Dead Money

By John Montesano

Chase Barnes, becoming further emotionally unhinged after learning of his wife's unexpected pregnancy, impulsively ventures to Atlantic City for a weekend getaway.  Rather than rediscovery, Chase discovers a world of manipulation, corruption, and intimidation when voluntarily coming to the aid of an up and coming poker player who has be

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Montesano
• Release date: Mar 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087860831

Book preview

Dead Money

John Montesano

For Megan and Ryan

A king can do no wrong, unless it runs into an ace.

~ Anonymous

Part One:

The Flop

CHAPTER

1

When things repeatedly go wrong, there comes a point when there is only one way to make things right.

While some preach the art of powering through regret and leaving the past behind, I can’t help but allow regret to grab hold of my throat and squeeze.  The past is where I’m stuck.

What purpose does life serve if I can’t revel in what the future holds?

My life is a waste.  I’m consuming oxygen meant for those whose conscience isn’t filled with incorrigible regrets.  I mean, shit, who should have the right to live after committing the ungodly act of taking the life of their own child?  It certainly wasn’t done out of malice or ill intent.  Some stand firm in believing it was done as an act of nobility.  A dutiful obligation in upholding a protective service as a lousy beat cop. 

Bullshit!

Who the fuck am I kidding?  I killed my kid. I often evaluate my justifiable thought process, only to come full circle and realize that it was my fault. 

Was it my gun? Yup.

Did I pull the trigger? You betcha.

Was Jake’s chest on the receiving end? No doubt about it.

Did the two bullets fired from my gun take his life? Fuck yes!

So, yeah, excuse me when I say that I can’t help but just feel just a smidge of guilt.

I sat at the kitchen table, watching the clock slowly tick past the five o’clock hour.  I wrote in this shitty journal, only to delay the inevitable.  The journal.  An inadequate tactic shoved upon me by the lovely, yet highly incompetent Dr. Karen Sharper.  My therapist.  She was certainly at the front of the line when handing out the beauty, but at the tail end for the brains.

The abhorrent pain outweighs the unbearable suffering.  Above all, the shameful guilt makes each day meaningless.  Each day I walk this earth should be my last.

I feel sorry for the poor bastard that has to clean up the impending mess.

Lindsey- I love you but it’s not about you for once.

My mind is made up.  It’s time to go.  I want to die.

CHAPTER

2

Chamberlin and Ryerson.

The intersection that will forever haunt my nightmares.  The location of the 7-11 convenience store where I committed the ungodly act of killing my son.  My fifteen-year old son, Jake.  The adjacent alley where Jake lay dying in my arms.  I held him while he bled to death from the two bullets I put in his chest.  His blood poured through my fingers as I struggled to save his life.  What better place to take my own life than the very spot where my son lay dying in my arms?

Murderer!

There’s my conscience reminding me of my dreadful sin.

I left the house before sunrise, long before Lindsey was awake, armed with a fifth of bourbon and my nine-millimeter handgun.  The marble notebook tucked under my arm.        I parked across the street and sat staring at the intersecting street signs through the windshield.  My pulse instantly accelerated at the living form of my nightmare.  Rivers of sweat streamed down the back of my neck, dampening my shirt collar.  It was soaked through by the time I exited the car. 

A single-bulb street light illuminated the mouth of the alley.  My stomach churned a firestorm of butterflies as I crossed the street.  A stiff swig of bourbon sedated said butterflies.  I stood on the precipice of reliving that dreadful night.  The stench of damp sewage filled my nose.  Loose pieces of trash skittered underfoot in the cool early morning breeze.  Rain was in the near distance. I used the flashlight feature on my phone to light a path and forced myself to enter into the depths of my hell.

I hadn’t been back here since the night Jake died.

Truthfully, I was unsure as to why I returned at all.  Dr. Sharper would clinically assume that my presence was a method of achieving closure.  Closing the book on the emotional hardship that was Jake’s death.

