Evan Hunter - A Horse’s Head

“That’s onesies,” Melissa said, and held the jacks above the table again, preparing to drop them. He watched very carefully as she opened her hand, trying to determine whether there was any secret to the dropping of the jacks, deciding that this part of it, at least, was all chance, and then concentrating on her technique for picking up the jacks. She worked so swiftly, bounce went the ball, out darted her hand like a snake’s tongue (she is surely a pit viper or an adder, Mullaney thought), back it came in time to catch the descending ball, two jacks at a time now (that’s right, she’s going for twosies; going for it, my eye, she’s almost finished with it), bounce went the ball again, out came the grasping hand, one unblinking eye on the falling rubber ball, pick up the jacks, catch the ball, “That’s twosies,” Melissa said.

“You’ve still got a long way to go,” Mullaney said.

“She beat Selma Krantz,” Frieda said.

“She even beat Rosalie Krantz,” Hilda said.

“Play, play,” Mullaney said.

“Threesies,” Melissa announced, as though she expected to proceed directly from there to foursies (announcing it) and fivesies (again announcing it) and straight through to tensies, after which she would take the jacket bequeathed to him by a Negro ten times the man he was (or so the legend went) and go up to dinner, goodbye, Mullaney, unless you are ready to commit homicide.

The possibility intrigued him.

Melissa rapidly picked up three jacks, and then another three, and then another three, leaving a single jack on the table.

“What about that one?” he asked.

“If there’s any left over,” Melissa said, “if it doesn’t come out even, you just pick up what’s left over.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Those are the rules,” Frieda said.

“That’s the game,” Hilda said.

Melissa bounced the ball, picked up the remaining jack, and caught the ball in the same hand.

“If you drop a jack, you’re out,” she said.

“Those are the rules.”

“That’s the game.”

“I see.”

“Foursies,” Melissa announced.

She went from foursies to fivesies to sixies with remarkable speed while Mullaney watched, figuring he had better learn this game damn quick because if she ever lost possession of the ball (which seemed highly unlikely) he would be called upon to perform once again, and his next chance would undoubtedly be his last and only chance. He began willing her to drop the ball, or to drop a jack, or to miss the ball, or to pick up only six jacks when she was supposed to pick up seven, but no such luck, flick went her hand, fingers closing on seven jacks, down came the ball into her open palm. Three jacks were left on the table now. She demolished those on the next bounce of the ball, and then announced, “Eightsies.”

Mullaney wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

“It’s very hot in here,” he said.

“It’s going to get hotter, mister,” Melissa said, and giggled.

Hilda and Frieda giggled, too.

“Come on, play,” Mullaney said irritably.

As Melissa picked up the jacks and opened her hand, dropping them onto the table top, Mullaney found himself praying that she would lose, the way he had prayed on the edge of too many dice tables in the past year — praying for the point when he was betting with the shooter, praying for a seven when he was betting the shooter wrong, praying that he, Andrew Mullaney, would win big just once, would pick up all the chips, all the cash, once, just once. With beads of sweat popping out on his brow, with his heart banging inside his chest, he prayed now that an eight-year-old girl would drop a jack, drop the ball, drop dead even, anything, so long as he won, so long as he won.

She scooped up eight jacks and caught the ball easily.

The remaining two jacks were spread rather far apart on the table top. Melissa eyed them with her same unblinking confidence, but he sensed she was in trouble because she was hesitating much longer than usual before bouncing the ball again. She was calculating the distance between the two jacks, he knew, the time it would take her to scoop up both of them before catching the descending ball. It would be a tight squeeze; she knew it, and Mullaney knew it, and he found himself smiling tightly for the first time since the game had begun.

“Go on,” he said, “play.”

Melissa nodded. Her tongue darted out (yes, she was most certainly a cobra, or at least a water moccasin), wetting her lips. The brown eyes looked from one jack to the other. She took a deep breath and threw the ball into the air. The ball bounced. Her hand shot out with dazzling speed, hitting one jack, sweeping it across the table top, pushing it ahead of her flat palm, the ball was coming down. She had shoved both jacks together now, her hand closed on them, she scooped them from the table top together, swung her hand to the left, clutched for the ball, and missed.

“You missed,” Mullaney whispered.

“I know,” she said.

“It’s your turn,” Frieda said.

“You’re for onesies,” Hilda said.

“And Melissa is still for eightsies.”

“I’m going to win,” Mullaney whispered.

“Like fun,” Frieda said.

“I am going to win, little girl,” he whispered. “For once in my life, I am going to win.”

“Play,” Melissa said.

He concentrated only on the jacks and on the red rubber ball. He ignored the malevolent stares of the little girls ranged around him at the sawed-off table, ignored the suffocating heat of the room and the discomfort of the tiny chair on which he sat, ignored too the knowledge that half a million dollars was at stake, concentrating only on the game, only on winning. He was a clumsy player. He seized the jacks too anxiously, clutched for the rubber ball too desperately, but he dropped neither jacks nor ball, and by the time he reached twosies, he was beginning to get the knack of the game. He did not allow his new confidence to intrude on his concentration. Twosies was the Daily Double, that was all, you picked the two nags most likely to win, and then you picked the next two, and the next two after that, and before you knew it there were only two left on the table, and you swept them up into your hand and readied clumsily for the falling rubber ball, but caught it, yes, clenched your fist around it, caught it, and were ready for threesies.

Threesies was merely picking the Win, Place, and Show horses in the proper order, three times in a row, and then there was only one jack left on the table, simple, bouncie bouncie ballie, scoop it up, catch the ball, there you are, my dears.

“I’m going to win,” he whispered.

“Play,” Melissa whispered.

He ignored their hard-eyed stares, their cruel silent devout wishes for his downfall, he ignored them and moved into foursies, it seemed to be getting easier all the time, all you had to do was scoop up four, and then four again, easy as pie, he closed his hand on the two remaining jacks, caught the ball, grinned at the little girls who were watching him now with open hatred, and said again, not whispering it this time, “I am going to win, my dears.”

“You are going to lose,” Melissa said flatly and coldly and unblinkingly.

“You heard her,” Frieda said.

“You are going to lose,” Hilda said.

“You are a loser,” Melissa said.

“We’ll see,” he said. “I’m for fivesies.”

“Play,” Melissa said.

He dropped the jacks onto the table. He scooped up five, and caught the ball, scooped up the remaining five and caught the ball again.

“Sixies,” he said.