A Horse’s Head

13. Melissa

He asked the driver to wait for him at the curb and then went into the apartment building, trying to decide where he should begin — top floor? bottom floor? middle floor? A clock in the lobby told him it was now twenty-five minutes past five, which meant that any self-respecting housewife was already preparing dinner for her spouse and children. He thought this might be a very bad time to go knocking on a hundred and thirty doors, but he could not think of a better time, what with K and Purcell possibly sniffing around and lending urgency to the situation. He was beginning to regret his promise to the cab driver. He had, after all, taken all the risks involved with locating the jacket; he had figured out exactly why and how the jacket was valuable; he had been gambling on its worth since early yesterday; why in hell should he now give the cab driver one percent of the take simply for driving him from Brooklyn to Queens and back again? Well, he thought, we’ll renegotiate that after I find the jacket, the first thing to do is find the damn jacket.

Ground floor? he thought.

Middle floor?

Top floor?

It is always best to start at the bottom, he thought, and work your way up, so what I’ll do is go to the very bottom, which is the basement. In that way, I may catch some ladies still doing their wash, and thereby save myself the possibility of duplication; if I hit the basement last, I may run across some of them I’ve already talked to, yes, it’s best to hit the basement first, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Something was bothering him, but he didn’t know quite what yet. He found himself trying to decide whether he should take the money and go to Jakarta, or whether he should take it and go to Monte Carlo, or London (which is where it was happening, baby, all sorts of gambling action there) or perhaps Sicily where he could live like a king on two dollars a week, playing bocce for money with Mafiosi — all sorts of possibilities churned around in his skull, but of course he first had to find the jacket. And yet finding the jacket was not what bothered him, it was something other than that, though he could not yet put his finger on it.

Something though.

Something.

There was only one lady in the basement, taking her wet laundry out of the washing machine. He approached her and asked whether she had perhaps picked up a Judy Bond shopping bag on the train that afternoon, he being the rightful owner of the bag, and willing to offer a reward for its recovery since, well (using K’s identical line), let us say it has sentimental value. The woman was a very pleasant type who looked as Irish as Irene, though nowhere near as pretty, thirty-five or thirty-six years old, with weary lines around her sharp blue eyes. Oh my, she said, I do wish I could help you, but you see I got up at five-thirty this morning to make my husband breakfast before he went off fishing in Long Island Sound, and then I did his breakfast dishes and woke the children and dressed them and fed them and got them ready to be picked up to be taken to Prospect Park where the school is having a picnic, and then I did their breakfast dishes, and vacuumed, and dusted, and my mother-in-law came over for lunch which I had to make for her, she loves fried chicken, and then I did her lunch dishes, and changed the slipcovers on the furniture, and tried to get the stain out of the living-room rug where the dog dirtied, and then had to wait for the electrician who was coming to fix the door on the refrigerator, the light won’t go out when you close it, he didn’t come until about three o’clock, and he finally got it fixed by four, it cost five dollars for a service call and a dollar seventy-five for parts, and my husband came home with some very nice flounder and blackies that I had to clean and put in the refrigerator, the light wouldn’t go out again not ten minutes after the electrician had left, and then I came down here with my laundry at about four-thirty, and, as you can see, I’m just now taking the last load out of the washer, and now I’ll have to go hang it up outside, and then go upstairs and prepare dinner for the family, the children are supposed to be home at six if the bus is on time, so you see I didn’t have much time to ride the subway today, or to pick up a Judy Bond shopping bag with sentimental value, I’m terribly sorry.

Mullaney thanked her and was starting up out of the basement when he heard voices coming from one of the small rooms off to the side near the furnace. He approached the room confidently, expecting to find some more ladies chatting about the day’s events, and was disappointed to discover only three tiny little girls sitting around a wooden table, playing jacks. The room, he saw, had been whitewashed and hung with cute little nursery-type cutouts of the Cat and the Fiddle and Old King Cole and the like. A bare light bulb hung over the wooden table, which had been shortened to accommodate the four tot-sized chairs around it. The table was painted a bright yellow, the chairs a bright pink. The three little girls were each perhaps eight years old, each wearing a pastel dress that blended nicely with the yellow table and pink chairs and whitewashed walls and cute nursery-school cutouts. They were shrieking in glee at the progress of their game and paid not the slightest bit of attention to Mullaney, who stood quietly in the doorway, watching. Unobtrusively, he turned to leave, and then saw something on the floor beside the pink chair of the little dark-haired girl who sat at the far end of the table.

