Susan Donovan: Take a Chance On Me

Stephano grunted, ignoring the subdued snickers from around the table. The Maryland State Police captain clenched his Robusto in his teeth and said, "I'll see you and raise you ten. Prepare to suffer horribly, my friend."

Thomas let the remark slide, dropping his gaze nonchalantly to the three queens burning a hole through his palm.

Rollo folded. Chick called, but didn't look happy about it. Then Manny went out quietly, and Paulie called it quits with his usual drama, slapping his cards down on the bare wood surface with a flourish of obscenities and sighs.

"Let's see it, pretty boy," Stephano said, jutting out his cigar in challenge as he glared at Thomas.

"You might want to use protective eyewear, boss." Thomas laid down the three lovely ladies with agonizing slowness, the queen of hearts on top.

"You suck, Tobin." Stephano threw down three sevens.

"Shit." Chick offered up a pair of fives.

As he reached out for the mound of poker chips with both hands, Thomas reveled in the feel of the tinkling, clicking bounty. Short of puffing a fine Cuban or holding a beautiful naked woman, this had to be life's finest physical sensation. It was a piece of pure triumph-a moment of unadulterated whoop-ass.

And by God, he'd had few enough of those lately.

"Your music selection is giving me a migraine, Tobin." Chick's announcement came in his customary West Virginia twang. "Haven't you got any normal music-like Garth or Shania or something?"

"My house, my tunes," Thomas said, stacking his chips in neat, color-coded piles. "Besides, Coltrane is food for the soul. You want to listen to hillbilly drivel, then hold poker night at your place."

Chick shook his head. "Right. That would be a ripsnortin' good time, I'm sure." He took a swig of beer. "I'm lucky just to escape the spouse and spawn one night a month to come here."

"I hear you, man," Rollo said, chuckling. "If we did this at my place, we'd be listening to Barney's Greatest Hits."

"Thomas's music taste is eclectic," Manny offered.

"It sucks," Paulie said.

"What do you expect from four cops, a lawyer, and a urologist? We never agree on jackshit," Rollo said.

Thomas shuffled the deck and called for five-card stud. "You know, gentlemen, there's really only two kinds of music in the world."

"Christ, here we go," Stephano muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Good music and bad music," Thomas continued, taking a slow, sensual puff of his cigar and placing it in an ashtray to his left. He began to deal. "The majority of popular music today is total crap-the fast food of song-no nourishment, no soul, no meaning, no art. It's just a way to funnel more money to the one or two remaining international media conglomerates and pay for the Backstreet Boys to go to rehab."

Stephano groaned and got up from the table. "Beer run. Anybody want anything?"

"I'll help," Chick offered.

Paulie stood up and stretched. "I'm going to hit the john."

"Me, too," Manny said, following him.

Rollo shook his head slowly and chuckled, watching his best friend and brother-in-law deal the cards to empty chairs. "You sure know how to clear a room lately, man."

Rollo studied Thomas. He watched him finish the deal and take another puff, squinting in concentration as he spun the cigar between long fingers.

Rollo wouldn't come right out and say anything, but the truth was, Thomas worried the hell out of him.

Thomas had been through so much this last year, and he'd made it through in one piece. But he'd changed. Shut down. And he and Pam were really starting to wonder if he'd ever snap out of it.

"How are the boys?" Thomas asked.

"Great. They miss you."

Thomas nodded silently.

True, Thomas had never been the world's most outgoing guy. Even in college he'd been kind of quiet, but still managed to crack everyone up with his dead-on, dry observations. The girls didn't seem to mind that he was reserved. It must have added to his mystique, because females were always hanging around the fraternity house or the rugby pitch just to get a peek at him.

The guys at Theta Chi soon decided Thomas was like the house bug light, luring girls in droves, and started calling him "Zapper." Thomas thought it was funny back then. Not anymore. He didn't think anything was funny anymore.

"Pam still working part-time?" Thomas asked.

"Yep. Three half-days a week."

Just look at him-he'd basically gone into hiding. If it weren't for poker night, rugby, and his medical checkups, Rollo would never even see him. No matter how many times Pam invited him over to the house he always said he had to work.

That was a big part of what put him in such a rotten state of mind-Thomas's work. The sick mothers he met every day just gave him an excuse to keep his distance from people. Thomas used to talk about getting out of law enforcement and teaching and coaching rugby instead, but the last time Rollo tried to bring it up, Thomas changed the subject.

And God-the day he finally got the guts to suggest Thomas look into treatment for depression, he'd nearly been beheaded.

Rollo didn't know how to talk to him anymore. It was as if that day in his office six months ago had changed everything between the two men. The wall Thomas had erected since then made Rollo feel like a stranger.

Rollo saw Thomas giving him the eye through a puff of cigar smoke and tried to smile. "Want another beer, T?"

"No. I'm good."

Thomas had taken the news about his injury very hard, but what man wouldn't? Rollo would never forget sitting at his desk across from Thomas and Nina, seeing the hopeful look on their faces, just before he dropped the bomb on them.

Sure, other couples had broken up in his office before, but this was the worst he'd ever witnessed. He explained the test results and waited for someone to say something, but they just sat there, marinating in the tension for several long moments. Then it happened-Nina let it rip right there in front of him-the list of everything Thomas had done wrong in the last four years. She told him it was over, and headed for the door.

For as long as he'd known Nina, Rollo had always thought of her as private and aloof. Apparently, she'd been saving up for one humdinger of a public display.

Thomas sat perfectly still through the whole thing. His face was cold and expressionless but his knuckles were white around the chair arms. He flinched when Nina slammed the door behind her.

Thomas was Rollo's patient, but he was also the best friend he'd ever had, and the only thing he could think to say was, "I'm so sorry, man."

But really, what else could he have said?

And since then, it seemed Thomas only wanted to work harder or stay home and listen to John Coltrane and Charlie Parker and get himself even more depressed. He hadn't had a date in six months. He didn't want to go out drinking with the rest of the ruggers after a match. He didn't want to talk about any of it. Not even to Pam.

Rollo let his eyes travel to the darkened living room, to the little cage he knew was hidden behind a big potted plant. At least Thomas now had that little ugly dog to keep him company. He and Pam thought that was a real positive sign.

Thomas was still giving him the eye.

Rollo smiled brightly.

"You can report to Pam that I'm fine-eating my vegetables, sleeping well, bathing daily, taking my vitamins."

Rollo shrugged, as if that wasn't exactly what he planned to do. He decided to change the subject. "So does the shipment meet with your approval?"

Thomas stared at the cigar balanced between his fingers and grinned.

The Cohiba Corona Especiale was more than a cigar-it was a work of art, a silken extravagance, a thing of beauty. He took a puff, savoring the delicate notes of honeyed tobacco, warm cocoa, and roasted nuts on the back of his tongue, tasting the heat with his brain, his eyeballs, his very soul, glorying in the pleasure of his one and only illicit vice.