Queen of Spades Read online

  There were two Daily Doubles at Snoqualmie Downs: the Early Double in the first and second race, the Late Double in the twelfth and thirteenth. Michael Goodman’s system was simple. They would spread Chan’s meager hundred over every horse in the first race, doubled with a single lone winner in the second race. If the first Double came through, Chan and Dumonde agreed they would parlay their winnings by similarly spreading it over every horse in the twelfth race coupled with a single lone winner in the thirteenth. Chan had to acknowledge that the system simplified the often Byzantine betting options available at the teller window. There were only two questions to consider: who would win the second race and who would win the thirteenth?

  They arrived at Snoqualmie Downs early and, after parking the hatchback, walked around the paddock in the drizzle. The crowd was sparse due to the weather. Only the desperate and the degenerate would be out on a day like today, Chan thought. All the while Dumonde spoke energetically. “I like Charlie’s Kidney in the second race. He’s the second favorite, and that’s what Goodman recommends. Runs good in the muck. Comes from an excellent lineage. Comes from a very respected stable.” Chan only half listened. He was looking at the tote board, estimating the various payouts they would win in each of the instances of the number six horse, Charlie’s Kidney, winning the second race. Dumonde’s pick was currently at 7 to 1, a very attractive number.

  At ten minutes to post for the first race, Chan and Dumonde went to the two-dollar bettor window and spent all five twenties Chan had earned during the week on ten bets: every horse in the first race coupled with Charlie’s Kidney in the second. Chan clutched the tickets to his chest as they climbed the wet, misty grandstand. The horses were mounted and being led around the track by their handlers while a desultory voice introduced each over the loudspeaker. Chan and Dumonde found an empty spot in the middle of a scattered patch of spectators, and Dumonde immediately began chatting with their neighbors about the rain and its effect on their picks. Chan was only mildly interested in the outcome of the first race, as they had all the horses, but he knew they would prefer if a middling choice came in rather than one of the favorites. Unfortunately, at the conclusion of a slow-paced mile and a quarter, Centaur, at 5 to 3, finished first by two-and-a-half lengths.

  Chan tore up the nine tickets that did not have Centaur’s number on them, leaving only the single live ticket. According to the board, it would pay off at $660 dollars if Charlie’s Kidney won the second race. A jumpy Dumonde left to get them more coffee in the twenty minutes before post, and Chan watched with some amusement his old boss weaving through the crowd, talking with strangers all the while. More people were arriving now, filing in and distributing themselves in the grandstand. Suddenly, Chan thought he recognized one of them, a man bundled in a heavy brown parka. The man looked like Chimsky—he felt he could hardly mistake the high-limit dealer’s long, extroverted gait. It was the same way he walked around the Royal, lording over the pit dealers. Thankfully, the man chose a section far from where Chan and Dumonde sat, at least a dozen rows away. When Dumonde reappeared with two cups of coffee soon after, Chan gratefully accepted his, drinking it entirely in the last nervy moments as the horses lined up in the gate for the second race. Chimsky’s presence receded in his mind, replaced in Chan’s thoughts with the more pressing concern—if Charlie’s Kidney did not finish first, it would be an early afternoon indeed for him and Dumonde.

  After what seemed an interminable pause, the shrill starting bell rang out over the grandstand. The gates opened, and the field of horses jostled down the track, laboring in the thick muck. To Chan’s dismay, Charlie’s Kidney was pinned on the rail as the horses rounded the first bend and vanished into a dense fog. Dumonde was shouting incoherently beside him, but only the voice over the loudspeaker seemed to know in what order the field was running. Chan strained to hear mention of the number 6. When it sounded like Charlie’s Kidney was struggling to negotiate his way through, Chan closed his eyes and focused on the number 6, imagining it getting larger and larger, the glowing digit filling his entire range of vision. His surroundings faded away—he no longer heard the announcer, nor Dumonde next to him: he focused only on the shape and sound of the number. It wasn’t until he felt the small crowd rising to its feet around him that Chan opened his eyes. Miraculously, when the horses emerged from the fog, Charlie’s Kidney held the lead, and was widening it with every stride!

