Whale Season (2 page)

Chapter 2

T
he American Dream recreational vehicle is what is affectionately known as a “land yacht.” It's forty feet long, has two satellite dishes, two air conditioners, a Zip-Dee awning, and real marble floors in the kitchen. How many miles it gets to the gallon is unimportant. Leon wants it. Needs it. Is determined to get it any way he can. It's his ticket out of Whale Harbor, and he knows it. He can see himself and Carlotta heading down to Miami to sell it and start all over again in a town that has more than one zip code. And no memory. And lots of rum.

But it's dealer's choice and Jesus is dealing. It is his birthday, after all.

“Five-card stud,” he says. Places two cards down in front of Leon. “Two down. Two up. The final one down.”

“Sure, sure,” Leon says.

It's not the normal way to play five-card stud, but the guy thinks he's Jesus, so normal seems to be a relative term.

Outside, the wind presses against the tin walls of the dealership. The fluorescent light above their heads hums, makes Leon's palms sweat. “Sure, sure,” he says again for no reason. He just likes the way the word shakes in his mouth. Like dice. Like seven, then eleven. Like snake eyes. The words feel lucky, and Leon knows he needs as much luck as he can get. Jesus is all business for a man wearing a bed sheet—and a shark. Leon knows that for sure. The man never gets excited or raises his voice. Never breaks eye contact. No small talk. He's obviously done this before; cards flow through his bony fingers like creek water, rapids.

Leon looks at his own cards—six of hearts, eight of hearts—he tries hard not to smile. Two hearts beating for Ole Daddy Leon, he thinks. Then Jesus deals him his third, the seven of hearts.

Leon nearly weeps. Three hearts. Three hearts beat as one. A three way. The Holy Trinity of Love.

Then Jesus deals himself the king of spades. Suddenly the room feels two sizes too small.

“Aren't you going to look at your other cards?” Leon asks, tries not to plead. “The ones on the bottom?”

Leon desperately needs him to pick up those cards. Behind Jesus' head there's a mirror. Dusty. Greasy. You can hardly see yourself in it. The word
Airstream
is embossed across it in large silver letters with a tiny toaster of a trailer behind them. But still, if the angle is right, Leon has a perfect view of his opponent's hand. That's why he always plays cards at the dealership. That's why it's still called “Lucky's.”

Jesus shakes his head. “More fun this way,” he says.

If you're insane, Leon thinks. Which, of course, the man is—and that makes Leon even more frustrated. He wants to reach across the desk and shake this man who looks so much like Jesus that Leon wishes his eighth-grade teacher, Sister Mary Thomas, was there because she'd pee her pants. He wants to shout, “Snap out of it! A guy with your talent belongs in Las Vegas peeling tourists like tangerines!”

But he doesn't, there's too much at stake.

“Okay, then,” he says, tries to sound calm. Lifts the corner of his own cards again, just to double-check. Six, seven, eight. All hearts. All his. A possible straight flush, and a straight flush beats all.

His brain hums like a power line.
Come on, baby,
he says to himself as if he's at jai alai again. Leon loves jai alai when he can afford it. The ball leaves the wicket at one hundred miles an hour. His heart pounds patent leather. At jai alai, he's alive and at the top of his game, losing money at a speed faster than he can drive. Anywhere else, he's a pinkie turning green, flaked down to the base metal.

“You in?” Jesus asks and looks at Leon with those Bible eyes.

Shit, Leon thinks. Just can't get a read on this guy. Has no idea what he's holding. But Leon's right hand is itching—and right means money. Three lucky hearts beating as one. “Sure. Sure,” he says, and his hand itches even more.

“Then make your bet,” Jesus says.

“Sure. Sure.”

Outside Lucky's RV Round-Up the neon sign hisses. On the sign there is a cowboy that looks a lot like Leon, but his name is Bob—Bob the Round-Up Cowboy. Leon had the name trademarked. Someone once told him that it would be a good idea. He's still not sure why, but it sounded good at the time. So Leon filled out the forms and sent in the money. A month later, Bob the Round-Up Cowboy was trademarked and legal and all his.

