bullsession // adalia ~

[Mimi]

A hazy, diaphanous fog, courtesy of the ring of lit ciggys and cigars, hung over the plush and verdant poker table surrounded by men – their own little Knights of the Round Table – though the questionable characters of these contemporary knights were anything but heroic and chivalrous, leastwise not by any respectable definition. Silence hung in the air a few moments as thick and tangible-yet-intangible as the smell and curl of tobacco smoke wafting through the air in carefully layered strata. Even the muffled jazz didn’t disrupt their concentration.

Beer bottles clinked against the hickory counter; shifty eyes darted furtively from face to face before resettling on red hearts and diamonds. Then –

“Ugh, I’a fold.”

The rather large man – ironically known as “Ace” outside of their little group – slapped the cards down with a disgusted roll of the eyes as he rose from the table, tugging at the braces of his overalls with quiet indignation. “Yer’all jist’a hunch o’sheets ‘n swines, ya are. Why else I never win, eh? Jist tryin’ ta swinedle m’hard earned dough, ya are.”

“My, and with vernacular and malapropisms such as that, it is a wonder no one takes you seriously, Clynne.”

Clynne bridled at the insult, resetting his hands on the edge of the table and leaning towards the offender with confrontational intent. His nostrils flared, and his breath attested to the carpet of dead soldiers about his chair.

“Oh, pipe down, ya goddamn piker. Got nerve ta come over ‘ere ‘n say’n that to m’face?”

“Hm, I would rather not if such means looking into a face only a mother could love.”

“A’right--!”

“HEY!”

All eyes snapped to the door which had, whilst they’d all been thus preoccupied, curiously opened, allowing in the strident trills of the trumpet, the sultry brass undertones of a saxophone, and the quietly uproarious murmur of the ossified in the background. But it wasn’t so much the sounds coming through the door as the person standing in it that concerned the group.

“Everything jake?” Rian asked with the slightest quirk of the brow as he stepped into the miniature establishment – “home away from home”, if you will, or fraternal society discretely set apart from the hullabaloo of the gin mill, from the maudlin waitresses and what-have-you female rubbish that necessarily accompanied their male counterparts. (Though why, why that had to be so Rian could not fathom.)

There was a general shuffling and glancing down at the floor before a familiar voice broke the tenuous hush. Rian blinked, taken aback, and his hand jerked away from the handle as the door swung shut once more.

“Brother!”

Christian abruptly stood from his seat, knocking into the two gentlemen alongside him, one of whom offered Christian a disgruntled snort and spiteful glare, and clumsily waded through the empty and idle bottles on the floor as he struggled around the girth of the circular table, picking and choosing where to land his feet after the initial misstep.

Rian was more than surprised, and it registered on his face for a few precious moments, lingering the briefest split-second, before his trademark apathy replaced it.

“Christian,” he started, only to stop himself amusedly to watch the rest of his less-than-graceful double’s traipse across the room, and t’wasn’t a cramped room by any means. In fact, Rian fancied it quite a spacious room, and Christian’s apparent lack of equilibrium navigating it made the situation all the more hilarious though, like any cultured gentleman, Rian did not chortle (least, not audibly, anyhow).

In the meantime, a background murmur within the room had resumed as the circle of men (now one less) recommenced their play of cards again with a lackadaisical reprimand towards Ace/Clynne for his lack of humor and one towards the other fellow for his lack of tact. Rian looked past Christian and regarded said men with not exactly fondness or camaraderie but, say, familiarity, it being the closest term. He gave an inaudible scoff, one hand in his pocket toying with loose change, as he waited the minute or two it took for Christian to stumble over. Such were the ways of men, he supposed – transitory fights characterized by aggressive punches, broken bones, ephemeral grudges as opposed to the, well, the relative bitchiness (for lack of a better word) of the opposite sex.

At last, Christian had traversed the length of the room, but by that time, Rian had grown thoroughly agitated both physically and mentally as he rocked ever so slightly back and forth on his feels, the smoke clogging up his olfactory senses and sending him into a general tizzy as cigarette smoke tended to do. He raised his hand to his mouth, about to cough into it, when Christian, mistaking the gesture as a salutational one, threw his arms around the other in a tight hug.

