Tide King by Jen Michalski Page A

tables. But the room still carouseled slowly. And the Russians did not seem to get any drunker. He did not want to be pushed off his seat by Vadim, on top of the stinking carcass already there. He lit a cigarette and picked up his cards.
    â€œYou like prop-ert-y, Mr. Soldier?” Vadim ran his ringed fingers through his greasy hair and touched his cards. Stanley squinted, trying to see if the smudges on Vadim’s cards were new or old. The boys in First Division used to mark the cards in any way they could—tobacco spit, dirt, blood. Stanley had played with cheaters, even won. But those boys had never tried to kill him later.
    â€œWhat kind of property?” Stanley breathed through his nose. The sour, onion smell of the men cleared his head a little. Nicolai burped. Flecks of something dotted his lips.
    â€œIs farmhouse on other side of bay.” Vadim patted his pants pocket, emerged with a yellowed title. “A man I take from instead of money in card game last week. But I stupid. I should have just make him get me money, you say?”
    â€œThe Chesapeake Bay?” Stanley fondled the paper. He did not have anywhere to be. He imagined working his body to exhaustion on some farm somewhere, falling into bed every night, not thinking. No boss to tell him not to come to work still dank with whiskey.
    â€œYeah yeah.” Vadim nodded. “Es worth something, if you like farming. We left Russia so we not have to farm, you know? So I win all my money back from you, then I sell stinkin’ farm and open leather shop.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you sell the farm first, before you gamble all your money away?” Stanley pondered aloud, stroking the blond stubble that never quite thickened into a beard.
    â€œWhy not you shut up?” Vadim leaned over. His eyes were ravines of red meeting the dark brown iris. Their focus wavered slightly. Stanley smiled, and dragged his cigarette.
    â€œAll right.” Stanley fingered the title disinterestedly before cutting the cards. “I guess it’s legit; throw it in.”
    Vadim shuffled the cards, grinning like an ogre. Nicolai began to giggle, holding his belly. Stanley reached to pick up the title again, half expecting see Cracker Jack written at the bottom, but stopped. He picked up his cards and bet modestly, even though he was a four of clubs shy of a straight flush. He wondered if he should blow the game, if the Ruskies were letting him win, setting him up with the money just so they’d have a chance to kill him later. The Ruskies in the Red Army were the lowest bastards he’d ever seen; the villages the Army went through after the Reds were decimated, full of disemboweled men, raped and carved women, children with slugs between their eyes.
    But it was possible that they were just really drunk and stupid. If that were the case, they were trumping his drunk and paranoid. Vadim chewed on the end of his cigar and pushed some more bills into the pot. Stanley sat for a long time, trying to throw them off. He rubbed his forehead and sighed before he added his own money.
    He studied the crowd, looking for an opening to beat it the hell out of there. Vadim dealt Stanley a four of clubs. He wondered whether to excuse himself, go to the bathroom, give them a chance to substitute his cards or theirs. But something in him had stirred when he saw that title. He saw a chance to be alone, to sort out whatever the hell had happened to him, to right his ship. He would quit drinking. He would be a good son. He’d be a good American.
    â€œWell, look who wins the big pot,” Vadim laughed when Stanley laid down his flush, and he knew the fix was in. Vadim had lost too much money, too much face, to be such a gracious loser.
    â€œIt’s been a pleasure playing cards with you fine gentlemen of the Red Army.” Stanley held out his hand to Vadim, then Nicolai, as he scanned the bar with his eyes. “Give a big salute to Stalin for