How the hell can I close a book that refuses to close every time I shut my eyes? 

Pull the fucking trigger, that’s how!

About twenty feet from where I stood was the exact location Jake lay bleeding out.  I moved to stand in the spot I stood on that night when I fired off my weapon.

I drew the gun from my pocket.

Stop! I screamed and took another gulp of bourbon.

A shadowy illusion of Jake wearing my oversized New York Mets sweatshirt appeared in front of me.  The hood loosely hung over his eyes.  A hood so large that Jake’s head sunk within, concealing his full identity.  Jake’s right arm, which he’d taken from the lock box in my bedroom, blurrily swayed with his illusionary image. 

Stop!  Freeze! I screamed again.

The shadowy illusion of Jake turned towards me, making a gesture to submissively surrender his weapon.  Clear as day this time, despite the lone bulb above the back door that had still not been replaced, rendering the depths of the alley completely dark.

I fired my weapon twice, instantly hearing the bullets ping off a Dumpster at the far end.  The shell casings rattled to the ground.  The echo deafened my eardrums. The center of Jake’s image blurred a crimson reddish color, then disappeared.  I drained the remaining contents of my bourbon and listened to the shards of broken glass skate down the brick wall to my left after I threw it.  I stowed my gun and sprinted ahead to the spot where Jake fell.  I sat on my knees and cradled Jake’s body as if it was lying there in front of me. 

Void of any rationality and sense of purpose, I opened the marble notebook and read aloud my most recent entry.  The words of painful despair and desperation ricocheted off the narrow confines of the alley.  Upon completion, I gripped my gun and turned it on myself and trained on my left temple.

Comfort and an aura of mild clarity began to seep through the haze of bourbon the closer I came to pulling the trigger.  I sat with crisscrossed legs on the darkened splotches on the ground that were the remnants of Jake’s blood, now a permanent fixture on the cement.  Mother Nature couldn’t even emancipate me of my wrongdoing.  As the reality of my own vindication and vigilante justice was nearing, a quiet and somber voice gently echoed through the alley. The familiar voice called out my name.

CHAPTER

3

Chase, the voice repeated.

Slivers of sunlight began to walk over the edge of the surrounding rooftops.  My white knuckled fist squeezed the gun, forcibly pressing it against my temple.  The back of my right hand swept away a cocktail of sweat and tears from my eyes.  I couldn’t wait for the third of the trifecta, blood-my blood, to coat my hands.

Get out of here! I shouted.

You know that’s not going to happen.

Leave me alone!

I still hadn’t turned to face Fitzgerald, who firmly held his stance at the entrance of the alley.  I didn’t have to look to know the manner in which he stood.  Hands loosely tucked into his pockets.  Back ramrod straight, a mannerism engrained from years of military service.  Feet spread shoulder-width apart with his head stooped slightly forward. 

Chase, don’t do this.  Think about the consequences of the choice you’re about to make, Fitzgerald said.  He methodically selected each step to close the gap between he and I, using a carefully chosen staccato to the words he spoke to coincide with his movements. 

Fuck consequences, I said.  What about the consequences of the choice I already made?  The consequence of having to live each and every fucking day knowing that Jake isn’t coming back.  What about that?

Fitzgerald intentionally eliminated the justification of civil responsibilities and occupational hazards from his vocabulary, knowing the adverse effect it would have. 

"I get that you’re hurting.  I get that you’re in pain.  You’re allowed to be.  In fact, you’re supposed to be. Jake’s death was a horrible tragedy and I feel for you.  I feel for Lindsey.  But right now, you’re being a selfish prick," Fitzgerald said.  The poignancy of his words cut through the bourbon the way a blow dart pierces flesh. 

