Cold Deck: A Novel

18

||| 96 ||| “You’re hooked. You know that?” “It’s a diversion. Keeps me sane. Dog shit. What’s next?” The line went dead. Braverman said, “That’s it. Two days. Three at the most.” I pointed at the picture of the trout. “Nice fish. What’d you use for bait?” “Like any self-respecting attorney, I used my ex-wife,” Braverman said with a belly laugh. when i got home, I found a message on my recorder from Friece. This is the day for attorneys, I thought. The secretary put me on hold to transfer the call. “Jude?” “Yes.” “The insurance company offered nine thousand for medical and pain and suffering.” “What about the car?” “The adjuster totaled it. I don’t have the figures broken down, but I think you get about sixty-seven hundred after they pay off the lender.” A net of sixty-seven hundred dollars. Two days before it would have been an attractive offer, a reasonable if not fair amount, and turning it down was taking a risk. The old me would have said take it. After all, it was just short of the seven-thousand-dollar down payment I’d lost on the car. But I was a changed man. “Tell them I said thirty thousand,” I said with unexpected confidence. 18 Audie sat at the counter trying to convince me of the advantages in owning a luxury car. In the presence of Ben, she was distant, seemingly untouchable, but in the evening reverted to her witty, lighthearted manner as we talked about the vicissitudes of rearing daughters. “They’re safer,” she insisted. “So are tanks. Tonight,” I said, picking up a tomato, “a special macaroni.” “Why not go out to eat? It’s easier and faster. I’ll pay.” She preferred eating out. I, on the other hand, enjoyed cleaving stems off broccoli. Nights I had Beth, she and I would drive to Audie’s, and the four us would go out to dinner. One evening I packed a meal for all of us, and we drove to Spring Mountain Ranch and sat on the lawn watching Oklahoma performed under ||| 97 ||| the stars. Audie seemed content that night, as she reached out and held my hand. I’d interpreted it as a sign she felt a connection. Normally, she didn’t show affection. Sex with her, though wild and physical, seemed almost impersonal, almost as if it were a workout for her. I sliced into a bell pepper and held it under her nose. “Smell it.” “Wonderful,” she said. “Why don’t you make a deodorant out of it?” I set the pepper aside and cut into a tomato. “I suppose tomatoes talk to you,” she said. “They sing the blues when you dice them.” “Why not the opera?” “They only sing the blues. You have to know your vegetables.” “Tomatoes are fruit.” “Those too.” “I’m serious. You need to buy a better car.” “Why do I need a better car?” “Because traffic doesn’t seem as bad when you’re locked inside a bmw.” “I liked my convertible,” I said. “That’s the answer, a bmw convertible. That’s what you’ll buy.” “You’ve got me spending dream money on a dream car. I don’t even have a job. Speaking of which, when is that going to happen?” Her playful expression shifted. “Let’s talk about something else.” I sliced more tomato into the salad. “I could have spent those mornings looking for work. How long can I wait?” “He’s giving you money.” “It’s not work. Not real work.” She withdrew as she always did whenever I questioned the purpose of the drills. To get along, I mostly avoided the topic. I wanted to quit, thought about it regularly. Yet five mornings a week, Ben and I stood facing each other across a layout, me trying one gypsy move, then another, switching hole cards, rolling the deck, dealing seconds—moves used years ago when some joints were flat and deuce dealers fleeced customers. Some moves I found tough to execute. For one thing, my afflicted thumb made it difficult to bubble a top card and peek at it when dealing seconds. I couldn’t mask the move. I proved better at the heel peek, but it was a harder move to disguise. Ben, offering no explanation, continually coached and scolded. An undercurrent ran through the sessions. He criticized and on occasion praised. Praise or criticism, it seemed...