Play Dead

Michael A. Arnzen

Play Dead 2005 by Michael A. Arnzen All rights reserved Published by Raw Dog Screaming Press Hyattsville, MD Hardcover Edition Cover & Book design: Jennifer Barnes Printed in the United States of America ISBN 1-933293-04-7 Library of Congress Control Number: 2005901932 www.rawdogscreaming.com

Also by Michael A. Arnzen

Novels Grave Markings Stories 100 Jolts: Shockingly Short Stories Fluid Mosaic Needles and Sins Poetry Freakcidents Gorelets: Unpleasant Poems Dying Sportuary Paratabloids Writhing in Darkness Chew and Other Ruminations

Dedication
To my lucky charm, Renate & For Margaret Annie Jessie Moneyeyes

It is only by risking our persons from one hour to another that we live at all. And often enough our faith beforehand in an uncertified result is the only thing that makes the result come true. William James, The Will to Believe

Acknowledgments
Ive got debts. Most of all to two people: Lance Olsenmy mentor during the original stab at this novel many moons ago and Renate, my rock steady partner in the big game. I deeply appreciate the help of The CommitteeLance, Ron McFarland and Dennis Colsonand all the good people in the English Department at the University of Idaho who contributed when I first dealt out this dark deck for my Masters Thesis. Heres to the many friends who contributed during the birth, rebirth, and afterbirth of this novelespecially: Barb & JC Hendee, Greg Rucka & Jen VanMeter, Wayne Edwards, David Hale Smith, The Abject and everyone at UO, Bruce Siskawicz & Becca Baker, Mark McLaughlin, Kurt Newton. Heres to raw dogs John & Jen at RDSP, the street pack, and the folks at Z Malice. I want to thank my Mom for taking me out for a fine steak and the conversation we had that planted the initial seed for this project. Thanks, too, to my Dad, whose influence is everywhere, always. A shout-out to my good old friend and poker partner Mike V., who is a ghost that floats all over this book, too. Hell, heres to all my friends. And here's to you, for reading this. The city of Vegas in this novel is highly fictionalized, and is not intended to represent the actual city of Las Vegas, Nevada, by any means. An excerpt from this novel originally appeared in Palace Corbie, with rights retained by the author. Gamblers Anonymous Helpline: (213) 386-8789 http://www.gamblersanonymous.org

Joker
The gun barrel confronts him. The inevitable blast roars inside of his ears and light blares between his eyes as if his head was the chamber of the pistol all along. The screen flickers: red to black, red to black...

Part One

CLUBS

A
Johnny Frieze knew it was coming long before it was dealt: a dead hand, nothing but Suicide King high. He peered up over his cards, ignoring the dealer and the pot before him, glancing pathetically at the guy across the green felt of the poker tablea jerk who called himself Jimmy the Gun of all thingswho was holding the majority of Johnnys chips. The Gun was an arrogant playercouldnt keep a poker faceand was melodramatic about every hand, like something straight out of a bad gangster film. He grinned at Johnny like a head-bobbing vulture. Johnny grinned back, flashing him his gold front tooth, keeping his head in motion, rising, rising, his neck craning up as he purposely stalled, going through the motions of stretching, eyes finally locking on the mirrored security dome above like some alien mothership planted in the starlight sparkle of the casinos ceiling. His reflection: a fish-eyed mutant, fun house features absurdly mimicking his panic. His ears hummed with that horribly silent and infinite pause of knowing ones fate right before the kill. Jimmy The Gun coughed. Johnny could feel him staring at his bared and straining neck, his shifty eyes like greasy fingers feeling for a pulse. The dealer sat at the table like Death: silent and patient, hauntingly anonymous, wise. Johnny wondered if whoever was watching from abovethe eye in the sky, spying on every table in the casinoknew that Johnny was about to lose the last of everything he had. Everything. Every fucking asset hed pawned, every damned chip hed bought and spent. Every. Mother. Fucking. Cent. Skys the limit, he thought, grimacing at his fun house reflection above. He heard the clink of plastic chips. Ill bet the rest of whatever you got there, The Gun impatiently said, motioning with his chin at Johnnys embarrassingly tiny stack of reds. This game has gone on far too long, and Im sick to death of teasin ya. Johnny sighed and lowered his head. His skull felt as heavy as a bowling

