Seven Stud by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 13
Butch stopped the car on the street, which was currently devoid of cars. I got a longer look at our Mecca or perhaps, circle of hell. Which, it actually was, depended on my mood, time of day or numerous other factors too voluminous to bother listing. It was probably both. The physical exterior characteristics were somewhat impressive and expensive looking, but a bit unnatural for my taste. It was perched on the other side of the boardwalk and accessible to it. The general appearance was that of an elaborate gold leafed bird of prey who wore tons of silver metal armor. More likely it was chrome, but until it overtly offended me, I had no reason to be insulting.
From the second floor to the top, the metal framed windows were regularly and repetitiously spaced, separated from each other by the silver plates and white stucco. The roof spire must have extended the height of a good thirty feet, no doubt further impressing someone. Of course the first floor entrance was the item most worthy of note. Electric lights were poised on everything from top and bottom. The large silver and glass revolving door was the only front opening. Did the builders think that the people might be embarrassed to be seen there?
The background was classic stamping of rectangular designs on the gold leafed metal.
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Sixteen eight foot statues lined the concrete paving, all of some Egyptian deities, with men’s bodies and bird’s heads, all finished in a dark brown, black speckled, metallic substance. Much smaller birds identically finished occupied nooks cut into the wall. My interpretation was simple; they were trying to attract men with bird brains to eventually trap them in containers. The name of the place, “Shanghai’s Delights”, hovered above the birds, its dignified simple black capital letters on a white background was further illuminated by a series of plain light bulbs, turning on and off in such a manner to give the appearance of circling the name. I looked at Butch and said; “Well, are we going to proceed further?”
“As soon as you get out of the car, I will.”
“What?”
“Ed, we don’t want to enter together and advertise our friendship. You get out here and walk. I’ll park in the lot.”
He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a wad of string. He handed me his gun and said; “We can’t get through metal detectors with these, so after I go in, I’ll get to the lowest window I can open in private. You tie the guns to it and I’ll reel them in. Then you enter.”
I was dumbfounded, not having thought of that before.
He detected something and said; “Are you all right?”
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I resented the question and said; “It’s obvious neither of us is all right, but I know I’ll hold up my end and you’ll do the same. You’re the gun man. I didn’t check out every detail.”
“Good enough. Let’s get going.”
I exited the car and walked the block to a wooden staircase leading to the boardwalk. Under it were three black kids, approximately twelve years old. When I got close they all looked at me with eyes that said; “We didn’t do anything and I hope you’re not a cop.” As I climbed the stairs above them, I mumbled; “Don’t worry, I’m no cop.”
When I got to the facility I walked to the left side first and looked up for any open windows. Not immediately seeing any, I continued to the back, seeing the parking facilities at ground level with easy access and egress to various town streets. When I turned again to the right side of the building I heard; “Hey.”
I looked up and saw Butch in a third-floor window. We did as planned with no intervention or obvious audience. I ambled back to the front door, giving Butch a chance to position himself in the right place. When I entered and successfully negotiated the metal detector, I walked the only way I could to a windowless room that didn’t permit any sunlight and offered in its place a minimum of electric lights. This was somewhat enhanced by the lights of the quarter machines in six rows of
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twelve, back to back. The only sounds were the machine beeps.
There were more people walking the gray carpeted floor than were sitting at machines. Their appearances ran the gamut. What they had in common was that none were young, none made eye contact, none seemed unimpaired and none moved quickly. The place had a feeling of desperation, or perhaps it was just an odor of perspiration.
I continued through a wide opened double door into an area of pool tables and a snack bar. It was occupied by five or six smiling, observant guys. Suspecting that they worked as
“guides” to the uninitiated I stepped up my pace to a chorus of
“Hello”’s. I said “Hi” and kept moving, as no matter their game, I didn’t need them for anything. One yelled out; “Looking for someone?” Almost inaudibly I said; “No,” and continued through another open double door.
The unnatural light improved as I entered an empty 20 by 20
vestibule, with signs and closed doors. Apparently the general name of the area was “Specialties”, with one specialty delineated over each of five doors. When I saw the names: “Cards”,
“Dice”, “Roulette”, “Sports” and “Restrooms”, the decision was easy, as it had been a long ride. I then entered “Cards” and the first thing I saw was Butch walking around rather animatedly. He came toward me, put my gun in my hand and said;
“The big game is in the back, where all the friendly girls are.
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Staircases are at the corner. I’ll be using another specialty for a few minutes.” He briskly continued on and I took a look around the room. I heard his voice call out, “Put yourself in a position where you can get lucky.”
