Darker Shades of Fear

(Installment 8)

 

 

He was almost happy about the poker game he was about to play.  He didn’t care much for the sport.  Pool was more his game, but he would settle for whatever would entertain him at the moment.  He knew exactly what would happen as soon as they answered the door and took in the sight of him.  He figured it was in order for these kinds of people to judge on a superficial level.  That was what he found most amusing about them.  Nothing below the surface mattered.  It was all about the front you could hold, and for how long you could hold it.  That was why so many of them played poker, the idea that one could hold a façade and win money for it.  It was all about your face.  Your body language, your eyes, how many cigs you lit, how you sat, what color your fucking aura was.  All of it meant something.  The slightest shift of your eyes could give you away.  That was what Kenny enjoyed most about poker.  These upper class multimillionaires had nothing on him.  Once you’ve played with the dealers, the lowlifes, the scum that crawled out of the gutters, little else could prove a challenge.  As many lessons as they could afford, as convincing as they seemed, their wealth gave them away.

He knew full well that games like this were never about money.  They had enough of it.  It was about the thrill.  The idea of hiding your secrets behind a stone face and trying to read your opponent.  It was purely physiological.  The mental aspect of risking money (even though there was always a bountiful supply), social status, record, reputation provoked the physical symptoms of excitement.  Anxiety, pressure, tension, adrenaline… all of it was fascinating to these kinds of people.  They went about their existence, squandering money on cheap thrills.  Kenny was of course, guilty of the same.  However, he understood that the thrills which he experienced were cheap and empty, whereas most of the millionaires he’d encountered felt otherwise.

 

He found the house described to him by the bartender.  It was an extravagant, ornate dwelling… beautiful, but void of real value.  Perhaps that was why he preferred cheap motels.  He had nothing to show for his empty life and felt that a house in compensation was tacky and boring.  He made his way to the doorstep and rang the bell, Beethoven’s fifth symphony sounded.  He sighed with a smile.  It always amused him how many of them had classical pieces of music set as a door chime.

Moments later, the door opened and a middle-aged Latin American woman stood before him, obviously one of the hired help.

“I’m here for the poker game.” He said smoothly.

She eyed him up and down, a disbelieving expression on her face.  “Are you sure you at the right house?  Mr. Klellin is very rich man-” She was interrupted by the booming voice of another man, presumably the stated party.

“Juanita, who’s at the door?  Is this our last player?” He asked, opening the door wider.  Before him now stood a rather stout lawyer, balding and wearing glasses.

“Name’s Kenny.”

He appeared to be thinking.  “Yes, yes.  I was told about you.” He looked Kenny over and said, “He said you were a bit unorthodox, but this is definitely not what I expected.”

“I thought the object of the game was to surprise your opponent.” He replied.

Mr. Klellin ruminated over this a moment, and laughed.  “Right, boy.  Gotta keep ‘em on their toes! Come on in!  Dinner is just about to start!”  He placed a hand on Kenny’s shoulder and gave him a tour of the house.

This behavior was expected, as Kenny had come to understand.  What was the point of having it all if you had no one to show it to?  Kenny feigned interest, nodding and commenting briefly at whatever Mr. Klellin was showing him.  Finally, the tour concluded in what he described as the “cocktail room”.  Three other men were there, chatting among themselves, discussing frivolous matters as far as Kenny was concerned.  Mr. Klellin cleared his throat loudly and got everyone’s attention.

“I know we’re all excited to get on with tonight’s game.  Our last player has just arrived.”

Kenny met each and every one of their stares.

“Are you kidding?” One of them asked.

“Is this some kind of joke, George?”

Kenny blew a puff of smoke into the air.

“I’m not complaining,” the last one said, “more cash for the winner.”

Everyone seemed to acknowledge this and resumed their conversation.

“Champagne, Kenny?” George asked.

“Not a fan of the stuff.” He said, “Mind if I ask for something stronger?”

The man smiled, “No, not at all!  Juan!” he called, “Juan!”

A Mexican-looking man appeared from the other room standing at attention.

“Please, get our guest whatever he wants.”

The man looked to Kenny.

“Whiskey.”

The man nodded and headed into another room, from which he later emerged with Kenny’s drink.  He sipped it, very satisfied with the quality of the liquor.

“This is good.”

The man smiled gleefully.  “Yes, all of it imported.  The finest brands the world can offer, in my liquor cabinet.”

Kenny nodded and wandered aimlessly around the room.  Nothing too interesting.  A picture here, a photo there, bizarre decorations that probably had cost a fortune.  Finding nothing entertaining, he slipped out of the room and took it upon himself to take an unguided tour. 

