Life had not been very kind to Frank Wilson. He had lived a long life, and a comfortable one, but it had not been kind.
He had spent the last few years of his life in the Sunnydale Home for the Aged in Sunnydale, Vermont. It was a lousy existence: his bladder woke him every morning before sunup and he spent each day being wheeled from one insipid ‘activity’ to the next. There was Bingo in the Social Hall, Arts and Crafts in the Sun Room, and board games in the Game Room.
That was the biggest insult of all – as much as he hated the idea of it, Frank often sat by himself, watching the other geezers play cards at the shiny tables in the Game Room. That was when life was the most unkind – when Frankie the Dealer watched his fellow geezers argue over cribbage points in the Game Room at Sunnydale.
x x x
As soon as the kid walked into the bar, Frank knew there would be a good show. The kid looked cocky – his hair was greased back, the crease on his pants was razor-sharp, and his shoes had been shined to perfection. Frank sat back in his booth, curled his good hand around the beer he was nursing, and waited for the fun to begin.
The kid tap-danced his way up to the bar, set his valise on the floor next to his stool, and sat down. As he did, his foot hit the valise, knocking it over, spilling its contents onto the shoes of the man next to him.
“Oh, man! I am sorry!” the kid said, and bent down to retrieve the hundreds of insurance brochures which had slid out of the bag. On his way down, the kid knocked the man’s arm, spilling his drink. He retrieved the brochures, stuffed them back into the valise and straightened, then saw the results of his clumsiness.
“Sir, I do apologize,” he said, with a wry grin on his face. “It’s just been one of those days, you know? Let me buy you another drink.” He slapped his hand down on the polished wood of the bar. “Barkeep! another drink for my friend here.” He turned back to the man and said “I do hope there is no harm done.” He stuck out his hand. “My name’s William Bush. Bush, like our president.”
The man took the kid’s offered hand and shook it. “Well, no harm done, Will, I guess. My name’s Douglas. And you don’t have to buy me another…that one was almost empty anyway.”
The kid grinned. Behind him, Frank grinned, too.
“Well, that is awful generous of you,” Bush said. “I am a little strapped this week. I don’t suppose you’re interested in buying life insurance?” Douglas shook his head. “No, of course you aren’t. Well, I’ll tell you what – I still feel a little bad about the whole thing. Let me at least give you a chance to get that free drink. How’s about we flip for it? Heads, I buy the next round, tails, it’s on you?”
In his booth, Frank grimaced at the clumsiness of it all, then sipped his beer.
Douglas smiled a nervous grin. “I don’t know…the wife only lets me have one round a night.”
“Come on, live a little!” the kid slapped him on the back. “After all, drinking by yourself is no fun. Let’s make a little game of it – Add some spice!” He pulled a quarter out of his pocket and put it in Douglas’ hand. Come on, one flip. If it comes up heads, you got a free drink!”
Douglas shrugged and flipped the coin. He caught it, slapped it down on the bar, and drew his hand away, revealing George Washington’s face. “Hey,” he said with a smile. “I won! You owe me a drink.”
The kid grinned sheepishly and nodded. “Yup, you did. How about giving me another toss? For two drinks?” He leaned forward, waiting for Douglas to answer.
Behind him, Frank leaned forward, listening for the reply.
“OK,” said Douglas. “Why not. Maybe I’m on a roll!”
The kid picked up the coin with his right hand and tossed it into his left. He loosened his tie with his right hand, then tossed the coin back, poised it on the back of his cocked right thumb, and sent it spinning up into the air.
The bartender had come over to watch the contest, as had two or three other men, so quite a few pair of eyes followed the coin’s flight as it rose, spinning and winking, then fell back earthward. With a deft jab, the kid caught the coin and smacked it down onto the counter-top. He jerked his hand away to reveal…
“Shit. Tails.” Douglas thumped his fist down onto the bar, making the peanuts jump. “That’s seven bucks I’m out. My old lady’s gonna be pissed.”
