Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (6 page)

“You have kids?” asks the woman. Roy knows he’s got her now.

“No,” he replies. “We—we tried, but—we thought about adopting.…”

The woman nods knowingly. Stops talking. Puts out a hand, pats him on the arm. She’s worried she’s put him in a bad state. Doesn’t want to press the matter. Roy grins meekly and goes
back to the laundry. As he reaches down to pull out another shirt from the pile, his right hand digs quickly into his pocket. Snapping motion, barely seen. The lottery ticket flutters to the floor. The woman doesn’t notice. Yet.

Roy throws his whites into the washer and closes the lid. He’s fumbling in his pockets now, fumbling for change. Comes up with a few quarters, but his fingers get caught up in the shirt he’s holding; a quarter flips out of his hand and next to the woman’s feet, skittering up against the soles of her tan sandals.

“One got away.” Roy grins, and the woman smiles back. She reaches down to pick up the quarter, and for a moment, Roy thinks she’s missed the ticket. Thinks she’s passed it right on by.

But she stops down there, back stooped. Grabs the quarter with her left, the lottery ticket with her right. “I think you dropped this, too,” she says, coming upright.

Roy looks at the ticket, really makes sure to soak in a good glance. Shakes his head. “Nope. I don’t play the lottery.”

“Me neither,” she says. “I did, once, but—my husband made me stop.”

“Maybe there’s a lost and found.”

“Maybe …” But she doesn’t mean it. Doesn’t look around.

Roy lets her off. “I doubt it. Places like this, people come, people go, they drop things. What’s the date?”

“Looks like the second. Yesterday’s drawing.”

Roy looks around. The couple in the corner are still making cutesy-face. The black man has left. There’s just one other guy near the door, reading a newspaper. Roy waits for the woman to come up with it. Let her own the moment.

Ten seconds later, it’s there. “We should see if it hit,” she says.

“Hit? Oh, the lottery, if the numbers hit.” Roy pretends to think it over. As if he’s got better things to do with his time. “Sure, that’d be fun. We could split fifty-fifty. Three or four numbers come up, we could take home a couple of hundred bucks.”

The woman is game. They shake on it. She eagerly leaves her washing machine in search of a newspaper, fingers still clutched tight around that ticket. Roy’s glad she took the ticket with her. It always works better when they take the ticket with them. Like it’s their property. Found money, but
their
money. He watches as she approaches the man in the corner with yesterday’s newspaper and asks to borrow it for a moment. Frankie gladly obliges, and can’t help but shoot a wink at Roy when the woman turns around and walks back to the washers.

“What section is it in?” she asks.

“Dunno,” says Roy, starting to lay it in. “This isn’t my town, so …”

But she’s found it quickly enough. Section B, page 2, yesterday’s winning lotto picks. The woman slaps the ticket across the paper and begins to match up the numbers. It doesn’t take long.

“Holy Jesus,” says Roy. “Holy Jesus … Five outta six. Christ, we were this close, ya know? Some days …”

The woman opens her mouth, closes it. Barely speaking, voice almost too low to hear. “That’s—they match. These five, they—they match—”

Roy purses his lips. “Too bad. Well, it was good to meet you—”

The woman grabs him by the arm. Pressing down hard. “Five out of six counts. It’s not as big, but …”

The woman runs a finger along the newspaper. The payouts are printed below the winning numbers. Five out of six, clear as
day, a ninety-eight-thousand-dollar win. As the woman starts to check the numbers again and again, Roy sets it all off. “No, no, no,” he mumbles under his breath. “No, Jesus, no, no …” He whacks his forehead with the flat of his palm, smacking himself good. Does it again, the skin flushing, turning red. “Jesus, no—”

“Wait, wait,” protests the woman. “You don’t understand, we won. We won. Look at that, it’s a hundred-thousand-dollar jackpot, look at that!”

“Dammit, no—”

“Stop, sir, stop—the paper, the paper says we won.” She’s lowering her voice now, looking around. Fingers practically ripping the ticket in two. It’s her ticket, her hundred grand. No one better take it. “You don’t understand—”

“No,” says Roy firmly, keeping his voice just as low, “
you
don’t understand. I—I’m not … I’m not supposed to be here.”

“The Laundromat?”

“This city. This state. I—ah, Jesus, this is the luck I get. I’m supposed to be in Kansas City. I’m supposed to be at a roofing convention, and I’m … My
wife
thinks I’m at a roofing convention.”

“Your wife.”

“In Kansas City. But I’m not, I’m … Hell, I’m involved with a woman here. Downtown. And if I—”

“I see,” she says.

“If I come home with fifty grand, that’s great, you know? But it ain’t exactly the thing you can pretend you won gambling with the boys after hours.” Roy rubs his eyes, slaps his head again. “All the dumb luck, huh? All the dumb luck.”

She stares at him mutely. Roy doesn’t want to lay the last part
in if he doesn’t have to. He prefers it when
they
come up with the plan. Then it’s their idea. Their ticket. Their cash. Everything is theirs, and nothing is his. That’s the way he likes it.

“Jesus, lady, I need the money, but I don’t wanna get divorced.” Then, to finish it, “You take it. You got five kids, you need that kinda cash.”

But she won’t hear of it. “We said we’d split it. At least, we’ll figure something out. I could send you half after I cashed it in, after I got the check—”

“And it’s still money comin’ in she doesn’t know where I got it. My wife ain’t the shrinking-violet type—she sees the bankbooks, you know? No, I’d have to come home with poker money or some horse race money or something like that. Too much, and she’d be on me like … well, she’d be on me.”

Roy lets it sink in. Gives it time. Watched pot doesn’t boil, same goes for the mark. He needs to let it take hold. He rubs his eyes again, looks up at the ceiling. The tiles are filthy, encrusted with grime. He looks away.