Leon loves that cowboy. Loves the way his hat sits at a rakish angle. Loves his peeling Dennis the Menace eyes. Loves his mystery. Loves the way Bob always seems to be roping something you can't see. The spinning neon lasso shoots out and back again. Snaps and pops.

Sometimes, late at night, Leon stands under the sign and watches it for hours, as if in a dream. From the road, it looks as if the cowboy nearly ropes Leon, but at the last minute the lasso draws back, hissing. Then nearly ropes him again. Then again.

Leon loves the way Bob does that.

But with three hearts beating for Ole Daddy Leon—and an itchy right hand—none of that matters.

“I'll see you the dealership,” Leon says.

“
This
dealership?”

Jesus looks around the edges of the dark room. Roaches cover a Diet-Rite can tossed in the corner. A paper napkin tumbles back and forth in slow motion. Other than that, the showroom is empty.

“Just had a big blowout sale,” Leon says, and his right hand stops itching. Left one starts.

Damn, he thinks, left is losing.

Jesus is not enthused. He rubs his chin, the bristles of his beard. “I don't know,” he sighs. “That's all you have left?”

Leon knows he's in trouble. The American Dream is the Fleetwood Corporation's top of the line. Worth more than a quarter of a million dollars. Lucky's RV Round-Up is a tin shed with windows. A graveyard of parts.

Apparently, this Jesus may be crazy, but not stupid. “Stocks?” he says. “Bonds? Stamp collection? Collectibles? Maybe a set of the sixteen original Hot Wheels circa 1968 still in their original boxes?”

“You've already won everything I have.”

“That's sad. Doesn't seem like a lot. Man your age should be more established, don't you think?”

Great, Leon thinks, Sheet-Boy feels sorry for me.

Jesus shrugs. “Well. Okay, then. I guess.”

Yes, Leon thinks. Now give me a five.

“Here you go,” Jesus says. Deals the five of hearts.

Four hearts beating for Ole Daddy Leon, and his own heart does a tango in 4/4 time.

Then Jesus draws his own card—The king of diamonds. He places it neatly next to the other king. “Two kings,” he says in a level voice. “I'll see your Round-Up and raise you life everlasting.”

Leon sucks air.

“Raise or fold?” Jesus asks calmly.

Just then Leon's right hand began to itch again. Right means money. Of course, he can see that Jesus has a pair, at the very least, but Leon's right hand is itching and in his mind that means a straight flush is about to fall his way. In his mind, he has Carlotta pinned against the silk sheets in the king-sized bed next to the marble bathroom that he knows is standard in a luxury vehicle like the one parked outside. In his mind, he is a happy man. His thoughts are a ticker tape parade.

Accidentally, his voice slides up three octaves. Pentecostal. “Hit me,” he says. “Hit me, Jesus.”

“Raise or fold?” Jesus asks again, patiently.

Leon suddenly understands. He blew it. He has to throw something in the pot, or lose it all. But there's nothing left to bet. The sight of all those hearts beating just for him confused him. He upped the ante too fast. His stomach sparks. He feels his pockets for loose change. All he has is two pennies and foil from a gum wrapper.

“Fold?” Jesus asks.

“Hang on.”

Leon tosses the coins into the pile. They rattle. He opens his desk drawers. Paper clips. Matches. The ghost of a Bic pen, no ink.

Then he sees it.

“Raise,” he says, inspired, and holds up a snack cake, its cellophane wrapper still intact. Two twin rolls of dark chocolate filled with white icing—and dusty.

Jesus looks at him with what Leon imagines to be a “moneylenders at the temple” kind of frown. “You're betting cake?” he says, incredulous.

Leon feels a bead of sweat roll down his spine.

Sell it, baby. Sell it, he thinks. “It's not just cake,” he says and holds it in the palm of his hand like one of those models he's seen on the home shopping channels, “it's devil's food.”

The words hiss like a snake looking for a garden, looking for a girl named Eve. I'm going directly to hell, Leon thinks.
DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT COLLECT
$200.