The kid looked up in surprise. “Hey, this was supposed to be fun – just a little bet for kicks. If it’s a big deal, just forget it.”
Behind him, Frank laughed out loud.
“No way,” said Douglas. “I ain’t no welcher. Let’s go again, double or nothing.”
“Friend, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the kid said.
The old man laughed louder.
“Come on,” Douglas said. “Double or nothing! More! My even twenty bucks against your nothing. What have you got to lose?”
“Well, if you’re sure. OK. But still, just for fun, right?”
“Right. Right. Now gimme the quarter. I gotta flip this time.”
The kid started to hand it over, then pulled it back. “OK – here’s the bet…Heads, you win and we’re even. Tails, I win twenty bucks, right?”
“Right.” The kid handed him the coin. Douglas kissed it, whispered a prayer, and tossed it up into the air. “Shit, tails again!” He reached into his pocket then placed a crumpled twenty-dollar bill onto the bar. “Here.” He waved at the bartender. “Miles, put the rest on my tab.”
As Douglas stood to leave, the kid picked up the quarter with his right hand, tossed it into his left, loosened his tie again with his right, tossed the coin back, then called out “Hey, Doug!” Douglas turned around. “No hard feelings, right?”
Douglas smiled. “Nope. I guess not.”
The kid tossed him the quarter. “Better luck next time.”
Douglas left.
Miles O’Conner, the bartender, approached the kid. “What’ll you have for that lucky drink ye won?”
The kid laughed. “Oh, nothing for me.”
“OK, that’ll be six dollars rent for the stool.”
The kid stopped laughing and looked into Miles’ face.
There was silence for a moment.
Frank decided that this would be as good a time as any to set the kid straight. He stood up, brought his beer over the bar and sat down next to the kid. “It’s allright, Miles.”
The bartender glanced at Frank, looked back at the kid, and walked down to the end of the bar.
Frank Wilson was a large man – the son of an iron worker. He had never done a day of honest work in his life, and had never met anyone who worked as hard as he did. He placed his good hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Kid, let me set you straight.”
“My name is William Bush, sir. Please don’t call me ‘kid.’”
“Sure kid, sure. What are ya, nineteen?”
“No. I’m twenty-seven.”
“Of course you are, of course.” He sipped his beer. “I guess it doesn’t really matter anyway. You want to be twenty-seven, you can be twenty-seven. Miles will beat the hell out of ya no matter how old you are.” He took another sip.
“You know, I did get the feeling that the bartender doesn’t like me.”
“Well, what do ya expect?”
“What, I can’t sit here without ordering?” The kid looked around the almost-empty bar. “Is there a line of people somewhere waiting to use this stool?”
“That’s not what’s got Miles upset. You being on the grift is what’s got him upset. What do ya expect? You stroll into his bar, never been here before, and inside of ten minutes, you con twenty bucks outta a customer, been coming here every night after whistle-blow at the slaughterhouse for fourteen years.”
“What are you talking about? That little bet? I got lucky!”
Frank stood up. “Now you’re insulting my intelligence. You expect to come in here, in your cheap suit and twelve-dollar funeral parlor shoes from Tom McAnn, with a magic-shop toy under your tie and a bag full of fake insurance brochures and get away on the grift? You deserve to have Miles beat the crap outta ya.” He shuffled back to his booth.
The kid spun around on his stool and looked at Frank. He looked around to make sure there was no one else nearby, then asked in a low voice, “You saw the gimmick?”
Frank was a dealer, not a player; he was only comfortable when he held all the cards. At this point, he was luxuriously comfortable. “Look kid, I wasn’t paying much attention. But from what I saw, I’d guess that you got a magnet in your tie-knot. Right now, the two-tailed quarter with a steel shim is hanging there, waiting for you to switch it into the game with whatever mark you find next. Nice idea, I guess. But clumsy, very clumsy. You gotta play with your tie every time you make a switch! Why not just keep it in your pocket?”
