Kings, Queens, and Jacks (Chapter Two of "No Such Thing as a Sure Thing", from "More Money Than Moses")

 NOTE: The novel in progress, "More Money Than Moses", is a crime fiction story which explores the life of the protagonist through excerpts of his own writing, articles, reviews, interviews, news paper clippings, and third hand accounts. The novel features a novella written by the protagonist, entitled "No Such Thing as a Sure Thing", of which this is the Second Chapter. 

No Such Thing as a Sure Thing

by Moses Levi

(Excerpt from the novel "More Money than Moses")

Chapter Two

Kings, Queens, and Jacks

Myles had lived in Charlestown his entire life. In spite of himself, he grew up only three blocks away from the apartment he resided in. The church he attended periodically, mostly following a regretful binge and a moment  or three of nostalgia, but as often as not because their soup kitchen was open all day, was a short walk from his stoop. He knew everyone. They knew him. It was a comfortable life, if not particularly meaningful. He visited his Mother on Sundays, dropping off a reefer joint or two for her at the hospital that she worked at. Busy lady. Had no time for his antics.

The sun was making its own kind of noise when he cornered onto his street. Like most days, he looked every bit the part of a local everyday Boston Mick. Simple dress, nothing flashy, keeping his eyes to the ground unless he was looking to fight or fuck. Myles was, for the most part, comfortable with poverty, scratching his earnings here and there. It was never really enough, but he lived cheaply, and didn’t have other mouths to feed. And he didn’t get into so much trouble that the coppers kept him on their trap-line. He didn’t complain. Not much need to. He washed his own laundry in the kitchen sink once a week, and kept a modicum of presentability, so much as was expected, at least.

He quietly opened the front door to the rooming house he lived in, avoiding he creaking floorboards that he was overly familiar with, so as not to wake the slumlady in charge. No good, she was there in the foyer, smoking her cigarette while glancing through the weekend flyers, snipping coupons into an envelope in her lap.

“Ma. How’s the news?” he attempted small talk, as he keyed the lock to the brass mailbox on the wall across from her. The bin was stuffed full of envelopes.

“Mylie, you’re late. And late and late and late. I can’t keep you around if’n you keep on being late. It’s unbecoming of a young man. S’no good.”

“Ah, Ma. I’m sorry. Times are rough. I’ve got noth-“

“Sonny Boy, I’ve heard it all. Every kind o’ tale. You got nuffin’ on summa thems. Catch it up. I gotta curb ya if’n you don’t get caught up by next weekend. Got it? Friday. No later. Or it’s kaputz.” Myles gazed at her through his exhausted, dry eyes. The two-inch long ash on the end of her cigarette didn’t so much as wobble as she spoke, butt held firmly between her ancient wrinkly brown lips.

Myles nodded, thanking her for her patience, and passing her half of his stack, the junk mail portion, filled with the coupons she’d been collecting. He knew that she shared them with her neighborly lady buddies, like baseball trading cards. She lit another cigarette with a wooden match, replacing the impossibly long uncrumbled ashy filtered tip, adding it to the heaped up black glass pedestal ashtray standing beside her olive green floral print vinyl kitchen chair.

She glanced up at him over the frames of her half lens reading glasses, and dismissed him with, “If you mow the lawn I’ll give you to Sunday.”

As he climbed the narrow stairwell up to his third floor bachelor suite, Myles shuffled the stack of overdue utility bills and payment demands, finally dropping them into his jacket pocket. He rooted past the envelopes in his pocket for his keys, and stopped on the landing as his preacher neighbor Donovan stepped out into the hall. The black shirt and white collar were freshly pressed, whisps of grey hair were slicked up over his balding cranium, crossing over his shiny head like a spiders weave. He was a tall, strong man, though in his sixties. His sleeves were rolled up below his elbows, exposing fore-arms which knew decades of labour, and also the old blue tattoos, a ghostly remnant from a much different life.

“Morning to you, Father. That time of the week is it already?”

The clergyman’s bright blue eyes glanced at Myles quickly as he fumbled with his keys and black leather bible, virtually juggling a handful of handwritten pages as he locked his door.

“My-Lus”, the man stated, matter of factly. He was the only person who used Myles’ proper pronunciation, besides his Mother. The papers and bible were tucked hastily under his left arm, keys dropped into his trouser pocket, and he reached his hand out for a firm handshake, smiling that Sunday morning smile reserved for sober men who slept well at night.

Myles took his hand, shaking it firmly. “Catholic clergy are Fathers. I’m Baptist. We use Reverend, or Pastor. But I’m sure I’ve told you that before.” He looked over Myle’s bruised cheek, “Long night?”

Myles saw real concern in the man’s searching eyes. “Bet on the wrong horse”, he replied.

“Ah, boy.’ He looked at him, his expression changing to that of meaningful understanding. “You’re a quixotic one, my friend. The proverbial gentleman rogue.” He paused a moment, “Have you been eating?”

“Feast or famine, Reverend Pastor. Yesterday was a feast. Today is famine. Tomorrow, we’ll see.”

His neighbor dug into his pocket, withdrew a tenner, and pressed it into Myle’s hand.

“Ah, Fath...Reverend...Don...You don’t need to ...”

“Of course I do. I have to run, my boy. Get some sleep. Put some ice on that.” He smiled and removed himself from the hallway, down the stairs, “Not everyone has to turn the other cheek. Do yourself a favor and learn to duck.”

Myles pulled out his keys, and noted that his door was ajar. He pushed it open, and stepped cautiously into the flat. He peeked into the kitchen, then the toilet, and finally into the living room. There was a broad chested gorilla passed out in one of the old wing-back chairs, gently snoring. One shoe had been kicked off onto the floor, revealing a grungy brown argyle sock, rolled down to the ankle. He could see the handle  of a black leather sap sticking its nose out his trouser pocket. The man’s ginger hair was slicked back, his hat resting in his lap, held almost gently in his monstrous hands. He was a heavy breather, but wasn’t snoring.

Myles recognised him as Ogden, a collection agent for a barbershop bookie that he owed a few dimes. Fortunately, Og was one of the reasonable kinds of muscle. He wasn’t likely to cause a ruckus.

Myles took the chair opposite, and took a heavy mouthful of the bottle from his breast pocket before rousting him. He almost thought about leaving him there and following Donovan to church.

“Good morning, Og.” The man’s eyes snapped open, jumping slightly, hat tumbling to the floor as he glanced around the room, landing beside his shiny black oxford. He grinned sheepishly as he settled his bloodshot eyes on Myles, reorienting himself, and remembering where he was and why he was there.

“Sorry, boyo. S’been a long week.” He looked down at his unclad foot, embarrassment reading on his face as he gathered up his gear. Sighing heavily, he jammed the Borsalino atop his head, and tied the shoe back onto his foot, pulling up his socks. Standing, he straightened his jacket, checked his tie, and adjusted his belt.

Myles offered him the vodka bottle, and Ogden shook his head, waving it off as he sat back down. He looked beat. Myles took Don’s tenner from his pocket, passed it over to him, and it disappeared into his jacket. “Three more by Friday.” He sighed again. “And, thanks.”

“No, man. Thank you. And don’t mention it.”

The man stood up, patted himself down, and stopped at the door, “I don’t think I broke the lock. Might want to check it, though.”

Myles shook off his jacket and kicked off his shoes, threw off his tie, unbuckled his trousers, and flopped down onto the cot on the other side of the room, pulling the pillow up over his face. “Learn to duck”, he muttered as he drifted off.