The something was his Judy Bond shopping bag.

His heart lurched.

He recognized the girl at once as the button-nosed little tyke who, with her mother, had been sitting opposite him in the subway car. He took a step into the room, and then noticed that her small chubby fist was clasped firmly around the handles of the shopping bag. She glanced up at him as he abortively hesitated in the doorway, her dark brown eyes coming up coolly and slowly to appraise him.

“Hello,” he said weakly.

“Hello,” the other little girls chirped, but the dark-haired one at the end of the table did not answer, watched him intently and suspiciously instead, her hand still clutched around the twisted white paper handles of the shopping bag.

“Excuse me, little girl,” Mullaney said, “but is that your shopping bag?”

“Yes, it is,” she answered. Her voice was high and reedy, it seemed to emanate from her button nose, her mouth seemed to remain tightly closed, her eyes did not waver from his face.

“Are you sure you didn’t find it on a subway train?” he asked, and smiled.

“Yes, I did find it on a subway train, but it’s mine anyway,” she said. “Finders, keepers.”

“That’s right, Melissa,” one of the other little girls said. “Finders, keepers,” and Mullaney wanted to strangle her. Instead, he smiled sourly and told himself to keep calm.

“There’s a jacket in that bag, did you happen to notice it?” he asked.

“I happened to notice it,” Melissa said.

“It belongs to me,” Mullaney said.

“No, it belongs to me,” she answered. “Finders, keepers.”

“Finders, keepers, right,” the other girl said. She was a fat little kid with freckles on her nose and braces on her teeth. She seemed to be Melissa’s translator and chief advocate, and she sat slightly to Melissa’s right, with her hands on her hips, and stared at Mullaney with unmasked hostility.

“The jacket has sentimental value,” Mullaney said, trying to look pathetic.

“What’s sentimental value?” the third little girl asked.

“Well, it means a lot to me,” he said.

“It means a lot to me, too,” Melissa said.

“It means a lot to her, too,” her translator chirped.

“Thank you, Frieda,” Melissa said.

“Well,” Mullaney said, smiling, and still trying to look pathetic, “what can it possibly mean to you, an old jacket with a tom lining and...”

“I can do lots of things with it,” Melissa said. She had still not taken her eyes from his face. He had thought only snakes never blinked, volume SN-SZ, but apparently Melissa was of a similar species, cold-blooded, with hoods over the eyes, never blinking, never sleeping, never relinquishing her coiled grip on the shopping bag.

“Name me one thing you can do with it,” Mullaney said.

“I could throw it in the garbage,” Melissa said, and giggled.

“She could throw it in the garbage,” Frieda said, and also giggled.

“Throw it where?” the third girl, who was apparently deaf, asked.

“In the garbage, Hilda,” Melissa said, still giggling.

“Oh, in the garbage,” Hilda said, and burst out laughing.

The three of them continued laughing and giggling for quite some time, while Mullaney stood foolishly in the doorway, trying to look pathetic, and beginning to sweat profusely. There was no window in the small basement room, and he could feel perspiration on his brow and under his arms, trickling over his collarbones, sliding onto his chest.

“Well,” he said, “if you’re going to throw it in the garbage, you might just as well give it back to me, seeing as it has sentimental value.”

“Then I won’t throw it in the garbage,” Melissa said.

“What will you do?”

“I’ll cut off all the buttons.”

“Why would you do that?” Mullaney asked.

“To sew on Jenny’s dress.”

“Who’s Jenny?”

“My dolly.”

“Well, you wouldn’t want to sew those big ugly buttons on a dolly’s dress, would you? Little dollies should have small bright shining buttons on their dresses.”

“I could paint them bright and shining,” Melissa said. “Anyway, it’s my jacket and I can do what I want with it. Finders, keepers.”

