Angel Colón: No Happy Endings

The dealer added a third card to Fan’s hand—an ace of hearts. She blinked. “Twenty-one.” The dealer then exposed her own hand, a queen, an eight of spades, and a ten of hearts. “Dealer busts.” She slid a few more chips towards Fan.

“Great. Now, answer my question.” Fan absent-mindedly played with her new chips. Her fingers twisted and turned, one chip turned to two and then to four; then they all disappeared into her front jacket pocket. She ignored the smoke and the occasional shrill noises that came from the slot machines behind her. “Are there any TVs showing the news?” She finally tore her eyes away from the screens and looked at the dealer.

The dealer gave her a tight smile. “Not many people are looking to get depressed here, honey.”

Fan looked around. Tuesday night in Atlantic City’s Borgata. No crowds, just retirees and the hardliners, all looking to dump their hard-earned—or stolen—money down the toilet that led into the pockets of corporate shills. It was the dregs that night. Sucking down cigarettes and cheap bourbon as if there’d be no Wednesday. There was nobody at her table. It was low-stakes. Fifteen bucks a hand, not the kind of action anyone willing to gamble on a weeknight bothered with.

“Yeah,” she agreed, “The news can be pretty depressing.”

The dealer lit a cigarette and pointed her chin over Fan’s shoulder. “They have other TVs in the bar back there.”

Fan sighed taking the hint. She’d taken the table for a few hundred and was bored either way. “Sounds good.” She scooped up the rest of her chips and walked away without saying goodbye.

Fan took her time getting to the main bar down the hall. She gazed at the lights above her and took in the smells—cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and sadness. The only thing that would help is seeing the news—seeing if what she’d done earlier that night had finally broken into the cycle. They were building the place up, adding more spaces for people to shop or drink the night away—if they weren’t in the mood to piss their pennies away at the tables or slots. Outside of the casino, the city itself was an irrational beast—all junkies, grime, and danger. Nobody in their right mind came to Atlantic City to see the sky, no, neon and noise could all be enjoyed in a plush, carpeted bubble.

She took a single step into the bar and her wish came true. Big as life on the first screen: Police Investigate Robbery at Empire City Casino in Yonkers . Fan smiled despite herself. She started working there when it was still Yonkers Raceway, but when the expansion started she paid attention. Three goddamn years of paying attention, but it was all worth it. She listened to the news anchor discuss the money taken, about how signs pointed to a team effort and the head detectives were closing in on suspects as they reported.

Sure , she thought to herself. There was no team and not a dime was physically moved. She’d moved a few funds by wire transfer. Used logins she managed to finagle from coworkers and dummies she created over time as she gained admin access to the right programs. Fan sidled up to the bar and nodded to the tender. “Maker’s, neat.”

The bartender slid a tumbler to her and she slid him a twenty spot. They nodded without a word and he went back to talking to an over-fifty cougar with visible collagen injection points and a worrying amount of sunspots on her cleavage.

Fan lifted her glass up and smiled. “To you, Ma. Thanks.” She took a long sip of the bourbon and relished the slow, sweet burn. She sighed. “Rest in peace.”

Fan wondered what was next. She wasn’t so dumb as to go off on a shopping spree—she saw enough movies to know better. Still, she couldn’t get up and disappear forever. Her father was burying her mother. She was needed. For what, she couldn’t say, but she knew it was the truth. There’d be no way she could live with herself if she abandoned the man who could never abandon her or her mother—no matter how much their antics gave him all the excuses to run off screaming. Fan took a breath. An hour at a time. She raised a hand to catch the attention of her bartender who was busy on the phone. The tender raised a hand back and spoke into the phone with a sour look on his face, then hung up. Fan mouthed, “refill” to him and settled onto a barstool.

“You seem a little, um, not broken to be sitting here on a Tuesday night.” The bartender smirked while he poured her drink.

“Hey,” Fan said, taking a sip from her glass, “we all gotta start somewhere, right?” She noticed the liver-spotted cougar was conspicuously absent from the bar. The only person left was an older gentleman nearing the far side of sleeping his last.

“Suppose so.” The bartender reached a hand out. “Bobby.”

“Fan.” She didn’t offer her hand back.

“Fan? That short for anything?”

“Fantine.” She drained the rest of her glass and tapped the rim. “My mom was big into ‘Les Miserables,’ though, I lucked out in being a girl. Don’t think I’d enjoy life as a Javert or worse, Courfeyrac.”

The bartender stared at her—clearly not a fan of French literature or Broadway shows. “Huh, well, it’s an interesting name…”

“For a Korean girl?”

“Nah, just in general.” The tender shrugged.

Fan fought the urge to dismiss him, but talking to someone was better than getting wrapped up in her thoughts. She felt a little bad jumping down his throat. The guy was working for tips and the clientele didn’t seem charitable, or present. “Yeah, well, my ma, rest her soul, liked weird mixes. Got a kick out of French name with a Korean last name.”

Bobby nodded. “What, so it’s like Fantine Chang or Lee?”

Fan rolled her eyes. This crap again. “Chang is Chinese, man. Get your Asians straight. Park, my last name is Park.”

“Fantine Park?”

“That’s right.” She drained the last of her bourbon and then nearly dropped the glass as a storm of officers poured in; guns and voices raised.

Fan stared at the bartender as she choked on the liquor. The news was bullshit. The bartender was a bullshitter too. She raised her hands and let the officer nearest her bring her to her feet. The casino had ground to a halt. Every gambler and low life watched her and the only regret Fan had right there was that she felt lower than the people she resented.

At that moment, she envied them.

And she really should have seen this coming.

Fantine hated King’s Harbor Care Center. Her father, Jae, insisted on this being his nursing home—right off Gun Hill Road in the Bronx and by the highway. He treated King’s Harbor like some holy place—preordained to be where he spent the rest of his ornery, incontinent days. As if a seven-story building built to imprison the old was the perfect place to go into exile and pay for a blank list of sins.

The home stank of shit, medicine, and old books. The halls were terribly lit and it seemed there was always a single, sad, senile old man in a wheelchair on each floor. The décor, like the people, was weathered and sad. Faded wallpaper with strange designs running in uneven, vertical rows. There was probably a time when the carpets were actually red instead of a sad impression of pink. Where there was no carpet, linoleum reigned supreme. Fantine swore she could smell fumes coming off the material and often wondered when the news would hit that anything made before 1980 was pumping a steady supply of carcinogens into the air.

Hell, Fantine didn’t know if there was an actual King’s Harbor in the Bronx to begin with. Her father had no reason to be here. They lived in Yonkers for most of her life and moved to New Rochelle for a year or two when her mother died. The only time she remembered her parents going into the Bronx was for food or the occasional visit with a friend. It made little to no sense. Then again, not much about her father made sense these days. Jae retreated into himself and seemed to die a little with his wife. He still spoke and cracked jokes, but that spark, that fire he once had was snuffed. Maybe this was why he chose exile in the Bronx. Fantine had given up on looking for answer, so she accepted his choice and did her best to keep him cared for and comfortable—no matter how much he fought her. Hell, she figured the fighting is what kept him going—and she was pretty sure he enjoyed it, no matter how much he pretended not to.