The Peddler (10 page)

“Here,” he said. “Unless you got no stomach at all, this should feel good after last night.”

Tony started to shake his head, then took the drink. A dririk would taste good, at that. He could beg off after one or two, and he didn’t want to antagonize anybody yet, not till he knew what the score was. Maybe the score was just a poker game for the hell of it. But there was something in the air… .

Joyce said, “Table stakes?” They all nodded and he went on, “Ante five, check stud cinches, dealer’s choice but no goddamn whorehouse games. Play poker, right?”

That suited everybody. Tony thought this might wind up a cutthroat game. The men stacked their money in front of them as Marzo shuffled the cards expertly, slapped them down for Joyce to cut, then tossed them around the table, dealing to the next man before the first card hit the table. The guy really handled the pasteboards. Marzo had a thick pile of green bills in front of him, weighted with a silver dollar. Tony had about $1400 on the table. Marzo was dealing draw, jacks or better. Tony picked up his five cards and bunched them, then spread them slowly. A pair of tens. Pudge opened for twenty bucks; Tony called, thinking he’d ride along a while till he saw how the game went. He had a swallow of his drink.

Only Joyce and the dealer threw in their cards. The opener drew three cards; Frame drew two cards to Tony’s three; Sharkey drew one. Pudge bet thirty bucks. Frame called. Tony had drawn a pair of sixes to go with his tens; he called. Sharkey raised thirty, Pudge dropped out, and Frame called. Frame had drawn two, Sharkey one. That one-card draw might mean two pairs—^but Frame had called. Tony folded.

Sharkey won the pot with a small straight. Christ, Tony thought, a straight on the first hand; Shark would have won three or four times as much if he’d got that hand five minutes later when the game loosened up. Frame lost with aces over nines; Tony made a mental note that Frame had drawn to a pair, holding an ace kicker. And that dumb Pudge bet pairs into one-card draws. Jesus. This could cost a guy plenty.

Frame dealt draw again. Tony swallowed half his drink before he picked up his hand; maybe he could drown the butterflies in his stomach. Tony had nothing and threw in his hand when the pot was opened. This was a hell of a game. Everybody sat around quietly, concentrating on their cards. It was too goddamn quiet. All that was said was the amount of the bet, and “call,” or “raise,” or “check.” He wondered again what Sharkey was doing here. And those two guys. Pudge and Marzo. Come to think of it, Tony hadn’t ever been around Sharkey except up at the Shark’s apartment. Tony felt uneasy; he looked across the table at Shark. The man looked nervous and ill at ease, himself. Sharkey caught Tony’s eye and stared at him for several dragging seconds, then looked at his hand, threw it into the middle of the table. He licked his red lips, got up and walked toward the open door leading into the adjoining bathroom.

Maybe, thought Tony, he was imagining it, but it seemed that all the others present stopped moving for a half second and looked at Sharkey. Frame said, “I’m done,” shoved back his chair as he threw in his cards, then got up and followed Sharkey into the John. The hand ended and Tony shuffled for his deal. Christ, he was nervous; seemed like he was all thumbs. He slapped the cards down for the cut and his palm brushed the top of the pack as he took his hand away, cards fanning on the table. Pudge stacked them, cut, shoved the deck to Tony. While he dealt, Shark and Frame came back and sat down. Nobody said anything. Tony could feel his muscles tense, pulling in his arms as he dealt. This was no good; there was something he didn’t know about. Tony picked up his hand and looked at Sharkey. The guy didn’t look good at all; his face was pale, perspiration gleaming on his high forehead. Sharkey looked around the table, let his glance stop on Tony, swallowed, tried to smile, red lips twisting. He looked funny. Everything looked a little funny.

Tony examined his cards as the man on his left opened. Pair of threes. He started to throw his hand in, then saw that he had four spades. One of the threes was a spade. What was the matter with him? He’d damn near thrown away a four-card flush. He reached for the money in front of him. “Call. Uh, what’s the bet?”

“Fifty.”

He tossed two twenties and a ten into the pot.

He dealt himself a diamond. What lousy luck. Must be half a G in the pot now. He dropped out. Sharkey won the hand. Joyce rifled the cards, put them in front of him, then got to his feet.

“Drink up,” he said. “Let’s loosen up. Party’s too damn dead.” He waited with his fists on his hips. Tony swallowed the last of his drink. The others finished theirs and Joyce quickly made more and brought them back.

