16

DOC WAS TRYING to keep his dream in his mind: the Sea Islands off Georgia, South Carolina, his gypsy wagon, the silver Airstream. He even tried picturing the beach and the surf. But none of it did any good. Speed McKay was driving him nuts.

They were sitting in the kitchen of the big stone house on the edge of Lake Ouachita. “So, Doc,” Speed was saying, “as long as we’re here, got a little time to kill, what do you say we play some cards? Want to play a little gin rummy? Huh?”

Doc had said to Mickey earlier, I’ll run into town and make the phone call to the bride-to-be, pay phones being the only kind they used, avoiding a trace in case Jinx hadn’t paid attention to what they’d told her about the cops.

Now Speed was saying, “What do you think, Doc? A little gin to kill the time before my darling bride-to-be comes through? Of course, poker’s my game. I’ve played in Hong Kong with gold bullion in little red silk bags, had to fight my way out of a back room, knives, swords, hatchets, sharp things flying everywhere you looked. It wasn’t pretty. I wouldn’t kid you about that, Doc. No shit. Just giving you a friendly warning, before we deal the cards. Only a friendly piece of advice.”

As if Doc hadn’t heard this routine a thousand times before. Or it seemed that way. Actually, he and Speed had only worked that little time together, maybe a month or so, for Jack Graham down in New Orleans. It was one of the few jobs Doc had ever held, seeing if he liked the track. He didn’t. Even though the action moved around—Florida, Louisiana, Arkansas—up the East Coast, it was still too confining for him. Maybe his ma had been right; she’d always said, Forget the gajo in you. Gypsy blood will out. Whatever it was, he sure didn’t like staying still. And he hated being cooped up like this, especially with Speed. He’d told Mickey that from the beginning: He didn’t know if they could all work this scam together. The little man made him crazy. Mickey had said, Don’t worry, I’ll hang out with him.

But when Doc had said that about his running into town, making the call from the pay phone, Mickey’d snapped back, You and whose army? If I don’t get away from that little motormouth son of a bitch, I’m grinding him up, we can ship him back to this Jinx by the pound, she can make spaghetti sauce.

In the end, they’d tossed for it. She’d nixed Doc’s using his own coin, knowing that he had a pocketful of the Heads I win, Tails you lose variety. So they flipped with hers, his knowing it was gaffed, too, but also knowing that he didn’t want to leave her alone with Speed.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her.

Okay, so he didn’t trust her.

The truth was he didn’t trust anybody. So what if Mick hadn’t screwed him over yet, in the months they’d been together? He’d known lots of hustlers with more patience than that. For all he knew, Mickey could see their whole time together as a temporal and floating version of the big con.

Just like he did.

The difference was, there was no doubt in his mind that when push came to shove, he was the one walking away with the fat score. Add that to the stash he’d been building all these years, he’d never have to pull a bajour again.

And what the hell? He was getting old. Tired. It was his turn. Mickey was young—and female. She had plenty of time before she hit 40 and wouldn’t be fresh and pretty enough to pull the big fish.

And Speed? Speed didn’t count at all. Though Speed had turned them on to the possibilities here and provided the bait, well, that’s what Speed was. About as important to Doc as an earthworm.

“You want me to make us something to eat before we deal?” Speed was standing now, halfway to the stove. Earlier they’d been drinking tea. Strong tea, the way Doc’s ma made it, and sweet with jam. Pearsa had used sliced oranges, peaches, plums, strawberries, whatever fruit was in season. Or jam, when nothing was. Doc liked it with jam.

Mickey was always after him, saying it was a wonder he had any teeth at all. The truth was, he had strong white handsome teeth with never a cavity.

Now he sipped from his cup, leaned back against his chair, adjusted the shoulder holster and the Hardballer .45 he’d been carrying since the three of them had waltzed through the door last night, Speed crowing at the top of his lungs, We’re gonna be rich! Mickey didn’t like the gun, but what did she know?

Of course, he hadn’t told her about Jack Graham. He hadn’t mentioned a word about their mutual hate-on. He’d known he’d have to finish it since he’d left those mutts in Jack’s yard. It was Jack or him, and Jack had started it. Jack’s the one accused him of fucking up, called him out like he was some kind of kid. Hell, he had years on the man, eons if you were talking experience. In any case, the big score was one thing, but the stronger attraction to Hot Springs for Doc was Smilin’ Jack. Doc was itching to do that sucker, have their shit over and out.

Now he was watching Speed. The little man had thrown open every knotty pine cabinet door in the kitchen, every drawer, and he was standing in front of the refrigerator, it open, too, of course, and the freezer, frigid air curling out like fog, the power cutting on. It really was a good thing Mickey wasn’t home. She’d have broken Speed’s fingers, slamming those doors closed. Which, come to think of it, wasn’t such a bad idea.

Just listen to the little man now: “Well, sir, you don’t have much choice in here in the way of foodstuffs, no sir, you don’t. But we’re not going to let that stand in our way. No siree, we won’t. I was raised in the got-a-lemon, no problemo, make-lemonade school of being grateful for what God gave you. Be glad you’re not in one of those forsaken countries, and God knows I’ve been in plenty of those, Africa, Southeast Asia, you name it, we soldiers of fortune went where we were needed, break your heart to see people standing around starving to death, drinking their own slops. You know what I mean?”

Doc didn’t bother to answer. He just tapped his left boot, trying to keep himself from kicking Speed’s teeth down his throat.

“So, we’ve got some leftover Kentucky Fried chicken, I can pull off the skin, dice that up with a little mayo, some fresh-ground pepper, and, yep, here’s some celery, have a nice chicken salad. I can do that. No problemo. If we had some good oil, I could make us some homemade mayo. But we don’t. And no good bread, but no problemo, we can toast up these English muffins. You know where English muffins came from? I’ll tell you.”

Doc stopped him before he did. “Speed, I knew you were an operator. But I never realized you could cook.”

“Oh, yes,” said Speed. “Yes, I certainly can. Man of many talents, my dear old mother used to say, bless her heart. Mother taught me many things. But one of my favorites is her fried chicken. Do you know how to make fried chicken, Doc? It’s easy as can be. Yes, it is. No problemo, you’ve got the basic ingredients. Let me tell you while I whip up this chicken salad.”

Doc pushed back from the table. “Excuse me. I’m gonna run up and get some cards while you do that. When I come back down, I’m gonna kill you.”