The Way, The Truth... and the Wife

The Way, The Truth... and the Wife - David E. Malone - Jan 27, 2006

Me and my best buddy, Harry, are slimey, lowdown, pool hustlers... at least that's what people tend to call us when they look back and think about how their cash migrated into our pockets.

It's a bit unfair. Don't they realize that in order for us to hustle them they had to have had a little larceny in their souls? If they weren't greedy and thinking they were going to make a killing, they wouldn't have gone for the hustle in the first place. So as far as I can see, we are really just providing a public service that allows these sinners to repent and learn a quick lesson in humility at the same time. Harry's a better player than me, so he gets to hustle the big dogs... me, I take care of the little ten bucks a game action, and between us we've managed to survive on the road for nigh on four years now.

One of the big reasons for that is 'Harvey' the RV who saves us mucho dinero in hotel and motel rooms. Harry obtained Harvey from his maiden aunt, Agatha who carelessly happened to leave the keys in it. Harry used to work in a scrap yard and has a collection of license plates from every state in the union so we change the plates every couple of weeks to throw people off the trail and it seems to be working... or maybe nobody cares anyway. Harvey is a twenty year old Winnebago but he still runs fine, doesn't leak in any place inconvenient, and has all the comforts of home as long as we stay in the warmer climes.

Hustling's a dangerous game and over the years we've learned to be cautious. We check all the exits, especially bathroom windows and back doors, before setting something up in case we get in over our heads. Occasionally, try as we will, the hustler gets hustled and if we don't have the jelly-beans to pay off the wager there's trouble. I think one or the other of us has been beaten up in every state of the union. It gets harder to find a bar or a room where we haven't been before and even then we sometimes get recognized by someone who just happened to have been in an action room where we previously visited. As the number of available rooms dwindles, we have begun to think seriously about ways to protect ourselves, and especially our bankroll, in those cases where it becomes obvious we are in trouble.

I mean, in the past we have tried simply 'hightailing' it, but inevitably there is someone at the door whose job it is to make sure we don't do that. Plus Harry's a bit overweight and doesn't run that good anymore. He once suggested I get a big handgun and wave it around a bit... it's a pretty good bet we'd be able to walk out if we had a gun, he said. But that's more dangerous than it sounds - in fact it's probably a good way to get shot to death by a bartender with a shotgun under the counter or some macho cowboy with a concealed weapon in his belt. I don't want to risk it. What we've always needed is a sure-fire diversion that would take everyone's attention away from the game and allow us to sneak quietly away whilst everyone was distracted.
Finally, one day Harry had what he thought was a brilliant idea.

"Here's what we do...", he said. "You dress up like a woman and come busting into the bar and pretend I'm your husband..."

"No offense, Harry" I said. "But you're not my type. Besides, why me...?"

"I'm the one who plays for the big bucks. So I'm the one who needs to get bailed out more often. Think about it...", he said.

I thought about it.

"I'm not into that sort of thing... I mean dressing up as a woman.", I protested.

"It's okay. You don't have to do anything kinky...", he said.

"You mean dressing up as a woman doesn't strike you as even slightly kinky?" I said, heatedly.

"Hear me out," said Harry. He was agog with excitement. "You come busting into the bar and scream at me... something like... you miserable, lying son of a snake... you told me you was going to church and here you are gambling again."

"Um...?" I said doubtfully.

"Then you grab me by the collar and drag me out of the bar..." he said. "It's perfect. There isn't a man alive whose gonna get involved in a man having a fight with his wife. In fact, there isn't a scarier thing on this earth than an angry woman. We've all been conditioned to stay as far away from them as possible... don't matter how big and tough you are, you ain't gonna tangle with an angry woman. Am I right?"

"That's true," I said, thinking of my dear wife I'd left to go on the road. "If Amy ever finds me she'll string me up... I wouldn't want to be in my shoes if she ever turns up."

"Right..." he said. "Hell hath no fury like a woman."

Now I really, really didn't want to do this. I'm a man's man. I don't look like a woman, I don't talk like a woman, I don't walk like a woman, and I sure as hell don't smell like a woman. Plus, if the dupes ever found out, they'd be madder than hell and I'd be lucky to end up in the hospital instead of the cemetery. But eventually Harry talked me into trying it - he called in every favor he had coming and reminded me several times of the time he'd saved my life... I reluctantly agreed to give it a try. After all, he had saved my life.

