Double Deal



  Double Deal

  First Published in Canada by Fractual Publications, 2010

  63 Havenbrook Blvd.

  North York, ON

  M2J 1A7

  Canada

  Copyright © Drew Beatty

  Some Rights Reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-9809398-3-5

  I stumbled out of the motel door, bright desert light feeling harsh on my skin, used as it was to the dimmer sun of Canada. I passed the row of doorways, peeling paint and tired curtains keeping desperate stories safe from prying eyes. At the end of the motel was an old vending machine that spat out tolerable coffee. The sun bleached image that graced the front of the machine was so faded it almost looked like milk. I hunted around in my pocket for change, I had just enough for one cup. My nails were cracked and dirty, catching on the frayed ends of my pants pocket, a far cry from the delicate hands that gripped the steering wheel as I drove down here six months ago.

  The machine spewed out my coffee with a dispiriting clatter. But it was hot and sweet, and that was all I needed to start my day. Not that I really had big plans. Behind me I heard the standard creaking hinges of a door opening. Jilly, a one time show girl, shuffled out of her room, looking older than her sixty-one years. She still had a dazzling smile, though.

  “What’s going on, Canada?” she asked. She never called me anything but Canada, like I was representative of my country.

  “Morning Jilly,” I replied. “Just getting some coffee.”

  “That stuff will kill you, you know,” she replied, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the depths of her bathrobe. “We got a new resident,” she said, changing the subject before I could mention the negative effects of smoking. “A young lady, I hear. Perhaps love will bloom at the Desert Oasis,” she smiled at me, face brightening. She still believed in love stories and happy endings, even out here, at the dead end of the strip.

  “I’ll have to introduce myself,” I said, heading back to my room.

  “You just do that, Canada,” she said, blowing smoke out of her nostrils. “I think a good lady is all you need to turn yourself around, get you back on a streak again.”

  “I’m already on a streak, Jilly,” I replied. Losing is a streak, too.

  I gulped my coffee down, ran a toothbrush over my mouth and dug around my room for my wallet. I was running late, again. Fortunately my job was pretty close, I could walk there in almost no time. Saved me money on bus fare, if nothing else.

  Rushing out my door, I came close to careening into a woman walking past. She was thin, with wispy blonde hair. Pale blue eyes, slightly lost looking. This must be the new “young lady” that had moved in. I could almost see the baggage hanging off her. Not that I should throw stones.

  “Sorry,” I said, sidestepping her, pulling my door closed at the same time.

  She smiled at me with no warmth, just the standard polite response one gives to someone who almost knocks them over. That is to say, very little.

  “No problem,” she said flatly.

  It was not a meeting upon which great romances are made. We didn’t even meet cute, barely met at all, really. Jilly would be disappointed.

  Work. I ran the few blacks to work, the glamour spot that is the Galati Brother’s fruit warehouse. Fine people, the Galati’s. Just don’t lose their money, unless you like unloading flats of fruit. A never-ending progression of apple, pear and orange trucks reverse into the dusty loading bay, and me and some Mexican day labourers unload them. Every morning I arrive at work, and a new pair of faces looks up at me from behind the haze of cigarette smoke that hangs in the fetid air of the loading bay. Then we move boxes for eight hours, and go our separate ways, probably forever.

  Once I asked John Galati, the self described nice-guy Galati Brother, if there was not some other line of work I could get into for them, something that might make more money so I could pay them back faster. He just laughed.

  “What, you wanna work in our front office, you wanna maybe help the accountant cook the books? Don’t forget, Kenneth, you are just as illegal as those Mexicans. You shoulda gone home months ago.” He put his arm around me, like we were such buddies. “This is what you got, for six more months, this is what you got. But, come on, I’m a reasonable man. You take home any bruised fruit you want. That’ll save you some money on groceries. Or, you give us the ten grand you owe us, we call it even. Well, ten grand plus interest.” I went back to moving fruit. But every night, I went home with a big bag of apples. Shared it with the regulars at the Oasis.

