The Dead Pool

A handsome, light-haired man of 35, casually dressed, weaved his way through the traffic in the middle aisle of the Manhattan Commodity Exchange. The area, approximately the size of a city block, was shared by firms trading metals, oil, perishables, and financial indexes. The walls on three sides were comprised computerized boards listing the latest prices. The upper half of the fourth wall was a glass enclosure, the observation deck. A perpetual hum of varied intensity hung about the place. At this moment it was very
low.

The young man, a badge reading "Wyn" clipped to his collar, veered into an almost vacant pit to his left. "Hey, Artie, you want in?" he said, dangling a small paper bag before the eyes of a graying man seated on a stool, reading a newspaper.

Artie gazed through wire-rimmed glasses. "What's that?"

"The dead pool. Five bucks a week 'til somebody croaks."

Artie smirked. "No thanks. Last time Fat Joe went in those bastards tried to bring the whole trade center down on top of us. We were out six months. I'm still findin' little pieces of glass in my scalp."

"Nothin' happened to the rest of us."

"I'd rather not take the chance. Who died, anyway?"

"Vincent Price. He's joined Vulnavia."

Artie's head flew back as he laughed. "Who had him?"

"I did. That's why I'm stuck runnin' it now."

Artie shook his head with disbelief. "I can't believe you won again. 'Money goes to money.' Who'd you have last time?"

"Arthur Ashe."

Artie rolled his eyes heavenward. "You guys're bad. Gallow's humor is one thing...."

There were more than a hundred slips in the bag, each carrying the name of an aged or infirmed celebrity.

"Hey, Gordie," Wyn called to a tall man in the center aisle, "kick us off."

He held the bag aloft. Gordie reached inside with a long hand that featured skeletal-like fingers. He smirked, having drawn Bob Hope.

"He's due," said Wyn, shrugging.

"He's never gonna die. He's gonna outlive God. Just my luck."

Soon a small crowd was gathered, joking, laughing.

"What's up?" said a young man to Artie.

Artie explained. The young man's eyes flashed with annoyance.

"These guys'd sell their own mothers. They're such grave robbers."

"Admit it, Adam - you were talkin' bad about Vincent Price yesterday."

He flushed hotly. "All I said was he was a ham."

"You killed him just like you killed Sandy Dennis."

"I did not kill Sandy Dennis. That was just idle talk. I wasn't lookin' to make money like these slimeballs."

Artie chuckled at Adam's defensiveness. "Say anything bad about anybody else lately?"

"I hope Shelly Winters' name isn't in there."

It was.

"You want in, Ad?"

"No thanks. I hope Vincent Price comes back to haunt you."

Wyn grabbed himself. "Haunt this."

"Any insider information on the terminally ill?"

"Rumor is Sean Connery has cancer. Fresh blood in the batch."

Adam and Artie moaned, laughed despite themselves.

A short, obese man turned away from the group, unsatisfied.

"Who'd you get, Marco?" said Artie.

"Cab Calloway. He's old, but some of these moolinyons go on forever, know what I mean?"

Adam whispered to Artie, ironically: "No, he's not from Bensonhurst." Artie chuckled.

A burly man stormed out of the ring, muttering obscenities.

"Who'd Killer get?"

"Mother Teresa," said Wyn, tittering. "Another one who'll never die."

Artie made the sign of the cross, only half- jokingly.

"Who else wants in?" said Wyn, shaking the bag.

The rest were merely spectators.

"Superstitious pansies. I'll pick. Hold the bag, Art."

"I'm not touchin' it."

Adam laughed heartily. Wyn smirked and placed the bag on the red carpet that covered the floor of the ring.

"Federico Fellini!" he said jubilantly, pumping a fist.

"He might've died a minute ago," said Adam.

"Fix!" Artie teased.

"You saw it," said Wyn, concerned; "in case anybody cries."

"Sure, they'll accuse me of collusion, prearranged trading."

"Even Fellini'd never imagine a place like this," said Adam somberly.

As Wyn took his place in the gold pit the next morning, Marco approached and said, gravely: "Hear about Gordie?"

He gazed into the dark eyes, under which thick rings lay.

