Wiley's Shuffle

By Lono Waiwaiole

In Wiley's world, violence runs deep and loyalty runs even deeper. So when a prostitute named Miriam gets attached to the wrong guy, Wiley leaves the poker table, grabs his best friend, Leon, and starts looking for a way to shake her loose. Trouble is, the guy is a sociopathic pimp named Dookie who's on the lucky streak of a lifetime and who is starting to feel invincible.

Their quest takes Wiley and Leon to Vegas and L.A. — plus a few desolate, dangerous sports in between — until they reach a brutal, vicious showdown back on the streets of the Portland they all call home. To Wiley it's more clear than ever that the only things worth knowing are who's on your side and who's got your back. Wiley has emerged as one of the darkest yet most human characters in modern noir fiction, and Lono Waiwaiole has hit his stride in Wiley's Shuffle, a powerful second novel from a true talent.

Praise for WILEY'S SHUFFLE and the Wiley crime novels ...

"Lono Waiwaiole's Wiley novels are the past and the future of hardboiled crime fiction ... Buy this book." — Lee Child, author of Persuader

"Neo-noir spoken here, even more fluently than ... Wiley's striking debut ... .We may be watching the emergence of a major talent." — Kirkus Reviews, Starred Review

"Prose so sharp you can't even feel the cut ... . Neither Wiley, nor Waiwaiole, are to be missed!" — Greg Rucka, author of A Fistful of Rain

"WILEY'S SHUFFLE is the real deal." — Rick Riordan, Edgar, Anthony and Shamus award-winning author of the Tres Navarre series

"WILEY'S SHUFFLE puts Waiwaiole in the same league as Elroy, Leonard, and Lehane." — Lee Goldberg, two-time Edgar Award nominee, television writer and producer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Oct 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370792351

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Hey, Miriam said quietly, stretching it out a little. She slid the word into a short lull in the thick, throbbing noise of the club, and I tried to push my reply into the same space.

Hey, I said.

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Yes, I said, although I had no idea how long a while was at the time. I did know I hadn’t seen her for more than a year, and that the bullet wounds she had helped me overcome back then no longer drained blood out of my body.

How are you? she asked.

I’m fine, I lied. You?

The same, she said, and then the lull in the noise evaporated, and I was left to wonder whether she was lying as much as I was. Miriam had a face that seemed to have been around longer than the rest of her, so it was usually made up more heavily than I liked. That night was no exception, but her dark dress was simple and brought out the cream in her coffee-colored complexion. And if there was anything under the dress besides her well-turned body, I could see no evidence of it.

My inventory was interrupted when a white hippo standing next to Miriam turned with a drink in each hand and pointed away from the bar with his head. He looked past me like my stool was empty, but she gave me a discreet little wave before she followed him to a table. I watched her go while I thought some more about her answer to my question, even though I knew it made no difference what she meant as soon as I saw the hippo.

The last time I had seen Fat George, I kicked the shit out of him on the front porch of his sister’s house in West Seattle. He had put Miriam in the hospital here in Portland, and I was the long arm of retribution. I still believed in the efficacy of retribution in those days, but my effort to achieve it on that occasion had apparently fallen short.

I still don’t really comprehend the connection that often binds a whore to her pimp, but I do know that it runs deeper than all of the logic in the world. Deeper, definitely, than blood, and sometimes even deeper than life itself.

I turned and caught Jerry the bartender watching me. I raised my eyebrows and shook my head, and he shrugged his shoulders in response.

Don’t ask me, he mouthed into the din. Hoes don’t never make no sense.

I raised no objection to Jerry’s comment, even though I knew he was wrong. Whores are just like the rest of us—sometimes they make sense, sometimes they don’t, and just like the rest of us they get no gold stars pasted on their lives either way.

But I had to admit as I shared a look with Jerry and drained my Diet Pepsi that seeing Miriam with Fat George again made no fucking sense at all.

