Tide King by Jen Michalski

of the table, before pushing it onto the floor. The Russian kicked it for good measure, and Stanley heard it grunt. He felt for his Colt in the back of his pants. He picked it up in an alley shop off Green mount after the war. He had hated guns when he had one, all those years in Europe, and then after the war, he hated not having one.
    â€œVadim.” The flat-faced man nodded. He wore a sleeveless undershirt that looked like it had been dipped in cooking oil. On his arm was a tattoo of an owl with raised wings, a top hat, and bowtie. He nodded toward the other man, who was wearing a vest but no shirt. “Nicolai.”
    â€œStanley.” He sat down at the table and bent over to tie his shoe. He could see the gun, straight and clean, in Vadim’s waistband. A TT Tokarev.
    â€œYou boys in the war?” Stanley picked up his cards. They were worn to felt, greasy on the edges.
    â€œWhy you need to know?” Nicolai smudged his cigar into an ashtray, brought his glass to his lips.
    â€œI’m a vet myself.” Stanley shrugged. It occurred to him the money he planned on winning could be put to good use. He could take the train to Ohio, find Johnson’s parents, and let them know how Johnson died, not honorably for his country as they probably thought, but because of his own foolishness, his vote to go back along the ditch. On the other hand, it seemed a stupid thing to do, to snatch whatever veil of delusion lay like gauze over their eyes just to heave an anvil off his own chest. But maybe it would be of some comfort to them that their son had not died alone, in pain, that Stanley knelt before him and mourned his ascent into the afterlife.
    â€œWe are all brothers here.” Vadim cupped Stanley’s shoulder with an open palm, stirring the soup of his murky plans. Stanley rubbed his eyes, cleared his throat. “We all on same side. To victory, eh? Here, I give you a shot.”
    Vadim brought an unmarked bottle from under his seat and poured it into Stanley’s glass. They raised them, and Stanley watched the fluid rise to the rim before ebbing. He opened his mouth and the liquid went hot, icy, down his throat.
    â€œSpasiba.” Stanley nodded. “Thank you.” He looked at his cards. It occurred to him suddenly that the Russians would not let him win, and that if he somehow did, perhaps they would kill him.
    The war had made him many things—alcoholic, apoplectic, apathetic—but if they were going to try to plug him in the alley later, he was going to win the dingy, greasy shirts off their backs first. He tossed aside two cards as Vadim dealt him three more. Nicolai raised a modest sum, and Stanley saw him. Vadim folded.
    â€œTwo pair.” Nicolai laid down two fours and two eights
    â€œThree pair.” Stanley tossed three sevens over top. “Are we gonna start betting real money, or what?”
    He wondered how the Russians got so quickly to the States after the war, if they were in the Red Army. Their faces were pebbled with scars and sunburn. Nicolai’s nose was fleshy, an older man’s. Vadim’s palms were roped with burns and creases. Stanley sipped at his vodka, spitting every other sip back into the glass. The light, dim above him, hummed against his ears, along with the voices in the bar. The air was so wet and hot that he could eat it. He hoped he would not go places in his head when he needed to stay here, think about the game, think about how he was going to get out of the bar, winnings or not.
    â€œI’ve seen things,” he slurred as his winnings grew. His fear grew, too. He had not expected to win so easily. “I’ve seen some shit.”
    â€œYou know what this is?” Vadim pointed at the owl on his arm. “Is tattoo I get in prison.”
    â€œHe kill three men.” Nicolai lit another cigar. “Is tattoo you get if you murderer.”
    Stanley tried to remember his Latin. He repeated his multiplication