“Losers, weepers,” Frieda said.

Hilda giggled.

“Look,” Mullaney said, “I’ll pay you for the jacket, how’s that? I’m really very attached to it, you see, and I...”

“How much?” Melissa said.

“Fifteen cents,” Mullaney said, which was all the money he had in the world.

“Ha!”

“Well... how much do you want?”

“Half a million.”

“It’s... it’s not worth anywhere near that,” Mullaney said, thinking the child was omniscient. “Its just an old jacket with a torn lining, it couldn’t possibly be...” He wet his lips. “Look, Melissa... is that your name? Melissa?”

“That’s my name.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do...”

“Mister,” Frieda said, “we’re trying to play some jacks here, do you mind?”

“I certainly don’t want to interrupt your game, but I don’t think you understand how much that jacket means to me,” he said, thinking I must be out of my mind trying to reason with a bunch of fourth-graders, why don’t I simply grab the damn jacket and run? Sure, with Melissa’s grubby little fist wrapped around it, miserable unblinking little reptile, I’ll have to grab the jacket and the shopping bag and her in the bargain; I can just hear the unholy clamor that little gambit would raise.

“Mister,” Frieda said, “why don’t you go home?”

“Because I want my jacket,” Mullaney said, somewhat petulantly.

“It’s your turn, Hilda,” Melissa said.

Hilda picked up the jacks, held them in her hand for an instant, and then dropped them onto the table top. There were ten jacks, each made of metal, each shaped like an enlarged asterisk. They fell onto the table top separately, or in pairs, or in small groups, tumbling and rolling and finally coming to rest. Hilda eyed them critically.

“Go on,” Melissa said.

“I was examining them,” Hilda replied.

“Don’t be such an examiner,” Frieda said.

“Examine when you come to foursies or fivesies. Don’t examine so much on onesies.”

“How do you play that game?” Mullaney asked suddenly.

“Oh mister, please go away,” Melissa said.

“Seriously, seriously,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “How do you play it?”

“You throw the ball up,” Melissa said, “and it bounces, and if you’re going for onesies, you have to pick up one jack each time before you catch the ball. When you’re for twosies, you have to pick up two jacks each time.”

“And so on,” Frieda said.

“How do you win?” Mullaney asked.

“When you reach tensies,” Melissa said.

“Tensies?”

“When you bounce the ball and pick up all ten jacks before you catch it.”

“Are you a good player?”

“I’m the best player in the building.”

“She’s the best player in Brooklyn,” Frieda said.

“Maybe in the world,” Hilda said.

“Mmm,” Mullaney said. He unbuttoned his jacket, took it off, threw it on the table top, and said, “You see that jacket? Easily worth fifty dollars on the open market, almost brand-new, worn maybe three or four times.”

“I see it,” Melissa said.

“Okay. My jacket against the one in the bag, which is torn and worthless, and which you’re going to throw in the garbage anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll play you for the jacket in the bag.”

“Play me what?”

“Jacks.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Melissa said.

“She’ll murder you,” Frieda said.

“She’ll mobilize you,” Hilda said.

“My jacket against the one in the bag, what do you say?”

Melissa weighed the offer. Her free hand clenched and unclenched on the table top, her lips twitched, but her eyes remained open and unblinking. The room was silent. Her friends watched her expectantly. At last, she nodded almost imperceptibly and said, “Let’s play jacks, mister.”

He had never played jacks in his life, but he was prepared to play now for a prize worth half a million dollars — “I’ll cut off all the buttons,” Melissa had said, smart little fat-assed snake-eyed gambler. He sat in one of the tiny chairs, his knees up close near his chin, and peered between them across the table. “Who goes first?” he asked.

“I defer to my opponent,” Melissa said, making him feel he had stumbled into the clutches of a jacks hustler.

“How do you... how do you do this?” he asked.

“He’s got to be kidding,” Frieda said.

“She’ll mobilize him,” Hilda said.

“Pick up the jacks,” Melissa said. “In one hand.”

“Yes?” he said, picking them up.

“Now keep your hand up here, about this high from the table, and let them fall. Just open your hand and let them fall.”