“I may have one idea,” says the woman, dropping her eyes. Roy takes her hand in his, cupping it tight.

“Anything,” he says softly. “Let me hear your plan.”

She comes out of the bank holding a small black bag that Roy has given her. He told her it was for toiletries, for the trip he’d taken out here. She’d watched as he pulled out the toothbrush and the combs and the mouthwash, and she’d taken it inside the bank.

Now she’s holding it out in front of her, clutching it to her chest like a newborn. Eyes darting to either side as she walks
through the parking lot, hands tight around the handles. Roy waits by her station wagon, leaning against the rusted trunk. Roy doesn’t think they make this model anymore.

“I feel horrible,” she says as she approaches. “This isn’t enough.”

“It’s more than enough,” Roy explains. “Any more, and I’m in deep. This was a wonderful idea, a perfect idea, I can’t thank you enough.”

“I just—I just wish there was more,” she says. “It’s all there was in my account. I thought it was closer to seven thousand, but we used some to get the car fixed up last month, so it’s closer to six.”

“It’s perfect,” he says. “My wife—she won’t know, I can tell her it was from poker, and … Heck, I’m done with all this fooling around, anyway, I broke it off last night, but—God, I feel like a heel—”

“No,” says the woman, “no, you’re not. We all—everyone has their mistakes.”

“Mistakes, yeah …”

“I wish there was more I could give you. Maybe I could send you some more money later on.”

Roy shakes his head and opens the car door for the woman. She gets in, Roy helping her into the seat. “Bless your heart,” he says, “but this is best for all. You go cash that ticket in, buy some toys for those rugrats of yours.”

She looks up at Roy. Into the sun. Eyes squinting, trying to block out the glare. “Can I at least give you a ride to—”

“No,” he says. “I’m going to grab a cab. Give me time to think about this. What I did. You go on now. Go home.”

The woman closes the door and guns the engine. Smoke
pours from the exhaust. The car is badly in need of more repairs. Roy steps back, waves, watches as she pulls out of the parking lot and down the street.

A tingle in his throat. Roy thinks about his pills. Watches the birds.

Frankie’s car pulls in two minutes later, music pumping, windows pulsing with the beat. He’s happy, Roy thinks. Because of the money, because now he can spend a little more. He opens the door for Roy, and the sound pours into the parking lot, trumpets flattening the air. “Turn it down,” Roy yells.

“What?”

“Turn it down before I get in that damned thing.”

Frankie kicks the stereo down a notch and Roy throws the bag onto his partner’s lap. Frankie opens it up, and there it is, in crisp hundred-dollar bills. “Bank fresh,” he says, rifling the edges of the money. “I love it. How much?”

“Somewhere between six and seven. She wasn’t specific.” Roy takes his seat and closes the door, clasps on his seat belt. “Call it six five for good measure.”

“Greedy little bitch,” Frankie says, gunning the engine. The car squeals out of the parking lot and onto the street. His smile is gone, his good mood turned sour. Six thousand isn’t good enough for Frankie. Roy has a feeling that on a day like today, twenty-six thousand wouldn’t have been good enough, either.

“That’s all she had,” Roy says. “That was her savings account.”

“Bullshit!”

“Bullshit to your bullshit, that was all the money the broad had, trust me. I can read it.”

“Yeah, but six grand’s no payoff for a hundred thou, right? She got out easy.”

“There is no hundred thousand.”

“That’s like … six grand to a hundred grand, that’s some lousy fucking ratio. Can’t do the math, but that’s a lousy fucking ratio for you and me.”

“Frankie,” says Roy, slowing down his words,
“there is no hundred grand.”

“Sure, but
she
don’t know that. Greedy little bitch.”

Roy reaches for the can of warm soda in the drink holder. The aluminum is hot to his touch, the liquid inside probably stale and flat. But he drinks and he drinks, and he washes the bile out of his mouth. He washes the bile that’s trickling up, crawling up his throat. He might vomit, right here, right in Frankie’s filthy car, but he’s hoping he won’t. He takes another sip, then goes for Frankie’s drink, finishes it off. The stinging fades. The bile is holding off. He’s washing it all down. It’s okay now. It’s okay. It’s all going to wash away.

D
r. Klein doesn’t make him wait this time. He’s shown into the doctor’s office as soon as he arrives, and walks down the wood-paneled hallway without being told where to go. It’s been a week of the new medicine, and he’s been feeling better on it. Not better as in cured, but better as in not as bad. Better as in it takes twenty minutes to leave the house instead of sixty. That’s all he’s looking for right now.

“Any side effects?” asks the doctor.

Roy shrugs. “Mouth’s been a little dry.”

“That’s common. You may want to drink more fruit juice, it might cut that down a little.”

Roy nods. He doesn’t drink much but soda right now. “But it’s been pretty good. Different from when I had the pills from Doc Mancuso. I don’t feel so … slow. You know? I mean, don’t get me wrong, the Anafranil was good stuff, but—”

“But sometimes it dulled the edges. Right?”

“Right.”

“It’s an older class of SSCI compounds, the Anafranil,” says
Klein. “The one I’ve got you on has a stronger inhibitor, but doesn’t get in the way.…” He trails off. Leans back, glasses perched on the edge of his nose. “But that’s not why you’re here, to talk about chemistry.”

“Hope not.” Roy laughs.

“So let’s talk.”

“Talk …” Roy says, trying out the word. “What about?”

“About anything. Whatever you like. Is there anything that’s been weighing on you?”

“Like how?”

Klein puts down Roy’s file and crosses his hands. “Something you want to get off your chest, something you’d like to tell somebody, anybody. That’s what I’m here for. Tell me stories.”