  I entered the shade of the bay, looked over to see two new Mexicans sitting on the overturned crates that we used as chairs. They waved at me lazily, as though they were expecting me. They were playing cards, waiting for the first truck to shatter the morning calm and fill our lungs with diesel exhaust. Poker. They were playing poker. Simple five card stud. I smiled, asked if I could join them. They pulled up another crate.

  Thirty minutes later I was forty cents up. Now, forty cents, I know it’s not much money, even for a guy who unloads fruit for a living. It wasn’t going to make my life any easier, it wasn’t going to get me out of debt, but I was winning. I was winning again. I could win again.

  Of course, by the time the first truck broke up our game I was sixty cents in the hole. Apparently I could lose again, too.

  Back home after another long, awful day. I was fiddling with my keys, trying to get the door open when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see the new resident, walking carefully up the path that ran along the front of the rooms. She was walking cautiously, putting one foot out in front of the other with great trepidation, hands outstretched slightly, in an effort to keep her balance. Dark glasses covered half of her face, although it was cloudy, too cloudy for sunglasses. Great, another drunk in the motel, I thought. I was about to go into my room when I heard her fall to the ground behind me. I looked back, saw her trying to get to her feet. Blood was already seeping into the knees of her jeans. She winced with pain as she tried to stand up. Against my better judgement, I walked over to help.

  “Can I help you?” I asked as I approached. She looked around, confused.

  “Who’s there?” she asked.

  I crouched down in front of her, offering her my hand. “It’s me, Kenneth. I live in number 14. We met this morning.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember now. I could use some help, thanks.” She reached out, bumping her hand into mine as she did so. Finally she wrapped her fingers into mine, and together we stood up.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. I couldn’t smell anything on her breath. Of course, drugs don’t always smell.

  “Yeah, sorry, I’m just having some trouble with my eyes today.”

  I immediately felt like an asshole, assuming she was fucked up, when in fact she was infirm. What a chump I am.

  “Sorry.” I reached out to take her elbow, and started leading her to her room. She stumbled on a crack, and almost pitched forward, but I was able to catch her in time. Her glasses flew off of her face. In the split second before she closed them, I could see two bloody holes where her eyes should be. “Jesus Christ,” I said. “What happened?”

  “Just give me my glasses, please,” she said.

  “But your eyes! What the hell happened?”

  “My glasses, now!” she demanded desperately. I bent to pick them up, placed them in her outstretched hand. She fumbled with them, catching the arms in her hair as she attempted to put them on. She looked up at me. Or, rather, she turned her face to mine. “Don’t worry,” she said, her composure returned. “It’s not what it looks like. I’ll be fine. Please, just take me to my room.”

  I walked her to her room. Watched as she unlocked her door. Waited for an explanation. None was forthcoming.

  “Listen
lady,” I began.

  “Sheila,” she interjected.

  “Sheila, fine. It’s not really my place to get involved, but you might need to go to a hospital. I mean, this is not okay.”

  “Just come in. I can explain.” We walked into the twin of my room, identical in every way, down to the faded seascape print hanging above the bed. Her room was neater, maybe because she was a cleaner person than me or maybe because she had not had a chance to properly mess it up. She made her way over to the bed, sat on the edge of it. I pulled up the hard backed wooden chair that sat in front of the small desk. Desert Oasis didn’t really attract the businessman crowd, but all the rooms had little writing desks in them.

  “Listen, Kenneth. I don’t know you at all. So, why are you concerned? It’s none of your business, am I right?”

  “Sorry, it just seemed like you needed help. I mean, if you’re hurt, I can help. Maybe.” As this she cracked a smile.

  “You are not from Vegas, are you?”

  “No, I’m Canadian. From Toronto.”

  “Now that makes sense. Canadians are generally nice. Here is the deal. I’m not hurt. I’m fine. My eyes are okay. You don’t need to worry about me. Worry about yourself.”

  “How do you know I need to worry about myself? Maybe I’m fine.”

  “You wouldn’t be living here if that was true. Now, please, just go. Trust me. I’ll be okay.”

  I got up to