The Gambler
© 2001 Richard H. Williams
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Richard Williams is new to Demensions with The Gambler. His stories have been published in the Journal of Modern Literature and several other academic journals and has several stories in press with Drinking Stories, Naked Poetry, Another Night, and Day Alliance (ANADA), and A Writer's Choice Literary Journal
Mac walked up the ten-dollar quiniela window and said, "Wheel two, four, and six." He took the three tickets from the seller and set off in the direction of the bar. There was a scoreboard above the bar, so Mac sat and drank and watched the scoreboard rather than the game directly. He sometimes worried when he heard the "ohs" and the "ahs" which indicated that the crowd was becoming emotionally involved in the Jai-Alai game, but he felt that this was less strain than being an actual observer.
It was a doubles game and Urgartechea and Urquida in the red shirts of post position one were opposing Urcola and Echeverria in the blue shirts of number two position. The number two team won the initial point after a fast and furious volley, so Mac was off on the right foot. His expectations were crushed, however, when the front court man for post position two over-served. This play turned out to be indicative of Mac’s bets for the evening. He ended up losing the five-hundred dollars he had started with plus a borrowed eighty-five.
"A temporary setback," thought Mac. "I know and understand these players and this game. I’m bound to come out a winner sooner or later."
Although he lived almost five miles from the Dania Fronton, he would not humble himself by asking an acquaintance for a ride home. He had always been seen taking taxies and if he couldn’t take one this time he would walk. The crowd moved sluggishly out of the front entrance of the Fronton, most of them bewailing a lack of money or the presence of bad luck. A small handful were proclaiming the exacting technical skill required to pick winners in Jai-Alai.
Mac left the building from the exit nearest the Dania beach and walked back toward the parking lot. He continued on, leaving the bright lights and gradually entering a domain of darkness. From the back of the parking lot he started off in the general direction of Hollywood, having his own house as a destination.
As the lights of Dania Jai-Alai grew dim in the distance, the moon disappeared behind black clouds, and the distant rumbling of thunder could be heard. The rain began to fall and an occasional bolt of lightning cracked across the sky, temporarily lighting the fields. The storm grew more intense and Mac, who was terrified by lightning and thunder darted back through the brush and onto the highway. He spotted the lights of a tourist shop and broke into a trop toward this potential shelter.
The owner was about to close shop but Mac, finding that he still had 90 cents in change, purchased a glass of orange juice. Although the owner was impatient to close shop, Mac drank the orange juice slowly, thinking thoughts that had never before crossed his mind. His losses during the previous week had been climaxed that night as he felt the tremendous pressure that is peculiar to any gambler who has suffered continual heavy losses. His risk taking behavior extended beyond Jai-Alai to the Horse Races, the Dog Races, Card Games, Major Sporting events and the Roulette and other gambling devices available to Miamians and others who moved their gambling desires to the Bahamas. He had at times attended meetings of Gamblers Anonymous, which is based on a philosophy similar to Alcoholics Anonymous, but was unable to immerse himself in the program.
Mac found himself driving off in the shop owner’s car and he knew that his wallet and pockets were full of money. There was a short interim that he was unable to recall. The owner of the tourist shop was back at the shop. His skull was crushed and he was lying in a pool of his own blood. The shop’s lights had been turned off.
Mac stopped for a six pack in Miami and then drove on to Miami Beach. He inhaled the fresh, clean smell of salt water as he crossed the Seventy-Ninth Street Causeway. He drove down Collins Avenue and parked at the Eden Roc. Billy Joel was putting on a wonderful show---more for the new blonde singer he had acquired than for his audience. Mac finished his second mixed drink, stepped outside, and climbed into a yellow taxi cab.
"Where to, sport?"
"The airport."
Mac decided to leave the country for awhile. He was now fully able to remember the gruesome details of what had happened in the tourist shop. As the cab entered Arther Godfrey Boulevard, he decided upon Puerto Rico.
As the two guards guided Mac down his last mile, the priest again tried to interest him in a final confession. When the clamps were tightened and the headgear adjusted, Mac protested the horrifying situation, but the switch was thrown and the initial tinkling sensation turned to an unbearable burning pain and the end came quickly.
Mac paid the cab driver and entered the beautiful Miami International Airport. He made a reservation for a plane which was scheduled to leave Miami at 2:30 A.M., it’s destination San Juan, Puerto Rico. There were many cabs waiting in the San Juan Airport and Mac climbed into the first one in line.
"Were weel I take you Senor?"
"To a cheap but clean hotel."
"I know of jeest the place---La Barraca (The Cabin). It is three miles from the airport."
"Good. But first I need a drink. Can you get us a bottle?"
