Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

“No sir, never seen him. Sure is giving me the willies, though.”

“Clear out, old timer,” said Walter, clearly rattled. “Take yer drunken nonsense elsewhere.”

“Look at his eyes,” Marcus went on. “Don’t you see? Red as summer cherries!”

“Look blue enough to me,” Fat Tommy offered after a cursory examination of Jim’s eyes.

Malaria put a hand on Marcus’ shoulder but addressed Walter and Tommy. “Don’t mind Mr. Marcus. He’s just been drinking more than his share tonight. C’mon now, Mr. Marcus. Let’s take us a little walk and get some fresh air.”

“Ain’t drunk,” Marcus protested weakly. “Not too drunk, anyways.”

Malaria gently took Marcus by the arm and guided him towards the door, whispering something in his ear as they went.

Jim scooped up the small glass of rye and downed it in a gulp, anxious to erase Marcus’ disruptive performance from the minds of the marks.

“Gosh amighty !” he coughed.

“Easy, son,” said Walter with suspect concern.

“No, it’s all right,” Jim assured him. “Feeling better already.” His chin dropped to his chest as if to relieve the weight that his head suffered upon his neck. Jim’s eyes widened dramatically upon meeting the floor. “Sir, perhaps you lost a charm from your watch chain.”

“Come again, son?”

“Down there. On the floor.”

Walter the Samaritan bent down in the direction of Jim’s pointing finger and picked something up from a conspicuously dry spot on the alcohol-muddy floor. “Ain’t mine,” said the Samaritan, eying each side of the dice carefully. “Sugar cube dice. Lost from someone’s game, I suspect.”

Fat Tommy’s eyes brightened. “Well, the cards are soaked through, but that dice looks all right to me, Walter. Have ourselves a little game?”

“Well, why don’t we just take it easy a spell, Tommy.” Walter offered a discreet nod of concern in Jim’s direction.

“No sirree, Mr. Walter,” Jim piped up with heroic fortitude. “I done wrecked yer card game and I sure as spit ain’t gonna keep you fine gentlemen from having a go with that little sugar dice. Y’all don’t mind me at all. Maybe watching you fellas play will take my mind offa this pain in my leg. That and another shot of Raleigh Rye, mayhap.”

“Waitress!” Walter barked with a wink. Jim smiled feebly in return.

Fat Tommy snatched the sugar dice from Walter’s paw, eyeing it as carefully as had Walter. The dice was as straight as a ruler. “So what’ll it be, gentlemen? Craps?”

“Need two dice for that, Tommy,” reminded Walter, the other men nodding in affirmation.

Jim looked up. “You fellas ain’t from ’round here, are ya?”

“Why, no, sonny,” the skinny fellow to Fat Tommy’s left answered with a dopey smile. “What gave us away?”

“Craps is old hat in New Orleans. Best dice game I know is a game my Daddy taught me. Before he died, that is.” The mention of a deceased parent is always good for effect. “Little game called ‘tat’. No dice game better anywhere in the world, he used to say.” Then, reiterating for emphasis, “My poor, dead Daddy used to say.”

“Ain’t never heard of no tat,” said a jacketless man next to Skinny. His rolled up shirtsleeves revealed a green tattoo across one forearm declaring love for a girl called “Mavis” in dramatically loopy font.

“Finest game ever was fer dice, sir. Easy to learn, too-if you want me to teach it to ya.”

Walter’s broad smile set off a chain reaction around the table. “Well, sure, son,” Walter cackled warmly. “Why don’t you show us your little game of tat?” The drunken laughter that erupted around the table communicated to Dropsy that the signal was close.

“We usually play for sticks or straws or buttons,” dead-panned Jim. “Got any straws we can use? Maybe the waitress might-”

“Well, son, you’d be playing with grown-ups tonight, and we’re used to playing for dollar bills.”

Jim’s expression turned tragic. “All I got’s two dollars and some nickels, sir.”

“Well, I tell you what, son. What’d you say your name was?”

“Nick, sir. Nick Clay. Pleased to meetcha.”

“Well, my young injured friend, to thank you for teaching us weary Pennsylvanian travelers your fine new game of tat, I’ll give you three crisp dollar bills to have a go with. What you win you keep; what you lose is my loss alone. How’s that sound?”

Jim scratched his right ear with his left hand thoughtfully before speaking.

Dropsy caught the signal.

“Well, that’d be mighty nice of you, Mr. Walter. I’d be pleased and honored to teach you my Daddy’s game of tat. And I thankee for the kindness of the three dollars.”

A new waitress, not Malaria, brought around a second shot of rye which Jim dispatched quickly. Walter seemed pleased with Jim’s newly relaxed demeanor-and with two shots of Rye in his blood, Jim didn’t have to act to make it real.

The tat was on.

“Easy now, Mr. Marcus.”

In the relative calm of the stairwell Malaria’s husky coo was hardly audible to her own ears above the racket of the music hall above. With the subliminal guidance of her touch to his elbow, Marcus’ whiskey-addled brain negotiated the steps before him, his labored breathing mixing with the cacophony of voices in his head, a combination that fogged all else.

“Not too fast, Mr. Marcus. Don’t wanna go ’n trip,” Malaria scolded, as he thumped heavily onto the second floor landing. His eyes brushed momentarily over the frosted glass window of a door that announced EAGLE LOAN AND PAWN before inching towards the precipice of the final flight down. The air did not significantly cool as they reached the ground floor where the Eagle Saloon sat nearly empty, but a muggy breeze through an open window offered mild relief from the stifling night. Malaria led him to a high stool by the bar where he slumped and let out a sigh.

“Barkeep,” Marcus brightened marginally. “Couple shots of yer finest scotch for me and my fine young friend. No ice, if you please.”

The bartender known as Larry Man Larry raised an eyebrow to Malaria for confirmation.

“Now, Mr. Marcus, could be you done had yerself enough for tonight,” Malaria offered hopefully.

“Nonsense, my dear. I’m just gettin’ paced is what. Night is yet young.”

She bowed a nod of surrender and Larry poured out two shots, blank-faced and muttering something about not having no ice anyhow. Marcus smiled and laid a hand over Malaria’s. “All the fuss about your famous sister and I always thought you was the pretty one, Malaria. True and true.”

Larry’s dog, an effeminate poodle named Outlaw, emitted a decidedly un-intimidating trill of a growl from beneath the bench of a nearby and vacant upright piano.

“You’re so sweet,” she said without smiling, petting his forearm as if it were a cat. After a few moments closely examining the untouched glass before him, he pulled both of his hands down to his lap in a gesture akin to defense, interlacing his fingers into a nervous ball before looking at her sideways with wet eyes.

“Malaria, I know you think I been talking crazy up there, but when there’s something ain’t right in the world a fellow has to step up and do something ’bout it.”

“You always done right far as I ever knowed, Mr. Marcus.” She was wondering to herself if it would be okay to just leave him here like this, to skip back upstairs and squeeze out a few more tips while the night was still ripe and raging.

He locked eyes with her softly. “Do you think I’m crazy, Malaria?” He asked her this as if the question carried grave weight. “And I’d appreciate it if you told me true.”