Queen of Spades Read online

  “We’re very sorry to hear that, Barbara.” The elevator doors opened, and he held them for her. Then he followed her in. She pressed her floor and they rode up awkwardly. He continued looking and smiling at her, and she felt obliged to invite him in.

  “Please stay for only twenty minutes,” she told him. “I need to get some rest.”

  “Thank you, Barbara. I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

  In her apartment, he sat down on her couch, crossing his legs.

  “Do you want a glass of water?” she asked from the kitchen. “I don’t have anything else, unfortunately.” She moved the bottle of red wine on the counter behind a houseplant.

  “I’m fine,” Dimsberg said. “It’s you we’re worried about.” He patted the space next to him on the couch.

  Barbara sighed and sat down, as far from his hand as she could without being impolite.

  “What’s wrong?” Dimsberg said. “We only want to help.”

  “Nothing is wrong. Things couldn’t be better.”

  “We’re so glad to hear that, Barbara. You’ve missed some pretty interesting meetings.” When she failed to respond, he continued. “That new couple—Shirley and James—they’re doing really well. Since the night they came, they haven’t bought a single ticket.”

  “I’m glad for them,” Barbara said.

  A long, painful silence ensued. Finally, Dimsberg cleared his throat. “I apologize for asking, Barbara, but I feel I must. Are you gambling again?”

  She shot him a look. “Of course not. What makes you say that?”

  Dimsberg wrung his hands. “You understand I had to ask.”

  “Once an addict, always an addict, right?” she said.

  “Precisely.”

  Another silence passed while Dimsberg drank his water. Barbara watched his pronounced Adam’s apple go up and down as he swallowed. “I appreciate your concern, Dimsberg—I really do. But I must ask you to leave now. It’s election season and I’m swamped at work. I have to be there first thing in the morning.”

  “Can I get you to promise to see us at the Community Center as soon as you’re well?”

  Barbara said, “Of course,” although she crossed her fingers behind the cushion. “Once I’m over this bug.”

  Dimsberg rose and tried to take her hand. “Be well, Barbara.”

  “We shouldn’t,” she said. “I’m sick after all.”

  Dimsberg doffed his hat again and finally—mercifully—exited. Barbara waited until she heard the bell from the elevator in the hallway. Then she peered through the fish-eye lens to make sure he was not still standing there, looking in sorrowfully.

  Two Conversations

  Mannheim left the Royal one evening at half past five in the morning, spent from a particularly trying night in the pit. There were two customers he’d had to order security to remove, one for swearing at the dealers and the other for making aggressive advances toward the female staff. Both were drunk, and the latter had told him to go to hell. As he drove home, Mannheim saw their red, angry faces superimposed on the windshield over empty residential streets and dark houses shuttered against the cold. Suddenly, an animal darted in front of his headlights, its white fur and long tail illuminated for a brief moment. He swerved to avoid it, his car fishtailing in a wide arc, nearly ending in a ditch, facing the other way. Mannheim had to pause to collect himself. Then he got out and inspected the tires.

  It was the first time that year he could see his breath.

  After satisfying himself that the car was undamaged, he returned to the road, driving deliberately now, and eventually reached a three-way junction. The near accident had severely jolted him, and to his dismay, Mannheim found he could not recall which arrow on the sign to follow. He turned left, creeping along, looking for his street. Its name remained just on the tip of his tongue—he thought it contained at least three syllables and began with an S or a Z. From afar, several houses looked like they might be his, but every time he neared, he found a different name on the mailbox, a car he did not own in its driveway.

  After twenty minutes of circling, Mannheim, growing agitated, pulled his vehicle to the curb. He could feel he was close. He cut the engine, opened the door, and pulled the collar of his gray coat tight around his neck. The stillness of the night accentuated the pulse of blood in his ears. Mannheim walked briskly in the autumn chill.

  Dr. Sarmiento had told him the incidence of a person dying in his manner was one in a million, and Mannheim pondered this most unlikely of hands as he walked. Both his body and his memories were being effaced off the physical earth, a day at a time. But there was a freshness to much of his experience now, like old streets turned new. Did he have any regrets? He didn’t know.

