Rolling The Dice

“I’m hungry,” whined Shezmu.

           Marshall squatted against a wooden fence that covered the corner of the block behind them. He his hands were squeezed into a tight sphere with his elbows resting on his knees. He gave no response. Across the street lay two wrecked sedans in the shape of a tee shirt. No one moved in the area the rubble filled. The vertical line of the shirt was a black Buick. The horizontal line was a Honda the color of brass.

           Shezmu said, “We should go.”

           Marshall had not expected the accident. It seemed like a card he had chosen in a round of three card monte that the dealer flipped over to reveal a joker. The lack of perspective provided him with no concept of what to do. He did not like to lose bets but had not placed one on this play. It struck him either as random happenstance or the Devil’s bargain.

           “Yeah,” Marshall responded. “Let’s go back to the apartment.”

           He rose and walked down the block. Shezmu followed. Her leash was attached to her collar and dragged along the sidewalk. Marshall didn’t bother to grab or hold it. She was good at walking alongside him and had little fascination with odors or tastes emerging from the ground.

They turned the corner to the right. He increased his pace to quickly get away from the demolition behind them. Shezmu matched his velocity. After a moment he heard a new car turn onto the street behind them and roll forward. Marshall made no response and hoped intensely that an altercation would not occur.

“Hey,” called a voice from behind.

Marshall chose not to adjust his rate of motion and ignored the statement. The vehicle moved close enough that it matched his walking speed while rolling right next to him. “I’ve got a question if you’re free,” the driver asked him through the open passenger side window.

Marshall stopped. He felt a compulsion to moan but resisted the impulse. He feared it would look like running away if he kept walking. He believed any irrelevant interaction with the stranger provided a better chance of avoiding any legal ramifications. Shezmu stopped and glanced up at him, then idly looked off at the nearby space.

“I’ll keep eyes out,” she said surreptitiously.

The neighborhood in which they stood was made entirely of brick walls standing up a combination of apartment complexes and storage areas. Some had yard space enclosed by protective wooden or iron fences. While there was the slightest possible growth of thin grass every few feet, most of the groundwork was just sodden dirt and gravel.

Marshall turned to face the stranger. “What?” he asked.

“There was an accident up the way,” the stranger said. “Did you see it happen?”

While Marshall felt it to be a valid question given the circumstances, he did not want to initiate a conversation about the subject with a man whose intentions he did not understand. All he said was, “No.”

The man cocked his head slightly and focused on Marshall with an investigative look. It seemed like he wanted to determine whether the figure he observed was a real human or a dummy built to look like one and stationed to distract him. Then the man sighed. He parked, turned off the engine, and climbed out.

As he walked around the front bumper to the sidewalk, Marshall saw him more clearly. He was as tall as Marshall but thinner. His attire looked like the thrift store version of casual business wear: brown khaki pants, a starch white shirt, and a yellow suit jacket that looked like an attempt to fake beige fabric.

Remarkably, his hair was pure white. It perfectly matched a tight moustache and beard. The irises of his eyes were a dark navy blue. The intense color enhanced Marshall’s perspective that the man was staring at him in an overwhelmingly analytical manner. He stopped on the sidewalk a few steps away from Marshall and Shezmu and stroked his beard. “I need to lay this on you straight,” he said.

Marshall could not respond. He felt like a cricket that had accidentally gotten stuck on a web and was watching a predatory spider crawl closer. He glimpsed at Shezmu and noticed her staring straight at the stranger, looking fascinated.

“I am only thinking through possibilities,” he said. “There was some kind of incident, that part is obvious.”

“Obvious how?” Marshall asked.

The man snorted. “I don’t want to call you anything nasty,” he said, “so I’m going to go ahead and guess you noticed the rubbish.”

Marshall waved dismissively. “Let’s call that a yes,” the man said. “My basic assumption is that you weren’t one of the drivers or you wouldn’t be walking away. Did you watch them crash into each other?”

“I heard an accident and wanted to see what happened,” Marshall said in response.

He stared glumly at the pavement below. “Do you live around here?” the man asked.

“Nearby,” Marshall said.

Shezmu turned and sat down. “Cute dog,” the stranger said. “Not handling her leash?”

“She walks well without me needing to control her,” Marshall responded in a harsh voice.

The stranger raised his hands. “Didn’t mean to offend,” he said. “I don’t see anyone else walking around. There aren’t police or ambulances nearby. Do you get why that makes me curious about your presence?”

           “Are you a cop?” Marshall asked.

           He realized he had asked a question too interrogative, but the stranger burst out laughing. “OK,” he said. “Want to play the confession game? I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

           Marshall considered, then nodded. “Call me a gumshoe,” the man said. “I am not an officer of the law. OK, your turn.”

            Unsure of what to say, Marshall did not respond. “You’re the only man walking around,” the man continued. “There isn’t only one apartment nearby. It leads me to wonder why you and no other residents would be out and about if you’re investigating the crash.”