"Si, Senor. I have a case of rum in thee trunk of thee cab; coca cola, lime, ice cubes, and glasses too. Very popular drink for Americano tourists, both rich and poor. One can can mix a Cuba Libre."
"I am not really a tourist, but I will be happy to purchase a fifth of rum from you, together with the other necessities. Pull the taxi over when we leave the lights of the airport and you and I will have a little drink."
"Si, si Senor. We have Cuba Libre."
Many drinks later Mac registered at La Barraca. When he entered his room, he walked directly to the bed and fell across it, fast asleep.
The next morning he arose just before noon. He quickly washed his face and combed his hair and then went out and bought a Miami Herald. There was no mention of a slaying. Perhaps the body wouldn’t be discovered for two or three days. Could it be that the shop owner had no family? He surely must have friends. The entire chain of events which had occurred the previous night was like a horrible nightmare.
Mac had never been completely trustworthy, but his previous crimes had mainly been misdemeanors with an occasional felony, all of them related to his addiction to gambling. He had snatched an occasional purse in a nightclub or welched on a bet. Never anything of this magnitude, however. He cursed his weakness for gambling. And yet he loved to gamble. The thrill was better than the highs from sex, drugs, and alcohol. Of course, all of the highs eventually turn to lows.
But what was there to fret about? He was safe in Puerto Rico and had enough money to last for quite a while. And yet what if someone thought to connect his absence with the slaying? It was known, though, that Mac was a Gambler and a drifter and he didn’t have any obligations. Yes, he did have one obligation and that was to keep from getting caught. He remembered the terrible image he had visualized while crossing the causeway to Miami: The one in which he had imagined his last mile. What a feeling one gets when the first trickle of electrical current makes itself felt. What horror to smell burning flesh - one’s own flesh.
Mac drank heavily at a nearby bar that night and became depressed. He tried to decide how he would respond to questions if he were suspected and examined. People were at the Jai-Alai the night of the murder who might remember that he had been there and that he had been on a losing streak.
Mac noticed a man in a black suit at the other end of the bar. He also noticed that the man seemed to be watching him closely. What if he were to be a plain clothes cop or a Detective? He looked like one of those private detectives that appear on television---a Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler type. "Oh, oh, he’s coming this way," Mac noticed.
Mac quickly left the bar and turned down a dark street. He was quite sure he heard footsteps behind him but didn’t look back. After running two blocks he took a left and continued down an even darker street. The footsteps grew louder. Mac found himself on a dead-end street. There was a military arsenal beyond a fence at the end of the street. He made a quick decision. He began climbing the fence. As he reached the three strands of barbed wire at the top he felt a tinkling sensation which soon turned to an unbearable burning pain and the end came quickly.
The next morning one of the arsonal guards found Mac’s body.
It was a doubles game and Urgartechea and Urquida in the red shirts of post position one were opposing Urcola and Echeverria in the blue shirts of number two position. The number two team won the initial point after a fast and furious volley, so Mac was off on the right foot. His expectations were crushed, however, when the front court man for post position two over-served. This play turned out to be indicative of Mac’s bets for the evening. He ended up losing the five-hundred dollars he had started with plus a borrowed eighty-five.
"A temporary setback," thought Mac. "I know and understand these players and this game. I’m bound to come out a winner sooner or later."
Although he lived almost five miles from the Dania Fronton, he would not humble himself by asking an acquaintance for a ride home. He had always been seen taking taxies and if he couldn’t take one this time he would walk. The crowd moved sluggishly out of the front entrance of the Fronton, most of them bewailing a lack of money or the presence of bad luck. A small handful were proclaiming the exacting technical skill required to pick winners in Jai-Alai.
Mac left the building from the exit nearest the Dania beach and walked back toward the parking lot. He continued on, leaving the bright lights and gradually entering a domain of darkness. From the back of the parking lot he started off in the general direction of Hollywood, having his own house as a destination.
As the lights of Dania Jai-Alai grew dim in the distance, the moon disappeared behind black clouds, and the distant rumbling of thunder could be heard. The rain began to fall and an occasional bolt of lightning cracked across the sky, temporarily lighting the fields. The storm grew more intense and Mac, who was terrified by lightning and thunder darted back through the brush and onto the highway. He spotted the lights of a tourist shop and broke into a trop toward this potential shelter.
The owner was about to close shop but Mac, finding that he still had 90 cents in change, purchased a glass of orange juice. Although the owner was impatient to close shop, Mac drank the orange juice slowly, thinking thoughts that had never before crossed his mind. His losses during the previous week had been climaxed that night as he felt the tremendous pressure that is peculiar to any gambler who has suffered continual heavy losses. His risk taking behavior extended beyond Jai-Alai to the Horse Races, the Dog Races, Card Games, Major Sporting events and the Roulette and other gambling devices available to Miamians and others who moved their gambling desires to the Bahamas. He had at times attended meetings of Gamblers Anonymous, which is based on a philosophy similar to Alcoholics Anonymous, but was unable to immerse himself in the program.
