William Bernhardt - Dark Eye

It was a brick two-story with green shutters and beige trim. A white trellis up the left side, with ivy snaking through the latticework. A long, curving walk led to the front door. The paint was fresh and the garden had been tended. It was all so Leave It to Beaver it momentarily engaged my gag reflex.

“They put Rachel in this Stepford house?”

Lisa ignored the commentary. “She was lucky to get a good placement as quickly as she did, Susan. I’m told the Shepherds are very nice people. She has her own room.”

“She had her own room at my place.”

“Which is now the bank’s place.” She popped open the car door. “Come on.”

I didn’t have to walk all the way up those steps. Rachel saw me coming. She burst out the front door and ran toward me, leaping into my arms.

I winced. I’d forgotten about my wrist, still wrapped and bandaged. The impact opened the wound and it began to bleed. I yelped.

“Oh, my God!” Rachel shrieked. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing. It was already bleeding before I got here.”

“Is that where you-you-”

“Cut myself. Accidentally.” I took a step back and gave her the once-over. “Well, suburbia hasn’t ruined you. Yet.”

She laughed a little, but I could feel her edginess. “So… you’re all right?”

“Of course. I was a little sick, but I’m better now.”

“Can I go home with you, then?” She threw her arms around me again and squeezed tightly. God, but this girl loved me. I could feel the affection rushing through her fingertips. And I loved her back. I would do anything for her.

Behind her, standing in the doorway, I saw what must be the Shepherds. An elderly couple, trim and tidy, with smiles plastered on their faces that had nothing to do with happiness. They were watching every move I made.

“Rachel, honey, I guess the man says you have to stay here for a while. But I’m going to hire an attorney and fight. I’ll get you back.”

“Please hurry. I can’t stand it here.”

“Why?” I put a finger under her chin and raised her eyes to mine. “Have they hurt you?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Made you do a lot of chores?”

“They haven’t made me do anything. They’re just so… you know. Boring. I want to go home.”

“About that.” I figured the best approach was to come right out with it. “I lost the house.”

“What?” Almost instantly, water welled up in her eyes.

“Yeah. Bank took it.”

“But-all my stuff-”

“Lisa saved it. And I’ve got a new place.”

She wiped her eyes. “Where’s the new house?”

“It’s… an apartment. But it’s nice-sized and there’s a room for you. So all your stuff will be waiting for you once I bust you out of Stalag 13.”

Rachel was a lovely girl-she took after my brother, not me. She had auburn hair, getting redder by the day. Clear-skinned and pretty. I knew for a fact she was popular with the boys at school. So far she’d shown good sense about that, for which I was grateful. “Can I see it?”

“Well… let me talk to Ozzie and Harriet.”

Their expressions changed when they realized I was coming for them. They made no approach but braced themselves, as if I were some malevolent force they couldn’t escape. I knew it would be awkward-a meeting between the guardian who’d lost custody and the guardians who’d been given custody. But I wanted to minimize the discomfort. What was the point in hassling them? Better to try to charm them, at least until such time as a court put custody back where it belonged.

“Hello,” I said, hand extended. “I’m Lieutenant Susan Pulaski. I want to thank you for taking care of my niece while I was in the hospital.”

The man took my hand and shook it feebly. The woman just stared.

“Looks as if you have a fine home.”

“We like it,” he said. “Been here twenty-seven years.”

“That’s wonderful. I’ve just moved into a new place. Rachel is anxious to see it.” I laughed and acted very casual. “Probably what she really wants to see is her stuff. Pick up her Discman and some eyeliner. Mind if I show her the new spread?”

The Shepherds exchanged a silent look.

“What do you say? I’ll have her back in an hour.”

The man took forever, like he had to crank up his motor before he could speak. “We were told not to let you remove her from the premises.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t leave town. I just-”

“We were told not to let you take her anywhere.”

Stay calm, I told myself. A portrait in tranquility. This old man can’t get to you.

“We only want what’s best for the child,” the woman interjected.

“Well, ma’am, I’ve kept Rachel for the last three years, so I feel as if I can be trusted to-”

“We were told that Rachel has had a most unstable home environment,” the man said. “That you worked odd hours, were gone for extended periods of time. That she was habitually late for school and missed extracurricular activities, the few she was involved in. That her grades have dropped dramatically.”

“We’ve both had a difficult year. I’m sure you know why. But Rachel is tough. All us Pulaski girls are.”

“Nonetheless-”

“She’ll bounce back. As long as her spirit isn’t smothered under your two-car-garage, sex-every-Thursday mentality.” Damn. Shouldn’t have said that…

“I don’t appreciate that kind of talk.”

I couldn’t stop myself. “And what is it you’ve got to give her that you think is so hot? A riding lawn mower and a color TV? Now I remember where I’ve seen you before. In the dictionary, under mundane. ”

“You can stop that abusive talk right now.” He was nervous, twitchy. My God, what had they told him about me? “You aren’t going to take her anywhere.”

“Is that right.”

“That’s right.”

“And what makes you think you could stop me?”

He leaned close to me and sniffed the air. “Have you been drinking?”

“Are you out of-”

“I know all about your substance abuse. The NDHS people told me. And Rachel told me.”

“Look-I don’t do that now.”

His silence clearly communicated how little weight that statement carried with him.

“I’m serious. I’m not drinking anymore.”

“Good.”

“I mean it.”

“Good.” He paused. “But you’re still a drinker. And drinkers are liars.”

It took all my restraint-never my best quality-to keep from decking him. “Look, Mr. High and Mighty, I don’t need any crap about-”

“This interview is over.” He raised his voice. “Rachel. Come in now.” She reluctantly obeyed.

“Wait just a goddamn minute. I’m not-”

“If you don’t leave my property immediately, I’ll call the authorities.”

“I didn’t do anything. I just-”

“Goodbye.” He tucked Rachel behind the door, but she rushed forward and hugged me, hard. He eventually pried her away. Then he shut the door and left me standing like a goon on his well-swept porch. Alone.

Annabel raked in the dough, all the while giggling and acting as if she barely knew what she was doing, as if her big wagers were made out of boredom rather than expertise. She’d ask the dealer for advice-they do that now, ever since Vegas decided to become friendly. Not that they could tell her anything she didn’t already know. It was all for show.

Back around 1994, a team of six MIT students began flying to Vegas to prove what many had speculated for years-that a keen understanding of advanced mathematics could pay off at the blackjack table. Half the team-the Spotters-would spread through the casino and sit at various blackjack tables making normal bets, never varying the amount-but counting cards. Some of these guys were absolute geniuses. They could bring off a slick trick called shuffle tracking, which took advantage of probability-distribution mathematics and the fact that most dealers do a light shuffle so as to resume the game as quickly as possible. Shuffle tracking allowed the Spotters to follow a pocket of favorable cards from one shoe to the next, calculating the amount of low-card infiltration caused by the shuffle. Some Spotters would even intentionally blow hands to control the flow of cards-that is, to make specific cards they were tracking come up when and where they wanted them.