“People watch your pockets – They learn from magicians on TV nowadays.” The kid moved to the booth and sat across from Frank. “You saw all that from back here? How?”
“Enough with the questions. You want a lesson from Frankie the Dealer, you gotta pay for it. If not, take a last look, because the Dealer’s got to go.” He swallowed the last of his beer in one gulp and grabbed the dark brown hat that was sitting on the seat next to him.
“Wait,” the kid said. “Please. What do you mean by ‘a lesson’?”
“Look kid, I’m only gonna say this once. You got a line of bull the length of the equator and no skills to back it up. You want to spend time dead or in prison, keep doin’ what you’re doin’. You want to stay outta trouble, go home to Momma. You want to be successful, pay for a lesson on the grift. Your choice.”
“How much would a lesson cost?” the kid asked with a smile.
“It would cost you twenty bucks,” Frank dead-panned.
The kid pulled the rumpled bill out of his pocket and tossed it onto the table.
“No,” Frank said. “You gimme that, and the lesson don’t cost you nothin’. I said it would cost you twenty dollars.”
Without taking his eyes off Frank’s face, the kid reached into his jacket pocket, took out a leather billfold, unzipped it and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. He placed it on the table.
Frank put his hat on and slowly stood up. “Now pay attention, ’cause the Dealer don’t repeat himself.” The kid leaned forward. “Here’s the lesson: You should take that dirty, old twenty home and frame it. It’s the only cash you’ll ever make off a mark on the Dealer’s home court. You want to live on the grift, good luck to ya. But if you ever try to make a move in here again, there won’t be enough of you left for Miles to beat up.” He took the new twenty off the table, tossed a “My best to the Missus” at the bartender, and left.
When Frank got to his booth the next night, there was a twenty dollar bill on the table. The kid was nowhere in sight. He looked at the money for a moment, then swept it into his pocket. He took his hat off, tossed it onto the seat, and sat down next to it.
Frank was a proud man, but the trait he was most proud of was his ability to be honest with himself. And while he liked to be in charge all the time, he had to admit that lately, things were not going very well. Since the accident, he hadn’t had to confidence to run any operations, and he never had been a rich man. If the kid wanted to pay to hang around, why not?
He waved at the bartender. “Miles, can I have a beer?” Almost immediately the kid appeared, a glass of beer in each hand. The two looked at each other for a moment.
“Well, ya going to let me drink that, or just tease me with it until I get mad enough to stand up and make you cry?”
The kid smiled and gave Frank his drink. “I was afraid you were still mad at me,” he said.
“I wasn’t mad at you. I pitied you. And I still do. But, since you’re payin’ for my pearls, I’m willing to put up with you.” He raised a finger. “For a little while. Allright, ya paid for my time and bought me a beer – ya got my attention. Now what?”
The kid smiled an earnest grin – it made him look even younger – and said, “I want to learn.”
“Learn what?”
“What you know. Your ‘pearls.’ Your wisdom. Anything you can teach me.”
Frank shook his head. “No way kid. The Dealer ain’t a professor. Last thing I need is a wet-behind-the-ears puppydog followin’ me around.”
“Bullshit.”
For the first time in a long time, Frank began to get angry. It felt good. Refreshing.
“You’ve got nothing else to do with yourself. I know – I checked this place out before I came in here last night. I watched you for over a week. In all that time, you sat here while forty-six different people came in and out of this bar. Out of those forty-six opportunities, you didn’t pull a single con. You just sat here, drinking your beer. Now, last night, you impressed me. You saw right through me, and as hard as it may be for you to believe, that doesn’t happen very often. So, I’m curious. I’m thinking – maybe the old man knows something. And I’m taking a chance to find out.
“Here’s the deal.” He slammed a deck of cards onto the table between them. “We each cut, high card wins. If I win, you teach me. If you get the high card, I’m gone. What do you say?”
Frank looked at him for a long moment before answering.