I could feel his presence behind me then a firm hand on my shoulder.  Fitzgerald’s hand held steady as my shoulders violently shook while I cried.  He didn’t move to wrestle the gun away from me knowing I would drop it on my own.  Instead, he moved to drape an arm across my shoulders and sat down next to me.  Thicker chunks of sunlight were now forming across the emptiness of the alley.  Early morning traffic started to accumulate on the cross street.  We both found ourselves staring down at the now blackened stain that was once Jake’s blood. 

It was a while before either of us spoke again.  The gun eventually slipped through my fingertips and fell into my lap.  Fitzgerald casually reached over like he was reaching for a handful of popcorn rather than a loaded weapon and removed it from the crevasse in between my legs.  He pocketed it in his own. The numbness from the alcohol still carried a heavy weight through my bloodstream while the haze in my brain gradually dissipated like the burn of an early morning fog. 

What the fuck am I going to do? I blurted out.

Fitzgerald answered despite the rhetorical connotation. 

There’s not much you can do about what’s already done.  The only thing you can control is what you choose to do from this point forward.  Be there for Lindsey and the rest of your family that are equally suffering after losing their grandson, their nephew, and their friend.  Above all, be there for yourself.

Before I responded, I found myself struggling to regulate my breathing.  Breaths became more rapid and much shorter.  On cue, Fitzgerald produced a bottle of water, which I drained in a few long swallows.  The infusion of oxygen into my bloodstream aided in regulating my breathing after just a few swallows.

You’re forgetting someone, I said.

Fitzgerald stared at me, anticipating the follow-up.

Lindsey’s pregnant.

CHAPTER

4

Fitzgerald loaded me into his car, holding me under one arm, like the public drunkard I was.  He detoured to a local shop to pick up a half dozen donuts, a coffee for himself and a Snapple iced tea for me.  The donuts were sobering but not as much as my forced removal from the alley. 

How’d you even know where I was? I asked.

I texted you a few times about breakfast then pinged your phone when I hadn’t heard back, he said. 

Jesus, I said, I hate cops.

Fitzgerald drove with one hand on the wheel and his coffee in the other.  I, on the other hand, inhaled my third donut with one hand and drained my iced tea with the other.  The silence in the car was more awkward than an eighth-grade dance.

How far along is she? Fitzgerald finally asked.

What?  Who? I stumbled.  Oh, Lindsey?  Probably around six months. 

Seven months?  Fitzgerald asked with a cursory tone. "How did you manage to, but more importantly, why did you keep it from me this long?"

Simple, I said. Just don’t say anything because you don’t want anyone to know.

I could see the hesitation in Fitzgerald’s expression, cautiously skating around the sensitivity of the pregnancy with selective wording.  My brain still felt thick with bourbon.  A headache steadily gained strength behind my eyes and formed from a tornado of mental fatigue and an immediate hangover.

Boy or girl? Fitzgerald asked.

Does it really matter?

Fitzgerald hesitated again before answering.

I think I see now.  This is more about fear, considering what happened to Jake.

How the hell do you do that? I capped the empty Snapple bottle and dropped it into the footwell in front of me.  I shifted in my seat to comfortably rest my head against the window.  My eyes drifted closed, but sleep was impossible.

It’s a gift, said Fitzgerald.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but shouldn’t this be viewed as a chance to right the wrongs?

So, you agree that what I did was wrong? I sat up with a deadpan stare at Fitzgerald’s profile.

That’s not it at all.  If anyone here is wrong, it’s Jake.

I began to protest, but Fitzgerald continued.

"Hear me out.  Wasn’t it Jake who was high as a kite?  Wasn’t it Jake who stole your gun?  And wasn’t it Jake who chose to commit armed robbery?"

We sat at a stop light a few blocks from home.  Despite the rhetorical nature of Fitzgerald’s questioning, I chose to answer anyway. 

"Yes, to all, but wasn’t it me who shot him?

True, but you were doing your job.

Stating the obvious was no longer preventable.  It was the only logical justification Fitzgerald, or anyone ever argumentatively disproving my guilt, circled back to. 