  After several minutes of walking, Mannheim finally saw his house—47 Severance Lane—that was the name! He was certain he’d passed it earlier, in a distracted state. Now Mannheim climbed the graduated series of stone steps that led to the front door, an entrance he normally never used. He tried the knob, and the lock clicked and gave easily, the door swinging inward of its own accord. It might’ve been unlocked for months. Shaking his head, Mannheim stepped across the threshold and pressed the light switch several times in succession, but nothing happened. He stepped carefully into the kitchen, his arms out, fumbling in the drawers for a flashlight or candles, but all they contained were old batteries, business cards, and untold numbers of receipts he’d failed to organize.

  Giving up, Mannheim dragged his body up the stairs in the dark, his head drowsy with images: a red face, white fur, a long tail. He collapsed into bed still wearing his gray coat and shoes, and for the first time in months, Mannheim slept soundly and dreamlessly for eleven solid, end-to-end hours.

  The lights were on in the house when he awoke. His clock had stopped, at three fifteen. But Mannheim knew he was very late for his weekly appointment at Dr. Eccleston’s—the sun was already well along its western descent in the sky. He brushed his teeth quickly. Then, by the time he found the car—it was up on a curb, three blocks away—and finally appeared in Eccleston’s shop, there was hardly any time left in the appointment. Both Theo and Dr. Eccleston were sitting in the waiting room, the younger swinging his heels. Dr. Eccleston glared at him.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mannheim said. “It seems I’m having a harder time conducting my affairs these days.”

  “It’s all right. That’s why you’re seeing us, after all. Unfortunately, you’ve come very late.”

  “I understand,” Mannheim said.

  “Let’s speak inside for the time remaining,” said Dr. Eccleston as she rose. “On practical matters.” She and Theo led Mannheim into her office, a large room where they each sat in tall armchairs around Dr. Eccleston’s impressive desk. The room felt cool and dim, and Mannheim began to relax.

  “The reason I’ve asked us all here today,” Dr. Eccleston began, “is that Theo and I conferred, and we believe the most effective way to guide you in your journey is by working together. For instance, you and I talk about your job, Mr. Mannheim, but you and Theo talk about your childhood—what you can remember of it. We both want to know everything.”

  Mannheim nodded. “Yes, I agree. I depend on you both. I lost my way home last night—I couldn’t for the life of me remember which house was mine!”

  “Let’s hold hands,” Theo suggested.

  Mannheim took the boy’s hand in his right, and Dr. Eccleston’s in his left. “I feel like my reality is—how should I put this—becoming unreliable. Sometimes, I feel like I’ve already lost my place in this world,” Mannheim said. “Other times, I feel very present. Everything is more vivid.”

  “You are undergoing a painful process, Mr. Mannheim. But the process of dying can also be profound—in a better way.”

  “And you are not totally gone yet, sir,” said Theo.

  “I think I’m getting closer. When I finally found my house last night, the lights were out and everything felt empty, like no one lived there anymore. I became t
ired—so tired and heavy I could hardly move.”

  “Have you ever played Sandman, sir?”

  Startled, Mannheim looked at Theo, and the boy repeated the name. “The game, Sandman. Your body gets filled with sand, and you feel so heavy you can’t move.”

  “Yes,” Mannheim said after a moment. “I think I have.”

  “I think we should play Sandman.”

  “Is it that important?” Dr. Eccleston asked.

  “I think so,” Theo said. He squeezed Mannheim’s hand. “He wants to play it too, don’t you, sir?”

  “Yes,” he told Theo. “I believe you’re right.”

  “Very well,” Dr. Eccleston said. She released his hand. “I will confer with Theo about this game and we will prepare to play it the next time we meet. On that note, we both agree—your time is short, Mr. Mannheim—we should begin meeting twice a week.”

  Mannheim said he thought that was an excellent idea.