"He woke up on the train last night, noticed it was his stop an' ran off as the doors were closin'. His foot got caught. As he was pullin' it out he lost his balance an' fell an' hit his head on the train as it was leavin'. He's in a coma."

"Jeez," said Wyn softly, amazed at the odd ways some people left life. "He has a family, right?"

"Three kids. I hope he had insurance."

Wyn was about to say it was foolish to be without coverage, but caught himself, realizing the remark would have been insensitive even by the standards of a commodities trader. It seemed odd that they were assuming Gordie was as good as dead.

Later, daydreaming in the midst of a dormant market, a heavy hand swiped at his back, startling him.

"C'mon, douche bag," said Killer, "we're goin' to Luger's."

Wyn made a face. "Steak for lunch? What if the market gets busy? I won't feel like tradin'. I can't afford to leave, anyway. I ain't been makin' any money lately."

"You just won two large on the pool," said Killer, taken aback. "You should be buyin', you cheap bastid."

Soon he regretted not having gone with the others, although he hated going to Brooklyn. He'd grown up in Williamsburg, the very neighborhood in which the restaurant was located. He wanted to leave it behind forever, to be wise with his money so he would never know poverty again. He planned to remain in his rent-controlled apartment on the Upper East Side until he was ready to marry and buy a home in the suburbs.

Minutes before the market closed, Killer returned, ashen.

"How many d'you put away?" Wyn teased, wary lest another slap be coming. Killer was even more physical when loaded.

"Marco's dead." His eyes were cold and hard. "I went to the bathroom an' when I came back he was dead - jus' like that. He choked on a piece of meat. He was wolfin' it down like an animal. You know how he eats.
They tried to do the Heimlich on 'I'm, but nobody could get their arms around 'im."

A tear forced its way past the hardened gaze. Wyn's sphincter contracted. It was the first time he'd ever seen Killer get emotional. Killer never demonstrated compassion. Even his laughter was scornful.

Word spread quickly. One trader asked out of the pool. Wyn gave him five dollars and struck his name from a notebook kept in his breast pocket.

Just coincidence, he assured himself; gotta be.

The next morning he arrived seconds before the opening, eyes bloodshot. He winced at the sound of the bell, as if his brain would cleave in two. The initial roar set his head pounding mercilessly. To his relief, the din subsided quickly. Enthusiasm waned. Another lifeless day was anticipated.

"You out with Killer last night?" he was asked. "He's not in yet."

He shook his head, then grimaced at the pain. "Not in? That's a first."

He went to a room that until recently had served as a data entry center, before the introduction of the handheld computer. Artie was there, alone, reading.

"How do I get a job like yours?" said Wyn softly.

"You gotta know people." He looked up from his newspaper. "What happened to you? You look like hell. Bad boy last night?"

"Not really. I had a few, but no more than usual. I just didn't get any sleep. I met this hot chick in a bar and the next thing I knew it was last call. She was gorgeous: black hair, green eyes, all in leather. She looked like she just stepped out of an Alice Cooper video."

He paused.

"So what happened? Don't leave me hangin'."

Wyn shrugged. "Nothin'. I went to call a cab and she disappeared. I didn't even get her number."

Artie chuckled. "How much you spend on her?"

"That's what so strange - hardly nothin'. She was no lush. She was every horny guy's fantasy - a classy sex goddess. I was sure I was gonna score. She played me like a fiddle, boy. I was never so disappointed in my life. I was so bummed out I couldn't sleep."

"Maybe that's how she gets off."

"I'm sure she did it on purpose - but why?"

"Forget it. A chick like that's not worth it."

"My eyelids feel like they got manhole covers on 'em."

"Too bad about Marco."

Wyn lowered his head. "Unbelievable."

He settled in a corner, sat back in a chair, propped his feet on a table, and closed his eyes.

He was awakened by the gentle tapping of a young Hispanic woman.

"What's up, Mare?" he said, again closing his eyes.

"Everybody's lookin' for you," she said nervously.

He gazed inquisitively. What problem could there be? He hadn't executed a single transaction. Suddenly Artie burst into the room, tears in his eyes.

