Tomorrow’s Luck

by Hala Dika

      Victor approached the betting window. “Five hundred on Tomorrow’s Luck.” He laid down the money and retrieved the ticket. He found his favorite row, inching his way to the middle seat. The sun was high, not a cloud in sight. A perfect day at the track. He looked around and behind him a few times before he settled in. The gun went off, and the horses began their fevered pursuit.

      “Tomorrow’s Luck” was near the back, but gaining. The voices in the crowd rose and fell, as if at the behest of some mad conductor. “Tomorrow’s Luck” was getting closer and closer, and Victor, forgetting himself, jumped up to cheer her on. A fatal mistake. For just then he heard a voice behind him. “Vic-Tor Mar-Lov! Time to pay what you owe, Victor!” He felt the horses’ hooves thumping in his breast. Perhaps they hadn’t actually seen him and were trying to root him out? He didn’t turn around, but quickly moved towards the furthest aisle.

      “Hey! Watch where the hell ya goin buddy!” said a fat man whose foot he’d stepped on. Reaching the aisle, he ran down toward the front, jumping the side railing and ducking beneath the bleachers.

      Above him he heard the rat-tat-tat of gaining feet. For a split second he recognized the black, snake-skin boots of Tony Mills, a white scorpion on each toe. Victor bolted towards the stables. He opened one and slid inside. The black horse became agitated, neighing loudly. Victor looked around for some kind of weapon, and picked up a pitchfork, waiting. Hearing the horse, Tony approached. “It’s no use.” he said. “I’ve got you now.” He opened the stable door and Victor moved towards the back, a firm grip on the handle. There wasn’t a second to lose. As soon as Tony was in his sights, Victor hauled off and stabbed him in the neck. It hit his jugular and Tony put his hands around his neck, choking. A few seconds later, he hit the ground and stopped moving, his eyes frozen in a look of utter shock. Victor threw the pitchfork to the floor. He made his way out, first checking to see if there had been any witnesses. But the race was still on, and there was no one left to wander. He put his hands in his pockets and walked away as normally as he could. Behind him, the crowd reacted loudly to the end of the race.

      It was dark when Victor reached his apartment. He turned on the lights and went to the mirror. There were tiny splotches of blood on his beige jacket and pants. He took all his clothes off hurriedly and placed them in a large, black, garbage bag. Then he took a shower, obsessively scrubbing every part of his body. Death has a smell. Murder an odor. He got dressed and rushed down to the parking lot. He put the garbage bag in the back seat of his car, driving a few towns over, and dumping it into an industrial garbage bin behind a deserted gas station. He drove back home and fell hard into bed, utterly exhausted. Who would come for him first? Tony’s pals? Or the police? He went over scenarios in his head for two hours, before finally falling asleep.

                                                      *****

      Ray, “The Boss”, Mulligan sat casually in his chair, head tilted back, his fat fingers gripping a fat cigar. Tony’s brother Michael waited patiently and respectfully, even though his whole body was restless for revenge. Ray ruminated thoughtfully, taking his time about it.

      “Did Tony mention who he was looking for that day?” he finally asked.

      “No. He didn’t.” said Michael. “He went to the track to look for a few guys. The ones who skip payment and gamble the money. Could be ten or more.”

      “Did you look for anything he might have written down?” Ray asked.

      “No.” Michael said. “Tony didn’t believe in writing anything down. He kept it all in his head.”

      “…The detective on the case?” Ray asked, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “He’s one of ours?”

      “Yeah.” said Michael. “Fred Hamms. Got a coupla of witnesses who saw a man run, but only could see the back of his head.”

      “And do you have any suspicions?” Ray asked.

      “If I had to guess?” Michael began to steam. “Victor Marlov.”

      “And what makes you say that?”

      “I just have a feeling.” he said. “He’s one of these guys you can’t quite figure out. A little too smart for his own good. A strait-laced professor type, with a gambling addiction on the side. He owes a lot more than he can afford on a teacher’s salary. Tony hated the glib bastard.”

      Ray puffed on his cigar languidly. “Alright.” he finally said. “Go over there with a coupla guys and shake’em up, see what you can find out.” He put his cigar down, and raising his lips and eyebrows, said, “I tell you what. If that son-of-a-bitch did kill Tony…” He picked up the cigar and puffed. “I’ll skin him alive myself.”

