s six hundred, he said. Don’t expect me to throw in the bonus every time.

Jesus. Beats working for a living.

You’re learning. But be careful cleaning them out. That’ll usually lead to trouble. Unless you’re talking chump change. Ain’t nobody gives a shit about a sucker’s chump change. Water Bill handed Delores two hundred-dollar bills and pocketed the rest. He patted Mike on the cheek. Monroe is coming over tonight. I’m telling him we’re going to take you on through the winter. If you’re still doing good and want to go, we’ll take you with us in the spring when the carnivals start to move.

Twenty-five percent?

It’s a business. You do good, you make yourself an asset to us—then we make it worth your while. Charlie gets thirty percent. Any more than that, you got to be an owner. We got overhead. Water Bill reached over and tweaked Delores’s ass.

Asshole, she said, unsmiling. Overhead your ass.

"Your ass, Delores. Your whole life you been sitting on a million bucks, as you well know. You been playing that hand for years." All three of them laughed—even Delores—feeling good about the moment. Delores poured a round of Wild Turkey and they raised their glasses.

Here’s to tourists, she said.

And the big-bottomed girls who bring’ em in, said Water Bill.

Fuck you, Bill, she said.

Mike spread the rumpled bills on the bar in front of him and felt good about the world. Anybody want another drink? he asked, smiling at Delores and suddenly wondering what it would be like to have sex with a good-looking fifty-year-old. The two of them came to an understanding as