Lucky Quarter

John dipped his head against the rain and tucked his chin into the soaking-wet collar of his parka. It was coming down so hard he could barely see twenty feet in any direction. The relentless hiss of water drumming against the concrete completely swallowed the night’s silence. Normally, at 3 AM, the city was eerily quiet, but tonight it was deafening.

His teeth chattered as he blew into his fists to warm them. He was so tired. Tired of not being able to go home, not having a bed, and not having had a decent sleep in over two weeks. His back ached from sleeping on flattened cardboard boxes in whatever back-alley nook offered shelter. But tonight, the cold and the wet were too much to bear. Rainwater surged along the curbs lining the street, unable to change course or direction before being swallowed by the gutter.

Ahead, through the blur of rain, he saw a sign reaching out from a storefront. In blazing red neon, it read Open 24-7. Above it burned two red eyes beneath what looked like devil horns.

Before he reached the storefront, a glass door swung outward, and two large men in dark suits stepped onto the pavement. Between them, a much smaller man in an oversized gray hoodie stumbled outside. His face was pale, and he could barely walk. Each step made him wince and press his side. The men helped him as he nearly crawled into the back seat of a dark sedan with blacked-out glass waiting at the curb. When he was settled, they handed him a briefcase with a nod and slammed the car door. As the car pulled away, the men disappeared back inside.

The bright interior light flooded out through the large floor-to-ceiling windows in a glowing haze. As John reached the doorway, the neon sign buzzed above him. Up close, the blue neon was now visible through the mist. It outlined an owl perched above the red numbers, and beneath it, painted in script, read Night Owl Laundromat. John reached for the handle and paused. A vinyl sticker, picked at the edges, read Customers Only. No Loitering.

He jammed a hand deep into his pockets and felt the jingle of loose change. With a heavy sigh, he yanked the door open and stepped inside, a bell ringing overhead to announce his arrival.

The detergent-scented warmth inside was almost oppressive at first. He could feel the heat in his fingertips as it burned away the night. An elderly Chinese woman sat behind the counter, her hair pulled into a tight gray bun, reading glasses hanging from a silver chain around her neck. She stood up and waved a finger in the air.

“No, no, no,” she barked. “You no pay, you no stay.”

“Whoa, chill out, lady.” He fished out a fistful of coins from his jeans.

She squinted at the coins and scowled. “You pay first.”

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses.”

He dumped his coat pockets onto an empty folding table. There wasn’t much, just a cheap disposable lighter, a half-empty pack of cigarettes, and a soggy pack of Trident gum. With the pockets empty, he peeled off his parka. It was heavy with rainwater, dripping all over the floor and adding to the muddy pool forming around his boots.

The old woman glared at him with her arms crossed, shaking her head.

He waved a hand, shooing her away, and walked to a front-load dryer in the back corner, as far from her as he could find. After shoving the parka inside, he slotted four quarters into the metal slide tray and pushed it forward. A wave of calm settled over him at the sound of the heavy clunk, followed by the soft whirr of the dryer and the rhythmic scratching of a loose zipper being tossed against the drum.

He turned around and shouted to the front of the store. “See? Paying customer.”

She wrinkled her face and let out a snort, shooing him right back as she settled into her seat.

He dropped onto an industrial bench seat bolted along the row of washers. It was molded from hard, pukey hospital-green plastic. He leaned hard against the backrest, trying to find a more comfortable sitting angle, but the plastic didn’t budge even a fraction of an inch.

Mounted between the bucket seats sat a flat, molded tabletop holding a scattering of magazines. He reached down, sliding them around to see if he could find anything interesting to look at, maybe a newspaper or an auto magazine. Nope. Discovery, Scientific American, Good Housekeeping, Better Homes & Gardens.

“Ugh,” he groaned, shoving the stack away.

He stood and reached one arm way up into the air, yawning audibly as he stretched away the kinks in his neck. That’s when he saw it. Tucked along the back wall stood a lone pinball machine. It stopped him dead in his tracks. A genuine smile broke through his stubble.

“Holy shit. The Judgment Day table.”

A cartoon image of Arnold’s face, half human, half robot, dominated the back glass. In the center of the table was the iconic silver Terminator skull. He hadn’t seen one of these since the bowling alley back home, nearly twenty years ago. Back before the world chewed him up and spat him back out. Some days, he felt like it never stopped chewing. But right here, right now, none of that mattered. Not the debts, the bookies, the string of bad beats. Right now, he felt a sudden tingle in his chest he hadn’t felt in months.

Return of the Pinball Wizard.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a fistful of lint and coins, two crumpled paper gum wrappers, and a folded dollar bill. He peeked over his shoulder at the old woman. She was bent over the counter, jotting notes in a book with an old wooden pencil.

What kind of dinosaur still uses pencils? With a shrug, he plucked out the gum wrappers and flicked them across the faded linoleum floor, grinning with satisfaction. Then he plucked out two of his three quarters and jammed everything else back into his pocket. He slipped the quarters into the slots. He was nearly sweating with anticipation as he pressed the flashing start button. The entire table lit up, and the speakers pumped out a digitized explosion that drowned out the dryer.

