“Play,” Melissa said.
He concentrated only on the jacks and on the red rubber ball. He ignored the malevolent stares of the little girls ranged around him at the sawed-off table, ignored the suffocating heat of the room and the discomfort of the tiny chair on which he sat, ignored too the knowledge that half a million dollars was at stake, concentrating only on the game, only on winning. He was a clumsy player. He seized the jacks too anxiously, clutched for the rubber ball too desperately, but he dropped neither jacks nor ball, and by the time he reached twosies, he was beginning to get the knack of the game. He did not allow his new confidence to intrude on his concentration. Twosies was the Daily Double, that was all, you picked the two nags most likely to win, and then you picked the next two, and the next two after that, and before you knew it there were only two left on the table, and you swept them up into your hand and readied clumsily for the falling rubber ball, but caught it, yes, clenched your fist around it, caught it, and were ready for threesies.
Threesies was merely picking the Win, Place, and Show horses in the proper order, three times in a row, and then there was only one jack left on the table, simple, bouncie bouncie ballie, scoop it up, catch the ball, there you are, my dears.
“I’m going to win,” he whispered.
“Play,” Melissa whispered.
He ignored their hard-eyed stares, their cruel silent devout wishes for his downfall, he ignored them and moved into foursies, it seemed to be getting easier all the time, all you had to do was scoop up four, and then four again, easy as pie, he closed his hand on the two remaining jacks, caught the ball, grinned at the little girls who were watching him now with open hatred, and said again, not whispering it this time, “I am going to win, my dears.”
“You are going to lose,” Melissa said flatly and coldly and unblinkingly.
“You heard her,” Frieda said.
“You are going to lose,” Hilda said.
“You are a loser,” Melissa said.
“We’ll see,” he said. “I’m for fivesies.”
“Play,” Melissa said.
He dropped the jacks onto the table. He scooped up five, and caught the ball, scooped up the remaining five and caught the ball again.
“Sixies,” he said.
He went through sixies in a breeze, feeling stronger and more confident all the time, not even noticing Melissa or her friends anymore, his full and complete concentration on the table top as he raced through sevensies, and eightsies, and ninesies, and then paused to catch his breath.
“Play,” Melissa said.
“This is the last one,” he said. “If I get through this one, I win.”
“That’s right,” Melissa said.
“But first you have to get through it,” Frieda said.
“First you have to win, mister.”
“The game isn’t over yet, mister.”
“You can still lose, mister.”
“Shut up!” he said.
The room went silent.
He picked up the jacks. I must win, he told himself. I must win. He dropped the jacks onto the table top. Nine of them fell miraculously together in a small cluster. The tenth jack rolled clear across the table, at least two feet away from the others.
“Too bad,” Melissa said. “You give up?”
“I can make it,” Mullaney said.
“It’s a harder shot than mine was,” Melissa said.
“I can make it.”
“Let’s see you,” she said.
“All right.”
The pile of nine first, he thought, then go for the one, and then catch the ball. No. The one first, sweep it toward the bigger pile using the flat of my hand, the way Melissa used hers, then scoop up all ten together and catch the...
No.
Wait a minute.
Yes.
Yes, that’s the only way to do it.
“Here goes,” he said.
“Bad luck” the three girls said together, and he threw the ball into the air.
His hand seemed to move out so terribly slowly, hitting the single lonely jack across the table and sweeping it toward the larger pile, the ball was dropping so very quickly, he would never make it, the pile of ten was now beneath his grasping fingers, he closed his hand, his eyes swung over to the dropping ball, he scooped up the jacks, the ball bounced, slid his closed hand across the table and, without lifting it from the wooden surface, flipped it over, opened the fingers, spread the hand wide, caught the ball and was closing his hand again when he felt the ball slipping from his grasp.
No, he thought, no!
He tightened his hand so suddenly and so fiercely that he thought he would break his fingers. He tightened it around the ball as though he were grasping for life itself, crushing the ball and the jacks into his palm, holding them securely, his hand in mid-air, and then slowly bringing his fist down onto the table.
“I win,” he said without opening his hand.
“You bastid,” Melissa said, and threw the shopping bag onto the table top. She rose from her tiny chair, tossed her dark hair, and walked swiftly out of the room.
“You bastid,” Frieda said.
“You bastid,” Hilda said, and they followed Melissa out.
He sat exhausted at the small table, his head hanging between his knees, his hand still clutched tightly around the jacks and the rubber ball. At last, he opened his hand and let the jacks spill onto the table, allowed the rubber ball to roll to the edge and fall to the concrete floor, bouncing away across the basement.
The room was very still.
He turned over the Judy Bond shopping bag and shook the black burial jacket onto the table top. He fingered the large buttons at the front, and the smaller buttons on the sleeves, and then he picked up one of the jacks and moved it toward the center front button. Using the point of the jack, he scraped at the button. A peeling ribbon of black followed the tip of the jack. Flakes of black paint sprinkled onto the table top. He smiled and scratched at the button more vigorously, thinking There are three buttons down the front of the jacket (each about ten carats, Bozzaris had said), ten, eleven, and nine, in that order, scratching at the button, chipping away the paint; and there are four smaller buttons on each sleeve, eight at five to six carats each, I am a rich man. Mullaney thought, I am in possession of half a million dollars’ worth of diamonds.
He had scraped all the paint off the middle button now.
He grasped the button between his thumb and forefinger, lifted it and the jacket to which it was fastened toward the hanging light bulb. It caught the incandescent rays, reflected them back in a dazzling glitter. This must be the eleven-carat beauty, he thought, it’s slightly larger than the other two, I am a rich man, he thought, I am at last a winner.
“Hand it over,” the voice behind him said.
He turned.
K and Purcell were standing in the doorway to the room. Mullaney had no intention of handing over the jacket, but it didn’t matter because Purcell immediately walked over to him and hit him full in the face with the butt of a revolver.
14. Irene
The sound of furies howling in the cemetery beyond, am I dreaming or am I dead, voices mumbling, K’s and Purcell’s, “should have made sure he was dead before you started for the airport.”
“We thought he would suffocate in the closed coffin.”
“He didn’t.”
“Nor did we expect the coffin to be hijacked and opened.”
“You should have been more careful.”
“Are you in charge here, or am I?”
“You are, but...”
“Then keep quiet.”