Last Stop This Town (9 page)

Pike whispered to Noah, “In the middle.”

The dealer overheard Pike and said, “Good eye, good eye. But is he right?”

The man with the cash glanced back at Pike and must have been impressed with his powers of observation because he said, “I think he’s right. Twenty bucks in the middle.”

He laid down a twenty and the dealer flipped over the middle card. It was the queen.

“Damn, you’re good,” the dealer complimented Pike. He paid out twenty dollars to his celebrating shill and added convincingly, “You’re gonna bankrupt me, man.”

The dealer started up the routine again, showing the queen and two aces to the crowd like before. “Round and round, there she goes, where she lands, nobody knows.”

The queen was obviously on the left this time but the shill apparently still needed Pike’s help because he turned to him and asked, “Which one, man?”

“On the left,” Pike whispered confidently.

“You heard him,” the shill gloated. “Twenty on the left.”

Sure enough, that was the queen. The dealer pretended to curse his bad luck and paid the shill, now pretending to be ecstatic. The shill flashed his wad of cash in the other guy’s face. “Pleasure doin’ business with you,” the shill bragged. “Now I’ve got some business to attend to with a t-bone at Sizzler.”

He laughed and headed down 40th Street.

Pike had that look in his eye. The guys had seen it far too many times, like right before he jumped off Sarah’s roof onto a trampoline floating in her swimming pool. It was a surprisingly intense stare, given that Pike was still high. And it meant that he was about to do something stupid.

“Who’s next? Who’s next?” the dealer called out like a carnival barker. “Step right up.” Then he turned to Pike. “How about it, Eagle Eyes? You want to take a shot?”

“I’ll play,” Pike said as he reached for his wallet.

Noah grabbed his arm, and whispered, “Dude, are you serious? It’s a scam.”

“That guy just won,” Pike reasoned. “I can beat him.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Walker seconded.

“Pike—” Dylan thirded.

But Pike could not be talked down, so Noah shook his head and let him go.

“Let’s do this.”

The dealer smiled and began his routine, showing the queen, throwing the cards around slowly enough that you could easily follow it, and singing his little “round and round” song. He stopped and Pike smiled. The queen was obviously in the middle.

“What’cha say, my man?” the dealer said charismatically.

Pike laid down a twenty and stated confidently, “It’s in the middle.”

The dealer flipped over an ace and scooped up Pike’s money quick as lightning.

Pike couldn’t believe it. The queen was there! “But I saw it—”

“Sorry, my friend, you losing your concentration on me now? The queen is a royal bitch and you gots to pay attention.”

The other three guys rolled their eyes.

Noah tried one more time to reason with him, speaking slowly, “It’s. A. Con.”

But Pike was committed to this cause. “No, I can do this.”

“Come on, dude,” Dylan interrupted, “just give him your wallet and stop wasting our time.”

Pike just turned to the dealer. “Let’s go again.”

“That’s the spirit! Do or die, never give up, that’s what made this country great.” The clichés poured out like a fine bottle of Night Train.

He showed the queen again then began his patter. “Round and round, there she goes, where she winds up, nobody knows.”

As the cards jumped back and forth, Walker looked at Noah, like,
Shouldn’t we do something?
, but Noah was at a loss for how to convince Pike to abandon this avenue of idiocy.

Dylan summed it up, quietly commenting, “There’s no stopping him now.”

The cards came to a rest and this time Pike was
sure
the queen was on the left. He threw down another twenty and declared his choice.

The dealer flipped up the card. Ace.

He grabbed Pike’s money and Pike turned red. “Fuck! How is he doing that?!”

“You getting sleepy, my man?” the dealer asked, hoping to score a third bet. “I thought we was friends.”

Pike reached for his wallet.

Dylan nodded to Noah and together the two of them literally grabbed Pike by both arms.

“Come on, genius,” Noah prodded.

The dealer was upset. “Hey, man, what’choo doin’? Ain’t this a free country? Ain’t a man got a right to make a fair wager?”

But as the guys pulled the livid Pike away, the dealer knew it was over. In a flash, the table was folded up and he and his shills and lookouts were down the street scouting for their next mark.

“No, wait!” Pike pleaded, “I know how he’s doing it! Let’s go back! Let’s go back!”

As he struggled, Dylan pulled him in to a head lock and gave him a friendly noogie, laughing, “You dumb motherfucker.”

The guys spent the rest of the afternoon walking through Central Park, checking out the 9/11 Memorial, and exploring Rockefeller Center. At FAO Schwartz, they played laser tag, knocking over displays and causing a scene in the store. As for food, they ate hot dogs and pretzels from a vendor on 38th Street. But by five p.m., it was down to business, and the guys found themselves smoking cigars, drinking beers, and watching the show on the main stage of the Baby Dolls Gentlemen’s Club.

It’s funny how guys are around strippers. One regiment of strippers could probably end war as we know it because beautiful naked women have a pacifying effect on everyone around. Men of all ages just sit there, mouths slightly ajar, gaping at the sea of breasts and asses. They look hypnotized—how else could the strippers get them to empty their wallets for a no-touch lap dance?

Our guys were no exception. Even Dylan gazed in amazement at the quality and quantity. Occasionally, a particularly stunning one would walk by and one of the guys would point her out to the others. They bought each other lap dances, as was the custom, as if buying a lap dance for a friend were less seedy than buying one for yourself. Some nonverbal clues were needed so the interested party could convey his preference to the buyer, but at a place like Baby Dolls there weren’t too many bad choices.