He grabbed the silver gun handle, exhaled slowly, and squeezed the trigger.

The silver ball screamed up the launch ramp, caught the curve, and blasted into the bumpers. The table chirped and dinged with flashing bright lights as the score display went wild. His breath caught in his throat.

Then the bumpers threw the ball hard to the left. It caught a bad bounce off a metal post, sending it straight down the middle.

“No, no!”

He slapped both flippers at once, but the gap was too wide. The ball slammed straight into the drain with a rattling finality.

Seeing his reflection in the glass, John’s gut sank. Still a loser, he thought. But then he inhaled and straightened his stance. “Just a bad bounce. I’m just warming up.”

The machine chambered ball two with a mechanical clunk. He wiped his palms on his jeans and leaned into the table before squeezing the trigger one more time.

The ball took off like a bullet, whipping around the loop and into the bumpers. After a few bounces, it once again shot straight down toward the drain. He thrust his entire body weight into the wooden frame and slammed the flipper.

The ball just barely caught the left flipper, shooting back up, but it took a wild bounce off a drop target toward the outer gutter lane.

“Move!” he yelled, pounding the cabinet.

A loud mechanical buzz cut through the speakers, and the machine went dead.

From behind the counter, the old woman screamed, “You no tilt!”

He ignored her, watching ball three eject onto the track.

Before he could lay a finger on the trigger, he heard a soft mechanical thud along the adjacent wall. A hidden door, completely concealed behind vertical strips of vinyl molding, clicked open. Warm air spilled out, carrying the scent of sweet cigar smoke and cognac. It smelled like every high-end casino or back-room gambling hall he’d ever been to.

Two massive Asian men in expensive tailored charcoal suits emerged, one holding a leather briefcase. Escorted between them was an elderly man wearing a burgundy housecoat. Sterile white gauze wrapped around the left side of his face, bulging out over his eye. He walked with an unsteady gait while the two men assisted him. 

As the group walked past, one of them bumped into John and nearly knocked him off his feet.

“Excuse you, motherfucker,” he groaned under his breath.

The big man stopped. His neck muscles tightened. The old woman gave a sharp grunt of disapproval, and the group resumed their march toward the front door. She was already standing there, offering them a slight nod. The gentleman paused and bowed deeply, almost falling forward. She helped steady him and said something in Chinese. The man smiled before stepping out into the dark and climbing into a black sedan waiting at the curb.

The two large men walked back inside, eyes fixed on John. He quickly stepped to the side of the pinball table, pressing his back against the machine. He held both palms out in surrender and grinned nervously.

The man who had bumped him paused at the table and glared. Reaching out, he grabbed the silver pistol grip of the machine and squeezed the trigger. Ball three shot into play, rattled around the bumpers, and drained without a single flipper moving. The digital score flashed Game Over, and a synthesized voice rang out, “I’ll be back.” The man smiled as he slipped back through the wall, the hidden door snapping shut behind him.

John stared at the flashing scoreboard. Game Over.

“What a fucking asshole,” he mumbled.

He rummaged through his pockets again, but he only had a folded dollar bill and a handful of loose change. Reluctantly, he scooped up his last quarter from the metal edge of the pinball table and dragged himself over to the front counter. The woman had her reading glasses on and was back to writing in a black-bound ledger with the old yellow pencil. An old Gamblers Anonymous hotline sticker was stuck to the counter, peeling at the corners. John smirked. A little late for that, he thought.

He slapped seventy-five cents in loose change onto the open ledger book. “Need three quarters.”

The woman didn’t look up. She just grumbled and used the eraser end of her pencil to shove the change onto the counter before continuing to write rows of Chinese characters he couldn’t read.

“Come on, lady,” he whined. “I just need three quarters, then I’ll leave you be.”

Without looking, she reached out with her pencil and tapped a paper sign taped to the register. In faded black marker, it read No Change.

“This is bullshit. What kind of coin-operated business doesn’t give out change for their own machines?” he snapped.

She ignored him completely.

John spun around, scanning the rows, hoping to spot another customer he could buy some quarters from, but the room was empty. He hadn’t realized until now that there were no other customers. He let out a defeated sigh, his shoulders drooping forward. Reaching into a small mini-fridge, he grabbed a cold can of Coca-Cola and slid it across the counter. Slowly. Deliberately. So that it squeaked and scraped like nails on a chalkboard.

The old lady gritted her teeth and punched a key on the register. “One dollar, one cent.”

He fished the folded one-dollar bill from his front pocket along with a single penny. He slapped them down on the counter beside the seventy-five cents already there and grinned.

She opened the drawer, tossed in the bill, and slowly counted out six dimes, laying them out on the counter in front of him.

He stared at the counter, eye twitching. “Are you serious right now? That’s only sixty cents. You shorted me fifteen cents. And I asked for quarters.”