I proceeded directly to the back. The guys there were much better dressed than me. There were three or four playing and similar numbers standing around bullshitting. The “girls” or rather what you could see of them, covering all exposed areas in some type of smelly cosmetic, stood at the bar laughing uproariously at the bullshit. The room was designed to stress faux opulence, with a fountain shooting water three feet in the air and gold leafing all over the place including the Styrofoam cornices.
When they noticed me coming, a few looked my way with a phony smile. One chubby guy holding a drink said; “Looking for something?”
I didn’t appreciate the tone and the unanimous smiles, so I said; “No, thanks, I found it. I was looking for the useless club. I wanted to join.” I continued toward Mr. Helpful slowly. When I got near him I extended my hand for a shake. He surprised me after he stared at me for a brief second, shaking it modestly.
I looked at him and said; “So this is the big one, huh?”
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“Yeah. Large amounts of money are won and lost in here all the time.”
“Do you play sometimes?”
He tried not to be insulting, saying; “Sure,” softly.
“My apologies. I should have phrased it this way; I was curious why not now.”
“I like playing best when certain people are in the game.”
I laughed; “I know exactly what you mean. Now, you wouldn’t want to tell me who they are, would you?”
He laughed; “You’ll figure it out in a while.”
I said; “I don’t think I’m going to be here long enough for that.”
By this time we had lost the interest of the merry crowd, excepting one older guy who was at least half listening. Some of what he heard made him smile and he said; “Do you know how many of us said that?”
I laughed and nodded my head.
He added; “Is this your big shot?”
“Yeah, I guess so. But it gets to be a complicated story to tell. But, I think I’ll need a few more big hits after this one.”
“After this one?”
“I should have said, assuming. Does that make it sound better?”
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He extended his hand, saying; “I’m Bill Jamison. I’m looking forward to seeing you play.”
My original friend slowly slipped way, rejoining the revelry.
I shook Bill’s hand saying; “I really don’t hope to be playing here much. I’m not comfortable playing against the house guy, who plays eight hours a day five days a week. I don’t like being under constant surveillance and possible communication and I hate the girls looking over your shoulder.
I’m looking for a big private game.”
“A lot of people feel the same way. That’s why there are outside games. The hard part is that the guys in these games make very few mistakes. There’s one in Room 515 at 5PM most every day.”
Bill must have felt that he said all he had to, as he turned and departed.
For no good reason I turned the other way. Butch was about ten feet behind me looking up at the ceiling, no doubt planning escape routes.
He sauntered over to the bar, requesting a soda. He was met with a smile and small laugh by the bartender, who reached under the counter to take care of business. Butch then said;
“You don’t think I’m gonna try to do this bullshit,” waving his hand at the game table, “while I’m drunk, do you?”
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When the only response that greeted him was a glass of soda, he added a mumble of “Shit,” in a very dismissive way. I was reminded that Butch was very much the real cowboy and good with a gun.
He took a spot about ten feet from the table and watched the game. I moved in his general direction and noted that the cowboy newcomer was now the center of attention. When I got near him, he said to nobody in particular, “Is all they play here Texas Hold ’Em?”
I said, “I don't know. I’m new, too.”
I looked back at the intent crowd, picking my hand up in such a way to signify a question and received a few bobbing nods from the girls.
I said to Butch, “I have it on good authority all they play here is Texas Hold ’Em.”
He said; “I hate that fucking game.”
I was surprised, but started laughing and blurted out, “Me, too.”
We shook hands and introduced ourselves to each other as Butch and Ed. We walked over to the other non-players. Bill looked our way and I introduced Butch to him. Butch again said;
“Texas Hold ’Em?”
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“Yeah,” Bill answered. “This way the house can deal all the time and get more people in the game, to feed Shanghai’s coffers.”
I said; “Do they always win?”
Bill said; “Yes, is the simple answer. By law, the game is designed so that the house averages winning 10% of everything bet. Some think it’s more like 30%.”
I said; “There are no doubt some winners though.”
Bill said; “Sure, sometimes. You can be lucky and win going against the odds for a while. Some of the pros hang around here waiting for a loser or two to get in the game. It evens things out a bit.”
I said; “Got any in tonight’s game?”
Butch shot me a look, undetected by the others, seemingly pleasantly surprised that something had been set up quickly.
Bill said; “Sometimes. Not all that often. You might hear somebody say something different because every guy thinks he knows how to play the poker variations perfectly. Of course he’s right. The games are simple enough to be understood by a five year old. It’s just that some people always lose money.
When you find one of them, everybody wants to get in a game with them. When you get two of them, the players look like they’re playing musical chairs. I swear to God, a week ago at one game
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two guys sat on the same seat, one from the left and one from the right.”
Butch said; “Who kept the seat?
Bill said; “The guy from the left. He had a much bigger ass.”
I said; “Bet you’ve seen a lot of games.”
Bill said; “More than I sometimes care to remember, but I’m glad I’ve seen so many interesting stories.”
