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"Why not? What if there are people kicking the crap out of each other and I have to go in and stop it? It's not exactly uncommon around here, is it?"
"That's just luck of the draw, I guess."
I think of the first house.
45 Edgar Street.
In a shithole like that, I can't imagine anything too good happening.
For the rest of the night, I push thoughts of the card away, and Marv wins three games in a row. As usual, he lets us know it.
I'll be honest and say I hate it when Marv wins. He's a gloater. A real bastard of a gloater, puffing on his cigar.
Like Ritchie, he still lives at home. He works with his father as a carpenter. In truth, he works hard, though he doesn't spend a cent of what he earns. Even those cigars. He steals them from his old man. Marv's the maestro of meanness with money. The prince of penny-pinchers.
He has thick blond hair that stands up almost in knots, wears old suit pants for comfort, and jangles his keys in his pockets with his hands. He always looks like he's laughing with sarcasm at something, privately. We grew up together, which is the only reason we're friends. He's actually got a lot of other acquaintances, too, for a few reasons. The first is that he plays soccer in winter and has mates from there. The second and main reason is that he carries on like an idiot. Have you ever noticed that idiots have a lot of friends?
It's just an observation.
None of that helps me, though. Slagging off Marv doesn't solve the Ace of Diamonds problem.
There's no avoiding it, as much as I try.
It always sidles up to me and makes me recognize it.
I come to a conclusion.
I tell myself, You have to start soon, Ed. 45 Edgar Street. Midnight.
It's a Wednesday night. Late.
The moon leans down on me as I sit on my front porch with the Doorman.
Audrey comes over, and I tell her I'm starting tomorrow night. It's a lie. I look at her and wish we could go inside and make love on the couch.
Dive inside each other.
Take each other.
Make each other.
Nothing happens, though.
We sit there, drinking some suburban cheap-shit passion-pop alcohol she brought, and I rub my feet on the Doorman.
I love Audrey's wiry legs. I watch them a moment.
She looks at the moon as it holds itself up in the sky. It's higher now, no longer leaning. Risen.
As for me, I hold the card again in my hand. I read it and get ready.
You never know, I tell myself. One day there might be a few select people who'll say, "Yes, Dylan was on the brink of stardom when he was nineteen. Dali was well on his way to being a genius, and Joan of Arc was burned at the stake for being the most important woman in history. And at nineteen, Ed Kennedy found that first card in the mail."
When the thought passes, I look at Audrey, the white-hot moon, and the Doorman, and I tell me to stop kidding myself.
My next lovely surprise is a nice subpoena. I have to go to the local courthouse and tell my version of what happened in the bank. This has happened sooner than I thought.
It's set down for two-thirty in the afternoon. I'll get some time off during my shift and drive back into town to the court.