“I shuffle. You cut first.”
The kid broke out into another smile. “Well, allright,” he said. “The cards are yours.”
Frankie the Dealer took the deck in his right hand and clumsily slid the box open with his left thumb. Then he poured the deck out onto the table, dropped the box, and picked the cards up in his right hand. He gave them a Harrimann pass, cutting the bottom half of the deck up onto the top, then another one. Then he gave the cards a series of pivot cuts, pulling bunches off the top of the deck and putting them on the bottom; in effect, it was a one-handed overhand shuffle. The kid watched, open-mouthed. Then, as a finale, the Dealer split the deck in half and gave it a riffle shuffle, the thumb and pinky of his hand forcing the narrow ends of the packs together, so the cards sprang back into one pile.
As he placed the deck in front of the kid, Frank watched his eyes. He hadn’t seen. Frank exhaled, a little proud. he had done it. A sixty year-old cripple who hadn’t touched a deck in years, and he had managed to crimp the card right under the kid’s nose!
“Ok now, cut the cards. We ain’t got all night!”
The kid reached out and grasped about half the deck. He glanced at Frank for a moment, licked his lips, and cut the cards. He turned the pack over to reveal the ten of spades. Then he reassembled the deck.
“Allright,” he said. “Now it’s your turn.”
Frank waggled his fingers once, then grasped the deck lightly. He closed his eyes and felt for the crimped card. His leathery thumb found the bent corner with no trouble and he pulled off the top portion to reveal his card.
The two of diamonds. He couldn’t have picked a lower card if he tried.
For the next couple of weeks, the kid was in the bar every afternoon. At first all they talked about was technique – everything from bottom deals and counting cards to palming and magnetizing coins. Frank was surprised to discover that the kid knew a lot. And, even more importantly, he could do a lot.
In Frank’s experience, most Grifters had one or two bits they worked, and that was all. Jimmy the Lifter, over in Detroit, could pick snot out of a mark’s nose without getting caught, but he couldn’t palm a card if his life depended it on it. And while nobody knew the ponies like Paul Mikasa, he wouldn’t touch a bet on say, college football.
Even Frank himself had what he liked to think of as his specialty. He had built a reputation; he was Frankie the Dealer. And while he may not be able to pick a pocket or switch for a double-sided coin, nobody could make the pasteboards dance like he could. At least, that’s how it used to be.
The kid had come in today prepared to work with cards.
“Listen,” he said. “I did some checking up on you. A lot of my friends know who you are. Or, who you were.”
Frank said nothing.
“It seems that, while everybody knows hundreds of stories about Frankie the Dealer, they all seem to have taken place before, say, 1974.”
“Yeah,” Frank smiled. “Those were good times. Everybody in America was makin’ money, so nobody watched their wallets too close. A guy on the grift could make a fortune.”
“So what happened?”
Frank thought for a moment. “I slowed down. You might say I retired.”
“When you hurt your hand, right?”
Frank looked down at his hands. He studied them. They never looked like he expected them to. They were old man’s hands. His right hand was covered in liverspots, the pale, spongy flesh rippled as he drummed his fingers on the table. But for all the flaws his right hand had, it was material for Michaelangelo’s bedroom ceiling when compared to the claw attached to his left wrist. His left hand was grotesquely twisted; the skin was wrinkled and bunched together around a tremendous, round scar.
“I was on the grift when I hurt my hand. It was in Chicago. In ‘55. Like I said, times were good then. People were rich, and mostly stupid. A man with an angle could do real good.
“A friend of mine – Tony Rachini – said he had a good line on a late night card game at a bar on the South Side. He was a regular, and another one of the boys wasn’t gonna make it one Friday night. He said that he would get me in the door for a share of what I won.
“I know that that don’t sound like a very good deal, but you gotta understand that Chicago was gettin’ pretty full of people who had lost a hand or two to Frankie the Dealer. It was getting so I couldn’t cut a sandwich without someone checkin’ the bottom slice – You understand?