He dealt. Tony squeezed his hand open. Seemed like the cards wanted to stick together; they were thick, too thick. Ace of clubs. Four, five, six, seven of hearts. Straight heart flush. This had to be it; he hadn’t won a hand yet. Must be out a couple hundred. The pot was opened and Tony raised when the bet reached him. He couldn’t remember the original bet. He pulled a hundred-dollar bill from the bottom of his stack and shoved it forward. “Raise.”

“Cards?”

Up to me. What’ve I got? Get rid of that damn ace, that black bullet. “One card,” he said. Gimme the eight of hearts, he thought. Gimme the heart three. The card fell in front of him. Christ, it was a long way off. He looked up. Everybody was way off, clear the hell over there around the table. He felt light. His head felt like cotton. He thought of his head floating up toward the ceiling and his neck stretching after it like a string on a balloon. He laughed at the thought. He saw Sharkey looming closer, his heavy face suddenly growing larger in Tony’s eyes. Sharkey’s red lips, those stupid damn lips, were moving, but he wasn’t saying anything, just mumbling. What was he saying? He looked scared.

Suddenly Tony felt panicky, a slow, erratic pulse ticking, the blood squirting from his heart and slapping against the hollow of his throat. He looked around. Everybody was staring at him, Sharkey’s white face seeming closest, lips still moving. Tony needed a drink; he reached for the glass and saw it tip slowly as if somebody were pulling it by an invisible cord. It fell soundlessly to the green felt and the liquor spread in a dark stain. Tony saw the stain cover the card before him; he fumbled for the card, picked it up and put it with the others in his hand. He felt sick, dizzy, his head was floating. He was moving around the table, they were all moving, the table was spinning, spinning slowly in a tight circle, gathering speed, the frozen faces all around him blurring, melting, congealing.

Tony gasped and shook his head, squeezing his eyes together. He opened his eyes and stared; for a moment everything was clear and he saw Sharkey start to get up, saw Marzo reach out with his long, delicate-fingered hand and grasp Sharkey’s shoulder, saw Sharkey look around him, his lips moving and twisting as he sank back into his chair. Tony tried to get up but his legs wouldn’t push him up; it was as if his legs weren’t there. The table started spinning again, faster and faster until everything was a blur and there were no faces, nothing except confused color, which deepened, became darker, and then was black, a soundless black, soft, quiet, deeper than night.

Blackness became grayness, then a pinkish glow beyond his eyelids. He forced them open as something shook him roughly. A man’s face was close to his own, short stiff whiskers poking from the chin. Tony hadn’t seen him before. The man moved away and Tony tried to sit up, got to one elbow. He was on a couch, and he pulled himself around till his back was against the cushions, the exertion increasing a knifing pain in his skull.

He could see the man now. A policeman. A uniformed policeman whom Tony didn’t recognize. Tony shut his eyes again and put his hand against his forehead. It felt icy cold and hard to the touch. Once as a kid Tony had been dehrious, sick, dreaming while awake that he was running on the tiny earth as it spun beneath his feet while all the others of the world chased him for something he had done; he had cried out in the night and nobody answered and he was afraid. His head, then, had felt this way, cold and damp and hard, and now he felt again the same fear in his mind and body.

Someone struck him across the cheek, whipping his head around with pain roaring inside it. He opened his eyes and looked at the policeman standing over him. He looked past the man, around the room. Everybody else was there. What had happened? He’d passed out, got sick and blanked out. He saw long wiry Frame, pouchy-faced Joyce with the blank gray eyes blinking at him. Pudge, Marzo. There’d been somebody else. Sharkey. Where was the Shark?

Tony looked to his right and saw him. The poker table had been moved, and he could see Shark lying face down on the floor, oddly crumpled, the back of his head gone. Tony stared at him, uncomprehending for one moment, his mind dazed and sluggish. He realized after a while that Shark must have been shot in the forehead, the bullet ripping away the back of his skull as it smashed through. Tony raised his eyes to the wall. There was a bullet hole there, surrounded with the stain of red and ugly spots of … his stomach churned and wetness rose in his throat.

He heard the cop talking to him, asking him why he’d kUled Sharkey, saying they were taking him to headquarters. There was another cop in the room. He was plainclothes, but Tony figured he had to be a cop; he was a new one and he worked with the uniform. They both tore after Tony with harsh words. The uniform cop slammed his fist into Tony’s face and Tony barely managed to turn enough so that the blow struck his chin and cheek instead of the middle of his mouth. The blackness surged closer again, and he felt his lips puffing.