Play Dead
ball. Ill see ya, he said, smartly swiping the last of his chips forward into the pot to make some noise. Even though youre robbin me blind. He dropped his cards face-down and rubbed his pockets with both hands, feeling the naked skin beneath. The Gun stuck his large chin forward over his cards. Johnny stared him back as if seeing him for the first timeeven though theyd been playing since the afternoon and it was now four a.m. The Guns eyes were beads of black and greenwet and shinygleaming with the flash of the casino like plastic eyes on a statue. His over-moussed, jet-black hair clung to the lumpy, light bulb shape of his head, as matted as cats fur after a rainstorm. His ugly chin was a stone stuck in his lower lip, plump with tobacco. And worst of all, he smelled like Pine Sol and polyester. The Gun blinkeda slow motion recharge of darknessthen whispered: I aint took nothin from you yet, boy. Nothin. Just your money, your fake plastic. He peered down at the challenged chips and rolled his eyes back up to meet Johnnys. I still havent taken the game outta you. He prodded his cheek with his tongue, stretching the flesh so much that Johnny could see the blackheads in his pores. I still havent beat ya, boy, cause you still got the balls to sit here and act like a player, bluffin with your last chip like you still got a chance in hell. Johnny felt his nostrils flare. He raised one in a sneer like Elvis, not quite knowing how to respond. I dont want your fuckin money, kid, The Gun continued, leaning back. Think Id sit here all damned night and day just to take your damned money? Thatd be like takin a Butterfinger from a diabetic baby. He menaced a smile. Nope, I dont want your money. He dropped his cards and crossed his arms, waiting. I just want you to fold... A sudden knot of energy pulsed inside of Johnnys chest. It was a warm, familiar feelingthe whole reason he played, a feeling hed been trying to get back ever since Reno. This is why he did it: for The Itch, The Fever...Action, baby, Action with a capital A... Break, Johnny said to the dealer, who not only looked like a mortician but nodded like one too as he placed a marker on the table beside the pot,

10

Michael A. Arnzen

solemn as a tombstone. The Gun cursed and slapped down his cards as Johnny pushed his chair back and rapped on the table with his knuckles for luck. Back in a flash. As he began to walk away, Johnny noticed that a small mob of on-lookers had gathered around the poker pit like a crowd at a car accident. All of them seemed to look him in the eyes at once. He bummed a cigarette off a skinny Arab who was all too eager to give one up, light included. Johnny didnt thank him. He just nodded and breezed away, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs like it was fresh air even though it tasted like shit. He was careful not to walk too fast or too slowlooks were everything, and he didnt want to look like he was running away, beaten. He maintained his cool, keeping his hands out of his empty pockets, focusing all his attention on the cigarette between his lips and the smoke that curdled in his lungs. Fuckin menthol, he thought. He marched until he reached the bathroom, pushing forward on the green-marbled sign that read GENTLEMEN in golden letters. The bathroom was immaculate and emptyas if the janitor had just finished polishing the porcelain sinks and urinals. Everything shined, spoiled only by a subtle tinge of impure white. The doors to the stalls had gold knobs and the tiled floor reflected them like a mirror of melting ice. Not bad for a casino at four in the morning, but... It smelled an awful lot like the asshole he was playing poker with. Pinescented and oily. Johnny spit the menthol butt from between his lips and stamped it out on the floor. It fizzed the rubber sole of his tennis shoe. He grabbed a knob on the nearest sink and triggered the cold water, running his fingers beneath its stream, waiting for his hands to numb. His reflection was there, looking at him like a stranger from behind the glass of the mirror. He didnt look as good as he thought: blond hair browning from too many runs of the hand over his scalp. His eyes were baggy, bloodshot, someone elses pinned up over his nose. Old sweat stains etched tan topographical maps across his once-white shirt, strange continents around his armpits, sick islands between his nipples. A shadow of hair stippled his