“Devil's food?” Jesus says, and his voice quivers. His poker face is gone. He leans across the desk and takes the cake. Sniffs it. His breath is shallow and quick. Leon can see his hands sweat.

Oh, yes. Directly to hell, Leon thinks. “Careful not to squeeze it,” he says and lowers his voice reverently as if the cake is made of gold, or titanium, or something actually worth more than three-fourths of a buck.

“Sorry,” Jesus says to the cake, not Leon, and puts it down gently in the center of the pile. Can't take his eyes off of it. It's then that Leon notices that across the man's forehead is a series of tiny scars, as if made from a crown of thorns.

Man, Leon thinks, and wants to know why this guy has to be Jesus so badly, who he was before, how he got this way—but doesn't ask. Can't. It would ruin everything. So he says nothing. Tries not to look him in the eye.

“I've never had the devil's food,” Jesus says. His mouth is slightly open. His hands tremble with longing.

Leon is nearly pleased with himself. Still got the touch, he thinks, but doesn't feel real happy about it. The scars around Jesus' head look ragged and deep. Must be real messed up to do that to yourself. A horrible feeling of sadness washes over him. What am I doing? This guy is crazy and I'm cheating him. On his birthday.

“Shit,” Leon says, “I can't do this.” Then he tosses the cake back into the open drawer quickly, before he changes his mind.

Jesus looks panicked. “Can't do what?” His voice is shrill. “Put that cake back.”

Leon shakes his head. Closes his desk drawer. He wants to say, it's just a cake. No demonic snack treat. Just lots of preservatives with icing so sweet it will make your cavities cringe. But, before he can say anything, Jesus reaches across the desk and snatches the cake from the open drawer. Tosses it back into the pile of keys and cash.

He's quick for a guy in a sheet, Leon thinks. And angry.

“It's a bet,” Jesus says. “Can't change your mind. The cake is in play.”

For a moment, Leon considers the absolute truth of the statement and how sweet the truth is, how it can get him off the hook. A bet is, indeed, a bet. Everyone knows that once the stake hits the table, and is accepted, it can never be taken back. It's the rules. It's the truth of the matter. It's the sweet damn truth. And the truth shall set you free.

And besides, Leon tells himself, the cake really is devil's food. It says that on the box. It's not a lie. Just because the snack cake doesn't belong to a fallen angel who is now lingering in eternal hellfire doesn't mean it's not real—but as soon as Leon thinks this, he envisions the nuns of St. Jude's, their saintly faces, their disapproving clucks. Leon always thinks of them in moments of what they would call “spiritual crisis,” moments of what he would call “stellar opportunities.”

Damn those penguins, Leon shudders, and then accidentally leans back in his chair. It squeaks. Scares the roaches.

“Look,” Leon says. “Game over.” He picks the cake back out of the pile again. Wipes the dust off it onto his pants. Outside the office window, one of the most expensive luxury coaches in America is winking in the moonlight. Leon's hand stops itching. He feels queasy.

Unfortunately, the crazy guy is not taking no for an answer. He leans across the desk again. His breath is hot. He is angrier than Leon has ever seen anyone be.

“Are you really willing to walk away from this hand? To lose everything you own?”

Leon sputters. He hasn't thought that far.
Everything,
he thinks, is a very big word. “Maybe we can just forget the hand,” he says, half-asking, half-pleading.

Jesus laughs and it is not a pretty laugh. It is a howling crazy laugh.

“There's no going back,” he says, darkly. “If the cake's not in play, you lose everything you own. Sorry lot that it is.”

Jesus picks up the deck and deals the two final cards. One for himself. One for Leon. Both are facedown. “So what will it be?” he says, quietly, seems to know a little bit about temptation himself. “Come on,” his voice is reptilian smooth. “You've come this far.” He hisses.

The sight of the final card in front of Leon makes his heart beat even faster. He knows he can play through and win, but it just doesn't seem right to cheat a crazy fella on Christmas. If only it was the Fourth of July. Still, “I'm in,” is what he says. His legs shake underneath the desk.