ONE

THURSDAY NIGHT

I had been independently wealthy for a week or two the previous year, but it turned out I was intolerant of the money in the same way some people can’t tolerate milk—I liked the stuff, but it tied my stomach into knots.

That particular money had grown out of the murder of my daughter like mushrooms rooted in manure. By the time Leon and I caught up with the man responsible for her death, he had half a million bucks in the trunk of his car. We canceled his license to drive and kept the cash, but it wasn’t long before I discovered I couldn’t have anything to do with my share.

And getting rid of the stuff was another sharp pain in the side. You’d rather give it to someone you care about than someone you don’t, but $250,000 seemed likely to bend beyond recognition any relationships I had at the time.

Actually, that sounds better than it was. My only relationship was with a hooker, but it already had a financial aspect to it and I did care about her. Ultimately, she seemed like the logical solution to my problem.

Of course, the solution created a problem of its own—our relationship disappeared as soon as she used the money to change her profession. And a year later, we were still laboring under the cloud of that transaction. After all, what exactly does it mean when a guy gives his whore a quarter of a million dollars?

Fortunately for me—and I think for Alix, as well—the money had no impact on my relationship with her six-year old son, which was why Quincy and I were sprawled across Alix’s living room floor that night. He was watching The Lion King on an oversize set, and I was trying to look like I was watching it with him.

This is my favorite part, he said quietly. Quincy said most everything quietly.

I know, I said.

We were near the end of the film, after the bad guys have all been expelled and life is right in the world again.

How many times have you seen this film? I asked.

I don’t know, he said, quietly.

More than a hundred?

I think so.

I think you know it by heart. Don’t you get tired of it?

It’s my lucky movie. I’ll never get tired of it.

Well, that explains it, I said, and I reached over and cuffed his head lightly. No one ever gets tired of good luck.

Nope, he replied, rolling under my arm and nestling along my side. No one ever does.

I looked across the room in Alix’s direction, and she glanced up from the book she was reading and met my gaze. We knew why this was Quincy’s lucky movie, and that icy knowledge both tied us inextricably together and chilled the bond between us. The man who murdered my daughter had tried to do the same to Alix, and in the effort had held Quincy for twenty-four hours. Quincy had been watching The Lion King when I finally extricated him from that situation, and a lucky movie was born.

You are really good for him, aren’t you? Alix asked.

Kind of amazing, I said, considering my track record.

Alix kept her dark Asian eyes locked on me for a moment, and I took advantage of the time to plumb those silent depths. As usual, they didn’t tell me much, and when the moment was over she turned back to her book and I went back to nestling with her son on her living room floor.

TWO

Dookie was flexing in the mirror behind the bar when the woman he was waiting for walked through the door. He ignored her for a moment and focused on his own reflection.

Not bad, he said to himself. He liked the way the veins in his arms popped up when he tensed the muscles there, and the way his power seemed to ripple beneath his dark, black skin. Not bad at all, he thought. Two or three inches above six feet would have been better than this motherfuckin’ inch or two under, but all things considered you gotta love this shit just the way it is.

He turned away from the mirror and looked around the room for the woman. He found her at a table near the jukebox with Fat George, so he surrendered his stool at the bar and followed his eyes until he was standing at the fat man’s side.

What? Fat George said, and Dookie put a short left hand right behind the question mark. Fat George tumbled off his chair and rolled on the floor with his hands over his mouth. Chairs scraped the floor in the vicinity as people cleared out of the way, but Dookie knew the action was over.

What the fuck? Fat George sputtered finally.

Don’t come ’round this bitch no more, Dookie said. B. B. King was spilling out of the jukebox as he said it, but Dookie could see that Fat George heard every word. You’re through with her, you sorry motherfucker.

Fat George looked up at Dookie from the floor for a heart-beat or two and then nodded his head.

Get your white ass outta here, Dookie said, and Fat George slowly clambered to his feet and walked unsteadily across the floor and out the door. When he was no longer in sight, Dookie claimed the empty chair and looked across the table at the woman.

