Excerpt 11 – Dead Low Winter

February faded into March and I hardly knew the difference. Still gray, still cold, still windy. I guess it was getting warmer though because the boats were coming through the locks out East and steaming down our way. Here at the Head of the Lakes we depend on the boats for a lot of things. A high volume of goods moves through the Twin Ports and a lot of locals make their living because of shipping. And it’s one of the first signs of spring, even though there never is much of a spring on this end of the lake. Most years you’re craving it by Valentine’s Day anyway.

Winter can wear away at you until your innards cry out for relief. The warm weather and sunshine you so dearly crave is cruelly held back, day after dreary day. Your eyes burn from the unrelenting grayness. The weight on your chest and the tightness in your neck are facts of life. It works on your sanity. Bad shit happens in this part of the world come March. Boozers drink more, druggies do more drugs, the well-off head south and the crazies go over the edge.

So when Sam Cross invited me in on his poker scam I jumped at the chance like a condemned man in a hurry to the gallows. He and his brother wanted me to do my little mechanic number to augment their scheme, Sam said. I figured my big break had finally come. I truly felt the game was going to lead me up the ladder somehow—hanging with the rich and influential and all it entails. The right connections, you know—something was bound to fall my way. And I wasn’t going to jeopardize my future position with high society by cheating. Because, what you need in this world is connections. But sadly, my only connection remained the same after the game as before.

Sam Cross.

One of Sam’s bookmaking debtors was paying off his markers in wholesale LSD and I was given the job of turning it into cash. Three bucks for the red pyramids and five for the green. Take a little trip on the cheap. A good ride and you could drink a lot more when you were doing the Sid. Good for the town’s economy, kept the cash registers ringing. I’d sample the wares now and then myself and hit a few bars and usually blow the profits on drinks.

(To be continued)

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The Writings of T.K. O'Neill