Stop saying that! I yelled.

How about this?  Suppose it wasn’t Jake there that night. Fitzgerald began, continuing to evade my objections.  "Suppose the perp was just another drug-pushing banger off the streets.  You respond to the call the same way.  You follow the same textbook protocol and you put two in his chest.  Would you be doing your job then?"

Fuck.  Caught in the crosshairs of Fitzgerald diamond-crusted rationale and my fool’s-gold perspective.  Sadly, he was right.

"Yes, but-

But nothing.  You don’t get to discredit solid police work just because it was your own flesh and blood on the other end.  It was a good shoot.

Fitzgerald pulled up in front of my house.  We sat for a long while before anyone said anything or I tried to exit the car.

Thanks, Fitz, I eventually said, fumbling for the door handle.

Don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easily, he said.

I don’t need a goddamned babysitter, I objected.

Like hell you don’t.

CHAPTER

5

Hit me.

The dealer studied Dakota then scanned the others at the table.  Dakota tapped an index finger on the table to denote a request for another card.  He showed a soft seventeen to the dealer’s six.  Blackjack dealers aren’t supposed to hesitate at a player’s request, but the table occupied a pair of conservative amateurs, and the morning hour allowed for a bit more leniency.  And the dealer appeared to be in a forgiving mood.

I said I’ll take another card, Dakota said.

The dealer slid a card from the shoe and attached it to Dakota’s seventeen.  He watched the dealer’s fluid motion, only to notice a nine of diamonds.

Busted.

The dealer played out his hand for the others at the table.  His undercard showed a queen then drew another card.  A king of spades. 

Busted.

Dakota pounded a fist on the table’s edge.  He should’ve stayed with his seventeen. The dealer cleared the cards and Dakota was the first to ante up another five-dollar chip for the next hand.

Dakota Martin sat at the blackjack table, playing a steady rhythm of moderately bet hands for about an hour.  Blackjack wasn’t his game.  His true calling was poker.  Texas Hold ‘Em in particular.  He had tried his hand at the age-old poker game earlier that morning but the tables were cold and the action was slow, expectant of weekday mornings.  Dakota stepped away from the poker room a few bucks ahead after an hour or so of mediocre play.

He desperately clung to his pocket money, urgently needing to engineer a plan to accrue much more.  His current bankroll needed to multiply exponentially.  Time was evaporating faster than the ice in his weak drink. 

Deadlines were rapidly approaching.  Lives were in jeopardy, primarily his own, if said deadlines drifted by without settled debts. 

Dakota drew focus to his next hand, watching the dealer splash cards in front of him and the other players.  His hand showed fourteen while the dealer exposed a king.  The cards dealt to the player to Dakota’s left had no bearing on his decision making.  However, it did further sour his mood.

Dakota wasn’t sophisticated enough, nor did he care enough about blackjack enough, to attempt card counting.  He enjoyed blackjack for the one-on-one thrill of the game.  He understood enough of the game, though, that a hit against a king was mandatory.  The assumption of another picture card hidden underneath had to be made.  A six for a potential push and a seven for a hopeful win was paramount.

The player to his right took a hit on an eleven, scored a twenty with a nine from the dealer.  Dakota took a hit, drawing an ace, bumping his hand to fifteen.  He instantly requested another card, a four, bettering his hand to nineteen.  Standing pat, Dakota watched the two players to his left bust.  The dealer flipped his hidden card, a jack, exposing a twenty.

Dakota lost again.

He was wise enough to ration out his remaining wages, leaving a fair portion stowed away in the safe in his hotel room.  With that, despite dwindling by two-thirds, Dakota chose to take a more audacious approach: doubling down on cards that some would perceive as ill-advised, betting the insurance on a dealer’s ace or unconventionally splitting an uncommon pair of cards.  Through it all, Dakota’s rationality constantly tickled his brain knowing that his current bankroll was barely enough to see him through to the next day. 

