Spinning Dixie by Eric Dezenhall Page B

bedrooms, both visible from the central living and dining area that was built around a small stone hearth. The kitchen was wedged into the cabin’s corner. Deedee proceeded toward the smaller bedroom and set out some of my clothes on a wooden chair.
    Mickey fell back into the chair closest to the fireplace. I sat on the sofa across from him. I couldn’t get comfortable, which I attributed to the sound of murderers pacing on the porch.
    â€œWho are these guys, Pop?”
    â€œSome of them are my guys. Some of them are Israelis. The real deal.”
    â€œWhere are the Italians? Fuzzy? Blue?”
    Mickey rubbed his temples.
    â€œThere’s always a skunk under the sofa with you, huh? Smart question. They’re not here.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause we haven’t found the skunk.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWe don’t know what this is all about with Ange. Nobody saw this coming. Since Prohibition ended, I’ve seen these things coming. This one I didn’t. That worries me.”
    I felt momentarily nauseous. Mickey was fine when he saw murders coming but was uncomfortable when he didn’t?
    Deedee reemerged.
    â€œIt’s me, Ma Barker. Are you hungry, Jonah?” she asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œFine, I’ll make you a sandwich. I have some tuna in the pantry. Which is right next to your grandfather, Bat Masterson’s, shotgun I might add.”
    Deedee walked away into the kitchen.
    â€œHonest to God, Jonah, sometimes I think your grandmother’s working for the bad guys. She’s probably behind the Ayatollah.” Mickey sighed. “Everything in life is in the hands of its enemies. So what’s with Ava Gardner?”
    â€œClaudine.” I removed Claudine’s card from my pocket and handed it to Mickey.
    â€œRattle & Snap,” Mickey chuckled as he read it.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?”
    â€œIt’s a gambling game they used to play in olden times. Goes back to the Revolution.”
    â€œHow do you know this?”
    â€œHow do I know this? Who do you think you’re talking to here? That newspaperman calls me the ‘Wizard of Odds’ and you don’t know how I know this?”
    â€œC’mon, do you know how it’s played?”
    Mickey’s eyes widened. Talking about gambling kept him alive, even evangelical. Everything about it excited him. Talking about it. Watching it. Even fighting for it. The hit on Mr. Bruno was probably tied to gambling. I didn’t know this because of any inside knowledge; I knew it because Mickey wasn’t grabbing his chest or making Shakespearean allusions to his time running out. He was combative, alive. I had long accepted it as gospel that Moses Price was at his best when he was under siege and would do whatever he had to do to avoid tranquillity.
    â€œIt was played in the fields with dried beans, or dice made from goat bones. They’d rattle ’em around in their hands”—Mickey made a shaking gesture with his fist—“and snapped them free. They landed where they landed.”
    â€œI never figured shooting dice went back that far.”
    â€œAre you kidding? It goes back to the Bible. The ancient rabbis carried dice around the temple. Urim and Thummim they were called. Call ’em whatever, they were dice. They glowed, too.”
    â€œWhat did they bet on in the Temple?”
    â€œWhen the dice rolled a certain way, it showed God’s will.”
    â€œIs that what you’ve been doing in Atlantic City, God’s will?”
    â€œIn a way,” Mickey winked. “Gamblers believe God wants them to be rich. My job is to teach them that this is a false belief.”
    â€œBut casinos are set up to make people think they can get rich, so you just tell them what they want to hear. You don’t teach them.”
    â€œDon’t be an Ivy League smart guy.”
    â€œYou wanted me to be an Ivy League smart guy.