“Good evening,” she said.
“Well, that’s exactly why we’re here,” my father said, returning her smile. “For a good evening. I want to place the whole bucket of chips on …” He turned to me and winked. “So what’s it gonna be, kid? Red or black?”
6
Back at the apartment, the birds were cooing. You can’t tell a dove’s mood by its vocalizations, if doves even have moods. But their paper needed changing. The mini-mart supplied me with free day-old newspapers, and as I started to clean the cage I came across this headline: ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL WITH VICTOR FLOWERS.
After a long and successful career—several of them—in the private sector, my father’s old boss was now turning his attention to politics and running for the U.S. Senate. Until he declared his candidacy last month, I’d done an admirable job of not thinking too much about him over the years. Now that he was suddenly in the news, I was struck by how seeing his picture or even his name could still send a nasty jolt through my body. I stopped myself from reading the article, deciding it was better off underneath my birds.
I washed my hands and removed Bruce Steadman’s business card from my wallet. It was already past four, and I figured I’d leave a message for him and hear back after the weekend or, more likely, never. But he picked up on the second ring. I told him who I was and why—I hoped—he would remember me. And then I laid out the article I wanted to write.
“I admire your pieces in the Magician’s Forum,” he said when I was done. “I think you’re a good writer, and your way of explaining magic to a layperson is top-notch. I told you that when we met.”
“You did.”
“But this piece you’re describing, you’d really have to bring out the people element. The personalities. The cardsharp’s, and yours, too. That’s just as important as the moves. Do you think you’d be able to do that?”
I told him I thought so, and then he told me what “on spec” meant. How I’d have to write the article first, before he could commit to publishing it. “It’s just that you haven’t written for a national magazine before,” he said.
I looked around my apartment. Every bill was overdue. It was a wonder that the phone in my hand was still working.
“Natalie?” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I really like the idea. We’ll do our best to make this work.” Then he told me what he would pay for the article once it was done, and that lifted my spirits.
“Do you already have a cardsharp in mind?” he asked.
I told him I did. “And he’s world-class,” I said, hoping that Brock McKnight, attorney-at-law, wasn’t snowing me.
The editor for a major New York magazine had answered after two rings, but it took three messages on the cardsharp’s cell phone for him to call me back.
Meanwhile, I kept waiting to hear from Brock to find out how Lou Husk was recovering, and if he’d decided yet whether to press charges or simply go after my nonexistent assets in a civil suit. On Wednesday morning, with still no word, I left a message for Brock to call me. Then I got in my car and did what my cardsharp had asked, meeting him at ten a.m. at the City Diner in Montclair.
The place was mostly empty, but I spotted him right away in the rear section, sitting alone. He had on mirrored sunglasses and the green hoodie he said he’d be wearing. The drawstrings were missing. His hair was greasy and graying but his skin was unlined. Without seeing his eyes, I couldn’t tell his age. Forty? Fifty? He wore a gold wedding band on his left hand.
I introduced myself, and when I went to shake his hand he said, “Grab a seat,” without setting down his fork. “Order some pancakes.” He whistled to the server—two thick fingers in the mouth, a coach’s whistle. It was alarmingly rude, and I gave the server a solidarity eye roll. “Natalie here would like a stack of pancakes,” he said.
I don’t like people ordering for me, and I nearly corrected him on principle: eggs, bucket of rocks, anything. But I held my tongue.
The server went away and dropped a check on a table by the window, where a woman about my age was sitting across from an older version of herself. When the mother reached out for the check, the daughter placed her hand on top of her mother’s, stopping her.
I asked, “Do you really go by Ace?”
“Isn’t because of the cards. My older brother always said I was stupid. He came up with it to rag me. He’s dead now. This is the best diner you’ll ever eat at.”
Ace went back to working on his pancakes. This late in the morning, the restaurant was sparsely populated, primarily tables-for-one, everybody checking cell phones, except for a couple of old men with newspapers. There was no music, only the sound of dishes clanking in the kitchen and the card cheat across from me chewing like a satisfied cow. I hadn’t known what to expect, but what struck me about Ace was his gracelessness—though I was willing to believe that his gracelessness could have been its own carefully cultivated grace.
“Tell me,” he said, finishing a pancake and setting his fork and knife down, “exactly what my well-intentioned lawyer has gotten me into this time.”
Keeping my voice low, I said, “I want to write an article about a professional cardsharp.”
He nodded. “You said that on the phone. But an article for what?”
“For Men’s Quarterly.”
He shook his head. “No. I mean, what for?”
I explained how I wanted to know what a magician might learn from a poker cheat. Moves, patter, misdirection—
“You couldn’t photograph me,” he
