Chimera

since . . . since the trouble. It’s nice to see you joke.”

“Yeah, I wish.” Glumly, I dumped the fork onto my cleanly polished plate. “She and Bubba Shitkicker cleaned me out. I’m lucky they left me my nads.”

That was apparently more entertaining than my developing a sense of humor. He chortled until his face turned beet red and I honestly feared a massive coronary wasn’t far behind. “A girly. A pregnant keykla. Ah, Stefan,” he choked out.

“Jesus, it wasn’t as if I could shoot her,” I protested darkly.

The color intensified to liver purple and he had to sip at his half-empty glass of juice to recuperate. He sputtered and wheezed for several moments before wiping his perspiring face with his silk napkin. “No more, Stefan. No more. You’ll be the death of me with this. How much do you need?”

“Forty, fifty. How ever much you have to spare.” I handed him a fresh napkin to replace his soaking one. “Michael and I need to get back on the road within the next hour or so.”

In your ordinary family, asking for so much might be suspect. Uncle Lev didn’t think twice. He could drop three times that on a Friday night in Atlantic City and not blink an eye. “I’ve sixty-five in the safe I think.” He finished mopping at his neck. “It’s yours. But I want you and the boy to stay for lunch at least. Such a skinny pateechka. He needs fattening up and I want to catch up on old times with you, Stefan. It’s been, what, two years now? Shameful behavior, ignoring an old man that way.”

I recognized the unrelenting glint in his eye and gave in as gracefully as I could. Four or five hours wouldn’t hurt, and it would be a chance to unwind in a place of relative safety, even if for just a short time. “Okay, okay. We’ll stick around for lunch. Maybe I’ll kick your wrinkled old butt in a little poker.”

“Ha,” he barked gleefully. “If you remember a tenth of what I’ve taught you, you can keep the sixty-five. No payback. No interest. Consider it a late Christmas present.”

“And if I don’t remember?”

He reached over and patted the back of my hand. “Let’s not dwell on your certain doom. It’ll only ruin the game.”

Uncle Lev always had been one for card sharking. When he said doom, he meant it. He’d taught me a little over the years, but it was only a fraction of what he was capable of. The man could cheat you out of your briefs and you wouldn’t know what hit you until the cool air fanned your ass. It was a lesson I was able to relive several times over the next few hours. The unsympathetic audience at my elbow didn’t make it go down any more easily.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Michael peered over my shoulder at the cards in my hand as I prepared to discard two. “Statistically speaking your chances of making that combination aren’t too high.” He had gone from knowing nothing about the game of poker to knowing more than enough to criticize my playing. And he wasn’t shy with his opinions.

“I’m sure,” I groused, tossing the cards down on the table. Lev and I had joined Michael in the entertainment room to expose him to the finer art of gambling. Surrounded by overstuffed couches, jewel-toned rugs, and more electronics than a NASA mission control room, I was being thoroughly humiliated in front of my brother who seemed to be enjoying every second. He had even torn himself away from the giant flat-screen television to take in the spectacle.

Moments after I was dealt my new cards, plump arms were sweeping away my chips. “You should’ve listened to your friend, Stefan,” he chortled. “He’s a nose for this you’ve never quite had.”

A hand hesitantly laid itself on my shoulder as Michael did an about-face from disparaging to stubbornly supportive. “He’s not that bad. He only needs a little work on the theory.”

“Psh. He’s terrible.” Lev stacked the chips and dealt again, this time dealing Michael in. “But he’s my godson all the same, and I’m happy to see your loyalty to him.” He winked and gave him a generous share of what had once been my chips. “You’re a good friend, little Michael. Probably better than he deserves. Let me tell you what this one got up to when he was your age. It will curl that blond hair of yours.”

“It will?” Michael picked up his cards but kept his eyes riveted on Uncle Lev. “Was he bad?” He spared me a quick, bright glance, tongue firmly in cheek.