She looked back at him without a word. Dookie made himself comfortable in Fat George’s chair and studied her. She was a light-colored bitch, which Dookie liked. That shit’ll look good on me if I ever wanna fuck her, he thought while he waited.

Which I just might wanna do, he said to himself after some more time leaked away. Her face shows a little wear and tear, but that’s a nice frame she’s got on her. And even the face ain’t that bad, you look at her a while. No wonder she’s still makin’ that money.

What makes you think I’m goin’ with you? the woman said at last.

Please, Dookie said. Anybody with a piece of shit like George is just waitin’ for someone like me.

I don’t even know you, the woman said.

Sure you do, Dookie said. I’m the man of your dreams.

I don’t have any dreams, the woman said.

Then I’m the man of your worst fuckin’ nightmare, bitch. Either way is fine with me.

The woman stopped talking then, and she stopped looking at Dookie. She stared into the depths of the jukebox for a while, and an old Albert Collins tune came up as the minutes stretched out between them.

I like this fuckin’ music box, Dookie said to himself. Not many places you can still get the old blues like this.

Why me? the woman said, her eyes drifting back to Dookie. He could see a hint of green in them, even in the dim light of the bar. I like those eyes, he thought.

There’s still a lot of money in that sweet ass of yours, Dookie said. I want it.

So you’re my manager now?

And any other fuckin’ thing I wanna be, Dookie said.

The woman looked at him some more, and then she opened the purse on the table in front of her. She removed a pack of smokes, fumbled with them until she had a cigarette in her hand, and then locked her eyes on Dookie again.

Got a light? she asked.

THREE

Alix was asleep on the couch by the time I tucked Quincy away for the night. Her paperback copy of Manchester’s The Glory and the Dream was propped on her chest, her hands holding it close while she dozed.

I leaned over her, gently extricated the book, and placed it on the glass-covered coffee table in front of the couch. Then I slipped my left arm under her shoulders and my right under her knees and lifted her, and she opened her murky black eyes lazily and looked at me as I did it.

I looked back. I never tired of trying to read her eyes, or of holding her in my arms, so I did both until she turned her head and nestled against me.

Bedtime, I said, and when she offered no contradiction I moved across the room and down the hall. When I reached the right door I turned, and after a moment of wrangling with the covers I had her spread out on her back with a comforter pulled up to her chin

Looks like you’re sleeping in your sweats tonight, I said.

I’m fine, she said. Thanks for the ride.

You’re welcome, I said.

And thanks for dropping by, Wiley. I really appreciate it.

You slept through half of it, I pointed out, brushing her blond Scandinavian curls away from her dark Asian eyes and kissing her lightly on the forehead.

That’s part of it, she said softly. It’s easier to sleep when you’re here.

Prove it, I said, and it wasn’t long before she did. A moment later, my former whore and her son were sleeping easily somewhere behind me while I drove my old Subaru into the dark, empty night.

FOUR

What’s your real name? Dookie asked as he opened the door and stepped aside to let her enter.

Miriam, she said, and Dookie hooked a left into her stomach as she said it. She curled over his arm immediately, and Dookie caught her easily as she folded and lifted her off the floor. He walked her slowly to the bedroom while she fought to breathe, and he threw her on top of his unmade bed when she finally succeeded.

What was that for? she said, looking up at him from the bed. She was sprawled on her back with her short skirt hiked up to her narrow waist, and Dookie ran his eyes up and down her creamy coffee legs before he answered.

This shit can go easy or hard, Dookie said. It’s all up to you.

Miriam stared up at him for another moment, and Dookie kept his eyes locked on hers as he closed the distance between them. He put one hand on each of her hips and stripped her panties off her butt and down her long legs.

Right now, he said as he tossed the panties on the floor, I think I’ll hit this thing. You got a problem with that?

No, Miriam said softly, spreading her legs in front of him and reaching for him with both arms. Ain’t that what it’s for?

