Well, I’m pretty sure Marcel thinks it’s my fault that Marty Bulfinch is dead. To be fair, I was acting not just out of self-preservation, but Marcel-preservation as well. If there’s anyone who should appreciate that, you would think it’s him. But no. At least the ladies out there appreciate it. Women of the world: you’re welcome!
The night began with a bus ride over to Marcel’s. He said they decided to change the location of the poker night from his place to Marty’s. We went over to Marty’s and helped set up before Virgil came. I thanked Marty for writing that note and he said he thought the blog was a hilarious bit of irony. I wasn't sure what he was getting at so I ignored the comment and asked him if he was a good gambler. He said he wasn’t and had to borrow poker chips and some cards for the night. But apparently, Virgil was. When Marty invited him for Saturday night, Virgil started sucking beard hairs in his mouth and getting really excited. Marty said I must be a good poker player too since I like to gamble so much. I referred him to the August 4, 2009 posting of The Bird Casino where I listed my rules of gambling. Marty didn’t say anything for a second, then smiled at me and said I was awesome.
Virgil came over with a whole caseload of beer and offered it when Marty went to shake his hand. Marcel was real polite with him and introduced me, but Virgil wandered over to the table and looked like he wanted to sit down. Before Marty had shut the front door Virgil was taking money out of his pocket.
We started playing poker right away, and Marcel and Marty both were trying to be really courteous without asking too many questions of Virgil. Marcel spent a lot of time telling Virgil about me, though he was good enough not to mention the gambling. Virgil seemed like he might have reached across the table to eat my hands if he thought he had a worthy opponent.
Which he did not. The three of us were losing money pretty quick, and besides occasionally biting the poker chips like some train robber with gold coins he didn’t even really look at us. Marcel finally brought up the fact that one of the things I was good at (oh, Marcel!) was interpreting dreams. Virgil didn’t look up, but Marcel asked me to tell him a story. So I told him the time in the eighth grade when I was invited, obviously out of pity, to a co-ed birthday party. Since they were popular white kids they had to act like dancing was fun, so down in the basement everyone was working hard at pretending. When a slow song came on, Angela Baxter asked me, obviously out of pity, if I’d like to dance. Worried she might turn it into a production if I said no, I agreed. I attempted to slow dance with her, though my movement was less dancing and more that of a crude robot being pushed from one side to another by miserable, spoiled rich kids taunting him about why he is unable to feel love. Clearly sensing my discomfort, Angela nervously laughed and started talking about the dream she had the night before. She ended with, “I wonder where my mind came up with that stuff?” So I told her that she’s petrified her parents are getting divorced. She started to lose her rhythm a bit, so I said, “I can tell you which one you’d rather live with if you like.” But instead, she burst into tears and ran up the basement stairs. Word quickly spread. Needless to say I was not able to leave the party with all my hair.
Virgil was unimpressed with the story and it certainly didn’t lead him to confess his own night terror. I felt like the moment was getting away from us so I just said, “Virgil, you’ve nearly taken all our money. Let’s make this interesting. If I win this next hand you have to tell me whatever nightmare is working you over at night.” Marcel and Marty stared, I think expecting Virgil to either march out of the apartment or flip the table over. Instead Virgil stared at me with that massive beard and gray hair, and said, “And what happens if I win?” I wasn’t sure what to say. Generally I offer people the opportunity to hurt me in some way since that’s clearly not far from what they most desire. I was nervous with Virgil though, so I said he could sleep with my wife. That made Virgil laugh for the first time that night. He told Marcel to deal only two hands.
As I referenced with Marty, my rules of gambling state that I do not like to compete against another person. This leaves me blind to strategy when it comes to poker. The entire night Marcel was surprised at my offers to trade all five of my cards in, or ask another player if they had a card I needed. For this hand with Virgil I would depend on pure luck, though. I looked at my cards. Virgil chuckled at his. Marcel looked at my cards and advised me with a subtle hand gesture to not do anything. At the end of the hand, when Virgil laid down his two pair, I laid down a full house.
Virgil said he should crack my nose for cheating, and I told him I wouldn’t even know where to begin at cheating at poker. Virgil said "He would," and pointed at Marcel. “I ought to break both your backs. You want to know what I’m dreaming at night? You want to know what you’re hearing? I’ll tell you, fly boy.” I believe fly boy was me. I am not positive, however, since at no time during the night did I mention my interest in pursuing a pilot’s license. “I come home from work and standing in front of my door is my wife, and she’s been dead some twenty years, you should know. So she’s standing there, in the clothes I buried her in, and she’s holding all these flowers. Tons of flowers. She asks when I’m going to let her come in, and I say that she can come in tomorrow. It’s always tomorrow. And then all the flowers just keep getting bigger and bigger and she starts getting buried under them. Then I suddenly am holding flowers and throw them on top of her. And she screams ‘I can’t see you anymore! I can’t see you anymore.’ But I just keep putting the flowers on her till she’s gone.”
Marcel, Marty and I were quiet until Virgil said, “Happy now?” I asked Virgil if I could ask him one question. He told me to ask it, so I asked what color his wife’s eyes were. Brown, he said. I thanked him for all the information, which made him scoff, and then I went to the bathroom. From the bathroom I frantically scrambled a text message to Marcel that said, “MEET ME IN YOUR CAR!” When I came out I announced I needed to leave, and Marcel said he’d walk me out.
Virgil said, “What, no interpretation, nancy boy? You got something for me? You cheat at cards with this guy and don’t have anything for me?” I told him I was sorry his wife was dead and I had nothing else for him. My powers of interpretation couldn't help him. Marcel and I walked out in silence until we were both in his car. I told Marcel I wouldn’t talk until he started the car and drove away. I was stubborn about this, so Marcel, the most anxious and excited I’d ever seen him, drove away from the complex. He asked me where he was supposed to go, but I just said far away from here. After driving fifteen minutes he pulled the car into a parking lot and asked me what was happening. So I told him: “Virgil Ray murdered his wife.”
I thought Marcel’s question was going to be, “How can you possibly know that?” So I said, “You wrote me that he shouted, 'Your eyes! Hazel!' But hazel doesn't mean her eye color. It's his wife’s name!” This was confusing to Marcel because, 1) This wasn’t proof to him that Virgil was a murderer, and 2) His actual question was, “Why did you leave Marty alone back there?” He never asked me if I was sure, which I appreciate, though it is shocking from someone with a lot of college degrees. He turned the car around and took us back to the apartment complex. I tried to make him understand that I was unselfish to get Marcel himself out of the apartment. After all, if Virgil was going to kill anyone that night, it was going to be the guy who made him lose the hand. Generally, in any size room, I’m the one most in danger of being killed. Then I told Marcel that it was a pretty neat trick with the cards, but he wasn’t listening.
When we got there Marty’s apartment was unlocked and empty. Virgil’s car wasn’t in the lot. Marcel told himself not to get excited, that there are a lot of explanations. I said I’m sure there were, but one thing for sure is that Virgil Ray killed his wife. Anyway, why would Virgil kill Marty? Everyone would agree he was a very pleasant host.
It's now Tuesday and I still haven't heard from Marcel. We haven't shared shifts, and he didn't return my texts. I thought about calling the police, but Sammy said if my only proof was a dream Virgil had it wouldn't go very far. I tried to explain that Hazel must be his wife's name, not her eye color, but Sammy was unimpressed. Whatever. The guy killed his wife. And maybe Marty Bulfinch. But definitely his wife.