  His normal routine ruined by his late start, Mannheim did not get a chance to eat before appearing at the Royal prior to his shift that evening. He arrived two hours early, and it was only when he entered the bright casino that he began to feel hungry. He ordered the special, a pimento cheese sandwich, from the kitchen, and ate it with relish sitting by himself in the lounge. Chimsky was there, talking to some of the pit dealers, and his presence reminded Mannheim of Gabriela’s suspicions. Mannheim had promised her he would speak with the Countess about the Faro hand, a task he’d neglected for many evenings now on account of its awkwardness. But tonight, Mannheim resolved to speak with her.

  At ten, when he saw her entourage entering the casino, Mannheim left the safety of the pit and joined the old woman’s escort, making his way to her ear. “Madam,” he whispered into it. “A moment, please.”

  She stopped, as did the whole train surrounding her. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Can we speak sometime this evening? In private?” He eyed the driver, who was standing close beside them.

  “What do you have to say to me that you must say in private?”

  “I apologize, madam. It’s of a delicate nature.”

  The Countess’s left eye flickered with annoyance. “Fine. Come see me at one. I’ll take my break from the Faro table during the first change of the shoe.”

  Mannheim thanked her and bowed as her train resumed its passage. Then he returned to the pit. At midnight, Chan’s shift came in, and Mannheim felt heartened, watching over his regular crew for several downs. Leanne and Bao were their usual chatty selves, and Mannheim asked them about a weekend trip they were planning to Crater Lake. At other moments, he watched Chan deal: the smoothness and ease with which Chan slid cards from the shoe and revealed them imbued Mannheim’s observations with a kind of meditative quality, and he lost himself in the minute and discreet movements of a wrist here, a finger there.

  Before he knew it, it was one. Mannheim told Dayna to stand watch and crossed the casino floor, entering the High-Limit Salon. The Countess was still engaged, and Mannheim sat at one of the unused Baccarat tables near the entrance. While he waited, he observed her in her chair, watching the cards but not making any wagers. At 1:07, the current shoe completed, she rose and signaled to her driver. He aided her across the ornate rug to where Mannheim was sitting, and then stood several feet away, out of earshot.

  “Well?” the Countess said. She remained standing. Behind her, Lederhaus was overseeing the new setup. “I don’t like to make the table wait.”

  “I apologize, madam. It is one of my unfortunate duties to have to occasionally speak to customers about their gambling. There was a Faro hand played over a month ago now, when you and another player called the last turn and won.”

  “I know the hand,” she said. “What of it?”

  “It has come to our attention that there was something unusual in the betting before the hand.”

  “Are you accusing me of some impropriety?”

  “No, madam. Please don’t misunderstand me. I am just interested in whether you noticed anything about the other player. Lederhaus said that you followed his bet—”

  She stopped him short. “Is it not customary,” she said, “when a stranger appears and makes a large bet, for it to draw one’s attention?” She raised a finger and tapped it on the arm of his chair. “Is that not customary?”

  “Certainly it is.”

  “And isn’t it true that your high-limit players are allowed to wager any amount, in any manner they see fit?”

  “They are.”

  “That is all I have to say on this subject,” she said. “The next shoe is ready.” Her driver appeared, standing beside her. “Is there anything else?”

  “What about Chimsky?” Mannheim said.

  The name elicited a scoff from the Countess. “I do not make it a habit to follow the affairs of your employees.” With these words, she turned around very quietly, and walked with a shuffling gait toward the waiting table.

  The Unwanted Houseguest

  Twenty-one days had passed since Dumonde moved in, and each day, Chan asked how things were progressing, how long it would take before he would leave. Dumonde assured Chan he was doing everything in his power to resolve his situation and spent many mornings out of the apartment making calls from a pay phone on the corner, next to a convenience store. Still, there was no indication Chan’s houseguest would be gone soon. In fact, by the second weekend, Dumonde succumbed to allergies and was laid up in Chan’s bed for several days, sniffling. Chan tended to Dumonde as best he could given his dislike for the man, administering heavy doses of antihistamine along with strong black tea, while secretly stewing over how to get rid of his former boss, short of poisoning him.

