Ben and the Crooked Mile

Atlantic City greeted Ben with salt wind, shuttered amusements, and a hotel clerk who asked for payment before mentioning the ocean view. The view required leaning through a bathroom window, but Ben respected an establishment that disclosed its terms.

He had twenty dollars after the room.

By midnight, he had four.

The address on Mickey’s ledger page belonged to a private card room above a seafood restaurant. Ben had promised himself he would merely look. Looking cost sixteen dollars and an unpleasant acquaintance with a man called the Reverend, who dealt cards with the solemnity of a burial.

At two, a woman in a green coat caught Ben examining the restaurant’s discarded bread basket.

“Bad night?”

“I’m conducting research.”

“Into bread?”

She gave him a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper.

Her name was Lillian Price. She worked the hotels, choosing her customers carefully and hiding her money more carefully still. Ruby had sent her a telegram.

“Ruby says you’re decent in emergencies,” Lillian said. “I imagine that leaves the rest of your schedule open.”

Ben chewed.

“Did she mention handsome?”

“The telegram was short.”

Lillian needed someone who could recognize a crooked game without immediately entering it. Her younger sister, June, sang in a small nightclub. The owner claimed June owed him for costumes, lessons, and introductions. Whenever she earned money, the debt grew.

“The owner’s name?” Ben asked.

“Arthur Voss.”

The sandwich stopped halfway down.

Voss had come south to arrange business before the summer crowds. The card room was his. So was the nightclub. Ben looked toward the dark windows upstairs and understood why Mickey had recommended the ocean.

“He knew I’d come here.”

“Who?”

“An optimist.”

Lillian produced a small account book. June had taken it from the nightclub office, believing it recorded her debt. Instead, its narrow columns listed payments to men who supervised horses, took bets, and asked no questions.

Ben recognized two names from Danny’s racing sheet.

There were others beside them, including a police lieutenant.

“Can your sister travel?”

“She can pack in six minutes.”

“Make it five.”

They collected June at dawn. She was nineteen, with a voice roughened by cigarettes she could barely afford and a face that became younger when nobody watched it.

At the station, Ben bought two tickets north with Lillian’s money.

Then the Reverend appeared beside the newsstand.

“Mr. Voss would appreciate a conversation.”

Ben looked at the sisters.

“Get coffee,” he said.

Lillian understood. She took June’s arm and walked toward the platforms without hurrying.

The Reverend pressed something hard against Ben’s ribs.

They went out through a side door.

Voss waited in a parked automobile, his scarf the color of fresh butter.

“You’ve been troublesome,” he said.

“I’m frequently misunderstood.”

“The book.”

Ben thought of claiming copies again. Once, perhaps. Twice required a confidence his face could no longer supply.

“It’s on its way to New York.”

Voss nodded to the Reverend, who hit Ben low in the stomach.

For a while, conversation became impractical.

When Ben could breathe, Voss offered a proposition. Retrieve the book, and Ben would receive five hundred dollars. Fail, and Ruby would answer for him.

There it was again: somebody else held against his debt.

Ben spat into the gutter.

“You should buy her flowers. She doesn’t enjoy surprises.”

The Reverend raised his hand.

A porter came through the station door pushing a cart. He stopped, taking in Ben’s bent shoulders and the gun now visible beside them.

Voss smiled.

“Our friend’s unwell.”

The porter looked at Ben.

Ben had one small chance to stop helping the wrong men.

“He’s got a gun,” he said clearly.

The porter dropped behind the cart. Ben drove his shoulder into the Reverend and ran toward the station, expecting a shot with every step.

No shot came. Too many windows. Too many witnesses.

He reached the platform as the train began moving.

Lillian caught his wrist from the steps.

June caught Lillian’s coat.

For several yards, their futures depended on wool and a conductor’s willingness to look elsewhere.

Then Ben was aboard.

Lillian sat him down and pressed a handkerchief to his mouth.

“You could have taken the money,” she said.

“He hadn’t paid yet.”

But he could no longer make the joke convincing.

Outside, the sea vanished behind warehouses. June slept against the window. Lillian rested one hand on the account book inside her bag.

Ben asked for paper.

He wrote Ruby a message to be wired at the next stop: Leave your hotel. Find somewhere crowded. I am bringing trouble home.

After a moment, he added: And company.

At the next station, while the wire clerk counted his change, Ben saw his reflection in the glass: swollen mouth, cheap collar, eyes searching every doorway. He had imagined rescue would make him feel taller. Mostly it made him wish for a bed beside a wall, where nobody could come up behind him while he tried to sleep again.