           Shezmu glanced at him. “Well, if you and the dog are investigating it,” he responded.

           “Maybe no one else heard,” Marshall said, shrugging to defend himself.

           The man waved a hand. “Deafness is a standard state of being for the human race,” he said sarcastically, “but I imagine one other nearby resident has one functioning ear.”

           Marshall still could not come up with any good excuse. “OK,” the man sighed. “I can’t touch anything or I break the rules. I guess that means it’s time to summon Johnny Law.”

           He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He started dialing, so Marshall reached out a hand to stop him. “Wait,” he said. “Please don’t.”

           He realized he must have sounded desperate because Shezmu growled. The man looked down at her, then back at Marshall. He stopped dialing. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ve got a friend at the precinct. I’ll call in to mention the accident, then text him to see if he can give me any info. Before that, let’s you, me, and the dog go somewhere private and you can tell me what I should know. Deal?”

           It struck Marshall as a valid opportunity, but he felt he needed to control it as much as possible. “I’ve got a friend a couple blocks away who runs a bar,” he said. “They have a private outdoor area we can use.”

           “I hate to use an anachronistic phrase,” the stranger said, “but what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. So, if it works for us and doggo, then game on. Jump in the car and tell me where I’m going.”

           Marshall opened the back door so Shezmu could jump in, then he and the man climbed in. “What’s your name?” he asked.

           The man shut his door and said, “Call me Cole.”

           Marshall directed him to the nearby bar. Only a few other vehicles were parked on either side of the street, so Marshall knew that the patronage would be as minimal as he had expected. Cole noticed the name on a weakly lit green neon overhead sign. “The Betting Man,” he said.

           Marshall nodded. The man raised his hands as though demonstrating how sardonic he found the term. It made Marshall want to share his perspective. “You wanted to flip the coin,” he said. “It feels like a representation of what we both might be.”

           “You’re a gambler?” Cole asked.

           Marshall shrugged. “Only in the sense that we all are,” he responded.

           They both got out of the car. Marshall opened the rear door and let Shezmu out. He knew she was not a jumper, so he was not surprised when she calmly climbed out. He did not pick up the leash she still held as she slowly meandered to the front door of The Betting Man with them. Cole opened the glass door in front and they stepped inside.

           The bar stood in a J-shape with the straight line standing just past the entrance. It was dark inside despite the midday sunshine. Marshall was used to it. The barkeep was a chubby bald man he knew as Luke. He was cleaning used glassware while two customers lounged in stools. One of them leaned atop the bar hard enough that he looked about to fall asleep.

           Luke saw them and waved towards the curvature of the J. A door to the exterior just beyond it. He looked at Cole and gave Marshall a look of suspicious inquiry. Marshall waved to demonstrate that his presence was not a problem. Luke nodded, then used a free hand to grab a loose peanut from behind the bar and toss it to Shezmu. She caught it and began nibbling.

           The outside area was relatively small. It had a square table of black iron atop a similar square of pavement and four chairs. Wrapped around the pavement was a tiny yard of artificial grass turf. Marshall knew Shezmu liked it. He and Cole sat down across the table, and she lay down right behind him.

           Luke came outside with two tall pint glasses of pale beer. He set them on the table and went back inside. Cole looked at his pint and then at Marshall in surprise. “Bottoms up,” Marshall said, then picked his up and took a swig.

           Cole grabbed his and waved it towards Marshall, then took his own sip. He started coughing. “What kind of beer is that?” he asked after rubbing the residue off his lips.

           “No idea,” Marshall said. “It’s whatever Luke has available. Hard to say it will be good, bad, or in-between. It’s not spoiled, at least.”

“Thank god for small favors,” Cole said. “Tell me your story.”

           Marshall sipped again. He could not calm himself, so he started by saying, “I did not expect the crash.”

           Cole put his elbows on the table and folded his hands in front of his mouth. “What is important to know?” he asked.

           “The drivers of both cars knew each other,” Marshall said. “I don’t know if they knew they were both coming to the same location that quickly.”

           “Friends of yours?”

           “You could call them associates,” he answered.

           Cole lowered his hands and leaned forward, looking at Marshall directly. “And what is it you do?” he asked.

“Calling myself a handyman is as close as I can get to being understandable,” he responded. “My boss loans me to people who need work done. I do what I can to be helpful.”

           Cole’s facial expression changed. “How illegal are we talking?” he asked.

           “It’s not like that,” Marshall responded. “No violence or theft. I’m not sure I have ever done something illegal. I just handle what is requested so I can make some money.”

           Cole snorted. It felt derisive to Marshall. “And your W-2 gets filed quarterly?” he asked.

           “I’m just a worker for hire,” Marshall said defensively. “I’m not a contractor. I like getting paid out of pocket because I need the money.”

