Orleans–style. Business is great all over, though. And no discounts during the fair. No, sir. Boys? Men? Cards? Small stakes, high stakes, punchboards, pinball, bingo—we’ve got a dozen parlors. Porno, slots?”
“Cards,” Roger says, feeling an exhilarating loss of control. “The biggest card game that’s close by.”
“Well, take your pick. They’re all close, and I’m not sure which is the biggest. The New Caledonia, the Turf, the J&M, the Seaport …”
“Seaport.”
The taxi coasts down Denny to First, then descends into Pioneer Square. Drop a bag of marbles almost anywhere in Seattle and they’ll end up down here. It’s been years since Roger has seen this part of town after midnight, and back then it’d been just a smattering of honky-tonks and hobos. But there’s a rich mix of people now, inrags and suits, even some dresses. He feels as if he’s dropped into a different city altogether or slipped through the wall from West into East Berlin.
He tips the cabbie and steps out into curb trash—an empty pint, a crushed Rainier can, a soiled T-shirt. Up the street, a uniformed cop jokes with a leggy, booted blonde while Roger ducks into a dimly lit, windowless bar shuddering with the crash, rattle and bells of too many games. The far-right wall, he slowly realizes, is covered with pinball machines and the men lined up to use them. Following the cabbie’s advice on what to mumble to the bartender, and how generously to tip her, he’s directed into the card room.
Surprisingly, it’s bigger and smellier than the bar out front, reeking of cigars, armpits and something vaguely tidal, with eleven octagonal felt tables, each surrounded by as many as seven silent men. The card-room manager signals him over.
“Three or five?” he asks without looking up, as the cabbie said he would.
“Let’s start with five,” Roger mumbles.
The manager takes the money, hands him the chips and points to an empty seat at a game with bids up to five dollars.
Half the men at his table look like they’ve been sleeping outside. The others are clean-shaven, two of them wearing suits. He wishes he had a hat and avoids everyone’s eyes until he notices they’re already ducking his. It’s five-card stud, and they take turns dealing. He orders another drink, mimics the prevailing slouch and watches his chips get raked away, not minding the loss, feeling only a flickering thrill.
When he finally stands up, his head spinning slightly, he veers toward the manager. “Know a man named Robert Dawkins?” he asks, and something flashes in the man’s bored eyes. “I’m his nephew,” Roger lies. “Might not’ve been around for quite a while. Played lots of cards, though.”
The manager looks past him to the tables, shaking his bearded head.
“What about Charlie McDaniel, that bar owner who complained about the police when he shut down? Know where I’d find him?”
“You a cop or a snitch?”
Roger laughs. “Neither, sir.”
“Then why you askin’?”
“So you do know them.”
“
Beat
it.”
To the left of the exit, there’s a filthy aquarium. He gets close enough to see a dozen giant goldfish floating on the surface, with another dozen desperately sucking the air above the foul water. He wants to tell someone the fish are suffocating, but it’s all he can do to wobble into the reviving air of the cooling night.
He passes a crowd of men in suits he doesn’t recognize and relishes the anonymity, feeling like a double agent, a drunken one, yes, but a man fully capable of indulging multiple lives. He lifts his head and strides up First Avenue, half-expecting his father to step out from an awning and say, in an uplifting tone, “Helluva fair you’re runnin’ here, sport.”
Chapter Six
APRIL 2001
“W HAT DO WE really know about him? Is he a serious candidate? Isn’t he too old?” The managing editor, Charles Birnbaum, paced in front of the packed conference room cradling his Stanford mug with both
“Cards,” Roger says, feeling an exhilarating loss of control. “The biggest card game that’s close by.”
“Well, take your pick. They’re all close, and I’m not sure which is the biggest. The New Caledonia, the Turf, the J&M, the Seaport …”
“Seaport.”
The taxi coasts down Denny to First, then descends into Pioneer Square. Drop a bag of marbles almost anywhere in Seattle and they’ll end up down here. It’s been years since Roger has seen this part of town after midnight, and back then it’d been just a smattering of honky-tonks and hobos. But there’s a rich mix of people now, inrags and suits, even some dresses. He feels as if he’s dropped into a different city altogether or slipped through the wall from West into East Berlin.
He tips the cabbie and steps out into curb trash—an empty pint, a crushed Rainier can, a soiled T-shirt. Up the street, a uniformed cop jokes with a leggy, booted blonde while Roger ducks into a dimly lit, windowless bar shuddering with the crash, rattle and bells of too many games. The far-right wall, he slowly realizes, is covered with pinball machines and the men lined up to use them. Following the cabbie’s advice on what to mumble to the bartender, and how generously to tip her, he’s directed into the card room.
Surprisingly, it’s bigger and smellier than the bar out front, reeking of cigars, armpits and something vaguely tidal, with eleven octagonal felt tables, each surrounded by as many as seven silent men. The card-room manager signals him over.
“Three or five?” he asks without looking up, as the cabbie said he would.
“Let’s start with five,” Roger mumbles.
The manager takes the money, hands him the chips and points to an empty seat at a game with bids up to five dollars.
Half the men at his table look like they’ve been sleeping outside. The others are clean-shaven, two of them wearing suits. He wishes he had a hat and avoids everyone’s eyes until he notices they’re already ducking his. It’s five-card stud, and they take turns dealing. He orders another drink, mimics the prevailing slouch and watches his chips get raked away, not minding the loss, feeling only a flickering thrill.
When he finally stands up, his head spinning slightly, he veers toward the manager. “Know a man named Robert Dawkins?” he asks, and something flashes in the man’s bored eyes. “I’m his nephew,” Roger lies. “Might not’ve been around for quite a while. Played lots of cards, though.”
The manager looks past him to the tables, shaking his bearded head.
“What about Charlie McDaniel, that bar owner who complained about the police when he shut down? Know where I’d find him?”
“You a cop or a snitch?”
Roger laughs. “Neither, sir.”
“Then why you askin’?”
“So you do know them.”
“
Beat
it.”
To the left of the exit, there’s a filthy aquarium. He gets close enough to see a dozen giant goldfish floating on the surface, with another dozen desperately sucking the air above the foul water. He wants to tell someone the fish are suffocating, but it’s all he can do to wobble into the reviving air of the cooling night.
He passes a crowd of men in suits he doesn’t recognize and relishes the anonymity, feeling like a double agent, a drunken one, yes, but a man fully capable of indulging multiple lives. He lifts his head and strides up First Avenue, half-expecting his father to step out from an awning and say, in an uplifting tone, “Helluva fair you’re runnin’ here, sport.”
Chapter Six
APRIL 2001
“W HAT DO WE really know about him? Is he a serious candidate? Isn’t he too old?” The managing editor, Charles Birnbaum, paced in front of the packed conference room cradling his Stanford mug with both
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