Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (2 page)

Frankie shakes his head, slaps the counter. Leans back, across Roy, past Roy, aiming for the boy on the other side. “Hey,” he says, and just as he knew, the college kid turns his head. “Hey, you wanna see my friend make an ass outta himself?”

“Did I ask
him
if he wanted to see a card trick?” says Roy. “I asked
you
.”

“And I ain’t all that interested. Maybe if I got company …”

“Let the kid eat his lunch. He don’t wanna watch a stupid—”

“Sure,” says the boy, like he’s in on it, like he knows he’s been cued. This is how it should always go down, Roy thinks. This is heaven right here. “We’ll watch.”

Roy doesn’t even need to suppress his grin; it fits for the time and the place, and he lets it bloom across his lips. “Thanks, kid,”
he says. Roy looks down at the counter, at the cards in his hand. “No room here—let’s go over to that table.”

Introductions are made. Roy and Frankie are Roy and Frankie, no need to cover it for this. This is their diner. This is no place for hiding. Kevin and Amanda are indeed from the local college, out on lunch break between classes.

“Nice-looking couple,” says Roy once they’re all seated around the laminate table. “You got kids?”

“We’re—we’re just dating,” Kevin stammers. “Two months.”

“Beautiful time,” Roy tells them. “My wife and I dated for six months, then got hitched up in Vegas. Marriage is great, a blessing, gift from the Lord, but dating … Special time. Carefree. You kids take it slow, now. No hurry, promise me that.”

Amanda smiles; she’s already in. “We will,” she promises. Like she’s talking to an uncle. Like she’s known him for life. Roy wishes they were all like Amanda. Roy knows that most of them are.

“Pick a card, my educated friend,” says Roy, rifling the deck and slapping it into Kevin’s outstretched palm. “Don’t let me touch the deck, don’t let me see the deck, just pick a card and show it to the others.”

“I got a dunce cap in the car,” Frankie cuts in. “You want me to get it now or wait till you’re done screwing this up?”

Roy gamely ignores Frankie, shoots a hurt look toward his newfound friends, and continues. On the other side of the table, Kevin reaches into the pack and plucks out the three of clubs. He shows it to Amanda, to Frankie, to Amanda again.

“Done?” asks Roy. “Good. Put it back in the deck—don’t turn it, don’t turn it—just put it back wherever you want. There. Now shuffle the cards, shuffle as much as you like. Move those cards all over the place, shake up the neighborhood.”

Kevin’s fingers are unused to the rigors of shuffling, so the cards take a few wrong turns on the way back to the deck. Kevin laughs, Amanda laughs, Frankie laughs along. They’re having fun. This is fun.

“Perfect,” says Roy. “Good deck.” He holds out his hand, and Kevin surrenders the cards. Roy starts dealing.

One by one, the cards flip off the top, landing faceup on the table below. “Gonna get it right,” Roy mumbles, just loud enough to hear. “Gonna get it right.”

Jack, eight, king, ace. Flopping onto the table, staring up at the sky. Kevin, Amanda, Frankie watching it all. Roy dealing off the top, slapping the cards down hard.

“Got this trick from an old swami lives down on Eighty-fifth Avenue,” Roy says, raising one eyebrow in Kevin’s direction. “You believe that?”

“I—I don’t know,” Kevin says.

Frankie laughs. “I know.”

“Know what?”

“I know you’re full of shit.”

The three of clubs hits the table, and hits it hard. Kevin sees it. Amanda sees it. Frankie sees it, and does what he always does at this point. He curls his upper lip. A twinge, nothing more than a millimeter. Roy keeps flipping. Doesn’t look Frankie’s way, doesn’t stop with the motion. He keeps on with the game, drawing cards off the top. If Roy saw the tell, there’s no indication.

Roy turns to Amanda. “Do
you
believe me? About the swami?”

“I … I don’t know you, so … I mean …” Amanda looks to Kevin, who looks back to Frankie, who smirks away. “No,” she says eventually. “No, I guess I don’t believe you.”

Roy grins. “She’s a keeper,” he says to Kevin. “Forget that dating crap—marry this one today.”

They laugh together for a second, for just a split second, but the chuckles join together in harmony, and Roy knows it’s time. “This is it,” he says, tapping the top of the deck with a meaty finger. “This is the one. Got it this time.”

“You ain’t got dick,” says Frankie.

“Hey, hey, there’s a lady present.”

