Driving Blind

“To what, sir?”

“Your heart,” Cruesoe said, dismally.

The gambler smirked. “This, sir, is not a romantic excursion to Niagara Falls.”

“Yah!” came the shout.

A great wall of faces confronted him.

“I,” Cruesoe said, “am very tired.”

He felt himself turn and stagger off, drunk with the sway of the train, left, right, left, right. The conductor saw him coming and punched a drift of confetti out of an already punched ticket.

“Sir,” Cruesoe said.

The conductor examined the night fleeing by the window.

“Sir,” Cruesoe said. “Look there.”

The conductor reluctantly fastened his gaze on the mob at the bar, shouting as the cardsharp raised their hopes but to dash them again.

“Sounds like a good time,” the conductor said.

“No, sir! Those men are being cheated, fleeced, buggywhipped—”

“Wait,” said the conductor. “Are they disturbing the peace? Looks more like a birthday party.”

Cruesoe shot his gaze down the corridor.

A herd of buffalo humped there, angry at the Fates, eager to be shorn.

“Well?” said the conductor.

“I want that man thrown off the train! Don’t you see what he’s up to? That trick’s in every dime-store magic book!”

The conductor leaned in to smell Cruesoe’s breath.

“Do you know that gambler, sir? Any of his pals your friends?”

“No, I—” Cruesoe gasped and stopped. “My God, I just realized.” He stared at the conductor’s bland face.

“You,” he said, but could not go on.

You are in cohoots, he thought. You share the moola at the end of the line!

“Hold on,” said the conductor.

He took out a little black book, licked his fingers, turned pages. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Lookit all the biblical/Egyptian names. Memphis, Tennessee. Cairo, Illinois? Yep! And here’s one just ahead. Babylon.”

“Where you throw that cheat off?”

“No. Someone else.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Cruesoe said.

“No?” said the conductor.

Cruesoe turned and lurched away. “Damn idiot stupid fool,” he muttered. “Keep your smart-ass mouth shut!”

“Ready, gentlemen,” the insidious cardsharp was shouting. “Annie over. Flea-hop! Oh, no! The bad-news boy is back!”

Jeez, hell, damn, was the general response.

“Who do you think you are?” Cruesoe blurted.

“Glad you asked.” The gambler settled back, leaving the cards to be stared at by the wolf pack. “Can you guess where I’m going tomorrow?”

“South America,” Cruesoe said, “to back a tin-pot dictator.”

“Not bad.” The sharpster nodded. “Go on.”

“Or you are on your way to a small European state where some nut keeps a witch doctor to suck the economy into a Swiss bank.”

“The boy’s a poet! I have a letter here, from Castro.” His gambler’s hand touched his heart. “And one from Bothelesa, another from Mandela in South Africa. Which do I choose? Well.” The gambler glanced at the rushing storm outside the window. “Choose any pocket, right, left, inside, out.” He touched his coat.

“Right,” Cruesoe said.

The man shoved his hand in his right coat pocket, pulled out a fresh pack of cards, gave it a toss.

“Open it. That’s it. Now riffle and spread. See anything?”

“Well …”

“Gimme.” He took it. “The next monte will be from the deck you choose.”

Cruesoe shook his head. “That’s not how the trick works. It’s how you lay down and pick up the cards. Any deck would do.”

“Pick!”

Cruesoe picked two tens and a red Queen.

“Okay!” The gambler humped the cards over each other. “Where’s the Queen?”

“Middle.”

He flipped it over. “Hey, you’re good.” He smiled.

“You’re better. That’s the trouble,” Cruesoe said.