11

Play Dead
jawline, running too high up his cheeksanyone could see that no one had ever taught him how to shave properly. And that ugly gold tooth, glimmering inside the dark cave of his mouth, a shiny gem that only deepened the yellow of his other teeth and gave his breath the stench of old cat food cans. He smiled a pirates grin. The gold tooth shined beside the rest, his mouth the exact color of the bathroom decor. But he liked it. Because it helped him keep his confidence. No matter how far down he was on his luck, hed always have his tooth, always have something golden inside him where no one could touch it. Plus it scared people. People who couldnt read his face. People who squirmed when they realized they were sitting at a table with a guy who knew what money tasted like. A guy who chewed on that hunger deep inside which every amateur tries to prod and tease. Johnny wasnt hungry for moneyhe ate players for breakfast with money, usually their own stacks. At least...he used to. And he used to wear a fancy suit and tie. And a ring with diamonds and crusty golden nuggets. And a money clip. And all the other things it took to get that look right, that young-kid-on-the-make look that frightens wannabes and ruffles old pros into making the wrong moves, calling the wrong bluffs, and forgetting how to read the cards because theyre too busy trying to read him instead. Right, Johnny said to himselfhalf-question, half-sarcastic jab at his reflection. Johnny left the water running while he ditched his reflection, pissing in the urinal, holding himself with cold, wet fingers. He couldnt feel a thing but the pulsing heat of the thick steady stream as it hissed between his legs for what seemed like forever. He hadnt been to the bathroom since he sat down at the table. An oldbut strategichabit: make the other man get up from the table first. Remind him that hes human. And therefore, bound to lose. Finished, Johnny returned to the running water, the reflection. Nothing left. No scratch. Nothing.

12

Michael A. Arnzen

He knelt before the sink. The tiles felt cold, like cubes of ice grinding against his bony kneecaps. He stared forward, watching the stream flow into the polished basin like a waterfall of diamonds just above the rim of the sink. He felt majestic, bowing like this, as if before some god. He placed his hands behind his neck, sit-up style. Like being arrested. Smiled a pained smile. And then slammed his open mouth forward against the edge of the porcelain sink as hard as he could. Again. Again. Until the last thing he had on earth to bet with cracked out of its bony socket and dangled somewhere above the bloody puddle of drool and enamel on his tongue. The cold water of the sink washed the pain away, numbing his cheeks and gums, buzzing across his entire face. And as he walked back into the game the small crowd of on-lookers scowling around the poker pit as they noticed the blood trickling between his lipshe suddenly knew that this numbness inside would never go away. Never. Even when he lost his gold tooth to the arrogant asshole who couldnt keep a poker face. Even when he told The Gun he was gonna need it. Even when he punched him squarely in his enormous chin and stormed out of the casino, wondering what the hell he was going to do next to survive. Skys the limit, he thought, the numbness in his head spreading around his jawline and racing down his neck. Skys the limit...

13

About the Author

MICHAEL ARNZEN has been publishing ground-breaking horror fiction and dark poetry since 1989. His first novel, Grave Markings (Dell/Abyss, 1994) received both the Bram Stoker and International Horror Guild awards, and was recently reprinted in a fine leather-bound tenth anniversary edition (Delirium, 2004). His latest books are a flash fiction collection, 100 Jolts: Shockingly Short Stories (Raw Dog Screaming, 2004) and a poetry book, Freakcidents (Shocklines, 2005). Arnzen holds a PhD in English from the University of Oregon and is presently an Associate Professor at Seton Hill University, where he teaches horror and suspense fiction in the countrys only graduate program in Writing Popular Fiction.