Rian refrained from recoiling at the prospect of touching and stiffly clapped Christian on the back.

“Oi, I weren’t expecting you for another week, boy.”

Christian held on for another moment, oblivious to his brother’s discomfort and only letting go when Rian cleared his throat emphatically.

“Oh. Ah – s-sorry.”

Taking a step back, Christian observed Rian with an unbridled grin. “You look well, brother.”

Rian scoffed; Christian never was any good at reading between the lines. “Yeah, well. You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh! W-Well, I settled some things earlier than I intended, and I figured I’d come up and surprise you.”

“I am –“ Rian suddenly broke off, coughing.

“Brother!” Christian exclaimed, eyes widening in concern, and lurched forward as if expecting Rian to faint on the spot.

Rian dismissively waved Christian off, agitated, and with a low, guttural growl ruminating in the back of his throat, pushed past Christian towards the still unawares offenders. Stopping short of the maze of dead soldiers, Rian glared at it a moment before plowing right on through, and with deliberate movements, he strode briskly over to a certain dark-haired rum runner, Darin, snatched the cigarette from betwixt his lips, and snuffed it out on the counter, leaving an ashen circlet where it burned into the velvet.

Darin scoffed, looking up with all the intention of getting up if not for his, at the moment, shiftless temper and asked in a rather querulous, accusing and strained tone, “What the fuck? -- God, bitch, Felcotti.”

“I heard that.”

“Oh? Thank goodness, I was so concerned that you hadn’t.”

Rian raised an inquisitive eyebrow in response; Darin wasn’t usually so crass, but the half-empty bottle of hooch at his right hand quickly answered the question. “I shall disregard that now because are obviously fried to the hat, but as for the rest of you, lit out your cigs. You can all drink ‘til you drop, but I’ll be damned if I let y’all smoke up you a storm in ‘ere.”

General dissent rumbled around the table as each and every one either stamped out his cigar or crushed it against the table, leaving the same ashen marks against the green background or dull tiled floor as Rian had. The smoke, however, lingered, seeming thicker now that Rian was at its epicenter; he batted at the air as if swatting away invisible gnats and muttered curses under his breath all the while. Suddenly, a chorus of “I fold”s rose up around him, so similar and simultaneous that it more so resembled the hum of a shot carburetor or the sputtering of a Frigidaire’s motor than the words of men.

Rian looked them over, a bit surprised, Christian forgotten for the moment. It seemed only Darin and Jack remained.

Jack smirked smugly, flourished a wad of crisp hundred dollar bills seemingly out of thin air and slapped it down atop the pile of bills, foreign cigars, and other such worldly goods already in the pot. “I raise ya fifteen hundred rubes.”

Darin frowned, scoffed and seemed ready to bow out as well. “Ya know I can’t see ya that; I’d already bet all I got.”

Jack considered a moment before an idea seemed to strike him, and a shrewd grin crept along his weathered lips. His eyes glinted mischievously under the overhanging lamp as they casually but deliberately fell to Darin’s left hand or, more specifically, left ring finger and the barely visible tan line that bespoke a golden band. “Could always throw in yer handcuff.”

“What?” Darin growled, “We set a betting limit, fair ‘n square, Jack. I might be dumb, but I ain’t that dumb. ‘specially considering the wife’s a professional killer, so I think not.”

“You’re married, Darin?” Christian interjected, self-consciously touching upon his own engagement ring with a nonplussed blink of the eyes.

“Yah, yah,” Darin answered half-heartedly and dismissively, “Got handcuffed some months back. Sorry didn’t mention it, but it weren’t no big deal. Not as though it were some on the level marriage any—“

“Right, so why not bet the ring. Like ya said, ain’t any kinda on the level thing, right? So, I’d say, bet the orchid. ‘Sides, you might not even lose anyhow, and then, you’d get it back ‘long with all dis stuff, ya see?” Jack gestured enticingly to the pile of goods, knickknacks and greenbacks before him with a rather comical wiggle of the brow.

Rian, in the meanwhile, had taken Christian’s seat between Darin and Clynne, sucking on his own bootleg with a bemused smile.

