Balling the Jack

Take Joe Catholic across from me. He hasn’t lifted his face from the Book since Fourteenth Street. I’ll bet the guy is a real all-star. Been doing it by the Church’s rules all his life. Never misses a service, digs deep when the plate comes around, steers clear of the books they don’t want him to read. The works. All to make sure he’s taken care of when the time comes.

Now that’s a hell of a reason, sure, but look at the deal from the Church’s side a second. Seems to me they milk this guy pretty good. Take him for thousands of bucks, over the years, and when he’s not cutting them a check he’s out stumping in his free time, bringing in more business. Don’t think he sees any commission, either. Then you have his kids. Years of unpaid labor as altar boys and helpers, and when they get a little older the Church has the inside track on signing them up for the distance, too. Hey, if he ever stops to do the math, he’ll see the bill is starting to mount. I won’t even get into the opportunity cost.

And when does the guy get his payoff? When does the Church have to ante up, to show him all that soul work they were selling him wasn’t just a bill of goods? The second he dies. Now that’s what I call a smooth scam.

Up he went, they can say, we did our part, and no one can prove them wrong.

That’s what gets me about the whole business—they never have to prove anything. They have a little trick called faith to get around all that. The pastors used to spring it on me all the time. Thirteen years I kept asking how can you prove it and thirteen years they gave me the same answer: faith. “How can a man live in a whale, Father?” Faith. “How can a man part the ocean, Father?” Faith.

I didn’t want to hear about faith. I wanted to know did the stuff really happen or didn’t it? If it did where was the proof? If you can’t show the proof, well, that pretty much pulls the rug out from under the whole deal, doesn’t it? Faith, Tom. If you have faith you don’t ask those questions. Hell, any other salesman tried that line you’d boot him out the door. Put a robe on him and a steeple behind him, though, and I’m supposed to go along.

I’m not trying to pin everything on the Catholics. I’m just sore at them for all the Sundays I wasted in the pew. I’m sure the other religions are about the same.

Look around the subway car. Next to the Bible guy is a Rastafarian. Down from him a Hasidic Jew. You think they chose their faiths after looking hard at all the others and deciding where the truth was? Hell no. The one guy is Catholic and the other Jewish and the other a Rasta because that’s who got ahold of them first. By that logic any one of them could have wound up a Nazi.

I look at them. Each sits there with all the answers, knowing he’s all set come the big day, and at least two of them are dead wrong. I wouldn’t put a dime on the third one, either. Thanks anyway, guys, but I’ll take my chances.

At Wall Street I climb the sooty stairs into the August-morning heat. It isn’t even 9 A.M. and already my shirt sticks to me. As I walk the short block to work, picking my way through the throng, I fight back my hangover and the nagging feeling that I’m forgetting something. Something important about last night. The match is all pretty clear in my head, especially the big finish, but the rest is a little fuzzy. The victory party comes back in fits and starts. I remember shots, and singing, and taking off our shirts in the bar. I remember walking Stella home. And just how did I get home, anyway? Split a cab with Jimmy, I guess.

Kay smiles as I limp through the oak doors. Someone else’s hangover is always a riot.

“What happened to you, Tom?”

“Just something going around.”

“Right. The Irish flu.” She laughs loudly and I grip the edge of her desk.

“Jesus, Kay, don’t do that. You got any aspirin?”

“Take my last two.”

Kay is a sweetheart. Our terminally cheerful receptionist, the only one in the firm who knows about my bets. She’s always setting me up with her girlfriends, and it’s only thanks to a cousin of hers that I’m not zero for ’96 in the sleepover department. Kay herself is cute as they come. From the shoulders up, anyway. Start moving downstairs and it’s a different story. She got married six months ago and already she’s put on twenty pounds. I feel bad for the new hubby. It’s probably just dawning on him what he’s let himself in for. From what I remember of her mom at the reception, the long-term outlook isn’t promising, either. I’m with Dave on this one. Once you fork over the ring, there ought to be a weight clause in there somewhere.

“Take one of my doughnuts, Tom. It will settle your stomach.”

There’s no way I can keep it down but I take it out of respect for her hubby. He always seemed like a nice guy.

At my desk I ditch the doughnut, wash down the aspirin with water, bury my face in a case file and close my eyes. Just let today be an easy one. The phone rings.

“Farrell Hawthorne.”

“How’s the head, college boy?”

Duggan. Why do I think I’ve just seen him?

“What do you want, Duggan?”

“Wanted to give you a chance to yellow out.”

Duggan. Duggan. It all comes back in a rush. The two of us in the street. Something about a rematch. For money this time. But how much? I stall him.

“I’d love to chat, Duggan, but some of us have real jobs to do.”

“Still talking a good game, I see. I assume we’re on then, college boy.”

Think, Tom, think.

“Sure we’re on. Only, aren’t you a little embarrassed to play for those stakes?”

“What’s that?”

“You want to play for money, Duggan, let’s play for money.” Silence on the line. What the hell—sometimes you floor it and hope the other guy moves. How much can it be, anyway? “Let’s double it.”

More silence.

“What’s the matter—don’t have that kind of dough? Or can’t your backers count that high?”

I can feel his hatred through the cord. When he speaks it’s through his teeth.

“Double it is, college boy—forty grand. But we see the dough before the match. And listen good. You’re not wanking for drinks with the frat boys anymore. If I gotta come get you …”

Click.

I walk to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. Forty grand? Jesus, Tom, what the hell did you do last night? I splash myself again. Forty grand? Add up all the dough I’ve spent in my life and it doesn’t make forty grand. I towel off.

So call him back. Tell him it’s no go. I look at myself in the mirror and a strange feeling starts in the pit of my stomach. What a charge if I could raise it, though, huh? All that money riding on a night of darts. And the chance to stick it to Duggan, besides. I look myself over again. One thing I’m not up for, right now, is calling Duggan back to chicken out. No way.

Not that I have the first clue where I’d get the money. Even so. I shake my head. Maybe if I give myself a few days I can come up with something. I’m strictly in survival mode today, anyway, not in any shape to make a big decision. I’ll get through the day, sleep on it and see what I think in the morning.

I walk back to my desk and take a seat. I’m wondering if my stomach can handle a soda when the phone rings again. It’s Carter.

“Reasons, I need to see you in here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Carter is in high spirits, pacing the carpet behind his desk like a football coach walking the sidelines. He stops and looks me up and down.

“What’s wrong with you? You look awful.”

“Stomach flu, sir.”

“Yes. Well. I don’t want you having any late nights while the Garrett case is on. We need to be in peak form on this one.

Yeah, right.

“Yes, sir.”

He starts to pace again. “I thought the depositions went very well. No surprises. I want them summarized by Friday, and this afternoon I need you to sit in on two more. Prego’s, wife, and Winston Garrett.”