"Killer's dead," he choked. "They sent a clerk over to get him up and the kid found him face down in the bathroom. His girl was passed out in bed. They were drinkin' and doin' coke all night. His heart stopped. She said he's been takin' steroids too."

Wyn sat motionless, thinking it couldn't be - not Killer, who was stronger than anybody. Soon someone entered and asked out of the pool. As Wyn was striking the name from the list, he noted that the first three, in succession, were Gordie, Marco, and Killer. The fourth was his.

Coincidence, he thought. After all, Gordie had been the victim of a freak accident. Marco and Killer had, essentially, done themselves in through excess. He had no bad habits himself. Still, he was worried.

Traders pored into the room. Having only $200 in his possession, Wyn sent Mary to the bank for a withdrawal. The list dwindled. He sought the others and, despite protestations, returned their money.

Although reason dictated that the incidents were coincidence, he would not take the chance that a greater force might be at work. Some people passed snide remarks, as if he were responsible. He wondered what they might do to him should someone else perish.

When he finished, he had five dollars remaining. He double-checked the list. All the names but his own had been stricken. Aching to sleep, he decided to go home. He was stopped in his tracks as a roar arose. The market was rising. He stood watching from a distance, certain it was another false alarm. As it touched a certain level, he raced forward, barreling past people. He recalled one of his first days as a trader. The Pope was shot and the market soared, placing him on the fast track to wealth. He imagined what the president's assassination would engender. No such luck, he thought.

He elbowed his way into the pit and threw himself into the action, which lasted all the way to the closing bell. So intense and non-stop was the activity that a proposed moment of silence in Marco's memory was entirely forgotten. He collapsed onto a step, exhausted, adrenaline having ceased pumping immediately. It'd been worth it, however. He'd made a killing. "Buy" orders had flooded the ring, no one knew why. He couldn't wait for tomorrow's opening. Perhaps this was the rally they'd all been awaiting.

There were errors that had to be corrected. He stayed and helped Mary until he was certain no opposite broker had reneged on a trade, cheating him out of money he'd earned fairly.

By the time he reached the subway, darkness had fallen. He would not take a cab, spend five times more than it would cost to ride underground. Besides, rush-hour had passed. He even found a seat - across from an impeccably dressed old gentleman who bore a passing resemblance to Vincent Price. He chuckled inwardly and closed his eyes, which he opened again at the sound of a female voice singing nonsensically.

Greenwich Village, he thought, noting the stop; where else?

The woman was like a character out of Fellini: hair jet black, face heavily powdered, breasts propped up, dress ornate, flowery, colorful. Had she mistaken the date of the Halloween parade, which was still days away? She found a seat beside the old gentleman.

Naturally, said Wyn to himself. Good evening, Vulnavia, my dear.

When he opened his eyes again the two were gone. He was almost home. The train had reached Grand Central. He was unable to keep his eyes open, however, and fell into a deep sleep, tilting in his seat, snoring. Passengers allowed him space.

He suddenly found himself in bed beside the beautiful woman he'd met at the bar. She was whispering in his ear, bidding him to wake. He became cognizant of loud laughter. As he gathered his senses, he realized he was not in bed but still on the train - the only white face in the car. The express was speeding, flying past stops with which he was unfamiliar. Had the train been re-routed? Was this upper Manhattan or, perish the thought, the South Bronx? All he knew was that he was in trouble. The laughter told him so. He resisted the urge to look toward whoever was responsible. He urged himself not to panic. After all, he'd dealt with this kind of thing all the time as a youth.

Show 'em you're scared and you're done, he thought.

"You lost, boy?"

The voice soared above the din of the roaring train, inciting guffaws.

Other commuters looked away or focused on reading material. Wyn was certain he had no allies here. He suppressed the urge to approach a subway map, which would show the others he didn't know where he was.
Fortunately, he was casually dressed. Were he wearing a suit, there was no telling what they might do. He might not have awakened at all. He was surprised his brand new Nikes were still on his feet.

As the train decelerated, he rose and grasped a pole. He faced neither right nor left, careful lest he move to the wrong door, embarrass himself, face a wall rather than the platform. He would exit and discreetly find his way to the downtown side. Getting off, he noted the direction of the nearest stairway and set off apace.

