Parrish rose and leaned toward the dealer.
“You’ll need to see Mr. St. Clair.” The dealer’s voice was beginning to shake.
“Then get him over here where I can see him.”
“He works behind that window.” He pointed a shaky finger toward a caged window cut into a red wall at the back. The word “Cashier” written in elegant neon script hung over it like an arched eyebrow.
Parrish grabbed the dealer by the knot of the dealer’s red tie. “You get him.”
There was no need. St. Clair was already halfway to the table. He had a face that looked like it had been carved from butter, thick and pale and slightly marbled. His hair was slicked back and his red suit was adorned with a white rose that looked pink in this light. He carried with him a frustrated manager’s smile that fought the urge to turn mean. “Hands off the dealer, Parrish.”
Parrish looked at St. Clair but didn’t let go. “This pinhead won’t give me any chips.”
St. Clair stopped a good five feet from Parrish. One hand was deep in the pocket of his red suit jacket. “Mr. Baird gives out the cards. I give out the chips. You know that.”
Parrish smiled without any help from his eyes, which made it a threat. “But I don’t have to like it.”
“Show me the cash and I’ll give you your chips.”
Parrish let go of Baird’s tie and squared up to St. Clair. “Ever heard of credit?”
“Not since you walked in the door.”
I saw Parrish inflate like a cornered animal. He clenched a fist and raised it just enough to be noticed. “Want me to show you what it looks like?”
St. Clair’s arm tensed, the one that ended in his sagging coat pocket.
“I’ll cover it,” I said as I pulled out my wallet and withdrew a twenty. I looked at Parrish. “That enough?”
Parrish looked at me as if I’d interrupted his punch line. This was the first time I got a look at the dead eyes the Pope had described. Whatever part of him had looked scared in the old photograph I had of him was no longer visible. All that came through now was unmasked contempt. His gaze rolled over me with all the compassion of a German Panzer, finally settling on the double sawbuck in my hand. “Forty.”
I pulled out three more twenties and handed all of it to St. Clair. “Forty for both of us.”
St. Clair held his stiff pose for a moment, then weakened. He tried to hide it, but I spotted the relief that snuck across his face. “Forty each. Yes, sir.”
Parrish dropped back onto his red stool. His wavy black hair looked greasy but unruffled.
St. Clair looked at the man sitting next to Parrish. “Carl, you’ve been here long enough. Go home.”
Carl, who looked like a well-dressed, churchgoing politician with a predilection for sin, gladly gathered his handful of chips and headed for the caged window. The two others at the table followed suit.
St. Clair pointed at the now vacant stools and smiled at me. “A table has opened up for you, sir.”
I nodded and took my place next to Parrish. His eyes were focused on the red felt table as if he were staring into a pool of his own blood. He rested his forearms on the edge. The cuffs of his dark shirt were frayed. “What do you want from me?”
I stared into my own blood on the table. “Nothing.”
“A man wants something when he throws around money like it’s trash and asks after somebody who doesn’t want to be found.”
“It’s not me that wants something. It’s your old man.”
Parrish didn’t move.
St. Clair brought out a rack of chips to Baird, who was using a handkerchief to wipe off his forehead and his palms. The dealer then stacked two equal towers of chips in front of each of us. I wasn’t sure Parrish had heard me.
“It’s your old man,” I said.
“I ain’t deaf,” he snapped. “Deal.”
Baird tried to control the shakes that seemed to have become permanent, but failed. His hand shook as he picked up a pearlhandled letter opener and tried to cut the seal on a new deck of cards. He nearly slit his own wrists. When he finally tried to deal blackjack to us, both of Parrish’s cards landed faceup. He had a pair of jacks.
Parrish rose from his stool. “Goddamn it, you sonofabitch. You just cost me money.” He reached across and slapped Baird full on the cheek. Baird stumbled sideways from the force of the blow and whimpered. His knees nearly buckled. “Next time I’m gonna use a fist.”
“We can play it out,” I said.
“No.” He brushed the cards back at Baird and sat down.
We waited for Baird to compose himself and the cards.
“He’s dying,” I said.
Parrish’s jaw pulsed as he stared at the dealer.
Baird fumbled the cards, sending some towards us and others to the floor. This time Parrish rose and used his fist. Baird went over like a tree and hit the floor hard as blood spurted from his nose. He tried to push it back in with his hands but it oozed out between his fingers. A wet, spreading stain began to darken his crotch.
St. Clair rushed from his cage and tended to Baird. He glared at Parrish but said nothing. Apparently the Pope was the only skid-row proprietor with enough sand to kick Tommy Parrish out.
Parrish sat down. “Dying of what?”
“I don’t know. Dan didn’t say.”
“Dan.” He said it with surprise and disgust, as if his brother was someone he’d disliked but had forgotten about until now.
“Dan’s a hell of a cop,” I said.
Parrish actually chuckled, most of it through his nose.
“I’m sure he is.”
Up close to Parrish I could see the bags under his eyes. The dark circles. The shadows that lived inside his skin. They gave me an idea of how to reach him, of what we had in common.
“I was in the war, too. Third Battalion, 157th Regiment, U.S. 45th. I saw Anzio and Dachau.” I let that hang out there for a minute.
I knew he wouldn’t talk about it. I didn’t want to talk about it either. But I knew I had to. Not because I had a job to do. My reasons went far beyond that.
“I hate sleep,” I said as I rubbed my suddenly tired eyes. “I hate it because I never sleep alone. It’s those goddamned faces. Coming at me every night. Like a carnival sideshow. Emaciated, hollow faces.” My voice began to shake. “Bodies contorted. People I never knew. Faces without names. Each one different. Each one. The same.”
I had to stop. My hands had started to tremble. Parrish noticed but said nothing. His hands were clasped together, fingers interlaced, knuckles white with the strain.
For a minute we both just tried to breathe.
“He’s dying. He wants to see you.”
Parrish turned on me, leaned in close. His whiskers looked prickly and his breath smelled of stale cigarettes. His black eyes barely contained a contempt that bordered on rage. I suddenly understood how Baird could wet himself. “Just because someone knocks, doesn’t mean I have to answer the door. Now leave me alone.”
He stood up and moved to the cashier’s window. I followed. After he collected my forty bucks and stuffed it in his pants pocket, he turned and poked a finger into my chest. “Get the hell away from me.” He started to leave but stopped. He kept his eyes on the door. “Just get the hell away from me.” Then he shook his head and left.
I cashed out and followed him, but by the time I reached the street he had disappeared. As I stood on the sidewalk, Baird burst through the door, holding his bloody nose with a bloody hand, spluttering and gasping as he pushed past me and ran down Washington Avenue. His feet slapped at the pavement as he plunged deeper into the heart of skid row. I wondered where he’d end up, just how deep into the heart of skid row all that rage and fear and humiliation would take him.
I found Lana as she was leaving the Palms. She didn’t act happy to see me.