Walker scored the most dances. It was fun to watch him squirm and turn red when a girl shook her ass in his face or squeezed her breasts together to grab a dollar bill from his teeth. After a few minutes, Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” ended (the guys wondered if strip club DJs
ever
updated their playlists) and Walker needed a break.

Dylan was just about to call the waitress over for another round when Pike’s eyes went wide. Coming into the club was Chuck Zambrelli with his football buddies.

“No way,” Pike gasped, in utter disbelief.

But it
was
Chuck and he was headed right toward them. After a proverbial double-take, Chuck exclaimed, “Holy shit! It’s the itty bitty limp dick committee.”

After some congratulatory high-fives from his buddies, Chuck followed it up with his trademark, “S’up, ladies?”

Dylan was a little buzzed and decided it was finally time to address the issue that had irked the entire school for years. “Look, Chuck. We’re about to graduate. You think you could retire the ‘s’up, ladies?’ line?”

“Whatever, dude.”

“No, seriously,” Dylan continued. “I think you should segue to ‘wassuuuuup!’” he said with an “urban” flair, calling back that decade-old catch-phrase from those Budweiser commercials that took the country by storm.

But Chuck seemed unfamiliar with the concept, so Dylan put the exclamation on the point: “That’ll go over like gangbusters at Manchester Community College next year.”

Zing.

Chuck was actually kind of offended. You could tell by the tone of his “Fuck you.”

Chuck retreated back to his buddies who were already ordering beers from a not-quite-hot-enough waitress.

Noah turned to Dylan and failed to whisper, “You’re giving him too much credit. You still have to know how to read to get in to Manchester.”

The guys all shared a laugh, until Chuck turned back to face them.

Oops.

They stopped laughing.

But Chuck didn’t look mad. He looked hurt.

“Hey, I heard that. And for your information, I’m dyslexic, man.”

The guys looked at each other. That was not expected.

Chuck continued, starting to get a little emotional, “So excuse me if I’m not going to a fucking Ivy League school, asshole, but reading is really hard work for me and it doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

Chuck just stood there looking embarrassed, and this only made the guys feel even more like shit.

“I’m sorry, man,” Noah apologized.

“Yeah, we didn’t know,” Dylan said, looking contrite as well.

“Have you tried ‘Hooked on Phonics’?” Walker added, sincerely trying to be helpful.

Dylan elbowed him.

Chuck took a deep, pained breath.

Dylan knew one way to bury the hatchet for good. “Look, man. Let us buy you a lap dance. No hard feelings?”

Chuck tried to get past his surge of emotions. “Yeah, okay.”

Dylan patted him on the back and said, “There you go. Class of 2012 has to stick together, right?”

Chuck nodded, still too choked up to speak. Dylan escorted him through the club to go find a stripper.

“Awk-ward,” Walker chirped under his breath.

Five minutes and one airplay of Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded” later, Chuck explained over a Long Island Ice Tea that he and Marco had had a falling out. It seemed that Chuck had worked as Marco’s personal bouncer all these years for no pay, just free entry into the parties. But after four years Chuck finally realized that he never got to
go
to any of the parties because he was always standing at the front door all night long. So Chuck asked Marco if he could just attend Beach Weekend without working the door. He even offered to bring the customary alcohol.

But Marco flew into a rage. “You ungrateful bastard!” he shouted, like he’d rescued Chuck from an animal shelter and now Chuck was refusing to guard the junkyard. “Who’s gonna man the door?”

“Dunno,” Chuck replied, then had the nerve to ask, “Why does there need to be a bouncer at the door anyway? I mean, who’s gonna drive all the way down to Rhode Island just to crash your party?”

Marco just glared at him. “Look, I’ll make it simple for you,” Marco threatened, “Either you work the door or you don’t show up.”

“What a dick,” Dylan said sympathetically.

So, long story long, Chuck discussed it with the rest of the team and they took a vote to support Chuck and boycott Marco’s. Steve Wasnicki’s brother lived in the city and the rest was history.

The guys sat and listened, and it occurred to Noah that this was the longest conversation he’d ever had with Chuck Zambrelli. He mentioned that fact to Pike in the men’s room during a piss break. The end of high school really did mend fences and break down barriers.

“Strange days indeed,” Pike agreed.

A
FTER A FEW
more lap dances and the free dinner buffet at Baby Dolls, the guys said farewell to Chuck and the rest of the football team and headed out to their next destination of the evening. It was a bit far, so the guys picked up the car from the garage, paid the shocking forty-six dollar fee, and headed west.

The Manhattan neighborhoods changed quickly, and soon they arrived at a sketchy neighborhood near the Lincoln Tunnel. Pike checked the address on his phone.

“There,” he pointed.

Dylan rolled up in front of an apartment building that sat on top of A-1 Bail Bonds.
Plenty of parking in this neighborhood
, he thought.

Walker looked out through the window. Some unsavory characters were milling around in front of a boarded-up building.

“You sure this is a good idea?” he asked.

“It’s fine,” Pike assured him. “Ned knows this guy personally.”

“Where does he know him from?” Dylan wondered aloud. “Juvie?”