           The gumshoe nodded. “OK, I see where you’re coming from,” he said. “Tell me about something you did or did not do relevant to the drivers of those cars.”

           Marshall remained concerned about Cole’s intent, but he decided to share something to prevent the possibility of greater ramifications. “I could be wrong about who was driving either vehicle,” he warned.

           Cole waved a hand. “The guy in the Buick was most likely Steve Carlson,” Marshall continued. “I did a package delivery to him.”

           “A package of what?” Cole asked.

           After the question, Marshall was surprised that Cole did not write down information in a notebook as they talked. “I have no idea,” he said. “It’s not my business to ask. Just a box.”

           “OK,” Cole said. “And the other car?”

           Marshall ran a hand through his hair. “I guess it was Bill Bugle,” he answered. “It’s the only guy I can think of who would drive to the same location at the same time.”

           Shezmu growled after he mentioned the name. “I take it she wasn’t a fan,” Cole remarked.

           “If it was Bill, I can’t say I’m surprised he rammed into Steve,” he said. “Bill is, or was, impulsive. He had strong opinions and always acted on them.”

           Cole nodded in understanding. “And what’s the relationship?” he asked.

           “All I know is that the boss gave me cash, a box, and Steve’s address,” he said. “I took it and dropped it off. I went back home and got another call.”

           “Why only at your apartment?” Cole asked, seeming confused.

           “I used the land line,” Marshall responded. “I can’t afford a cell.”

           Cole nodded. “About half an hour later I got a call,” Marshall continued. “It was Bill, which is why I think he might have been the one in the other car. He was loud and sounded angry. He asked me if I had something. I could barely understand him.”

           “What did he want?” asked Cole.

           Marshall raised his hands, demonstrating he could not answer. “Like I said, I could barely understand him,” he said. “He shouted that he would be in touch and slammed the other line.”

           With pursed lips, Cole stroked his chin. “And then?” he asked.

           “And then a car accident,” said Marshall. “I have no bloody clue what else.”

           Marshall knew more to the story than he was willing to share. His boss had told him about an item of value in the box, and that he was to drop it off with Steve for an exchange with Bill involving cash. The boss had also told him to fall back quickly to prevent any suspicion of spying on the details or trying to steal cash. Marshall had dropped the package at Steve’s door, rang the doorbell, and vamoosed as quickly as he could.

           “So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Cole said. “You dropped off a package and ran home. Then you got an angry call from another participant in the deal. He hung up and then however long later you heard a car crash. You ran outside to see what happened.”

           Marshall nodded. “Is the box or the cash in the wreckage area?” Cole asked.

           “Go ahead and tell me you dug through the piñata to find the gifts hidden inside,” mocked Marshall.

           Cole chuckled. “You got me on that one,” he said. “OK, I gotta skip to the loo.”

           He walked inside. After he did so, Shezmu said, “He’s making a phone call.”

           Paranoia blossomed in Marshall regarding whatever Cole would do next. He worried he was calling the police to report the accident or that he had been hired by someone related to Bill or Steve. The thoughts bubbled uncomfortably in his head.

           Cole came back out. Marshall could tell his facial expression was sharpened “Thanks for giving me the information,” he said. “I’ve got to share the bad news.”

           He pulled a tactical knife off a belt holder obscured by his jacket. “I take it your boss wants the matter cleaned up,” he said. “I guess Steve and Bill had a falling out. He wants everything involved to disappear.”

           Cole stepped closer. Marshall jumped out of his chair, knocking it over onto the pavement. He backed up to the brick wall behind him. “Unfortunately, that includes you,” said Cole, inching forward. “Adios, amigo.”

           Marshall unexpectedly heard Shezmu growl in a fierce tone. She jumped up from the artificial turf and lunged forward to bite Cole’s calf. The unexpected attack made him jump backwards yelping. He struck his knife down and stabbed Shezmu right next to the spine. It made a powerful rage burst through Marshall’s mind.

The anger made him run forward, pick up the fallen iron chair from the pavement, and swing it as hard as he could against Cole. He heard bones crack. Cole’s head swiveled in the same direction as the strike. He fell over. Marshall dropped the chair directly on him and leaned down to touch Shezmu. He began crying.

           Shezmu lay whimpering and not moving. Marshall could see her last few deep breaths happening. All he could say was, “I love you so much. Thank you.”

           “Dream about me,” Shezmu responded. She stopped breathing.

           The door opened and Luke glanced outside. Marshall looked up at him and could tell he was studying the dead man and the dead dog lying in his internal patio. Luke waved a hand towards himself, and Marshall could tell that he needed to walk inside The Betting Man with him. He knew it could go in any type of direction, regardless of whether he could trust Luke or not. All the same, without Shezmu, nothing felt left for him to care about.

           Marshall did not know where the odds would lead, but it was time to roll the dice. He walked past Luke and re-entered The Betting Man. The door shut behind him.