  Chan had less than $700 in his checking account, and every day he stayed, Dumonde was sapping these meager resources. After seeing how Chan had been eating—“worse than a convict” as Dumonde described it, often just instant noodles or rice—his old boss insisted on buying the groceries and preparing their meals. The elaborate dishes pained Chan greatly, yet he had to grudgingly admit after supping on steamed legumes or fried clams that Dumonde’s way of eating was far superior. But after Dumonde had gotten sick with allergies, they often resorted to even more expensive take-out.

  Dumonde began spending every moment of every day at home, resting on the couch and perusing Chan’s library of gambling. “Ah!” he would say when pulling out a particularly choice volume, like the Rocheford. “One of my favorites. You have excellent taste, Chan.” Dumonde said that he was writing a gambling text of his own, a memoir he wanted to call My Life in the Pit. It would not be a tell-all, he told Chan. He would air no one’s dirty laundry. Instead, it would be a work of fiction, and its point would be to glamorize the world of gambling, to elevate it out of the muck.

  “The more I’m away from the casino,” he told Chan one day as they ate, “the more I miss the old milieu. It makes me sick not being around it.”

  “Go ahead,” Chan told him. “There are plenty of casinos around here. Just stay away from the Royal.”

  “Why don’t we go together, Chan? You have the car, remember? It’ll be like old times.”

  “I have no interest in reliving old times.”

  “We could go on a rush. We could win enough money for me to leave.”

  “No,” said Chan. “And that’s final. That’s not part of our deal.”

  They ate their soup in silence. Then Dumonde said, “We could do it with a single hundred-dollar stake. We’ve done it before.” He smiled winningly. “We’re good gamblers, Chan. You know that. We don’t even have to go to a casino. For example, I hear Snoqualmie Downs is beautiful this time of year. We’ll go on your next free day.”

  “No. But if it’ll make you feel better, you can take my car on Saturday, when I’m off.”

  “A hundred-dollar stake,” Dumonde said. “That’s all it ever takes.”

  Chan winced at the paltry amount. He thought of the Countess who bet $25,000 or more—on a single
turn of the card. His own smallness of means irritated him, and he pushed his bowl away. “The soup’s fine,” he said in reply to Dumonde’s questioning look. “I’m just not hungry.”

  “You’re thinking about the track,” Dumonde said. “We’ll go Saturday. I promise we’ll have fun.”

  For the next several days, Chan noticed Dumonde poring over a book from the gambling library that had lain unshelved at the bottom, a ratty paperback of Michael Goodman’s How to Win. Dumonde took notes on a small pad he kept in the front pocket of his shirt. “There’s a system in here,” he explained to Chan, “for the Daily Double. Snoqualmie Downs has two of them. If we can hit them both, you can say good-bye to both me and this apartment.”

  Like many in the industry, Dumonde had formed his own philosophy on gambling, one that proved immune to Chan’s arguments against going to the track. “I don’t believe in long-term statistics,” he explained. “They’re for the losers who go every day and bet every race. We’re going for one day. Those numbers don’t apply.”

  Chan tried his best to ignore Dumonde’s imploring. But on Friday afternoon, Dumonde interrupted Chan’s nap and insisted on showing him two pages of math he had carefully performed in his ledger. “Look, Chan. If we had followed Goodman’s system the last two days, we would’ve turned a hundred dollars into over six thousand.”

  “Can’t we talk about this later? I’m trying to get some rest.”

  “Look at the math, Chan. Please. If the numbers are not legitimate, I promise I won’t ever bring it up again.”

  The new note of desperation—an uncharacteristic crack in Dumonde’s veneer—drew Chan’s attention. “All right,” he said. He sat up in bed and took the ordered notes. The numbers were meticulously rendered, and he looked them over while Dumonde explained his calculations.

  The next morning, gray and drizzling rain, Chan and Dumonde drove to Snoqualmie Downs in the old hatchback. Dumonde seemed delighted by the miserable weather, and drank the entire thermos of coffee after Chan said he wouldn’t be having any. The rain would make the track slow and muddy, Dumonde said, causing havoc with the odds. “Heavy variance plays directly into our hands,” he told Chan. Chan, for his part, did not care to interrogate Dumonde’s reasoning now that they were on their way. It was possible they could get lucky. Chan saw it happen every night, to both the deserving and undeserving alike.