They say the first rule of poker is to know your opponents. I’m more inclined to side with less conventional but more time-honored advice: know yourself.
I find myself hosting the first major poker showdown since my college days, and I’m already down. We aren’t out for blood exactly; it’s a friendly game…twenty bucks on the line with which at least one of us shouldn’t be playing.
“Pair of deuces, queen high,” smiles Everitt from behind a pair of gray shades.
“I can’t believe you kept me going that long,” laughs Ron, sipping a glass of marginally too hoppy IPA I’d secured from a local microbrewery. “Full house,” he scoffs, casting his cards on the table. A quick glance at his watch sneaks across his face as he scoops up a modest pile of chips with gold and silver encrusted fingers.
“Whose deal?”
“Mine,” Trace speaks up, claiming a pre-shuffled deck from Everitt across the table. “Ante up.”
I cut the deck and Trace deals. A three of clubs and the jack of hearts makes its way into my fist. I seem to have lost track of the exact value of my dwindling pile of chips, and frankly don’t much care anymore. I simply match bets and relight my cigar.
Ron taps his nose and throws in, and so it goes around the table for the better part of the evening.
I worked with Ron in the deli department of the local organic market before he quit to grow pot full time in his attic. Ironically, that’s when he quit smoking it, or so he claimed. He had no problem getting the rest of us stoned before the game, though. When he took out the giant spliff and lit it, we all laughed and passed it for a few minutes.
Everitt was the first to call him out, an ironic side affect, I’m sure of his recent employment at the sheriff’s office as a deputy. He held his hand on his hip, proudly exposing the shining silver buckle in the shape of a star with the state insignia imprinted on it. His sagging gut shook with ire, and he lifted his glasses to his forehead and stared at Ron with a face expressing somewhat less than the intended intimidation.
“He’s fucking right, Ron. It ain’t fair getting us high before the game. There’s some serious cash involved here,” said Trace while inhaling, his southern accent shining. It did so every time he smoked. I’ve known Trace since our junior year in college, fellow podunks at a Podunk University . Just two years ago he’d begun wearing western attire and had taken to smoking copiously and claiming he was from “North Texas.” He’s become somewhat more of an inside joke than a friend, but he never said no to a bet and lost nearly as often.
He leaned against the wall, one leg propped up exposing the recently waxed steel-toed boots he wore constantly, and tilted his brimmed hat down slightly. It was his feeble defense mechanism, as his eyes became bloodshot with the marijuana in his system before he even took a drag.
“Listen, this isn’t the way to start a friendly poker game,” I said, attempting to diffuse the situation.
Ron simply smiled. “C’mon guys, you all know I gave that shit up.” He accepted the joint without further remonstration, however, and killed it after a large hit. “Let’s start this thing,” he gasped between coughing out billows of greenish smoke.
It becomes clear enough once the game is under way, however, that Ron is so blown from drugs in his childhood (he’d smoked his first grass at the tender age of eight and moved on quickly from there) that he isn’t trying to sabotage anyone, or even if he is, he isn’t capable of pulling it off.
Everitt took control of the table nearly from the beginning, though Ron and Trace and I each made valiant efforts, mostly due to a number of lucky draws and a transparent attempt to emulate Everitt’s superior game play. Someone once told me that the cards don’t really matter, so long as you knew how to work the table, and I try to keep this in mind as I watch my pile of chips gradually (but steadily) deteriorate over the course of the evening.
Now, it’s close to two in the morning, we’ve finally tired of the game, and we jump at the suggestion of dividing the cash and taking a collective nightcap.
“You boys are fine driving, right?” I ask, with a glance in Everitt’s direction. He pats his jacket pocket where his flask rests as he leads the way down the stairs and in the process shaking the foundation of the small apartment building.
I walk them to the lobby, exchange plans for the next game, and begin to walk back up the stairs when I realize I haven’t heard the latch click. The fools are still standing in the lobby, frozen to the floor.
“Something wrong?”
“Take a look at that car,” says Trace. “Stupid bastard parked on the sidewalk.”
Upon returning to the lobby I can see that indeed, a small white American model rests at an angle, it’s front half straddling the curb and the trunk sticking haphazardly into the street. There aren’t any visible indications of a wreck, and the bumper rests adjunct, but not actually in contact with the fire hydrant.
“You think someone abandoned it?” asks Ron.
“Probably just got tired of driving. ‘Guess I’ll just leave it here; looks like as good a place as any,’” imitates Trace, tipping his hat, to which a few of us respond with a nervous sniff.
“Probably ought to have a look,” Everitt says, ambling towards the street.
No one argues, and we follow him to the edge of the street. It’s the middle of January, and though the rest have their coats and hats, I’m in stocking feet and a sweater. It’s close to zero, including the wind-chill, and I shudder but am too curious to let the prospect of frostbite dissuade me from a glance at the car.
“Who does this?” I ask, trying to keep my mind off of the weather.
“Drunks, probably,” belches Everitt.
“Maybe it was abandoned on purpose,” offers Trace. “Like they wanted it to be found or something.”
“I doubt that,” scoffs Everitt, approaching the vehicle. He leans over the car, and indicates for us to come and take a look. The interior is pristine, as if it had just been driven off the dealership lot. There are no license plates, however. We circle the car briefly, looking for signs of life but finding little in the way of anything interesting.
Everitt slams his fist down on the hood, presumably in frustration, or perhaps in attempt to pop it. Regardless of the intent, the trunk of the car cracks ajar slightly at the impact. We step back and squint to see what’s inside. Everitt, more surprised than any of us at his incidental discovery appears genuinely startled as he quickly jostles around the car to the back. He puts his hand on the lid, doubles over and vomits into the street. We stand back, waiting for an indication of what has occurred.