 

He’d wandered upstairs and found himself in what he supposed to be the study.  He browsed the selection, finding a few interesting reads but for the most part it was a collection of law doctrine.  This whole ritual was so familiar to him.  The tedious pre-game process of showing all your cards held no real meaning to him.  He wasn’t one for bullshit, and he figured it was obvious enough.

He sensed the presence of another and looked toward the doorway. Sure enough, he saw a slender, dark haired woman.  She was probably Spanish.  Her fair skin and dark hair gave it away.  Her large brown eyes seemed to stare at him, aware that he had taken notice of her.

“What are you doing here?” She asked calmly, her accent thick.

“Got bored.” He replied, gazing idly at the ceiling.

“You are here for one of my husband’s poker matches.” She said more than asked.

“Yep.” He nodded.

“You know he doesn’t like to lose.”

“He’ll learn to.”

“Learn to what?”

“Like it.”

She smiled and nodded, “I should like to see that someday.”

“You will.”  He lit the cigarette between his lips, “Why aren’t you downstairs?”

She smirked, “I got bored.”

“Interesting.  I didn’t see you at all.  Strange, a man like your husband not showing off his most beautiful possession.”

“I will take that as a compliment, Mr…”

“Just call me Kenny.”

“What an unprofessional name.  And what is it you do, Kenny?”

He blew a puff of smoke into the air, “Whatever I want.”

“You are not like them, are you?” She asked, genuinely curious.

“One of a kind.”

She gazed upon him with a certain fondness he did not understand.  “What do you know about my husband, Kenny?”

“Enough.”

“I should hope so.”

Kenny moved toward the doorway and stood across from her.  “Coming?”

“Where?” She asked; her brown eyes filled with apprehension.

He exhaled as he brought his face closer to hers and shared the smoke in a kiss.  The action felt oddly familiar to Kenny, though he had never seen this woman before.  He seemed to remember being kissed like that, only it had been different somehow.  He shrugged it off and slowly drew his lips inches away from hers.  She was breathing heavily, her eyes still closed.  Satisfied with her response, he brought his lips to her ear and whispered,

“You know where I’ll be.”

And with that, he left her speechless in the doorway.

 

The men were still enjoying expensive samples of fine foods, not yet arrived at the main course.  Kenny wondered to himself how they could possibly remain amused for so long.  It was ridiculous.  The only real name he could give the process was simple as show and tell. 

He wandered into the adjacent room and felt as if he’d stepped into a fairytale palace.  Across the room, he saw a black Baby Grand piano.  It was closed and looked as if it had never been played.  Upon closer inspection he could find not a fingerprint on the shiny gloss surface.  He propped the top open and sat at the all too sturdy bench.  He lifted the protective wooden cover off the keys and marveled at them.  He watched as his hands found a comfortable position on the keys and began to play.  The melodic harmony his fingers produced shocked even himself. It was definitely a jazz piece, reminiscent of Miles Davis.  He didn’t think as his fingers moved from one key to the next.  Major, minor, sharps, flats, staccatos, forte, pianissimo, sevens, fives… the tune became extremely complex and rich with layer upon layer of sound.  It was as if his hands had a will of their own.  He was amazed at himself, wondering if such a talent was really his.

He was so absorbed in his playing that he failed to notice the collection of people assembled in the doorway.  Mr. Klellin, his wife, the three businessmen, and even some staff had gathered in the threshold to marvel at the man’s skill.  It was nothing shy of brilliant.  The melody reached one final booming crescendo, and trailed off into the stunned silence.  A full thirty seconds later, Klellin began to clap.

It was at this time that Kenny decided to look up from the piano in the direction of the ever-growing symphony of clapping.  He saw them all standing in the doorway, applauding his performance.  It was the first time he could ever remember feeling the hint of modesty.  He didn’t like it.  He shrugged it off and resumed his natural air of indifference.

“Thanks.” He offered.

“How did you learn to play like that?!” Klellin asked, still in awe.

He shrugged.  “Don’t remember.”

“Are you serious?  You just sat down here, and played that?!” He was more astounded than Kenny could have imagined.

He nodded.

“Well, I certainly did not expect such a performance from you.” One of the three said.

“Appearances are deceiving.  You know the cliché.” He replied, brushing past everyone through the doorway.

 

Dinner finally ended sometime around eleven thirty.  Klellin now led them into a large room, furnished to look like a bar.  It was dimly lit and adorned with everything one could imagine.  A card table was especially overdone for the occasion. What really interested Kenny was the pool table.  It was much nicer than any he had played on.  These men were not interested in billiards, so he decided the point was moot and simply found himself an empty chair.

Klellin opened a brand new deck of cards and began to shuffle them.  “We’ll set the betting limit at… how does ten thousand sound?”

