Wild Card

He touched his father’s shoulder. His father’s eyelids flickered, and then he was awake. A look of recognition spread across his weather-beaten face.

“You go to hell,” his father said.

After his father stopped cursing him, Valentine talked him into drinking a cup of coffee with him. They sat at a pocked table in the empty dining room. Instead of pictures hanging on the walls, there were food stains. A naked bulb dangled above their heads. In the kitchen, a radio played.

“I want us to come to an understanding,” Valentine said.

“Apologize for beating me up on New Year’s,” his father rasped.

“You were hurting Mom. You got what was coming to you.”

His father’s eyes narrowed like a caged animal’s. He’d been handsome once, only years of alcohol abuse had ravaged his face, and now he looked like the torture victims Valentine sometimes saw in the newspaper. It was hard to believe this was the same man who’d bounced him on his knee, and told him bedtime stories.

“You were out there in the garage, pumping weights, building yourself up,” his father said accusingly. “You picked the one night you knew I’d be soused. You planned it.”

“Peace, Pop. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Then say you’re sorry. Say it!”

Valentine rose from the table. His pant legs were soaking wet, and he heard his shoes squish. “I should apologize for saving my mother from another beating? That’s not going to happen.”

His father scrunched his face up. “Nucky sent you, didn’t he? He told you how Vinny Acosta beat me up, and now you feel guilty.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t? Well, I’ll spell it out for you. Vinny Acosta wanted to get to you. Either with a bribe, or a girl. So he tried to squeeze me. Know what I told him?”

“No.”

“Nothing,” his father declared hoarsely.

Valentine looked into his father’s eyes and realized he was telling the truth. He sank into his seat and saw his father smile.

He had won this round.

“Vinny Acosta is after you,” his father said, leaning over the table. His breath reeked of whiskey, and reminded Valentine of every bad night they’d ever spent together. “You better arrest him before he hurts you, or your family. He’s a fucking animal.”

“I wish I could,” Valentine said.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know what he’s doing.”

His father slapped the table with his palm. “Well, I do! Vinny’s running a skim. I saw them on every construction job I ever worked on. The contract called for six inches of cement, we poured three. The contract said brass pipes, we used steel. What we promised and what the customer got was always different.”

“And the boss pocketed the difference.”

“That’s right. Vinny’s skim ain’t no different.”

“You’re positive about this, Pop.”

“I’d bet the clothes on my body.” His father’s smile grew waxy. He’d drunk a fifth a day for as long as Valentine could remember, and sometimes looked drunk even when he wasn’t. His father said, “A month ago, I snuck into Resorts and spotted Charley Polite, the bellman. I said, ‘Charley, it’s freezing outside, gimme one of those free rooms I keep hearing about.’ Charley says, ‘Sorry, Dom, but there ain’t no free rooms here.’ So I say, ‘What about for high-rollers?’ And Charley says, ‘High-rollers pay too. Nothing’s free.’”

His father smiled triumphantly and again slapped the table. “Nothing’s free. That’s Vinny’s skim. You get it?”

Valentine looked at him sadly. Vinny Acosta wasn’t murdering people over free rooms at Resorts’ casino. His father didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

“That’s not what he’s doing,” he said.

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t, Pop. Trust me.”

His father’s lips curled into a confrontational snarl. “Yes, it is, you stupid shit.”

“Don’t swear at me, Pop.”

His father angrily balled his hands into fists. “You strut around town like a rooster, and you’re still dumb as dirt. Aren’t you ever going to smarten up?”

Valentine heard the challenge in his voice. Next, his father would be standing and swinging his arms, challenging him to a fist-fight. Rising from the table, he removed a wool cap from his pocket, and stuck it on his head.

“Good bye, Pop.”

“You go to hell,” his father said.

It was the way all their conversations ended. Valentine decided to take a stab at changing the pattern. “I’ve got to get back to work. How about you coming over for dinner sometime? Lois still makes a mean pot roast.”

“Not until you apologize to me.”

“I’m sorry, Pop, but I’m not going to do that.”

“Then why did you come? What the hell do you want?”

Valentine stood with his hands in his pockets, and struggled with the words. They shared twenty years of hatred, yet it hadn’t always been that way. His old man had taught him so many things that he could never deny that he would always be his son.

“I wanted to tell you that I still love you. I always have, and I always will.”

His father didn’t move, his eyes simmering with rage. Maybe someday it will sink in, Valentine thought. He walked out of the dining room, and did not look back.