      Victor was rudely awakened by a threatening knock. Was it the cops? Was it the bookies? He was not prepared for either. He slid silently from the bed, dressing quickly and grabbing his briefcase. The knock became more threatening. Victor opened the back window and hurried down the fire escape. He had a class at eight. At the bottom, he inched his way towards his car, looking to see that the two large men were still knocking and turned away from him. He unlocked the car door, kneeling down, climbed in quickly and started the engine. He backed out slowly, normally. He could see the men turn their eyes in his direction, staring suspiciously, but uncertain if it was him. A desperate man wouldn’t back out slowly. They returned to the door, kicking it in with their fat leather feet.

      Victor pulled into the college parking lot. His hands were clammy, and his heart was racing. He sat there a while, trying to pull himself together. After achieving some semblance of calm, he got out of his car and walked toward his classroom.

      The students were still shuffling in as he entered and headed towards the lectern, opening his briefcase and removing all the necessities. Everyone seated and quiet, he began. “By now I expect that you have read the first seven chapters of Crime and Punishment. My question to you is, did you think that Raskolnikov’s actions were warranted? And please no one word answers. If yes, why? And if no, why not?”

      The hands went up heatedly.

      “Yes?” Victor said, to a young man of about twenty. “Henry.”

      “Well?” Henry began thoughtfully. “I didn’t feel much sympathy for that old woman. I mean she was a horrible person? She basically took advantage of poor people when they were really desperate.”

      “So what?” said a girl a few rows away. “You can’t just go around killing people just because you think they’re horrible?”

      “Yeah,” added another boy. “No one is above the law.”

      “Two solid points.” said Victor. “Any other thoughts?”

      “I kinda see where both sides are coming from.” said another girl. “I mean like murder is murder. But what if you killed somebody really evil? Like Hitler?”

      “Anybody wanna take that one?” Victor asked.

      “Well, it is kinda confusing,” said Henry. “I mean like wars are legal? How come it’s okay to kill a lot of innocent people, but not kill one horrible person?”

      “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” said the blonde from before. “Wars are fought to protect us!”

      “Oh yeah?” said Henry.

      “It’s just not the same,” she insisted.

      “Man!” Henry said. “You’re really twisted.”

      “And you’re a loser.” she said.

      “Alright, alright.” Victor said, holding his hands up. “Let’s keep this civilized.”

       A deep voice from the furthest end of the back row asked. “And what about the law of the streets, professor?”

       They had found him.

      “Yeah, professor?” Asked the other. “Tell the class what you think about that?”

      “I think maybe it’s time class were dismissed.” Michael said.

      Victor tried to remain calm. He couldn’t afford for them to see him sweat. “Alright class.” he said. “I’m letting you go early today. Read the next seven chapters for next time.”

      The students shuffled out, leaving him alone with his interrogators. The two men mosied down the middle staircase, their chests and arms hunched forward, affecting an air of pure muscle. Their features bore an expression of glaring purpose, their lips curled in a sadistic mocking. Don’t show fear, Victor thought to himself, his calm expression betraying his inner terror.

      Michael put his foot up on the chair across from Victor’s desk, leaning forward, resting an arm on a knee. “Vic-tor Mar-lov.” he said. “You owe us quite a bit of money, Victor.”

      “I know,” said Victor. “I get paid tomorrow. I can give you two grand of it then.”

      Michael took his foot off the chair, reaching into his jacket’s inner pocket, and leisurely removing a pack of cigarettes. He took one out and lit it, waving the match out. He stared Victor down as he inhaled, then exhaled exasperatedly. “You skipped a payment.” he finally said. “Where were you?”

      They would be expecting him to lie, was Victor’s split-second thought. So he didn’t. “I was at the track.” he said.

      Michael looked at the other guy, then turned back to Victor. “You see Tony there?”

      Now here was the moment to lie, and lie well. “Yeah I did.” Victor said. “He was running after someone.”

      “Yeah?” Michael asked, not quite convinced, but taking at least half the bait. “Who?”

      It was time to throw someone under the bus to save his own skin. “I couldn’t really tell for sure,” he began. “But I think it was Freddy.”

      “Freddy Willis?” Michael asked, his anger beginning to shift direction.