“Okay,” he said, and opened his hand and let the jacks fall.

“Oh, that’s a bad throw,” Frieda said.

“You’re dead, mister,” Hilda said.

“Shut up, and let me play my own game,” he said. “What do I do next?”

“You throw the ball up, and let it bounce on the table, and then you have to pick up one jack and catch the ball in the same hand.”

“That’s impossible,” Mullaney said.

“That’s the game, mister,” Melissa said. “Those are the rules.”

“You didn’t say the same hand,” Mullaney said.

“It has to be the same hand,” Frieda said.

“Of course it has to be the same hand,” Hilda said.

“Those are the rules.”

“That’s the game.”

“Then why didn’t you say so when I asked you before?” Mullaney said.

“Any dumb ox knows those are the rules,” Melissa said. “Are you quitting?”

“Quitting?” he said. “Lady, I am just starting.”

“Then throw the ball, and start already,” Melissa said.

“Don’t rush me,” Mullaney said. He eyed the field. This was surely a simple game if these little fourth-graders could play it, hell, he had seen little girls of five and six playing it, there was certainly nothing here that an expert dice thrower couldn’t master. “Here goes,” he said, and threw the small red rubber ball into the air and reached for the closest jack, and grabbed for the ball, and missed the ball, and dropped the jack, and said, “Oh, hell” and immediately said, “Excuse me, ladies.”

“Your turn, Melissa,” Frieda said.

“Thank you,” Melissa said.

He watched her as she delicately scooped up the ten jacks in her left hand, watched as she disdainfully opened her hand to allow the jacks to spill onto the table top in a clattering, tumbling cascade of metal, watched as she coldly surveyed the possibilities, bounced the red rubber ball, picked up a jack, closed the same hand around the falling ball, bounced the ball again, picked up another jack, bounced it, another, bounced it, another, another, another, oh my God it is going to be a clean sweep, Mullaney thought, she is going to go from onesies to tensies without my ever getting another turn.

“That’s onesies,” Melissa said, and held the jacks above the table again, preparing to drop them. He watched very carefully as she opened her hand, trying to determine whether there was any secret to the dropping of the jacks, deciding that this part of it, at least, was all chance, and then concentrating on her technique for picking up the jacks. She worked so swiftly, bounce went the ball, out darted her hand like a snake’s tongue (she is surely a pit viper or an adder, Mullaney thought), back it came in time to catch the descending ball, two jacks at a time now (that’s right, she’s going for twosies; going for it, my eye, she’s almost finished with it), bounce went the ball again, out came the grasping hand, one unblinking eye on the falling rubber ball, pick up the jacks, catch the ball, “That’s twosies,” Melissa said.

“You’ve still got a long way to go,” Mullaney said.

“She beat Selma Krantz,” Frieda said.

“She even beat Rosalie Krantz,” Hilda said.

“Play, play,” Mullaney said.

“Threesies,” Melissa announced, as though she expected to proceed directly from there to foursies (announcing it) and fivesies (again announcing it) and straight through to tensies, after which she would take the jacket bequeathed to him by a Negro ten times the man he was (or so the legend went) and go up to dinner, goodbye, Mullaney, unless you are ready to commit homicide.

The possibility intrigued him.

Melissa rapidly picked up three jacks, and then another three, and then another three, leaving a single jack on the table.

“What about that one?” he asked.

“If there’s any left over,” Melissa said, “if it doesn’t come out even, you just pick up what’s left over.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Those are the rules,” Frieda said.

“That’s the game,” Hilda said.

Melissa bounced the ball, picked up the remaining jack, and caught the ball in the same hand.

“If you drop a jack, you’re out,” she said.

“Those are the rules.”

“That’s the game.”

“I see.”

“Foursies,” Melissa announced.

She went from foursies to fivesies to sixies with remarkable speed while Mullaney watched, figuring he had better learn this game damn quick because if she ever lost possession of the ball (which seemed highly unlikely) he would be called upon to perform once again, and his next chance would undoubtedly be his last and only chance. He began willing her to drop the ball, or to drop a jack, or to miss the ball, or to pick up only six jacks when she was supposed to pick up seven, but no such luck, flick went her hand, fingers closing on seven jacks, down came the ball into her open palm. Three jacks were left on the table now. She demolished those on the next bounce of the ball, and then announced, “Eightsies.”