“Make it twenty.”

Four sets of eyes stared at Kenny.

“Twenty thousand dollars… sound good to everyone?”

They nodded, and Kenny smiled to himself.  He already had the edge.

 

If they had come looking for an all night, down-to-the-wire kind of game, they had chosen the wrong venue.  Kenny had folded on only one hand and won the rest.  He had only folded in order to assure them that he was playing honestly.  It hadn’t been a costly move, because he’d won it back double in the next round.  At least Jack had put up a fight.  These guys folded too easily.  The game he’d played at the bar had at least been something of a challenge.  Perhaps that was because his opponents actually had something to lose.  These men were too careful, too logical, too damn predictable.  The last one in finally folded and Kenny took in everything.  His opponents watched him with pure shock.  He’d awed them with his musical skill and now he’d taken every last dime they had to bet.

“Don’t suppose you can teach us how to play like that, huh?”

Kenny leaned back in his chair, taking a puff on one of Klellin’s Cuban cigars.  “That depends.”

“On what?”

“What you’re willing to pay, for one thing.  How long you want them, for another.”

Kenny had definitely appealed to Mr. Klellin. “We’ll say, three thousand a lesson?”

Kenny considered the offer, and then considered Klellin’s wife.  “Sounds good.”

“Perhaps Wednesdays at ten.  I’m always out of town on the weekends.”

“Works for me.”

Klellin assured that he would draw up a contract and they would review it upon his visit next Wednesday.  Kenny didn’t really care, but agreed anyway as the man was a lawyer and would not settle for solely his word, which Kenny knew meant absolutely nothing.  He had no idea how he planned on teaching this idiot how to play poker his way, but figured he could bullshit his way through.  At least until he would have the opportunity to screw Klellin’s wife.

 

They’d asked questions, stupid ones that were completely irrelevant to anything at all.  Where was he from, what did he do, blah, blah, blah.  He’d graced them with the same answer everyone got, “don’t remember”.  Throughout the question and answer session, he’d stolen discreet glances of Klellin’s wife through the corner of his eye.  She had a reserved and almost shifty nature, something like his own, and he was drawn to it.  Her face was hardened and her eyes were dull and almost too dark to be brown.  He had watched her make small talk with the hired help and observed her body language.  Her black and white beaded cocktail dress was obviously expensive beyond his dreams.  She would wear it tonight and it would do nothing more than collect dust in her closet for the remainder of its existence.  She was much like that dress, he had concluded.  She was taken out on occasion to grace the eyes of newcomers in order to make an impression, but the following day she would remain idly about the house.  She seemed to have accepted this, and used her wealth and her husband to her advantage.  He couldn’t say how he knew, but it was the feeling she had given off.  Whatever the case, he could tell by her response to his kiss that the attraction was mutual.  He smiled to himself.  He was such a little bastard.

 

He took his time getting to the bar, the sun had already begun to rise and flood the sky with soft pastel hues.  Truthfully, he preferred sunsets.  Deep, intense, fiery sunsets.  He concluded it was a matter of personal interest and strode happily down the remainder of the block.  The night had been productive to say the least.  For the time being, he was eighty thousand dollars richer.

He smiled as he took a drag on his cigarette.  He suddenly had the urge to play the piano.

 

Kenny entered the bar halfway through happy hour.  He took his usual seat and waited until the bartender came his way.  The man had a grim expression on his face, obviously prepared for the worst.

“Well?” he asked, “How’d we do?”

“Eighty thousand.”

“…Are you fucking with me?”

Kenny showed him the white envelope containing several checks, adding up to eighty thousand dollars.  The bartender blinked in shock, unable to comprehend the situation.

“Holy shit!”

“You’re welcome.” Kenny replied nonchalantly.

“This is fuckin incredible!  How the hell did you pull this off?”

He sighed, exhaling in a stream of smoke.  “You should see me play pool.”

“Christ, is there anything you can’t do?”

Kenny reflected on this a moment.  “Make waffles.”

The bartender laughed.

Kenny smiled, sipping on his glass of vodka.

“This is unbelievable.  So how much of the cut do you want?”

“Forget it.”

“What?”

Kenny sighed and rolled his eyes, “I don’t need a cut.  I told you, it’s all yours.”

The bartender stood in complete perplexity.  “I thought you were kidding.”

“Nope.” He replied easily.

“At least let me give you something for your trouble.” He insisted.

“If I wanted anything, I’d have already asked.” Kenny reminded.

The bartender was at a loss for words.  “Anything you want, and we’ll call it even.”

He rolled his eyes and thought.  “Ever thought about getting a piano?” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Danielle Lovallo, 2004