A new dealer approached the table to carry out the shift change.  She was a younger black woman, who Dakota guesstimated to be in her mid-thirties.  She had deeply set dark brown eyes and a set of thin, dark lips under a perfectly symmetrical nose.  Dakota noticed her Resorts nameplate read Cheyenne.  He admired her neatly pressed shoulder-length hair, which was more refined than a prize horse’s mane. 

Cheyenne dealt the first hand of her shift with a warm greeting and sociable banter.  Dakota was first dealt an ace.  And then another.  Cheyenne showed a seven.  The opportunity to split aces generated an uncomfortable level of tension in his brain.  The guy to his right held at eighteen.  Dakota anted up the additional fees to split his aces.  He caught a blackjack on the first ace with a queen.  The second aced paired with a seven, giving Dakota either an eight or eighteen, depending on how he wanted to weigh the ace.  He chose to stay with eighteen.

The dealer flipped her second card showing another seven; she took a hit on her fourteen, a nine.  Cheyenne busted, therefore paying Dakota for both split bets.  His tension eased, allowing him to focus on the peripheral interests, such as a celebratory drink.  He eyed a waitress carrying a tray full of empty glasses back to the bar.  Dakota anted up another wager while waiting for an available waitress.  Assuming Cheyenne was the pendulum swing, he’d been searching for, he doubled his bet.

A waitress sneaked up over Dakota’s right shoulder to clear away empties.

Can I get a rum and coke, please? Dakota asked.

Sure thing, honey, the cocktail waitress said and sidled away to the next table.

You might just be the lucky change I’ve been looking for, Cheyenne, Dakota said, taking on the same social approach most casino dwellers take with the dealers, assuming casual banter would correlate to increased profit.  Also figuring, hell, the dealer holds the fate in their hands.  For some, it’s whether or not I can pay next month’s rent or go home to my wife after blowing through baby Susie’s college fund, or even eat my next meal.  Power and control such as that should provide the right to chat you up on a first-name basis.

Luck favored Dakota as he won the next hand on another dealer bust.  He had been in Atlantic City for three days and had done little to achieve his goals.  Things were possibly looking up, he thought.

CHAPTER

6

No matter how the pendulum swung, Dakota knew he needed cash.  He couldn’t shake the bleak feeling in his gut that they were watching him.  That he’d been found and were eager to pounce, salivating at the opportunity whenever the urge struck.  The attempt to rake in serious cash was dire.  Desperation had stretched beyond its peak.

Working a nine-to-five desk job, aside from the monotony, was an insipid concept that gave Dakota a migraine just thinking about it. Selling drugs wasn’t guaranteed and wildly too risky.  Thievery wasn’t a viable option.  See selling drugs.  Dakota’s only viable avenue to legitimately make that kind of cash in his world was to hit the casinos.  As confident as Dakota was in his poker skills, frozen tables and sluggish action infuriated him. Rather than mope around, anticipating the inevitable, blackjack provided him with a chance at slim profits.  If nothing else, gave him something to do. 

The ten-dollar bet remained constant while he impatiently waited for his drink.  Dakota won two of the next three hands, visibly eyeing his profit margin finally slide into the black for the first time since joining the table.  The short stint of success juiced his adrenaline.

As the dealer snapped down another ace in front of Dakota, the waitress finally returned.  She lowered her tray of drinks and Dakota slipped her a white dollar chip as a tip.  Before Tracy, the waitress, removed her hand from the drink, she casually allowed a folded slip of paper to drop from her palm.  Dakota noticed it immediately.

He snatched up the paper, puzzled.  He ignored his surroundings including the dealer’s reminder about his turn to act.  All external distractions were nonexistent. His eyes rapidly fluttered in all directions but on the table.  Tracy’s disconnected interest in the paper conversely piqued his.  Dakota attempted to convince himself that it was a simple mishap on the waitress’s part.  A garbage scrap inadvertently left