Mullaney wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

“It’s very hot in here,” he said.

“It’s going to get hotter, mister,” Melissa said, and giggled.

Hilda and Frieda giggled, too.

“Come on, play,” Mullaney said irritably.

As Melissa picked up the jacks and opened her hand, dropping them onto the table top, Mullaney found himself praying that she would lose, the way he had prayed on the edge of too many dice tables in the past year — praying for the point when he was betting with the shooter, praying for a seven when he was betting the shooter wrong, praying that he, Andrew Mullaney, would win big just once, would pick up all the chips, all the cash, once, just once. With beads of sweat popping out on his brow, with his heart banging inside his chest, he prayed now that an eight-year-old girl would drop a jack, drop the ball, drop dead even, anything, so long as he won, so long as he won.

She scooped up eight jacks and caught the ball easily.

The remaining two jacks were spread rather far apart on the table top. Melissa eyed them with her same unblinking confidence, but he sensed she was in trouble because she was hesitating much longer than usual before bouncing the ball again. She was calculating the distance between the two jacks, he knew, the time it would take her to scoop up both of them before catching the descending ball. It would be a tight squeeze; she knew it, and Mullaney knew it, and he found himself smiling tightly for the first time since the game had begun.

“Go on,” he said, “play.”

Melissa nodded. Her tongue darted out (yes, she was most certainly a cobra, or at least a water moccasin), wetting her lips. The brown eyes looked from one jack to the other. She took a deep breath and threw the ball into the air. The ball bounced. Her hand shot out with dazzling speed, hitting one jack, sweeping it across the table top, pushing it ahead of her flat palm, the ball was coming down. She had shoved both jacks together now, her hand closed on them, she scooped them from the table top together, swung her hand to the left, clutched for the ball, and missed.

“You missed,” Mullaney whispered.

“I know,” she said.

“It’s your turn,” Frieda said.

“You’re for onesies,” Hilda said.

“And Melissa is still for eightsies.”

“I’m going to win,” Mullaney whispered.

“Like fun,” Frieda said.

“I am going to win, little girl,” he whispered. “For once in my life, I am going to win.”

“Play,” Melissa said.

He concentrated only on the jacks and on the red rubber ball. He ignored the malevolent stares of the little girls ranged around him at the sawed-off table, ignored the suffocating heat of the room and the discomfort of the tiny chair on which he sat, ignored too the knowledge that half a million dollars was at stake, concentrating only on the game, only on winning. He was a clumsy player. He seized the jacks too anxiously, clutched for the rubber ball too desperately, but he dropped neither jacks nor ball, and by the time he reached twosies, he was beginning to get the knack of the game. He did not allow his new confidence to intrude on his concentration. Twosies was the Daily Double, that was all, you picked the two nags most likely to win, and then you picked the next two, and the next two after that, and before you knew it there were only two left on the table, and you swept them up into your hand and readied clumsily for the falling rubber ball, but caught it, yes, clenched your fist around it, caught it, and were ready for threesies.

Threesies was merely picking the Win, Place, and Show horses in the proper order, three times in a row, and then there was only one jack left on the table, simple, bouncie bouncie ballie, scoop it up, catch the ball, there you are, my dears.

“I’m going to win,” he whispered.

“Play,” Melissa whispered.

He ignored their hard-eyed stares, their cruel silent devout wishes for his downfall, he ignored them and moved into foursies, it seemed to be getting easier all the time, all you had to do was scoop up four, and then four again, easy as pie, he closed his hand on the two remaining jacks, caught the ball, grinned at the little girls who were watching him now with open hatred, and said again, not whispering it this time, “I am going to win, my dears.”

“You are going to lose,” Melissa said flatly and coldly and unblinkingly.

“You heard her,” Frieda said.

“You are going to lose,” Hilda said.

“You are a loser,” Melissa said.

“We’ll see,” he said. “I’m for fivesies.”

“Play,” Melissa said.