“Ugh,” he eventually gasps, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Don’t come over here unless you want to try your dinner a second time.” He leans on his knee, crouching at the curb.
“What is it?” asks Ron.
Everitt coughs twice before he responds with a feeble, “Let’s take it back inside for a minute, guys. It’s colder than Satan’s ass out here.”
I, for one, am happy to oblige and we shuffle back up the stairs to my warm apartment. Everitt borrows the washroom and emerges after a few minutes of running water. He helps himself to giant swig from his flask before I can ask him if I should brew coffee.
“Anyone else?” he laughs and takes a seat, passing the bottle to the left.
“There’s a body in there, right?” asked Trace, while I accept the flask.
“Christ,” Ron mutters under his breath. He pulls his cell phone from his pocket and began to mash some buttons silently.
“Now hold it right there, gentlemen,” Everitt exclaims, reaching out to put a hand on Ron’s shoulder. “Before you go calling your ladies or responding to customers,” he winks at Ron, “I think this should stay between us, at least until we decide what to do.”
Ron looks up, still punching numbers, and continues to do so silently until the expression on Everitt’s face shifts from annoyance to amusement.
“I don’t know what’s in there,” Everitt continues, ignoring Ron. “It certainly smelled like something rotting, but I can’t really say.”
“What do you mean, you can’t say? Haven’t you ever smelled a corpse before?” demands Ron, returning his phone to his pocket. When no response is attempted, he adds, “Have you even seen a dead body? What the hell kind of an excuse for a sheriff are you?”
“Deputy,” mumbles Everitt, but makes no further self-defense.
“I’ve seen a body,” Trace quickly chimes in. “On the beach when I was nine. I’ll never forget that shit. He was all covered in seaweed and smelled like fucking sewage. His eyes were wide open, except that one of them got plucked out by a seagull or a crab or something and was lying all deflated next to him.”
“Well, you wanna go smell that trunk down there and tell me if it’s the same thing?” Everitt asks, folding his arms sullenly.
Trace tips his hat a bit. “I mean, the guy really smelled more like the ocean than anything. I probably wouldn’t remember well enough to be able to say.”
“You know, smell is the sense most closely linked with memory,” Ron adds sardonically. “I bet you’d remember it if you went back down there and stuck your nose in it.”
“This isn’t helpful,” I protest, passing the flask. “Any constructive ideas?”
“Mind our own goddamn business,” Ron says flatly. “Pretend it never happened.”
“But someone’s dead in there,” says Trace.
“Why don’t you call the office, Everitt?”
“The sheriff ain’t there at this hour.”
“Well call 911, then, or take care of it yourself. You’ve got your badge.”
“I’m too fucking drunk to take care of it,” he says with a head tilt and another hit of the sauce.
“Why don’t we call a tow truck?” asks Trace. “Get a neutral party involved to take it off our hands.”
“What if the driver catches the scent?”
“So what if he does? It’s not like it’s our car. Give them a fake name, pay in cash, and get the hell out before he knows what he’s got on his hands. Then it’s his problem.”
“You guys are talking about this like we’ve got some sort of responsibility in this shit. Ain’t my car. Do what you want, I swear to god I won’t say a word to anyone, but I’m leaving. I’ve got bigger fish to fry,” Ron finally says, retrieving his phone and standing up to go.
“Shake my hand before you leave, Ronny. I want you to say that again and look me in the eyes while you do it,” Everitt stands up and holds out his palm. It quivers almost imperceptibly.
“Jesus,” laughs Ron. “Alright. I promise. Not a word to anyone,” he swears, one hand on his heart and his eyes rolling.
“Be safe getting home,” I say as he leaves. “I’m just going to go ahead and call the cops anonymously.”
I stand up, but Everitt catches my wrist when I brush past him.
“Don’t do that,” he looks up at me. “That happens, and I get a buzz from the sheriff and have to come down here. But of course, I’m already here, and drunk. How the hell does that look?”
“You aren’t involved in this, are you?” Trace asks.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Everitt snaps. “If I had a hand in this debacle, I’d be asking you to take the body and store it in your goddamn fish freezer.”
We all sit silently for a moment, pondering what to do. I had begun to pace, and as I meander past the window, I look down on the street silently hoping the car has disappeared. Snow is beginning to fall, just now visible under the streetlights. By morning there would be at least three or four inches, though there is no accumulation yet.
Trace and Everitt approach the window cautiously; curious of what has caught my eye.
“It’s snowing,” observes Trace.
“Goddamn!” Everitt shouts, smacking his knee. “Let’s push it into a space and let the snow cover it. The body will be frozen in the morning, the smell will be gone, and it will be out of our hands.”
“Outside of my apartment? Are you serious?”
“It’s the best I got. How about you?”
I shake my head and began to tie my boots.
The car is heavier than we had anticipated, but the parking brake hasn’t been applied and we eventually edge the colossal hunk of freezing metal off of the sidewalk and behind the row of other vehicles on the street. Still in front of the hydrant it will certainly be towed after the streets are cleared.
We shake hands in the snow without exchanging another word and go our separate ways.
I raise myself groggily the next morning, and as soon as I remember that the previous evening was not a twisted dream of my own creation, I peer out the window. The ground is covered in snow, the streets have been plowed, and the car is conspicuously absent.
My phone rings after I emerge from the shower, and I answer, still nursing a slight headache.
“Hello?”
“Jack, this is Everitt. We’ve got a problem.”
“Shit,” I breathe. “What is it?”
“They got my prints off the car, I’m using my phone call on you. Can you find me a lawyer?”
“Are you an idiot? Do I look like your go-to guy? You’re the cop, figure it out.”
I hang up the receiver coolly and regret it. Not because of conscience: Everitt’s just a guy I played poker with, I tell myself. But I should have asked what was in the fucking trunk.