      “Yeah.” said Victor convincingly.

      Michael stared him down one last time. “You better not be fuckin with me.” he said.

      “I’m not.” Victor said with all the certainty of a saint.

      Michael dropped the cigarette on the floor and squashed it out. “O-kay.” he said, still doubtful. “I’ll talk to Freddy and see what he has to say about this. Meanwhile, we’ll be back here tomorrow to collect. You better be here pro-fessor.”

      “I will be.” Victor said.

      On his way out, Michael added. “You know? Maybe I’ll pick myself up a copy of that Crime and Punishment. Who knows but I might learn somethin?”

      Victor could still hear them cackling in the hallway, as the door swung to a slow close.

      Victor lay awake that night. Tony was dead, but the debt he owed wasn’t. He just had his brother Michael on his back instead. But it wasn’t the debt that had motivated Victor to kill Tony. It was personal.

      About a month ago, Tony had shown up at a bar that Victor and his friends frequented. Victor told him that he would meet him somewhere the next day, but Tony was in the mood for trouble. And taking Victor’s request as an insult, created a loud, embarrassing scene. He beat Victor to within an inch of his life, with the butt of his revolver. All of his buddies, and a girl he liked, saw the whole thing. He spent a week in the hospital recovering.

      It had been one of the most humiliating experiences of Victor’s life. He spent the entire week going over the incident again and again, his resentment building and building. He did not exactly formulate a plan to murder Tony. Yet he just couldn’t let it go. An obsession for some kind of revenge, ravaged, and slowly ate away at him. So when Tony showed up at the track, making him fear for his life again, it had just been one of those spontaneous opportunities life sometimes gives you to do something you might otherwise not have done. Which although it was never consciously planned, had been there all along, just waiting for the right moment.

      The next morning there was an authoritative knock at the door. Victor was fairly certain it was the cops. He put on his dressing gown, took a breath, and opened the door. He saw the shiny badge first. “Detective Phil Hamms.” The man said. “Victor Marlov?”

      “Yes?” Victor said, with the air of the ignorant.

      “May we talk to you for a minute, Victor?”

      “Of course.” Victor said cooperatively. “Come in.”

      The detective came in with a police officer, and they sat on the couch without being asked. “Can I get you gentlemen something?” asked Victor. “Some coffee?”

      Phil Hamms waved away the suggestion. “Sit down Mr. Marlov.”

      Victor sat down. “Do you know why we’re here Victor?” Hamms began.

      “I think so?” Victor said dumbly. “It’s about what happened to Tony.”

      “That’s right.” he said, giving the officer next to him a sly look. He stole a cookie from a plate, bit into it, and continued. “His brother Michael told me that you told him, you were at the track on the day of the murder.”

      “Yes I was?” Victor said, with a ridiculous amount of concern.

      Hamms gritted his teeth. “What time?”

      “Oh?” Victor ruminated, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Bout twelve I suppose?”

      “Tony was killed at around 12:15.” Hamms said, staring intently into Victor’s eyes. But Victor was stoic, giving him nothing. “But you did see Tony running after somebody?”

      “Yes, I did.” Victor said.

      “And you think it might have been Freddy Willis?” Hamms asked.

      “I couldn’t tell for sure,” said Victor, “But it looked like Freddy.”

      Hamms lifted up his hands, lay back on the couch, and looked at the officer in disbelief. The officer reciprocated. “That’s some coincidence ‘ey Jimmy?” Hamms said.

      “Sure is.” Jimmy agreed.

      “Why is it I don’t think you’re telling me the truth, Mr. Marlov?” Hamms said.

      “I don’t know sir.” Victor said. “But I am.”

      “Why don’t you make it easier on yourself, Victor.” Hamms said. “If you confess now, you might be able to avoid a life sentence.”

      Did they know something? Victor thought. Had they found the clothes? Had he missed a spot when wiping his fingerprints from the pitchfork? Or. Were they just playing with him because they didn’t have a thing. For a split second, the thought entered his brain to confess. But then he heard Hamms cackling under his breath. Something in its intonation gave Victor the idea that this guy was dirty. He looked over at the nodding cop, and realized they both were. What moral authority did they have to convict him of the murder of one of their own scoundrels? I’ll be damned, Victor thought, if I give them the pleasure of watching me rot away in jail, while they roam free, making their dirty little deals with Ray. He envisioned the entire brood sitting around a fine table, gorging on red meats, drinking cognac, and smoking cigars. Laughing so hard they nearly choked themselves.