Then Frame was saying, “He just went off his nut, see? We were playin’ poker and the guy was drinkin’ heavy. All of a sudden he goes off his rocker and yells at Sharkey ‘Get away from me—don’t let him get me.’ Then he yanks out the barker and bangs him. Smack in the biscuit. Then Romero flopped down on the floor, cold. I guess the sight of poor Sharkey’s think-pot flying through the air like that put him under a strain.” Frame grinned wolfishly, his stained, pitted teeth jutting under his pulled back lip.

“Come on, Romero. Let’s go.” It was the hamess-cop speaking.

“Listen, you’re crazy. I didn’t drop nobody. I got nothin’ to do with this.” Tony’s words were thick and slurred.

The cop chuckled. “You lousy crum.”

Tony reached under his coat, felt the empty harness. He’d known the gun would be gone. The cop grabbed his arms and pulled him to his feet. He stood, swaying slightly, his legs weak beneath him. Then, suddenly, Angelo was in the room. Tony hadn’t heard him knock, hadn’t even seen him come in, but the door was open and Angelo was standing inside the room.

Angelo looked around, his face stem, the yellowish eyes hard and cold in his thin face. He spotted Joyce and said, “Thanks for calling me. What’s the rest of it?” He gave Sharkey only a glance, then listened to Joyce explaining about the trouble. Angelo walked over before Tony and said in his silken voice, “You stupid fool. You idioti” He drew back his hand and slashed it across Tony’s face, glared at .him a moment, then turned and walked over to the officers.

Tony followed him with his eyes, lips pressed together and his eyes squinting, almost shut. Anger boiled in him. Someday this bastard Angelo would get paid back for that.

Angelo spoke in low tones to the officers, then the three of them walked to the poker table, now in the comer of the room. Tony could see the mound of bills, apparently left there after the shooting. Angelo piled the bills in the center of the table, then rapidly leafed through them, as if counting.

Tony was stiU dizzy, his legs and stomach weak. He sank back down onto the couch, sat there breathing through his mouth, wondering if he’d be sick. Minutes passed, then he heard the door open. He looked up to see the coppers leaving, shutting the door behind them.

Angelo said, “Get up, Romero.”

Tony got to his feet.

Angelo looked around. “Frame,” he said. “You get this sonofabitch home. Joyce, you come with me.”

Tony didn’t understand any of it yet; his mind was still sluggish, frozen. Frame came over to him and took his arm, pulled him to his feet. Joyce and Angelo went out and Frame and Tony followed, leaving Pudge and Marzo with Sharkey’s lifeless body. As Tony went out, he glanced at the poker table. The green felt was bare. There was no longer any money on it.

Frame drove Tony’s Buick and left him at the apartment. Nothing was said. Tony sat in the Uving room while Maria made black coffee for him. Her face was drawn and worried, but she didn’t try to question him after he told her to shut up and let him think.

After black coffee and a hot and cold shower, Tony lay awake in bed long after the lights were out, not speaking, but feeling Maria move restlessly at his side. He went back over it all, his mind clearer. It looked very much as if Angelo had bought off the cops; nothing new in that, it happened every day. But Tony knew now it was more than that. Angelo had merely paid them for acting out a part; that, and to button their lips about a little murder. Tony knew he hadn’t killed Sharkey. He’d obviously been drugged, then somebody—one of the men present—had taken Tony’s gun and shot the Shark in the forehead. Tony had no doubt at all that the officers had been the McCoy—and they had his gun. The gun he’d bought himself, had a permit issued for, and which ballistics could show was the murder gun. That was enough even without the four “witnesses” to the murder.

Tony Romero, fall guy. It was neat, though, he had to admit it. He thought about Angelo, about Angelo’s cursing and slapping him, and even while he hated him he grudgingly admitted to himself that you had to hand it to the little bastard, had to give him credit. Sharkey was out for good—and the kill was beautifully tailored for Tony. Actually, Tony wasn’t much upset about that part of it. He had to admire Angelo for the way he’d handled it.

But Tony Romero was Angelo’s man now; Angelo had him, had him good. The old, unsolved murder of Al Sharkey might suddenly be solved if Tony should get out of line.

He rolled over on his side and went to sleep.