“Ah, so bad. So very, very bad.” And he was off. Assuming Michael was as young as he appeared to be, he mostly told of the scrapes I’d gotten into at ages thirteen and fourteen. That was the time period before my brother had disappeared. Following that, I hadn’t gotten into much trouble; the will simply wasn’t there. Before then . . . there were no holds barred. I had detention so often that I had a permanent reservation for the desk by the window. It was all in good fun, I thought, but the custodian who had to chase the five chickens out of the gym hadn’t agreed; neither had the biology and chemistry teachers whose labs had to be decontaminated by biohazard units. Then there had been the hiding in an empty locker while the varsity cheerleaders changed. That had made me and Angelo, my best friend, cocks of the walk for the entire seventh grade. It was all typically harmless kid stuff. Anatoly had laughed it all off the few times a teacher had ever been able to pin him down on the phone. He would’ve done the same if I’d been caught loan sharking during recess.

“Where did you get the chickens?” Michael asked with interest.

“None of your business.” I watched with gloom as the last of my chips disappeared.

“What did the cheerleaders look—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” I warned him. Throwing in the towel, I watched as the two of them battled it out on the gaming field of honor. It wasn’t long before Lev realized Michael could hold his own in fair combat. It was an opportunity for the old man to impishly begin a lesson in cheating. First he showed off his simple overhand shuffle, a finger break, then a false cut. Following that, he used a double undercut to move the ace of spades back to the top of the deck. I’d seen it all before, but it didn’t stop me from whistling in appreciation.

“You haven’t lost your touch, Uncle Lev.”

Michael was watching it all with a quiet and, if I wasn’t mistaken, mildly larcenous fascination. “You could make a lot of money this way, couldn’t you?”

“Sure,” I drawled. “If you didn’t mind being beaten to a pulp when you got caught.”

“If you were clever enough, you wouldn’t get caught.” He held out a hand for the cards. “Sir, could you show me that last one again?”

That’s all I needed, Michael trying to score us pocket change at every gas and lunch stop, all in the spirit of an interesting experiment. Hoping to distract him, I rose, stretched, and checked my watch. Nearly four and a half hours had passed since breakfast. “When’s lunch, Uncle Lev? We really do have to get going soon.”

“Spoilsport,” he grumped. “I’ll go check on the cook. She’s been temperamental lately. I should never have traykhate her. It wasn’t worth a late lunch.”

As he trundled out the door, Michael said curiously, “I don’t recall that word being covered in my language class.”

“And it’s not going to be covered here either, Junior. So don’t hold your breath.”

He ran through the cards in a fairly decent imitation of Lev’s last move. “Why do you do that?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“Do what?”

His eyes narrowed at me from behind smoky glass as he shuffled silently.

“Okay, okay. Maybe I’m a little overprotective,” I admitted grudgingly. “I think I’m entitled.” But much more than that, I was obligated.

He continued to manipulate the cards without speaking, his fingers growing swifter with each pass. Finally, he said, “It wasn’t your fault, Stefan.”

I felt my mouth go dry. “What?” This was not a road I wanted to travel.

“Your brother’s being taken. It wasn’t your fault. From the way you described, it was planned, right? The beach was mostly inaccessible; he had a getaway car available. It was planned,” he repeated. “If it hadn’t been then, it would’ve been some other time. Some other place. You’re trying to make up for something you didn’t do.” To someone who’s not your brother was the unsaid tag on that statement.

“Misha.” I shook my head and tried for a smile, only to fall short. “Now just isn’t the time, but . . . thanks.” I didn’t think it would ever be the time for that discussion if I could avoid it, but I realized what the effort said about Michael. He had been locked away in a place of rigid authority and people who could’ve passed as robots for all the emotion they showed. That he could still reach out to someone was extraordinary, and I wasn’t about to slam a door in his face.

He dipped his head in acknowledgment and began to meander about the room, still putting the cards through