      “I told you everything I know.” Victor responded resolutely.

      Hamms stared at him. “Ev-re-bod-ee’s innocent.” he said and stood up to leave. “But this isn’t over yet, Marlov. We’ll be watching you.” He looked at the officer. “Come on Jimmy. Let’s go.”

      Victor watched them get back in their car and drive away. He closed the door, his heart still racing, and fell onto the couch. He tried to breathe slower, releasing the inner terrors which had almost ruined him. As if the rude awakening of Hamms and his stooge wasn’t enough, Victor still had a class to teach, and the added pressure of meeting with Michael and his buddy at the end of it. Although he had some pills ready and waiting, Victor knew he could not afford to be sedated. Michael was still very suspicious of him, and he had to be alert and ready to answer his questions.

      “Alright class.” Victor began distractedly, watching the door, the dull drum of the classroom reverberating in his ears. On one side terrorized, and on the other bored to tears, he asked. “So do you think Raskolnikov deserves to be punished?” Without even looking around, he said, “Yes? Henry?”

      “Sir?” Henry asked, taken a little off guard.

      “Does the man deserve to be pun-ished?” Victor reiterated, very annoyed.

      “I think he is punished, sir.” Henry said.

      “That right?” Victor asked with a slight laugh to himself, acknowledging the glaring absurdity of it all. “Go on,” he finally said. “How is he punished Henry?”

      “Sir?” Henry asked, a bit frightened by the professor’s strange mood.

      “Yes How! How! You don’t have to ask permission twice!”

      “Yes sir…I mean sorry sir…I mean…ahhh…” Henry tried to be delicate. “Well sir? I mean he doesn’t get much peace after he does it. I mean the murder is only a few pages long right? And the whole rest of the book he’s on the run, nervous and panicky, lying and cheating and always looking over his shoulder…it hardly seems worth it sir?”

      “It sure as hell seemed worth it at the time.” Victor said to himself… Silence… remembering he wasn’t alone, he added. “The murder of that psychologically threatening woman.”

      Again, only Henry ventured, this time not asking permission. “But it sure as hell didn’t seem worth it afterwards sir.”

      Victor wanted to be angry, but he wasn’t. He was disarmed by the boy’s boldness. He glared at the door, saying nothing. And then the knob slowly turned, and the door began to open. The entire class turned to look at these two large and imposing strangers, who shuffled along the back aisle, found seats, and sat down. Victor began to sweat.

      Just then, a girl asked, out of the blue. “So do you think he deserves to die?”

      Victor ignored the remark entirely and quickly said. “Class dismissed.” The students stood up and gathered their belongings swiftly, heading for the door.

      Michael and his buddy took their time about it, strolling down the stairs, and settling in a couple of seats in the front row. “I’ve been catchin up on my readin, professor.” Michael said. “Tell me…do you think that old woman deserved to be murdered?”

      He was baiting him. “No.” said Victor. “I don’t.”

      “But you thought Tony did!” Michael said. “Right!”

      “No.” said Victor.

      Michael stood up, walked over, and put his hands on Victor’s shoulders. “Who won the race, Victor?”

      Victor’s heart throbbed ever louder against his ribs. He didn’t have a clue? He couldn’t believe he’d made such a fatal mistake. He had never even bothered to find out? He tried to stall, removing the envelope with the money from his briefcase, and laying it purposefully before Michael. Michael picked it up and ruffled the bills with a finger. “Yeah.” he finally said. “That seems about right. But you still haven’t answered my question, Victor?” he said. “Which horse won the race?...Or are you in the habit of betting on horses without awaiting the outcome?”

      It was no use, Victor thought. He would have to guess. And the last he saw of it, his horse was gaining.

      “Tomorrows Luck.” Victor said, putting his now shaking hands behind him.

      Michael sighed, stood up, and put the envelope in his inside pocket. He walked slowly up the stairs, his buddy following, eyeing Victor. He opened the door, then turning around, said, “Freddy Willis skipped town last night. Either you’re telling me the truth; or you’re the luckiest sonuvabitch who ever lived.”

END