j. Petey arranging table, so-to-speak. Petey telling Beer and Bait regulars that all is okay. Petey telling rich guys that if a burn starts, there’ll be many-a-blister on many-a-rich bottom.
“Bottle-a-pop,” Petey mentioned, “strawberry if you got it.”
A kid bartender practically tripped over himself fishing in the cooler. Petey strolled to a group of Beer and Bait regulars who trembled behind beer glasses. As he approached their table, which sat close to the fisherman, they stood, scrammed, and Petey rested. Mighty solid for a ghost. Sipped pop. Waited for hookers. Or maybe not. Waiting for something.
“Bust,” the tow truck kid whispered almost joyful, “and here I was, looking forward to the fights.” He flipped bull so easily anyone could tell he was brave. “First time I was ever glad to see a cop.” He looked toward Bertha. “She don’t need a tore-up joint.” Sudden cold entered the room ahead of the first cop. It was winter cold, like the backside of November, not October. The fisherman watched as the cop came through the doorway and stopped. The cop looked around, then took up position beside the door.
A blast of winter wind hit windows and another handful of rain flattened then blew away. Every fisherman in the joint turned from the cop to watch the Canal, and every fisherman knew that winter had just announced the end of fishing season.
A second cop entered and took position on the other side of the door. No one would be allowed to leave.
Local cops. Not too bright. Leg breakers in uniform. Noises came from the front porch where the stamping of feet told of a convocation of cops. The fisherman wondered if the tow truck kid was wrong. Maybe they could bust everybody.
“Gimmie a beer,” the kid whispered to a bartender. “Not a can. A bottle.”
“Don’t,” the fisherman whispered. “We’ve been set up, but don’t. Something more is gonna happen.”
A smarmy little guy, the guy who was a plant, slipped through the doorway slick as snot on a doorknob. He looked over the heads of the crowd. “Mr. District Attorney.” he said. “Illegal gaming; and recess is over. Who runs this joint?”
Bertha stepped from the back of the room, and Bertha had glad lights in her eyes. Bertha had worried herself sick for a long, long, long time and finally had someone she could tussle. The fisherman watched with certain knowledge that the first time the punk touched Bertha the joint would explode. There weren’t enough cops in the world… and besides, there was Petey.
Petey rested. As Bertha got near the guy Petey yawned. He tapped the tabletop with his fingers, said, “I got a better idea.”
Bertha stopped. The smarmy guy turned his attention to Petey, and motioned to one of the cops. Petey watched the approaching cop, and Petey looked bored as a hundred sermons. He turned toward the rotund little rich guy who stood behind a pool table.
“What in sam hill were you and momma thinking?” he asked the rich guy. “You need a wolf pack and you hired puppies. Call ’em off.” Only someone who was totally bored, or else a total hustler, could sound that disinterested. To the approaching cop, he said, “See ya.”
The cop stopped. He looked at the smarmy guy. The smarmy guy shrugged, and looked at rich guy. Rich guy tried to look indifferent, but his face was flushed. He dropped his hands to his sides so no one could see them tremble. At the butterfly table the beetle-lady watched closely, but seemed tentative.
“Thanks anyhow,” rich guy said to the smarmy guy. “Go away.” He flushed even deeper as the hookers came from the ladies’ can. The girls chose a table at the far end of the room where two loggers sat solid as stumps. The loggers, who in their wildest dreams had never been around such classy babes, blushed and found extra chairs. The hookers sat in communicating distance with the butterflies, who they ignored.
The butterflies watched the hookers, were puzzled. Of course, the butterflies had never nuzzled nectar at China Bay.
The rich guys were looking everywhere in the joint except at the hookers. The rich guys pretended total innocence.
“There’s still a tournament,” Petey told the crowd. “Do it.”
Cueballs began to click. People who had been ready for a fight now had to get rid of adrenalin. The crowd grew noisy in spite of the tournament.
“Over here,” Petey said to Bertha, and his voice was affectionate. At the same time he was obviously in no mood to argue. He watched the two cops follow mister smarmy. They stepped outside.
A burst of rain swept against the windows like waves breaking over the cabin of a boat. In Beer and Bait, in what had been an overheated room on a sunny noontime, chill entered from windows made cold by rain. Gloom lowered so that only the white of breaking surf showed the Canal still existed. If the creature was out there it could not be seen.
Bertha took one look at the hookers, like there was gonna be hell-and-hallelujah happening, then decided to go along with Petey’s program. She came to the table. Sat.
“You too,” Petey said to rich guy.
Rich guy didn’t even hesitate. He only glanced at beetle-lady and pretended not to shudder. The rest of the rich guys cuddled up on the far side of the pool tables away from the hookers. Butterflies, still confused, took notes as another shovelful of rain flooded the windows.
In the rapidly cooling room rich guy had sweat on his brow. His tummy was the only normal thing about him, because fear and meanness caused his shoulders to tense. His face filled with anger. “You want something,” he said. “So what?”
“You can buy those girls off.” Petey kept detached and pretty quiet. “But, you can’t buy them off here and now. The minute one of your boys walks toward them they’ll cuddle up to him, and that starts a discussion group with the mommas.” Petey glanced toward the butterflies and rubbed his bald spot, maybe for luck. “How much will that many divorces cost? Gimmie a figure.”
Rich guy tried to set his anger aside. He was ready to deal. “You want something. What?”
“Ever since the Phoenicians invented money there’s been only one answer to that question.” Petey looked at Bertha. “I read that in book somewhere.” He still sounded detached, almost indifferent, but maybe a little bit amused.
“What?” Bertha is not used to mystery stuff. She is not used to being in the middle of conversations she doesn’t understand.
“I got a lever,” Petey told her. “We’re talking facts of life.” And, although he was talking facts of life, he couldn’t bring himself to discuss hookers.
“You got hustled,” he told Bertha. “That bust was a setup. This guy bought one of his pet gov-guys, and the gov-guy brought in cops. Cops would run people home. Tournament canceled. You were going to end up owing ten grand to the leader of the tournament at the time of the bust. Plus, you’d owe a big piece of the three grand registrations. You’d have to refund guys who hadn’t had a turn at the tables. This guy never intended to pay a prize. He was gonna bankrupt you.”
It was the absolute worst moment of Bertha’s life. Probably. She sat breathing shallow, turned pale, then began to turn red. The shame. To be suckered like that. The shame. She caught a deep breath. “Why?”
“He wants the joint,” Petey said. “This goes back a ways. You wouldn’t sell, and his boys could have upped their offer. But it’s a game to them. He was setting you up where you’d have to sell. He’s got big plans.” Petey looked toward the group of rich guys. “They got blown out on the tables once before. That was a heist. This guy used the purple momma to open this up, because you wouldn’t have bought in, otherwise. The other mommas didn’t know.” Petey watched the butterflies who were watching each other with lots of questions. He looked again at the rich guys. “After those boys got blown out the first time, anybody could figure they’d bring the mommas to the second joust. Because anyone could figure they’d show off with a fake win.” He looked at rich guy. “Big mistake.”