More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

He knew perfectly well what they found. He sat back, stared at the floor and played absently with the handcuffs as the lawyer read from a sheet of paper.

“Some old Yoplait containers with Tammy’s fingerprints on them, ditto, two wine bottles, a box of herbal tea and empty strawberry cartons. Magazines with her name on the address label. A charge card receipt of hers from a store in the Beverly Center. A Starbucks cup with her lipstick and DNA on the rim.”

“DNA? They checked that, did they?”

“That’s what cops do.”

“I swear, she was never in my apartment. All that stuff… I just… I kind of… picked it up in her trash.”

“Her trash?”

“I just saw some things out behind her apartment. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“You had two dozen snapshots of her on your dresser.”

“I just took a few candids is all. She wasn’t looking at the camera — you can tell the cops that. If I knew her, she’d be looking at the camera, wouldn’t she?”

“Rod.”

“No, listen! If we had been together somewhere she’d be looking at me, looking into the lens.” Pullman’s voice broke in desperation. “Like, ‘Say, cheese,’ you know? But she wasn’t. That means we weren’t together. It’s just logic. Doesn’t that make sense?” He fell silent. After a moment he added, “I just wanted to meet her. I didn’t know how.”

“They found some binoculars too. They figured you used those to keep an eye on her door to warn her if anybody was going to raid her place.”

“That was just so I could… so I could look at her. She’s really pretty.” Pullman shrugged. His eyes returned to the floor.

“I think the only thing we can do is talk to the DA about a plea bargain. We don’t want to go to trial on this one, believe me. I may be able to get you a deal for fifteen, twenty years…”

“Twenty years?”

“I’ll talk to them. See what they say.”

The lawyer stepped to the door of the interview room and rapped on it to summon the guard. A moment later it opened.

“One thing,” Pullman said.

His attorney turned and lifted an eyebrow.

“Sally Vaughn.”

“Who?”

“A runner-up for Miss Iowa. Few years ago.”

“What about her?”

“I sold her a car and we went out once but she wasn’t interested in seeing me anymore. The same thing sort of happened with her.”

“Same thing?”

“Like with Tammy. I was kind of watching her more than I should have.”

“Peeping?”

He started to object to the word but then nodded. “I got arrested. That’s why I moved here. I wanted to start over. Meet somebody for real.”

“What was your sentence in Iowa?”

“Six months suspended, counseling for a year.”

“It didn’t take, the counseling.”

“Didn’t take, no.”

“I’ll get the records. The DA might buy it. But he lost a prime perp because of you, so he’s going to want something. Probably stalking and privacy charges. You’d have to do a year, eighteen months, I’d guess.”

“Better than twenty.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” The lawyer stepped through the door.

“One other question?” Pullman asked, looking up.

“What?”

The prisoner said, “Will the police use all of those things they found? For evidence?”

“From your apartment?”

“Right.”

“Probably not. They usually pick the best ones.”

“Then you think I could have a couple of the pictures of Tammy to put up on my wall here? There’s no window. There’s nothing to look at.”

The lawyer hesitated, as if Pullman were joking. When he concluded that apparently the prisoner wasn’t, he said, “You know, Rodney, that’s probably not the best idea in the world.”

“Just a thought.”

The attorney left and a large guard stepped inside. He took Rodney Pullman by the arm and led him to the corridor that would take him back to his cell.

THE POKER LESSON

Poker is a game in which each man plays his own hand as he elects. No consideration should be expected by one player from another.

— JOHN SCARNE

“I want into one of your games,” the boy said.

Sitting hunched over a hamburger in Angela’s Diner, Keller looked up at the blond kid, who stood with his hip cocked and arms crossed, trying to be cool but looking like an animal awkwardly trying to stand on its hind legs. Handsome enough even though he wore black-rimmed nerd glasses and was pale and skinny.

Keller decided not to ask the kid to sit down. “What games?” He ate more of his burger and glanced at his watch.

The kid noticed the move and said, “Well, the one that’s starting at eight tonight, for instance.”

Keller grunted a laugh.

He heard the rumble of one of the freight trains that bisected this neighborhood on the north side of town. He had a fond memory of a diesel rattling bar glasses six months ago just as he lay down a flush to take a $56,320 pot away from three businessmen who were from the south of France. He’d won that pot twenty minutes after the first ante. The men had scowled French scowls but continued to lose another seventy thousand over the course of the rainy night.

“What’s your name?”

“Tony Stigler.”

“How old’re you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Even if there was a game, which there isn’t, you couldn’t play. You’re a kid. You couldn’t get into a bar.”

“It’s in Sal’s back room. It’s not in the bar.”

“How do you know that?” Keller muttered. In his late forties, the dark-complected man was as strong and solid as he’d been twenty years ago. When he asked questions in this tone you stopped being cute and answered straight.

“My buddy works at Marconi Pizza. He hears things.”

“Well, your buddy oughta watch out what he hears. And he really oughta watch who he tells what he hears.” He returned to his lunch.

“Look.” The kid dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. Hundreds mostly. Keller’d been gambling