FIVE

It was the year Leon buried his card room in a casino. In the old days, before every Indian tribe in Washington and Oregon went into the casino business, we used to deal the cards ourselves. Now we had dealers like Patty in cute little bow ties and flowery vests doing it for us—and raking money out of every pot for Leon.

Not that I had a problem with Leon’s share of the proceeds. Except that we have always loved the same woman and I occasionally hate his fucking guts, I never have a problem with Leon—he’s the oldest friend I have in the world. When push comes to shove, he’s probably the only friend I have in the world—and push has come to exactly that more than once in our long years together.

The conversion of his card room was one of the things Leon did with his share of the money we had taken from the killer who couldn’t use it anymore. I don’t know what else Leon did, but I do know he jettisoned his escort business, his topless club, and his porno store without a visible drop in his standard of living.

I was playing Texas Hold’em, which starts with two cards dealt facedown. Mine were both aces, so I raised when the bet got to me. Dookie called and Tiny raised me back, and everyone else mucked their cards.

One more time, Tiny, I said as I covered his bet and made another one just like it. Dookie called again but Tiny chewed on it for a minute. I sat back and watched him, but it shouldn’t have taken that long. The bets I had made were as informative as turning my cards face up—everyone at the table knew I had aces. His next move would tell me what he was holding—either he had aces, too, which he would bet again, or he had a big pair a notch or two lower than aces, which he should bury in the muck with the other losing hands.

After his moment of careful deliberation, what Tiny did was match my bet—which is why I could usually make a living playing Hold’em while Tiny had a job at a liquor store downtown. There were only two cards in the deck which could make him a winning hand, and he had decided to wait for one of them.

I have never understood why people named Tiny invariably weigh in excess of three hundred pounds. There was Tiny Archibald in the NBA, of course, but he was the exception that proves the rule. Every other Tiny I have ever known or heard of was more like the Tiny sitting across from me betting his kings or queens into my aces that night.

The next three cards in Hold’em are dealt face up in the middle of the table and belong to everyone still playing. Patty flopped a king, a queen, and a two, which turned my aces into matching pieces of shit. I checked and Dookie followed my example, but Tiny came out firing.

If you can’t stand the heat, he said, get outta the fuckin’ kitchen.

You the man, Tiny, I said as I pushed my cards as far away as I could reach. You’re way too tough for me.

Fuckin’ A, he replied, but he was already losing interest in the conversation with me because Dookie called.

Who rattled your fuckin’ cage? Tiny asked.

Don’t worry ’bout me, fatso, Dookie said. You the fuckin’ man.

Clean up the language, fellas, Patty said. You both know the rules here.

He can call me whatever he wants, Tiny asked, but we can’t curse?

Please refrain from terms of derision, Dookie, Patty said.

Deal the fuckin’ cards, Dookie said.

Patty looked at Dookie like she was seeing him for the first time, and everyone at the table but me was doing the same. I was looking around the room to see who had security that night.

Patty didn’t even miss a beat. Do I have a problem, Dookie? she asked.

Nah, darling, Dookie said. Just throw a card down, and we’ll see if Big Slim here has a problem.

Patty dropped a six on the table.

That ain’t it, Dookie said, but Tiny pushed some more chips away from his stack.

It works for me, he said.

Don’t get too happy, Dookie said as he matched Tiny’s chips. Patty here is sweet on me. Go ahead, honeybunch. Throw the truth down on ol’ Slim here.

Patty had to deliver one more card for the hand, and that’s what she did. It turned out to be a nine.

Thank you, sweetheart! Dookie said. Let me just bet that for you, Tiny.

Tiny sat back in his chair like he’d been slapped in the face. He could count from nine to thirteen, so he knew Dookie had a straight if his hole cards were a jack and a ten. He also knew a straight beats three of anything, which is what Tiny had. What he didn’t know and would never learn is what to do next.

Throw those kings away, Dookie said. Save all your nickels and dimes.

Fuck you, Dookie, Tiny said, pushing his bet in right behind the words.