“All I’m saying is, you gotta practice more.”

“What,” says Roy, “you think I pooched this?”

Frankie shrugs and turns to Kevin, one eye on the kid and one on the faceup three of clubs. He draws a smile out of the boy, using his own tight lips as bait. Soon, they’re grinning together, in this thing and on the same side. There’s the card, on the table, clear as day. Roy is wrong, they all know Roy is wrong, and soon Roy will be proven wrong. It’s all about the sides, Roy always says. Get ’em on your side, and no matter where you’re going, the game is over before it’s over.

“You wanna try this again?” asks Frankie. “We’ll let ya start over.”

“Screw that,” mutters Roy, and now he lets some anger crawl into his voice. Just a touch, but enough to widen the gulf. Kevin’s got to align with Frankie now, got to see it all from Frankie’s point of view. “I got this one dead to rights.”

Frankie shrugs. “Whatever you say, pal.”

Roy looks to the others, trying to make some eye contact. They look away. Perfect. Roy lays it in: “Whaddaya wanna bet that the next card I turn over is the kid’s card?” There it is, the phrase that pays. Laid out casually, perfectly.

“What,” replies Frankie, “like a bet bet?”

“Yeah. Like a bet bet.”

Frankie nudges Kevin with an elbow. “Get this guy? I’m givin’ him a chance to walk away with his head up, and he wants to lose money. Hell,” he says, “I’m game for that.” Reaching into his pocket, pulling out a money clip. A twenty, two twenties, three twenties fall across the cards.

“Big spender,” grumbles Roy. “We’ll take your private jet home today.” He turns to Kevin and Amanda, scooting his chair back from the table to give it a little more air, a little more space between them. “How ’bout you, kid?” asks Roy, tapping the top of the deck. “How much you wanna bet that the next card I turn over is the card you picked?”

Kevin looks again, just a quick glance down at the table to make sure that the three of clubs is really there, faceup, already dealt off the deck. No way to lose. Easy money. “ ’Bout a million dollars,” he laughs.

Roy lets it loose, a full-on belly laugh, wiping the corners of his eyes where real tears begin to form. “Well,” he says after a time, “ol’ Roy ain’t got the bones to cover a bet that big.… Whaddaya say to a hundred?”

And somehow, some way, there’s a hundred-dollar bill in Roy’s hand, like it sprouted from between his fingers, a webbing of pure green. He gently lays the bill atop the table.

There is discussion between Kevin and Amanda, fiscal strategy, whispers and suggestions. Fingers digging into the pockets of their jeans, pulling out crumpled receipts and candy-bar wrappers, mixed together with loose bills and change.

“Eighty-seven dollars,” Kevin announces once they’ve got all the money together. “It’s all we’ve got on us.”

“Fair enough,” says Roy. He cracks his knuckles and picks up
the deck of cards. Draws himself upright, back tight against the chair.

“Now,” he says, “we just bet that the next card I flip over will be the card you picked, right?”

“Right,” says Kevin, tugging at his sweatshirt, anticipating his victory, counting his found money.

“Right,” says Roy.

No flourish, no fancy motions. Roy drops the deck, leans over the table, grabs the three of clubs between his fingers, and flips it over. Facedown. He scoops the money off the table and into his pocket, and follows the passing waitress back to the lunch counter.

“Check, please,” he tells her. “We’re ready to head out.”

Roy is driving. Frankie relaxes. They’re in Roy’s Chevy Caprice, just past ten years old. It’s black, with windows tinted down to the legal limits and a dark gray interior. The wax job is rubbing out, but the vinyl is taut and the floor mats are spotless. Roy could buy a new car, he knows, buy a hundred new cars if he wanted, but the Chevy doesn’t attract attention, the engine runs fine, the carpets are clean, and it gets him where he wants to go.

Inside the car, after the diner, Frankie is elated. They’ve scored bigger than this; they always score bigger than this. But any score is a happy score for Frankie. He rifles through the bills like a schoolboy with trading cards. Roy drives, his fingers tight around the steering wheel, red blooms spreading out from the knuckles. The pressure is there, in his head. Pushing.

“You see them slink outta there?” Frankie giggles. “Back to school, kids …”

“Timing was off.”

“We did good. A hundred bucks—well, eighty-seven, but—”

“Coulda done better.”

“That’s all they had. Took all they had.”

“And we coulda done better with the timing,” Roy says.