Mac found himself driving off in the shop owner’s car and he knew that his wallet and pockets were full of money. There was a short interim that he was unable to recall. The owner of the tourist shop was back at the shop. His skull was crushed and he was lying in a pool of his own blood. The shop’s lights had been turned off.
Mac stopped for a six pack in Miami and then drove on to Miami Beach. He inhaled the fresh, clean smell of salt water as he crossed the Seventy-Ninth Street Causeway. He drove down Collins Avenue and parked at the Eden Roc. Billy Joel was putting on a wonderful show---more for the new blonde singer he had acquired than for his audience. Mac finished his second mixed drink, stepped outside, and climbed into a yellow taxi cab.
"Where to, sport?"
"The airport."
Mac decided to leave the country for awhile. He was now fully able to remember the gruesome details of what had happened in the tourist shop. As the cab entered Arther Godfrey Boulevard, he decided upon Puerto Rico.
As the two guards guided Mac down his last mile, the priest again tried to interest him in a final confession. When the clamps were tightened and the headgear adjusted, Mac protested the horrifying situation, but the switch was thrown and the initial tinkling sensation turned to an unbearable burning pain and the end came quickly.
Mac paid the cab driver and entered the beautiful Miami International Airport. He made a reservation for a plane which was scheduled to leave Miami at 2:30 A.M., it’s destination San Juan, Puerto Rico. There were many cabs waiting in the San Juan Airport and Mac climbed into the first one in line.
"Were weel I take you Senor?"
"To a cheap but clean hotel."
"I know of jeest the place---La Barraca (The Cabin). It is three miles from the airport."
"Good. But first I need a drink. Can you get us a bottle?"
"Si, Senor. I have a case of rum in thee trunk of thee cab; coca cola, lime, ice cubes, and glasses too. Very popular drink for Americano tourists, both rich and poor. One can can mix a Cuba Libre."
"I am not really a tourist, but I will be happy to purchase a fifth of rum from you, together with the other necessities. Pull the taxi over when we leave the lights of the airport and you and I will have a little drink."
"Si, si Senor. We have Cuba Libre."
Many drinks later Mac registered at La Barraca. When he entered his room, he walked directly to the bed and fell across it, fast asleep.
The next morning he arose just before noon. He quickly washed his face and combed his hair and then went out and bought a Miami Herald. There was no mention of a slaying. Perhaps the body wouldn’t be discovered for two or three days. Could it be that the shop owner had no family? He surely must have friends. The entire chain of events which had occurred the previous night was like a horrible nightmare.
Mac had never been completely trustworthy, but his previous crimes had mainly been misdemeanors with an occasional felony, all of them related to his addiction to gambling. He had snatched an occasional purse in a nightclub or welched on a bet. Never anything of this magnitude, however. He cursed his weakness for gambling. And yet he loved to gamble. The thrill was better than the highs from sex, drugs, and alcohol. Of course, all of the highs eventually turn to lows.
But what was there to fret about? He was safe in Puerto Rico and had enough money to last for quite a while. And yet what if someone thought to connect his absence with the slaying? It was known, though, that Mac was a Gambler and a drifter and he didn’t have any obligations. Yes, he did have one obligation and that was to keep from getting caught. He remembered the terrible image he had visualized while crossing the causeway to Miami: The one in which he had imagined his last mile. What a feeling one gets when the first trickle of electrical current makes itself felt. What horror to smell burning flesh - one’s own flesh.
Mac drank heavily at a nearby bar that night and became depressed. He tried to decide how he would respond to questions if he were suspected and examined. People were at the Jai-Alai the night of the murder who might remember that he had been there and that he had been on a losing streak.
Mac noticed a man in a black suit at the other end of the bar. He also noticed that the man seemed to be watching him closely. What if he were to be a plain clothes cop or a Detective? He looked like one of those private detectives that appear on television---a Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler type. "Oh, oh, he’s coming this way," Mac noticed.
Mac quickly left the bar and turned down a dark street. He was quite sure he heard footsteps behind him but didn’t look back. After running two blocks he took a left and continued down an even darker street. The footsteps grew louder. Mac found himself on a dead-end street. There was a military arsenal beyond a fence at the end of the street. He made a quick decision. He began climbing the fence. As he reached the three strands of barbed wire at the top he felt a tinkling sensation which soon turned to an unbearable burning pain and the end came quickly.
The next morning one of the arsonal guards found Mac’s body.
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