“Anyways, Tony promised me that this was fresh blood – that they never heard’a me before. And the best part was, the spot was only open for that one Friday night. Then the regular would be back – So I could come in, win big, then disappear. And the most I would be to them was a memory.
“So, that weekend, I checked in for the game. Tony made a big deal outta me, introducin’ me to the guys around the table. He said I was his wife’s cousin, from Jersey or somethin’ – The guy wouldn’t shut up. But finally he did, and we got to playin’ some cards.
The kid had picked the deck up off the table and was shuffling the cards while he listened. “So what did you do, hustle them?” he asked.
“No. For a while, I didn’t do nothin’. I mean, for the first two or three hours, I just played cards. I won a few, lost a lot – never really goin’ under. Just playin’. It was actually fun. I had almost forgot how much fun it could be just to play.
“But around midnight I could see that Tony was gettin’ nervous. The game usually broke around 1:00 or so, and I hadn’t made any moves. He kept lookin’ at me, like he was watchin’ for something. I thought he was gonna blow my cover, so I decided to play it real cool. Not try nothing. I mean, even the Dealer can take a night off, y’know?
“So, the deal is making its last trip around the table, and it comes to me. I call a game of Seven-Card Stud, and deal ‘em out. Well, since it’s late by this point, and there’s no big winner, the boys were gettin’ a little anxious – betting big. By the time the bet comes around to me on fifth street, I’m lookin’ at the chance to draw an inside straight! I got the five, six, eight and nine of clubs.! So, I raised the bet and sent it around again – Not a lot, just somethin’ to let ‘em know I was in the game.
“The sixth card comes, and it’s nothing. So I probably should’a folded – everybody knows not to try to draw an inside straight – but I figured, what the hell, it’s a slow night, I’ll stay in. And on the last card, I bought that seven of clubs!
So, without tryin’, I end up winning the biggest pot of the night – Not a lot, maybe three hundred, and nobody’s angry or nothing – It was just a fun game of cards.
“But, as I’m gatherin’ up the pot, Tony goes wack-o! He starts hollerin’ that I was cheating, tells the boys who I am, and pulls out a gun! I sit back, tryin’ to stay calm, then realize that I’m the only fella in the room who’s surprised – the whole night was a set-up. They were just playin’ along, waiting for me to make a move so they can say they caught Frankie the Dealer on the grift.
“Now I know that the whole thing sounds kinda harmless, but you’re not lookin at Tony Rachini, sweatin’ like a pig, pointin’ a gun at your head. Turns out he’s furious at me over a racetrack deal that went sour three years earlier, and this is his way of gettin’ revenge. Anyway, he’s actin’ crazy with the gun, I’m holding three hundred bucks I won fair and square, and the other boys are startin’ to look a little nervous about the whole situation.
“I’m tellin’ ya this now kid, and I swear it’s the truth – I never carried a gun in my life. Never did, and I never will. Everybody who ever sat around a table with me knows the Dealer don’t pack a piece. Tony knew that. But when I reached towards the table behind me to get my hat, Tony freaked.
“He shot me. Right through my hand. I didn’t even know he hit me until I saw the stuff from inside my hand smack against the wall.
“I didn’t even think – I just jumped. Everybody was yellin’, Tony was cryin’ and I shoved the table up, like in the Western movies, and ran for the door. I stopped a couple of blocks later to wrap my hand in my snotrag, and then just kept running.
The kid had stopped playing with the cards and sat, listening to the old man’s story.
“Why do I tell you this? To make you feel sorry for me? To frighten you? No. I tell it to you because you said you wanted to learn. So here comes the moral of the fuckin’ story. Why did Tony Rachini get a con over Frankie the Dealer? Because I trusted him. I thought he was my friend. I left my guard down, and he fucked me. He tried to double-cross me, to make me lose face and some cash. And in the end, I lose my hand – all because I trusted him.