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Dumonde was shouting into his ear. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  Chan trembled with excitement as the horses thundered down the stretch. Throwing up huge chunks of mud in his wake, Charlie’s Kidney streaked across the finish line, clear by four lengths. Dumonde clapped Chan on the back and almost knocked him over. Chan was too excited to care.

  After collecting their breaths, they walked to the teller window to cash the ticket. They were paid $660 in twenties, and Chan held the money. Now came the waiting: there were nine more races to sit through, almost three hours, before the Late Double. Chan was adamant in refusing Dumonde’s appeals to bet at least a little something—even as small as a $2 Exacta Box—on each race just to pass the time. Instead, they used some of their winnings to have a light lunch in the pavilion.

  After eating, they were returning to the grandstand when a voice hailed Chan from behind. “Chan! Over here!”

  Chan ignored the voice, but Dumonde halted. “There’s someone coming,” he told Chan. “A dealer if I ever saw one.”

  Chan groaned. He turned and saw Chimsky, dressed in his black dealer pants under the brown parka, walking toward them, smiling. His manner was magnanimous, and Chan guessed that Chimsky must be winning too.

  “Hello, Chan! Imagine running into you here!” Chimsky shook Chan’s hand with one arm and clapped him on the back with the other. “I didn’t know you liked to play the horses. Too bad the weather isn’t cooperating.”

  Chimsky was acting far more familiar with him outside the Royal than in it, and Chan did not appreciate this. “Hello, Chimsky,” he said.

  “I don’t believe I’ve met your friend.”

  “My name is Jean-Paul,” said Dumonde, extending a hand when Chan made no move to introduce them.

  “Sam Chimsky. The pleasure is mine. Chan and I work together at the Royal, you know.” He nudged Chan’s shoulder. “A fine dealer. One of our most promising.”

  “I see you have an excellent eye for dealing,” Dumonde said. “I wholeheartedly agree.”

  “Likewise, sir,” Chimsky replied. “Most people don’t give the dealer a second thought.” He turned to Chan. “Having a good day at the track?”

  “We’re up.”

  “We just hit the Early Double,” Dumonde interjected. Chan cringed at the needlessly offered information. “For nearly seven hundo.”

  “Ah, that’s fantastic! That’s a wonderful hit. Let it ride, I say. If you get a little bit more money, come see us in the High-Limit Salon at the Royal.”

  “We really must be on our way,” Chan said.

  But as he stood there, the two men continued to converse for another half hour. Two entire races came and went as Chimsky and Dumonde debated their preference for big or small horses in the rain. Chan was only able to draw Dumonde’s attention by pointing out that it was now twenty minutes to post in the twelfth race. Chimsky appeared to want to join them, but Chan felt secretive of the system they were playing.

  “There’s an item we must discuss in private,” he told Chimsky.

  “Might I suggest Pinchbelly in the thirteenth,” Chimsky said, tapping the side of his nose with an index finger. “Take my word for it.”

  After they said good-bye, Dumonde and Chan returned to the grandstand to handicap the thirteenth race. Dumonde was leaning toward the number 3 horse—Josephina, a filly. “There are five horses who could win this,” he grumbled as the minutes steadily ticked off the board.

  With five minutes left, Chan demanded that they come to a decision. “It’s now or never,” he said. “Ar
e we betting or not? We can always leave with the six hundred.”

  “No,” Dumonde said. “We must play the system.” He eventually selected the number 8 horse: the enormous, coal-black Pinchbelly—Chimsky’s recommendation.

  Chan rushed to the window to bet their $660 spread over every horse in the twelfth race coupled with Pinchbelly in the thirteenth. He got back to his seat just as the twelfth race went off. It was an unremarkable contest. The second-favorite at 3 to 1, Yankee Doodle, won wire-to-wire. Chan tore up the losing tickets. According to the tote board, their lone remaining live ticket—the Late Double of Yankee Doodle and Pinchbelly—would pay off at over $7,000 if it came through—$7,162 to be exact.