Butch said; “You didn’t make all that much money, did you?”
Bill answered; “Enough to have three wives, five kids and I’m currently residing in prestigious Atlantic City. I’d probably have done better running seminars and teaching other people how to do it, rather than trying it myself.”
I said; “I think I would have signed up for the seminar.”
Bill was flattered and said; “I’ll tell you one other thing. You’ve only got two types of players in tonight’s game, the free agent, who may have many reasons for playing, though some of them perennially win or lose big and the professional.
The pro’s not going to make a killing. His biggest motivation is not to lose a lot. Even if his profits are small, as long as the backer gets back his investment, the pro will find plenty of backers.”
Butch said; “Do you have any backers?”
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Bill said; “I’ve got a few old friends. But, lately I’ve been a free agent, looking for one big score and then I quit.”
I said; “How are you doing?”
Bill said; “I’ve already told you where I live?”
Butch looked at the clock and saw it was already 1:30PM.
He said; “I better eat and be in shape for tonight. Thanks for everything, Bill.”
I said; “Okay if I tag along?”
Butch said; “Sure.”
I shook his hand and said; “Thanks, again,” then followed Butch out of the room.
I said; “Where are we gonna eat?”
“In here someplace. I don’t wanna go through the gun routine again and I don’t want to be carrying this much money around town.” He was referring to the $110,000 each of us had in their wallet; eleven $10,000 bills exchanged at the bank.
“You left me to do the same.”
“I figured you’d make it a whole block, especially with a gun.”
I gave him a little slap in the head and he laughed, taking three quick steps away from me in mock fear. He said; “Before we sit down to eat, tell me where the game is.”
“Room 515 at 5PM.”
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“Let’s go to the fifth floor right now and have a look around.”
We took the elevator and entered a carpeted dark hallway shaped like a rectangle. There didn’t seem to be anything to make special note of excepting the stairs on each side. When we got to 515, Butch turned the knob on the closed door to see two men sitting on a couch. He said; “Is this where the game is?”
One of them answered, saying; “Later. Five O’clock. And you need at least one hundred grand.”
Butch said; “See ya later,” and shut the door. It’s hard to say exactly what he was looking for, except an easy way out.
It’s more like what he’s not looking for -- obstacles of any sort.
On the elevator ride down I said; “Fine with you?” to which he parroted back; “Fine with me.”
The in-house restaurant was in the front, so we again passed through the dimly lit area holding the quarter machines and its occupants. We both slowed down, marveling at the uniquely American work of art; some somber people sitting and staring at machines and more slowly walking about with their cupful of quarters, hoping that some lucky unused machine, might call them.
Butch joked; “This is a low budget zombie movie. Don’t let any of them touch you.”
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“What would happen?”
“Nothing good.”
We negotiated our way through the somnambulistic jungle, entered the adjoining restaurant and took a booth in the middle of the picture window displaying the almost color version of the original “Night of the Living Dead.”
Our plans apparently set in place; we sat quietly eating and drinking while we rudely stared at the unpaid actors.
Eventually, one of them temporarily gave up on finding his lucky machine and saw us. He was best described as a skinny balding white man displaying gray on gray with a bandage around his right arm. He stared at us in our perches five feet above his ground level. It was a trifle upsetting when he was joined by some of his other companions, including a 300 pound forty year old white woman wearing bright red lipstick and a queen size version of a little girl’s pink party dress, which she proceeded to pick up with her right hand, displaying a meaty, tattooed or scarred left leg. She started to laugh uproariously and was soon joined by her cohorts. Butch and I looked away.
He said; “Do you think these things ever had plans to win a big one?” He snickered.
I answered; “I think they still do. Let’s change seats.
I’m getting freaked and depressed.” We took a booth behind a
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partition which blocked the view of the picture window. I said;
“Do you think they ever come in here?”
“I have no idea. But if they come in now I’m looking for a back exit.”
For the rest of the afternoon the only company we had was that of our 55 year old black waitress in white uniform. She didn’t encourage any unnecessary chit-chat and neither did we.
Butch told me of a plan he and Alice had concocted. It seems that there is a two story rough-cut stone house a little further up the road from his current residence, that both he and Alice liked when they were kids. It always needed a good deal of work and has been owned by various New York City residents over the years, sometimes as an investment or sometimes as a country weekend home. Many kids in the area worked on it, basically living in it, during one of its rebirths, including Butch. Alice has found out that though there is no “For Sale”
sign yet, it’s going up for sale and will be asking $300,000.
“We could get it if we do well tonight and I could resume fixing it, just like when I was a kid. It’s livable and Alice could add some of her touches, too.” Though I was truly happy for him, I also saw this as further evidence of the probable end of our travels. At 4:55 Butch said; “Let’s get moving.”
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