“It’s this guy. He’s got a regular beat and this week he’s on Bleecker. He’ll walk into a bar or restaurant, stand in the middle of the room, and stare. It makes the patrons jumpy. If we hand him a five he’ll leave. Not a bad stunt, really. Better than parking yourself on a sidewalk with your hand out.”
That brought a smile to my lips and she gave me one back.
“Hey, John. I’ve missed you around here. I was so sorry to hear about your accident. Did you get my card?”
Since the crash, I’d lost the will to do anything; that included opening my mail. I thanked her for the card.
“I tried to call you too but just got voice mail.”
“I’ve been out of commission for a while. For over six weeks.” The misery of the accident flooded back. “They had to cut me out of the car. My ribs got cracked up and an artery tore. The blood loss kept me in hospital so long I even missed Samuel’s funeral. But I’m on the mend now.”
She let out a sigh. “That’s just awful. How did it happen?”
“I totally blank out when I try to picture it. I remember picking Samuel up from JFK. He’d just flown in from Jordan. We were on the Belt Parkway, the racetrack up ahead. A pickup behind us kept crowding my car, bothering the heck out of me, but when I slowed down to let it pass it wouldn’t take the offer. That’s my last recollection.”
Only a partial truth, but I couldn’t bear to tell her the rest of it. The airbag had blocked out my sight but I retained an auditory memory—the raw terror in Samuel’s voice. The man who’d never raised his voice to me was screaming. I’d ignored the cutting pain in my chest, clutched at my seat belt to free myself so I could help him, and almost succeeded before I passed out.
Diane reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “Maybe it’s a blessing you can’t remember. Your brain’s protecting you from a memory that’s too frightening. You must miss Samuel terribly.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get over it, Diane.”
How could I describe the black hole I’d fallen into since his death? I didn’t have the words. My mind kept shifting back to the early years. His work meant long absences. There was always this sense of waiting, the way you feel in March yearning for winter to end. When our housekeeper, Evelyn, got word that Samuel was coming home, the whole atmosphere would change. I could still see her face lighting up, a slight flush to her cheeks. She’d bustle around, cleaning stuff that didn’t need it, I’d go to the barber, she’d polish all the shoes and even try to bake. When the day arrived Samuel would come through the door, arms filled with boxes of gifts. Exotic things. Turkish candies; sand bottles; mosaics; Roman-glass earrings for Evelyn, handmade in Israel.
I cleared my throat to hide the fact my voice was breaking. “I keep expecting to see him again. Even though I know I never will.”
She reached for a napkin and handed it to me.
“What’s that for?”
“Your eyes.”
Unaware that tears had begun to form, I touched my eyes and felt the wetness.
“Can I get you anything? You look totaled.”
“A bottle of whiskey. Don’t bother with a glass.”
She laughed. “I see you’ve had a good night.”
“You have no idea.”
She poured me a double Scotch and disappeared through the door at the end of the bar. I threw the drink back and got up to check the street. From the front window I could just make out our lobby entrance. No sign of Eris or her strange companion.
It didn’t take long for the caress of the alcohol to numb my nerves. I began to calm down, comforted by the familiar surroundings. I’d always loved the eclectic feel of Kenny’s. Kind of like a tired speakeasy—tomato-red walls, dark wainscoting, a wagon-wheel chandelier hanging from the stamped-tin ceiling. The wall behind the bar was festooned with mirrors, beer steins, old swords and revolvers, and a massive rack of antlers in the center, dusty fedoras hanging from the tips.
Facing me was a great photo of the Boss, and under that a write-up from
Bruce Springsteen was headlining and there weren’t a dozen people who knew who he was. Outside on the hand-drawn marquee, they’d misspelled his name. But when he began to sing it was like the ocean had calmed out and you knew the storm was brewing by the way it prickled your skin.
Diane slid onto her stool behind the bar, breaking through my reverie. Under her arm she carried a rectangular brown box. She set the box on top of the bar and lifted the lid.
“What’s this?”
“Don’t you remember? You mentioned it once when we were talking about your work. A friend of mine bought it for me at the British Museum when she was in London. I brought it out to take your mind off your troubles.”
When she took out the playing board, I recognized it immediately. A reproduction of the Royal Game of Ur, the oldest-known board game. The British Museum had a rare original, one of two found by Sir Leonard Woolley in the 1920s at his dig in the ancient Sumerian city of Ur.
Diane put a finger to her lips. Her long nails were painted purplish black, each with a different zodiac sign detailed in white. “They think the game is a forerunner of backgammon.”
“I know that, Diane. Listen, I’m not in a game-playing mood tonight. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
As she shifted in her seat, the little silver hoops and charms lining her ear jingled. “If you want to get over your troubles you need to focus your mind on something else. Give your emotions a rest. Anyway, I wasn’t going to suggest we play the game. After I got it I found out it was also used for prophecy. You didn’t know that, I’ll bet.”
“You’re into telling fortunes?”
“Just a hobby. It’s my new thing.” Diane smiled with a glint in her eyes. “Why don’t you give it a try? Another friend of mine had a run of bad luck recently. I told her fortune and everything turned around for her.”
The Royal Game of Ur
“I’m too superstitious.”
“Not to worry.” She took out seven red playing pieces, each about the size of a penny, and handed them to me. She set three odd-looking dice shaped like pyramids on the bar. “Sumerians treated divination as a science. They’d look for celestial omens, examine animal livers, or interpret patterns that oil made on water.”
“I know.”
“Your future’s not fixed,” she continued. “The fortune only suggests a direction, or warns about certain people or behaviors to avoid.”
I was on the point of telling her to forget it when I realized I’d need a major favor from her, so I decided to go along with what she wanted.
“We’ll just do a short version because it’s late.”
“How did you figure out the rules? No one has ever found them for the game.”
“Trust me.” She gave me a lopsided smile and pushed the little pyramids toward me.
I shook them and let them spill onto the bar.
Diane leaned over and peered at the dice. “Okay, move four spaces.”
I took one of the playing pieces and placed it on the first space in the second row of three squares.
“You’re one short of landing on a rosette.”
“Is that bad?”
“You could say so. It’s a penalty space. It means to expect a secret communication; the news won’t be good.”
“Well, that’s appropriate for tonight.” I picked up the dice and threw them again.
Her face blanched.
“What is it? I thought you said there were no good or bad choices.”
“You threw six. You’ve missed another rosette and landed again on the eyes. One of the worst spaces.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