  The two men said nothing to each other during the twenty long minutes until post time for the thirteenth and final race. Neither wanted to jinx the outcome by making a foolhardy remark. Much of the crowd had departed already, leaving behind in the damp, gloaming dusk only the unregenerate few. Even Chimsky appeared to have left. The atmosphere was gloomy in the grandstand, but Chan could hardly contain his nerves as he sat on his cold hands, shivering.

  The track had turned into absolute slop after twelve races. To Chan, the delay as the horses were led around the track and loaded into the starting gate was excruciating. Finally, all was at the ready. Chan quieted himself. Then the bell rang and the gates exploded open. Three horses fought their way through the melee to the front of the pack: the number 7, Gentleman Jim, got to the rail first, followed by the number 3, Josephina. The number 8, Pinchbelly, was close behind. The fog had lifted, and Chan could see the entire track—around the first turn, it was Gentleman Jim, Josephina, and Pinchbelly still running 1-2-3, leading the chasing pack by two good lengths. Their pace was measured and deliberate. At the farthest point from the grandstand, on the other side of the track, Chan could dimly make out their forms as they exchanged order. Josephina made her move on the outside and seized the lead; Gentleman Jim was beginning to fade. Pinchbelly’s stride remained restrained and relaxed. When would the jockey unleash him?

  All the while, Dumonde whispered encouragement to the jockey: “Steady, steady, steady.”

  As they entered the back turn, Josephina opened a two-length lead on Pinchbelly and was striving to increase it. Gentleman Jim had fallen back, and the chasing pack closed on him and would engulf him in a matter of seconds. There were only two furlongs left and it was a two-horse race—the dashing Josephina, now a full three lengths ahead of Pinchbelly, still being held in reserve.

  Chan closed his eyes, and visualized the number 8, Pinchbelly’s number, getting larger and larger, as he’d done before. He focused on the number 8 until he could see or feel nothing else. “Number eight,” he whispered. “Number eight, number eight…”

  “Go now!” Dumonde shouted next to him. “Now!”

  Chan opened his eyes. With a mere furlong left, Pinchbelly’s jockey finally let him run. The number 8 horse uncoiled his massive stride, eating up the distance between himself and the leader at an astonishing pace. Josephina still held the advantage, but she looked nearly spent. Her jockey was urging the gallant horse on. The lead was now down to two lengths, then one and a half, then one, then only a neck. Less than a hundred yards remained. Pinchbelly was running beside Josephina, still behind by a nose with hardly any track left. They thundered across the finish line amid the flashing of camera bulbs and raucous cheers from the sparse crowd.

  Chan and Dumonde did not look at each other. Their eyes remained fixed on the tote board, breathlessly awaiting the results to be confirmed and posted. It had been a photo finish, and would take time to decipher. Meanwhile, the announcer was thanking the exiting crowd for attending another great day of racing at Snoqualmie Downs. Soon, only Chan and Dumonde were left in their section.

  Finally, the numbers flashed on the board. Three in second—eight in first!

  Pinchbelly had won in a photo finish. Chan and Dumonde began jumping up and down, hugging each other. On the massive video tote board, the finish-line photo showed Pinchbelly edging Josephina by the merest pixel of a nose. The forgotten Gentleman Jim wound up finishing dead last.

  Sandman

  Early in their relationship, Dr. Eccleston had told Mannheim she’d never encountered an aura like the one that surrounded him: it was radiant yellow, and streaked through with deep scarlet and lime, like veiny fingers. She said it reminded her of the organ of some ancient beast—the worm-ridden heart of a saber-tooth. Little Theo recognized the singularity of Mannheim’s aura as well. It was growing, enlarging slowly, as his mind and body failed to contain it.

  “It’s preparing,” the child stated solemnly.

  Mannheim himself did not know what it was his aura was anticipating. He had never married or sired children, nor could he remember ever having held any sort of ambition other than to perform his job at the Royal competently and without fuss. He understood his subconscious was a sort of blank wall, its repression complete. But Mannheim wanted to break through. On the other side was an understanding that eluded him: why had he arrived at this late point in life, having hardly made any impression at all on the world around him?