Frankie gives up. He nods. “Five years we been doing that gag, you’d think we’d have it down by now.”

“You’d think.”

Frankie leans back in his seat, puts his feet up on the dash. His black boots are filthy, the soles scuffing up the glove compartment. “Get your fucking feet down,” Roy barks, knocking Frankie’s legs off with a hearty swipe.

“So, wait—wait—I’m supposed to say, ‘You suck at card tricks—’ ”

“Card
game
,” says Roy. “
Game
. That’s it, right there—that’s the problem. Trick, that’s a giveaway. Trick, a spin, a screw-around. Trick is the trick. Now
game
 … shit, game’s a walk, a pleasant afternoon in the park. No one puts up walls for a game.”

“So you’re saying it’s all words.”

Roy shakes his head. “Not all words, no, but they send out the wrong message if you use ’em wrong. Look, all I’m saying is that you have to be careful. You go out to hunt a few deer, do you need a bazooka?”

“How big are the deer?”

“No, you don’t need a bazooka. And a potato gun ain’t gonna help you, either. You wanna shoot deer, you need a rifle. Same thing with marks, right? You gotta pick the weapon, and pick it right, or you’re gonna either blow it outta the water or come up way short of the target.”

“And
game
is the right weapon?” Frankie asks.

“In this case, yeah.
Game
is where you wanna be with that.”

Frankie takes a moment to think it over. Puts his feet back on the dashboard, has them batted down again a moment later. Roy doesn’t tolerate a filthy automobile. He’s seen what Frankie does to his series of cars. Empty soda cans in front, empty condom wrappers in back. Food crumbs, crumpled maps. A movable war zone. Disgusting. The kind of thing that can happen to any car, if you don’t watch out for it. If you’re not vigilant. Roy is vigilant. Roy is super-vigilant when it comes to Frankie. Ever since Hank died, Frankie’s been a good guy and a great partner, but his filth is a virus.

“There’s a diner out on Fourth Street,” Frankie begins. “Might be a good stop.”

“Not hungry.”

“Me neither. But we could order up some fries, try the game again. Practice.”

“Not today.”

“I think we could nail it—”

“Not today.”

Roy takes the corner hard, legs braced against the floor as the tires skitter across the pavement. Frankie goes with the motion, letting his shoulder rest up against the Caprice’s door, the handle digging into his side.

“Look,” says Frankie after a while, “I don’t wanna get on you about this—”

“Then don’t.”

“—but you wake up at eleven, call me out to lunch, we run a stupid little game on some kids, and then you wanna knock off for the day?”

“Did I say that?” asks Roy. “Did I say we were done for the day?”

“Are we?”

“No. I’m tired, that’s all.”

“You’re always tired. Last three weeks, you been sleepwalking through every job.” Frankie waits a moment, like he’s not sure whether or not to continue. “You still taking your pills?”

“Partner,” grumbles Roy, “get your goddamned feet off my dashboard.”

There’s nothing else to say. Roy drives on. Frankie flips on the radio, finds one of his stations. Golden oldies. Crooners. A guy his age, listening to music made for his parents. He sings along with some has-been Vegas lounge act.

In the backseat, there’s a newspaper, folded neatly into thirds. As they cross over a set of worn-out railroad tracks, Roy reaches back, grabs the paper by the left corner, and heaves it into Frankie’s lap. “You wanna run a roofing job?”

Frankie brightens. “No kiddin’?”

“Section D. Get a good one.”

“How old’s the paper?”

“Two weeks. Long enough for family to clear out.”

Frankie tears into the newspaper with relish, tossing the pages about the car. Roy holds back a grimace. Bile tickling his throat. No point in telling him to pick the trash up, no point in getting into an argument now. He’s a good partner, a good partner, a good partner. It used to be that it didn’t bother him at all, these things Frankie did, these little personality quirks. The casual disregard for tidiness. The flashy clothes. The loud music. Used to be that they were endearing, or they were tolerable.
Last few weeks, since the doctor moved away, it’s been different. Like there’s an ocean of resentment out there, a tossing sea of anger. Bloodred waves. Wade on in, they call, wade on in. Roy feels like he’s been toeing up to the line, testing the waters. Edging away at the last moment. Doc woulda liked to know about it. That’s the kinda thing he would have written down, talked about for weeks. But the doc moved away. That’s what they all do, eventually. They move away.