Language, language, Dookie said with a grin. He turned over the jack and ten of spades and motioned to Patty. Bring ’em home, honey, bring ’em home!

Patty pushed the pot in Dookie’s direction, and he ran his fingers through the chips for a while.

Brutal game, ain’t it? he said, looking at me for the first time since the hand had begun.

No question, I said, and no one at the table raised the slightest murmur of dissent. But Texas Hold’em is just a game, and I was about to discover one more time that nothing is as brutal as life.

SIX

FRIDAY EVENING

How many ads you have in this thing? Dookie asked, brandishing a slick magazine with a naked woman and the word Exotic on the cover.

One, Miriam said.

Figures, Dookie said to himself. Another bitch who don’t know what business she’s in.

He flipped through the ads for a while, letting his eyes decide for themselves where to linger. Nothing different jumped out at him—about a fifth of them were his, and he knew most of the others by heart. When he was done, he dropped the magazine on the bed.

You figure your ad is payin’ for itself? he asked.

Definitely, Miriam said.

Then why don’t you have more than one?

What?

You didn’t hear me?

I heard you, but I don’t know what you mean.

I mean if one ad pays off, why wouldn’t two pay twice as much?

I don’t know. Maybe they would, but then I’d need twice as much time to handle the calls.

How much time you figure one call takes?

I don’t know. They’re all different.

No, Dookie said. If you know what the fuck you’re doin’, they’re all exactly the same.

All the tricks want the same thing, all of ’em are callin’ from the same place?

Fuck any call outside a certain range—ten or fifteen minutes max. And who gives a fuck what anybody wants?

People don’t get what they want, Dookie, they don’t call back.

You in the fuckin’ Avon business, maybe you need people callin’ back. But that ain’t the fuckin’ business you in.

I don’t see the difference, Dookie. Sellin’ Avon or sellin’ sex, you still need satisfied customers.

Dookie looked at Miriam for a moment before he replied. Her nipples had almost disappeared at the tips of her naked breasts, but he liked the way they seemed to peer at him shyly. That ain’t no problem, he said to himself. I can always bring ’em out any time I want ’em.

That’s what I’m sayin’, he said finally. If you sellin’ sex, you might as well be sellin’ fuckin’ eye shadow and shit.

I don’t follow you, she said.

We ain’t in the sellin’ business, baby—sellin’ that shit takes too fuckin’ long. We in the collection business. They bring the money, we collect it. Only thing sex has to do with it, sex is the reason they bring the money.

If that’s the case, Miriam said softly, what do you need me for?

Oh, we need you. You the reason they open the fuckin’ door.

"Then what? You bust in and take the money, is that what this is?"

Sometimes. But you can usually get it all yourself.

How?

Anybody calls one of these ads wants sex more than he wants his money. It ain’t that hard to get it.

Then what? I just walk out the door?

You tell ’em you got to give the money to your driver and you’ll be right back, most of these sorry motherfuckers will hold the fuckin’ door open for you.

And if they don’t?

Then one of my niggas holds it for you. Believe me, ain’t no fuckin’ trick gonna argue with any of my niggas.

Dookie, I’m not sure I’m gonna like this scene.

Ain’t we lucky, then, Dookie said.

What? Miriam asked.

Ain’t we fuckin’ lucky no one gives a fuck what you like, he said. Then he dug into her breasts with the thumb and forefinger of each hand and squeezed—and sure enough, the nipples popped up hard and red, just like he figured they would.

You fuckin’ cunt, he said, pushing her flat and rolling above her. You love this shit, don’t you?

Yeah, Dookie, she said. I fuckin’ love it.

Dookie heard the words, but he noticed for a moment that he couldn’t see them no matter how far he looked into her flat eyes. Then Miriam cloaked him with herself, and he drifted with her sweet rhythm until only one of them was thinking any thoughts at all.

SEVEN

So you’re free now, Alix said softly.

A warm, dry evening had drawn us out to her porch steps. Irving Park loomed green and dank three doors