She pointed her pencil across the room at the two crumpled gum wrappers sitting on the linoleum.

“You litter, you pay.”

“No, wait! I’ll pick them up right now.” He dashed across the room and swept the wrappers off the floor. “There! Done!”

“Too late,” she said. “You already paid.”

“Fuck this.” He tossed the wrappers back onto the floor.

She reached out and pinched two dimes from the counter, dropped them back into the register, and snapped the drawer shut with a sharp ring.

“You’re a real piece of work, lady.” He scooped up his remaining forty cents, grabbed the cold soda, and turned toward the exit. Fishing out his cigarette pack, he headed for the door, pausing as the overhead bell jangled.

“Don’t go locking me out,” he called. “My jacket’s still in there.”

She didn’t even look up. She just flicked her wrist to shoo him away.

The rain had stopped, but the cold air bit through his damp T-shirt. He popped the tab on the soda can, and it erupted with a sharp hiss, spraying everywhere.

“Goddamn it,” he growled. “Every time.”

After two swallows of sweet foam, the can was already empty, and he kicked it into the middle of the street. He wedged a bent cigarette between his lips, thumbed his lighter, and inhaled deeply. Leaning back against the brick wall, he looked at his ruined boots, thinking about the string of bad breaks that brought him here and how one good hand or one lucky pick could turn it all around. All he needed was a float to start him off.

Then something caught his eye.

The glinting reflection of neon on the wet sidewalk, a shiny coin.

John crouched down to pick it up.

“Look at that,” he muttered. “Lucky quarter.”

John turned back toward the window and banged on the glass. The old woman was stocking bags of chips on a wire display rack. She looked annoyed as he held up two quarters, grinning like a maniac. But then her face went pale. Her mouth gaped in a scream he couldn’t hear through the glass, and then she dropped to the floor.

“What the—”

He turned around. A black SUV glided down the street, passenger windows down, dark barrels pointing out.

Everything moved in slow motion as muzzle flashes strobed through the mist, and a deafening rattle of gunfire sent brass casings tumbling to the asphalt.

Behind him, the storefront windows exploded. He closed his eyes and held his breath, seconds stretching into minutes. Through the high-pitched whine in his ears, he heard tires squeal and the vehicle speed away.

The cigarette fell from John’s lips, and he opened his eyes. He looked down and started slapping his hands all over his body, looking for blood, looking for holes. Nothing. Not a thing.

“What the fuck,” he gasped.

John bolted back inside, glass crunching under his soles. It looked like a war zone. Fluorescent light fixtures dangled from the ceiling, and chunks of brick and plaster debris covered the machines.

“Hey!” he yelled.

The old lady huddled against the baseboard, her gray hair caked with white dust, bits of crushed chips, and shards of glass.

“Don’t move,” he said, dropping to his knees. “I’ve got you.”

He lifted pieces of glass from her back and gently brushed off the debris from her cardigan. “It’s over. They’re gone. Are you okay?”

She tried to push herself up, but her legs gave out. John hooked his hands under her arms and helped her to her feet.

“Easy,” he said, guiding her toward the pukey green chairs.

Before she sat, he swept his open palm across the plastic to clear it off.

“Ow, shit!” He yanked his arm back. Five deep red punctures seeped warm blood down his palm.

The woman made a sharp clacking sound with her tongue. “You not very smart.”

“You’re welcome,” he grumbled.

Her face softened, and she took his wrist. Reaching into her apron, she pulled out a dry cotton rag and pressed it hard against his palm. Then, without a word, she wrapped her thin arms around him.

Before he could pull away, the hidden door by the pinball machine slammed open, and two large men charged out, pistols raised. The larger one spotted John and stepped forward, his barrel aimed at John’s forehead.

“Whoa!” John shouted, raising his free arm.

The old woman barked a command in Chinese, placed her palm over the pistol, and shoved the muzzle down.

“He is my guest,” she said. “He saved my life.”

The men nodded and lowered their weapons.

“Ma-ma,” the big man said. “We must leave.”

A young woman in a white silk blouse emerged from the secret passage. She walked quickly to the front, snatching the black-bound ledger off the counter. “Wait, Ma-ma Yee.”

Ma-ma Yee took the ledger and said something in Chinese. The only words John understood were repair crew and police.

“Yes, Ma-ma,” the young woman said with a nod.

As the bodyguards guided her toward the passage, she paused and looked back at John. “You coming?”

John surveyed the debris as sirens approached in the distance. “Yeah, sure, why not?” He shrugged.

He stepped through the doorway and started down a flight of wooden stairs.

“You very lucky man,” she said softly. “Maybe you play our special Pai Gow. Big prizes.”

John stuck his hand in his pocket and rubbed the edge of his new lucky quarter. “I don’t know, lady. I don’t really have anything to gamble with.”

Ma-ma Yee let out an unsettling laugh.

“Oh, you have plenty to gamble with.”