  On a gray, rainy afternoon, Mannheim arrived at Dr. Eccleston’s and was ushered by the child directly into the spacious office. The desk at which they usually sat had been pushed against the wall. Mannheim was made to take off his jacket, shoes, and socks and lie down on the dark leather divan that now occupied the center of the room.

  As before, Dr. Eccleston connected diodes leading from his temples and his wrists to the intaker machine. Once this was completed, Little Theo dimmed the bulb and lit a tall, tapered candle. Dr. Eccleston placed a heavy black pillow over Mannheim’s eyes. The smoke was musky and sweet, and soon his nerves calmed. As in their first interview, Dr. Eccleston sat beside him.

  “Fifty years ago,” began Theo, “there was a mother. She had a young son. One night, he was sleeping. His mother walked into the room quietly.” Mannheim heard him blow out the candle. Dr. Eccleston breathed nearby. He sensed her close, hovering over his shoulders.

  “She cut open her son’s arms,” Theo said.

  Mannheim felt something sharp penetrate his shoulder—a nail?—and he jumped. But there was no pain. The nail—if that was what it was—scored its way down to the elbow, bisecting the vein, and then to the wrist. It moved to his left arm, again starting at the shoulder, scoring the middle of it, all the way down.

  “Then she put sand inside,” said Theo.

  Starting at the wrist, Mannheim felt Dr. Eccleston pressing on his right arm vigorously with her palms, working their way up to his shoulder—she did this several times, each time increasing the pressure with her palms. Then she did the same with Mannheim’s left arm.

  “She cut her son’s legs open,” said Theo.

  The nail scored Mannheim’s right leg from the top of the thigh to the knee, splitting the shin, all the way down to the ankle. Then the nail moved to his left leg, again scoring the middle of it to the knee, through the shin, all the way down.

  “Then she put sand inside.”

  Dr. Eccleston circled her palms around Mannheim’s right calf, kneading upward to his thigh—each time increasing the pressure. She did the same with his left leg. Both these sensations and the boy’s excellent reading served to hypnotize Mannheim, and he was already feeling very heavy, and faint of breath. He knew what came next.

  “She cut open her son’s stomach,” said Theo.

  Mannheim felt the nail cutting open his belly, starting underneath his bottom rib, circling down below the navel to his pelvic bone, and then back around to the hollow space below the sternum.

  “Then she put sand inside.”

  Dr. Eccleston opened the flaps into his stomach, pushing his guts upward toward his heart to make room. He felt the muscles giving way, opening itself for the filling sand. Dr. Eccleston packed in more and more—by the time she finished, Mannheim’s belly was full, the skin over it re-sewn and taut as a drum.

/>   “Her son woke up in the morning,” said Theo.

  A candle was relit. The smoke was strong and pulled him back to the divan in Dr. Eccleston’s office. With both hands, she gently removed the pillow from Mannheim’s face. His eyes fluttered and opened.

  “I can’t move,” he whispered. “Am I dead?”

  Theo looked at Dr. Eccleston. “Is he dead?”

  “Your vital signs are fine, Mr. Mannheim. You’re just getting readjusted. How do you feel?”

  “Heavy,” Mannheim said. He hadn’t budged. “So heavy.”

  “That’s because you’re filled with sand,” Theo explained.

  Slowly, Mannheim raised himself on an elbow. He tried to draw a deep breath, and was racked by a series of dry hacking coughs. A substance that looked like dust came out of his mouth. Dr. Eccleston ordered the child to fetch a glass of water.

  “I was somewhere else by the end,” Mannheim said. “It was the changing room at the Royal. I was lying on a long table. The door to the casino was open. Outside, there was a party, people dancing. I could see couples in formal dress waltz by, right outside the door. The music was too loud. How could they dance to it? I thought.

  “Then a tall woman entered the room. She had short hair—nearly white—and her shoulders were stooped. She was dressed like some kind of doctor. I had collapsed during the dance, and they had brought me into the changing room to recover. I was trying to tell the woman that I was all right, but my mouth was full of pebbles. My throat and lungs were full of pebbles, and I couldn’t move!”

  Eccleston finished recording his statement, and then tried to soothe him. “You’ve experienced something transformative, Mr. Mannheim—a privileged glimpse into another realm.”