The old man leaned into the kid’s face.
“That’s the secret of the con man, son. That’s the key to the grift. You make the poor sap trust you. You could palm the goddam Empire State Building if you want, but if the mark don’t trust you, it won’t do you no good. So you gotta make him trust you. And if the stupid jerk is dumb enough to swallow whatever shit you’re shovelin’, then he deserves to lose whatever you take. If he thinks you’re his friend, he’ll fold and let you win if you ask him.
He picked his beer up and guzzled the warm foam. Then he stood up, stumbled as he climbed out of the booth, and left.
The lessons continued. And, after a time, the inevitable happened. The kid came in with a deal that was too good to be true. He told the old man that some friends of his were involved in a big play at the racetrack. It was a sure thing and they were gonna pull in close to three quarters of a million dollars.
“The deal goes down next Tuesday. We’ll be leaving the track right after the race, and I figure we’ll be here around one or so.”
The old man rolled his eyes. “Are you kiddin’ me? You and your pals are gonna just stroll in here with three quarters of a mil?”
“Let me handle that,” the kid said. “I’ll get ‘em here. And the short guy, Howard, is gonna have the suitcase. I bought another one, exactly like it” Under the table he pushed a wide attache case across to the old man. “I’ll make sure that we sit right here at this booth, and you come in and sit at that one.” He nodded his head at the booth behind him. “You will have stashed the extra bag there beforehand.
“While we’re drinking, you get up to go to the john, and fake a heart attack or something right here in the aisle. When they’re distracted, I switch the bags under my seat. I only need three or four seconds to do it. Once you go down, Howard and the others will want to leave, fast. We grab the bag, we’re gone, and I meet you at O’Hare later to split the cash.
“They won’t think it was you because, well, because you look like a harmless, sick old man. They won’t think it was me because they trust me. However, the three of them are unbelievably suspicious of each other. By the time they stop fighting to realize that I’m gone, you and I will be on a plane to somewhere else, and that will be that.
“So, what do you say?”
The Dealer looked at the kid for a second. Then he smiled. “You seem to have thought of everything. You must have been paying attention. I like that. I’m proud of you.”
The kid’s face lit up. “That’s the first time you ever said anything even remotely like praise to me,” he said.
The old man’s smile widened. “Well, it’s the first time you made me this happy.”
* * * * *
“Here, Howie, you can put the bag under the bench here. Outta sight.”
Howard glanced around the bar, then slid the attache case under the seat before sliding in next to the kid, who was sitting against the wall. “This a real shit-hole, you know that?” he said.
“Hey, don’t blame me,” the kid said. “I’ve never been here before. I just figured that it would be a good place to stop for a drink. You know, to celebrate.”
“Shut up, kid!” one of the other men hissed. He turned to Howard, “I told you the kid was a bad idea. He’s got a mouth that’ll-
“Be quiet.” Howard’s words were cold. “Just order your drink and play nice. Soon we’ll leave.” The other man sat back.
As Howard waved to catch the bartender’s attention, the kid became aware of a shape behind him. It was the Dealer, lumbering up out of his seat in the next booth. “Hey, Miles!” he hollered. “I gotta go take a leak! Make sure nobody here steals my hat!”
The kid was impressed. The old man really looked drunk.
As he stumbled toward the bathroom, Frank said “Miles, will ya set up another one for me?”
The bartender looked at him with distaste. “I think you’ve had enough, old man. Maybe too much.”
Frank turned and spoke directly into Howard’s face. “Can ya believe that?” he asked, his voice all booze and gravel. “That dirty leprechaun won’t give me another drink!” Howard recoiled and Frank grabbed his coatsleeve. The other two men started to get up, then Frank let out a sharp cry and keeled over onto the table.
The kid was so surprised that he almost missed his chance. As the others reacted to Frank’s ‘attack,’ he felt down under the seat. The second bag was right where he expected it to be, and in two heartbeats, the switch was done.