A few minutes dragged by like so, each member of the group growing increasingly somber, strangely, as the soporific side effect of the home-brewed alcohol settled in and seemed to numb the general senses. Only Christian remained alert and active, glancing curiously from this face to that as his leg gently shook in anticipation, and he sipped at his winegrape juice.

“Ah, horsefeathers,” Darin finally muttered, much to Jack’s delight, and fished from his right pocket the handcuff he seldom wore in the city. “Get on with it, then -- full house, Jack. Beat that.”

And he laid out three Kings and two tens with a complacent raise of the brow. Jack’s face immediately fell. “A-Aw, w-well, then. I-I gu-guess…yer wife’s gonna kill ya, ‘cuz I got a royal flush.”

“What! Bull!” Darin rose so quickly from his seat as to nearly knock it over, and he leaned threateningly over the table, staring at the hand before him and willing maybe one of them, just one, to be a heart. “Goddamn, you –“

“Ah, ah, ‘fraid a bet’s a bet, Darin.” Jack, with a completely satisfied slap to the knee and thrilled bark of a laugh, acquisitively threw out his arms over the table, touching upon Darin’s ring in particular as he drew the stuffs to his chest.

Rian laughed to himself, looking up at the rather consternated rum runner who had immediately started arguing for his case.

“Aw, damn it all, Jack. Lore’ll give me the bum’s rush iff’n I don’t come home with the thing. I’ll get you the cold, hard cash tomorrow. ‘Sides, the ring don’t mean nothing to you; I think the dough’d be more valuable.”

Jack shook his head, grinning drunkenly.

“Nah can do, Gaviston. Sorry. Bet’s a bet. ‘Sides, I can always melt the thing down or…y’know, pawn it or something others. Nope, thanks, but no thanks. You bet it, gotta keep ta ya word, eh? Iffn’ ya don’t, we’d wouldn’t be no better than ‘em good-fer-nuthin' Bostonians up’n the North, wouldn’t we now readily? You wouldn’t happen to be some –“

“Alright, alright!” Darin snarled and sat down with a resigned breath, grabbing the nearest more than half full beer bottle and downing it. Whoever had been drinking it prior didn’t object; no one would’ve, for everyone was quite well acquainted with the stories of the “Black Widow”.

Darin sulked quietly, staring at the barren hand now and suddenly wishing the ring were on his finger as opposed to all those other times he’d deliberately shook it off and nearly forgotten it in some dark crevice or whereabouts. Christian looked to the man sympathetically, finger toying nervously with the golden band on his own finger.

“Aw, Dari –“

“Hey. I know the solution to your problems. Round of Russian Roulette, anyone?”

All eyes fell to Rian who had, in the few seconds he’d made the suggestion, pulled a revolver and round from the inside of his jacket. Christian stared, bug-eyed, and his mouth made the motions of speaking without any words ever coming out.

“I’m in.”

“Same.”

“Swell, Clynne’s in too.”

“Hey! Dun speak fer m—”

“Who’s the piker now, eh?”

A few others nodded silently, fingering their bottles with disinterested yawns.

Darin stared around at the group of men, none of whom had said anything to reject the idea, and he, with an incredulous smile creeping across his face, asked slowly, “…Seriously? Seriously.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Well, y’all outta your minds.”

“Well, you’re obviously still sober. Here, take another hair o’ the dog.”

“Ah, I might have been idiotic enough to gamble away my wedding ring, but there’s no way in hell anyone of you is convincing me to play dice with my life. Nuh-huh, sorry, y’all outta luck, genteelmen. If you will excuse me, I must go shopping for a new wedding ring now.”

Stepping peremptorily from the chair on which he’d been sitting backwards, Darin roughly repositioned it against the table and stuffed his hands into his pockets, awaiting the barrage of insults that would surely accompany his decision before he’d be allowed to leave, and as he surmised…

“Coward.”

“Piker.”

“’ello-belly.”

“Ha,” Darin responded with a disbelieving scoff. “Y’all can razz all ya like, but like I said, I ain’t stupid enough. Christian – coming? I sure could use some help.”

Christian blinked at his brother then back at Darin then back at the group and toyed with his ring all the more nervously. “I – Well –“

“’Course he’s staying. He’s my brother. No brother of mine is gonna back out of a challenge to Russian Roulette.”

