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“You’re better. That’s the trouble,” Cruesoe said.
“Now, see this pile of ten-dollar bills? That’s the stake, just put by these gents. You’ve stopped the game too long. Do you join or be the skeleton at the feast?”
“Skeleton.”
“Okay. They’re off! There she goes. Queen here, Queen there. Lost! Where? You ready to risk all your cash, fellows? Want to pull out? All of a single mind?”
Fierce whispers.
“All,” someone said.
“No!” Cruesoe said.
A dozen curses lit the air.
“Smart-ass,” said the cardsharp, his voice deadly calm, “do you realize that your static may cause these gentlemen to lose everything?”
“No,” Cruesoe said. “It’s not my static. Your hands deal the cards.”
Such jeers. Such hoots. “Move! My God, move!”
“Well.” With the three cards still under his clean fingers the gambler stared at the rushing storm beyond the window. “You’ve ruined it. Because of you, their choice is doomed. You and only you have intruded to burst the ambience, the aura, the bubble that enclosed this game. When I turn the card over my friends may hurl you off the train.”
“They wouldn’t do that,” Cruesoe said.
The card was turned over.
With a roar the train pulled away in a downpour of rain and lightning and thunder. Just before the car door slammed, the gambler thrust a fistful of cards out on the sulfurous air and tossed. They took flight: an aviary of bleeding pigeons, to pelt Cruesoe’s chest and face.
The club car rattle-banged by, a dozen volcanic faces with fiery eyes crushed close to the windows, fists hammering the glass.
His suitcase stopped tumbling.
The train was gone.
He waited a long while and then slowly bent and began to pick up fifty-two cards. One by one. One by one.
A Queen of hearts. Another Queen. Another Queen of hearts. And one more.
A Queen …
Queen.
Lightning struck. If it had hit him, he would never have known.
If MGM is Killed, Who Gets the Lion?
“Holy Jeez, damn. Christ off the cross!” said Jerry Would.
“Please,” said his typist-secretary, pausing to erase a typo in a screenplay, “I have Christian ears.”
“Yeah, but my tongue is Bronx, New York,” said Would, staring out the window. “Will you just look, take one long fat look at that!”
The secretary glanced up and saw what he saw, beyond.
“They’re repainting the studio. That’s Stage One, isn’t it?”
“You’re damn right. Stage One, where we built the Bounty in ‘34 and shot the Tara interiors in ‘39 and Marie Antionette’s palace in ‘34 and now, for God’s sake, look what they’re doing!”