"Damn, he's our neighbor," said the same voice. "Let's go say hi."

There followed a loud stamping of feet. Wyn burst into a sprint, gazing past his shoulder, and fell - or had he been tripped? His tormentors roared but did not attack. Before him lay the notebook, opened to the list of names. His was the only one not crossed out. He frantically searched his pockets for a pen, sighed as he found one, and scratched until his name was obliterated. He received several taps to the head as the young men passed. He remained on his knees, taking it.

Just playin' with you, he thought, at once relieved and humiliated.

He studied a map positioned near a token booth. Christ, he was in Brooklyn, on a line with which he was entirely unfamiliar. Was this Bed-Stuy? Brownsville? Crown Heights? He had slept through an entire route.

He descended the stairs on the opposite side. A young black man in a soiled olive smock and ridiculous blonde wig was pacing back and forth, talking to himself in a soft, high voice: "My husband's gonna kill me when I get home." Wyn could not help but titter, despite the shudder the sight sent down his spine. Apparently, the man/woman had escaped from an institution. Wyn kept his eyes trained on him, wary lest he find himself being pushed onto the track. The man pivoted smartly at the foot of the stairs and went off the other way, mumbling his mad litany.

More Fellini, he thought.

An old man in tattered clothing slowly descended the stairs, rickety shopping cart filled with belongings before him. He seated himself on the third to last step.

"Here you go, Pop," said Wyn, giving him the last of the pool money.

Stunned, the man wept drunkenly: "God bless you."

Wyn stepped away. Okay? he thought; does that square it? He was dismayed at having done penance, cosed up to God. No one had ever given him anything - and he preferred it that way.

"What about me?" said a young man emerging from behind a pillar.

Wyn froze. "Believe it or not, that was my last five bucks."

"Yeah, an' I'm white." He unzipped his jacket.

Wyn backpedaled, turned and bounded up the stairs.

"Thank you, Jesus, thank you, Lawd," cried the homeless man, words echoing in the cavernous underground.

Wyn wasn't sure if there were footsteps at his back, as he hadn't been sure the young man had been about to pull a gun. He simply ran as fast as he could, out of the station and into the street, praying he would spot a cab or a policeman, even a Hassid.

"Look!" cried a familiar voice; "it's our neighbor."

Cackles faded as he distanced himself from the group. To his chagrin, there was no light in any of the shops. Many were boarded up. Halloween decorations were prevalent. Ahead, across a wide street, he noted the flashing of a video store sign. He raced to it and came to an abrupt halt. Taped to the window was a large poster of Vincent Price upon which R.I.P. had been printed. His eyes glazed. As he reached for the doorknob, the light went out. He banged on the glass.

"We're closed."

"Can I use your phone?"

"There's one right behind you."

What good would that do him? He wasn't about to wait here, inviting predators, until a cab arrived. Besides, he didn't even have any change. He turned to beseech the shopkeeper, but the man was gone,
seemingly vanished into thin air.

He was sent into a sprint by male screams.

They're just playin' with whitey, he told himself, aghast at how weak he'd become.

"There he is!" boomed the familiar voice; "get 'I'm!"

Wyn noted a bus in the distance, a stop nearby. He waved his arms as the vehicle approached. It passed, its "Not In Service" light illuminated. He groaned and pounded his palms against the glass of the bus shelter. His head jerked back in horror as he found himself face to face with a public service advertisement that featured Arthur Ashe.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered, pressing his face to the glass. "Please! I'll give all my money to charity."

Through tears he noted a familiar reflection in the glass. He turned in all directions and finally spotted his goal - a fast food restaurant a block away, beyond a small playground. He sighed as relief swept through him. He had several credit cards. Surely they would lend him a quarter to make a phone call.

He jogged through the playground gazing right and left, prepared to break into a sprint if attacked. Suddenly his feet went out from under him. He stumbled several paces and struck his head against a basketball pole. He was unconscious when he fell face first into a small pool gathered in a pothole near the baseline. There he lay until found the next morning, drowned, outlived by Fellini by a matter of hours.