Darin raised a dubious eyebrow at Rian. “Listen to yourself. God, you are jazzed.”

With a single shake of his head, Darin grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and slung it on his arm. “I ain’t stayin’ to watch some poor schmuck die from a bullet to the brain. I’m leaving, and if you’re smart, or smarter really -- and I should think you are considering you’re studying to pass the bar -- you’d come with, Christian.”

In five or six strides, Darin was out the door, and jazz blasted into the room a moment before the door swung shut with a certain sureness that, at least to Christian, reminded him of the final closing of a coffin before the family buried it. Christian stared at the door, still wide-eyed, and chewed contemplatively on his bottom lip.

“Oi, boy, focus here,” Rian demanded, and Christian reluctantly swiveled around in his seat. “Clynne, catch.”

“OI! Felcotti, careful with that damn thing!” Clynne rumbled despite catching the revolver deftly in his empty left hand, his right one preoccupied with a glass of scotch.

“It’s unloaded, faintheart. Here’s the round, and I think this goes without saying, but we’re re-spinning.”

Rian tossed the round across the table to Clynne who frowned uncharacteristically at the sight of the it.

“Why I gotta be goin’ firstly?”

“Obviously because you folded first.”

Clynne swore violently under his breath, cursing heaven, hell, and whatever was in between as he rapidly inserted the round, spun the chambers – each click!click!click! eliciting a small quake from Christian – set the barrel to his head before he could think twice and –

“W-Wait, Clynne!” Christian called out tremulously, but it was too late and – the gun clicked harmlessly to the next chamber.

Clynne smiled smugly as he passed the gun to the next in line, and with abated breath, Christian listened as three or four others (he’d lost track of how many seeing as he’d had his eyes squeezed tightly shut the entire time) passed their turns safely. Before long, Rian’s revolver had returned to him. Fingers sweeping along the barrel, Rian took out the round, remarking with an amused half-smirk that Jack had been one chamber away from having his brains blown out the side of his head (to which Jack laughed mockingly), and re-inserted it as he, like the others, spun the chamber, set it to his head, and –

Christian snatched it away from him, and Rian snapped his eyes to look accusingly at his doppelganger. “Christian. What the hell.”

Christian gulped several times, his throat suddenly dry and he’d already drunk all his grape juice, before finally finding the voice (and nerve) to speak out.

“Br-Broth-Brother --! This is insane! Darin was right! I—I can’t—I cannot –“

“Look here, Christian. Everyone had their turns, s’only fair we take ours.”

“I—I—I kn-know, bu-but—“

“You arguing with me, boy?”

Christian looked down at the gun in his hands and resolutely shook his head.

“N—N—No! O-Of course not, Br-Brother o-o-o-or, at-at l-least, I-I do-do not-not mean-mean to, bu-but—“

“Hey, look. How about I cut you a deal. You go. And I won’t, alright?”

Christian snapped his head to attention with a doubtful grimace despite his brother’s sincere face.

“Honest.”

“Hey, now, Felcotti,” Clynne called out, “that ain’t fair.”

“Hey, hey. If Christian dies, obviously he loses, and the game’s done, right? So, we’ll just see how it goes, yeah?”

Christian looked to Rian again who had lapsed into silence and was sipping placidly at his whiskey. He nodded to Christian. “Go on, then, Christian.”

“Y-Y-Y-You p-p-p-pro-promi---“

“What is this, elementary school? Get the hell on with it, Christian,” Jack jeered, tapping impatiently on his winning hand which was still laid out before him and his newly gained treasures.

Nervously gnawing at the side of his mouth now, Christian looked for any sort of sympathy from the men of the round table and found, as he’d been expecting, none. Seeing that there was no other option, Christian quivered as he pulled out the round and re-inserted it into the lowermost chamber. He looked up again as he spun it and listened to each click! with a sudden lucidity he hadn’t observed when the others had spun it. When the final click! had faded away and all that was left was to fire it, Christian took a shaky breath. His mind had blanked when the gun first fell into his hands, and he could feel Rian’s expectant and waiting gaze on him.

Setting his finger on the trigger, Christian brought the barrel to his temple.

Dear God, he hoped it didn’t fire.

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