Howard made up his mind almost immediately and shoved Frank off the table and onto the floor. “Come on,” he snapped. “Let’s get out of here. Kid, grab the luggage. We’re rolling.”
The kid took the bag and, without looking back, followed the others out.
x x x
Frankie the Dealer had to pee. He had hoped that he could last until lunch was brought in so he wouldn’t have to buzz the nurse to come in special and help him to the toilet. But the crap on afternoon television hadn’t distracted him long enough. “Come on Oprah,” he said to the television, “Say something interesting, you old whore. If you don’t say something exciting soon, I’m gonna wet myself.”
It wasn’t working. Resigned to the indignity, he reached for the buzzer. But before he could snag the wire, the door opened.
It wasn’t the nurse – it was an old man.
“Who is it?” Frank asked. He didn’t get visitors very often.
The man shuffled up to the bed and rested his hands on the railing. “Hello, Frank.”
The realization took longer than it should have. But then again, the kid looked awful. What Frank had mistaken for an old man was the kid, the Dealer’s apprentice.
The kid walked with a cane; one leg was twisted and stiff, the other ended with a metal prosthesis. One hand was also missing, the prosthetic held snugly against his belly. His face was almost unrecognizable – the scars ran over both cheeks and down around his neck. One eye was obviously glass.
Frank said nothing for a long time. The two just looked at each other.
The kid spoke. “It took me a while, but I found you. I always knew I would find you.”
Frank felt his scrotum tighten. “I always expected you to find me some day,” he said.
“You kept the money. You dirty, double-crossing, rotten, fucking son of a bitch, you kept the money.” The kid’s lips seemed to run down his face as he spoke. “I trusted you, and you kept the money.”
The old man said nothing.
“Do you know what Howard did when he found out the bag was empty? He sent men to the airport, the bus station, everywhere, looking for me. And they found me because I was still at the airport, waiting for you.
“Do you know what he did to me when he found out I didn’t have the money? He broke every bone in my body. Quite literally, every fucking bone in my body. One by one. Then, he burned me. He tossed me into a dumpster, lit me on fire, and left me.
The kid stopped. He was breathing hard. He waited for Frank to speak, but he didn’t.
The kid wandered around the room. “Nice room. You can get a nice room with three quarters of a million dollars.” He looked back at Frank. In a flash, he hobbled across the space between then, his cane and prosthetic foot making a horrible ckick-clack on the linoleum. He stopped with his face inches from the old man’s. “Say something!” he screamed, the tendons on his neck standing out, his one eye wide and wild.
The old man answered calmly. “You had to see it coming. I mean, you knew, inside, that I was gonna do it. You had to.”
The kid opened his mouth but said nothing.
“I know what you’re gonna say, so don’t say it. You trusted me. You looked up to me. All that crap. Is that what I taught you?”
The kid’s eye narrowed. “No. You taught me a lot more than that. You taught me to never trust anyone. And by leaving me like that, you taught me to think about killing you for almost 12 years.”
The Dealer smiled, then his smile softened.. “But you can’t kill me, can ya, kid?”
The kid sighed. “No, I can’t. I knew all along that when the moment came, I wouldn’t be able to do it. You know, when you took me in, I didn’t have anyone in the words except for you? Those few months were the best times I ever had.”
“And that’s why you can’t kill me.”
“Right. As pathetic as it sounds, nobody was ever as nice to me as you were. So I’ve always known that when the time came, I wouldn’t be able to do it. I wouldn’t be able to kill you.”
The old man was disappointed.
The kid’s mouth turned up into a sick smile. “That’s why I brought Eugene with me. Eugene!” The door opened and a young man wearing sunglasses came into the room. “I don’t know him very well, and I’m sure his name is not Eugene. But he’s cheap and doesn’t suffer from the particular hang-up I have. Goodbye.” The kid turned and shuffled out of the room.
Eugene approached the bed.
Life had not been very kind to Frank Williams. But it looked like things were going to get better.