He dropped the jacks onto the table. He scooped up five, and caught the ball, scooped up the remaining five and caught the ball again.

“Sixies,” he said.

He went through sixies in a breeze, feeling stronger and more confident all the time, not even noticing Melissa or her friends anymore, his full and complete concentration on the table top as he raced through sevensies, and eightsies, and ninesies, and then paused to catch his breath.

“Play,” Melissa said.

“This is the last one,” he said. “If I get through this one, I win.”

“That’s right,” Melissa said.

“But first you have to get through it,” Frieda said.

“First you have to win, mister.”

“The game isn’t over yet, mister.”

“You can still lose, mister.”

“Shut up!” he said.

The room went silent.

He picked up the jacks. I must win, he told himself. I must win. He dropped the jacks onto the table top. Nine of them fell miraculously together in a small cluster. The tenth jack rolled clear across the table, at least two feet away from the others.

“Too bad,” Melissa said. “You give up?”

“I can make it,” Mullaney said.

“It’s a harder shot than mine was,” Melissa said.

“I can make it.”

“Let’s see you,” she said.

“All right.”

The pile of nine first, he thought, then go for the one, and then catch the ball. No. The one first, sweep it toward the bigger pile using the flat of my hand, the way Melissa used hers, then scoop up all ten together and catch the...

No.

Wait a minute.

Yes.

Yes, that’s the only way to do it.

“Here goes,” he said.

“Bad luck” the three girls said together, and he threw the ball into the air.

His hand seemed to move out so terribly slowly, hitting the single lonely jack across the table and sweeping it toward the larger pile, the ball was dropping so very quickly, he would never make it, the pile of ten was now beneath his grasping fingers, he closed his hand, his eyes swung over to the dropping ball, he scooped up the jacks, the ball bounced, slid his closed hand across the table and, without lifting it from the wooden surface, flipped it over, opened the fingers, spread the hand wide, caught the ball and was closing his hand again when he felt the ball slipping from his grasp.

No, he thought, no!

He tightened his hand so suddenly and so fiercely that he thought he would break his fingers. He tightened it around the ball as though he were grasping for life itself, crushing the ball and the jacks into his palm, holding them securely, his hand in mid-air, and then slowly bringing his fist down onto the table.

“I win,” he said without opening his hand.

“You bastid,” Melissa said, and threw the shopping bag onto the table top. She rose from her tiny chair, tossed her dark hair, and walked swiftly out of the room.

“You bastid,” Frieda said.

“You bastid,” Hilda said, and they followed Melissa out.

He sat exhausted at the small table, his head hanging between his knees, his hand still clutched tightly around the jacks and the rubber ball. At last, he opened his hand and let the jacks spill onto the table, allowed the rubber ball to roll to the edge and fall to the concrete floor, bouncing away across the basement.

The room was very still.

He turned over the Judy Bond shopping bag and shook the black burial jacket onto the table top. He fingered the large buttons at the front, and the smaller buttons on the sleeves, and then he picked up one of the jacks and moved it toward the center front button. Using the point of the jack, he scraped at the button. A peeling ribbon of black followed the tip of the jack. Flakes of black paint sprinkled onto the table top. He smiled and scratched at the button more vigorously, thinking There are three buttons down the front of the jacket (each about ten carats, Bozzaris had said), ten, eleven, and nine, in that order, scratching at the button, chipping away the paint; and there are four smaller buttons on each sleeve, eight at five to six carats each, I am a rich man. Mullaney thought, I am in possession of half a million dollars’ worth of diamonds.

He had scraped all the paint off the middle button now.

He grasped the button between his thumb and forefinger, lifted it and the jacket to which it was fastened toward the hanging light bulb. It caught the incandescent rays, reflected them back in a dazzling glitter. This must be the eleven-carat beauty, he thought, it’s slightly larger than the other two, I am a rich man, he thought, I am at last a winner.

“Hand it over,” the voice behind him said.

He turned.

K and Purcell were standing in the doorway to the room. Mullaney had no intention of handing over the jacket, but it didn’t matter because Purcell immediately walked over to him and hit him full in the face with the butt of a revolver.