We went down to the local St. Vincent De Paul Society store and found a blonde wig and an oversize chintz dress with buttons down the front. I hadn't seen myself as a blonde, but Harry thought I'd have more fun that way. Quite the effing humorist is our Harry. They didn't have any tights or pantyhose so we had to go to the local WalMart and get a one-size-fits-all pair of stretch tights in a dark brown shade... 'ecru' I think it said on the package. I tried on the outfit in the RV and Harry near busted a gut laughing. Seems I reminded him of a girl he went out with in high school... musta been one butt-ugly cheer-leader. I had to pad the chest a bit with a couple of old tee-shirts and Harry sat down and sewed them right into the dress so I could get the outfit together in a hurry. In a pinch, I figured I could lose the tights because they took an extra five minutes to put on. My legs aren't that hairy anyway and I figured I'd seen worse on some women. Anyway, with a bit of pancake make-up, some red lipstick, and a pair of high-heeled pumps, I made a passable dame... think of a cross-dressing Dolly Parton impersonator after a binge-drinking weekend.

I still had reservations.

"Harry," I mused. "What if I wanted to grow a mustache sometime in the future?"

"No problem," he said. "Do you remember old Jamie's wife..? She had a better mustache than he did and people still knew she was a damned ugly woman. It'd be better if you don't though... just don't grow a beard."

Weeks passed and fortunately Harry continued to come out on the right end of his hustles until one night when we were in Salem, Oregon and he ran into a real player. This low-down weasel managed to hide that fact until they got into some substantial jelly-beans. I'd been dreading this but Harry gave me the secret signal as arranged and I excused myself and reluctantly slipped out to the RV to get changed. Five minutes later I was ready to roll.

I threw open the door of the pool-room...

"I knew it," I screamed in a high falsetto. "Harry Charles Verderchi... you evil son of a rattler... you told me you was going to Church. You lying bastard... you're gambling again... I'm gonna kill you when I get you home..."

I bustled right up to Harry, whacked him with my purse a few times, and then grabbed him dramatically by the ear. I could see the horrified faces of all the players as I led him out of the front door. He was probably in some pain but I wanted it to be realistic and apparently it was. Nobody said a thing... although I saw one big guy gulp and mutter, "Geez, that's one plug-ugly woman...".

I tried not to take it personally.

We piled into Harvey for our getaway. My knees were shaking and I was hyper-ventilating. And Harry was laughing so hard he could barely drive.

"That's the last time I do that," I gasped.

"I don't think so..." replied Harry, in between wheezes. "Come on... it worked like a charm. Did you see the look on them ol' boys faces. Priceless..."

"How much were you in for anyway...?" I asked when I got my breath back.

"Five dimes... and I only had sixty bucks in my pocket." he said. "They'd have skinned me alive if I didn't pay up..."

"So, now we're even," I said. "You saved my life and I just saved yours... I ain't doing this again. Ever."

About a month later, we were in Vegas - lots of high rollers there. We were getting pretty flush - with a bank-roll twice the size we could usually put together - and I could see Harry was itching for a high-stakes game. Vegas was his home town and he knew all the best gambling haunts. He'd been away so long, nobody recognized him anymore and he was pretty sure he could go most places without being fingered. I'm from Connecticut so no-one was likely to know me there anyways. We stopped in at a place called Smiley's and casually asked if there was any action. Appears not although the bartender, Jimmie, said there was a Russian guy throwing some cash about in there a day or so ago. He said he thought he'd be back on Thursday and since today was Wednesday we decided to go sleep in the Winnebago and come back in a while.

We slept in 'till noon on Thursday, ate lunch, and generally puttered about until about seven. There was no sign of any Russian at Smiley's when we got there but Jimmie said he usually didn't make an appearance until later so we'd have to hurry up and wait. I passed the time playing one of the locals for ten bucks a game and picked up a couple hundred before he backed out on me. Finally the door opened and the Russian walked in with a few friends (backers?) and we waited for Jimmie to serve him a drink and ask him if he was looking for a game. We could see him gesturing in our direction and eventually, the Russian guy got up and walked over. I had to do my best not to laugh, he looked and sounded just like that comedian, Yakob Smirnov... "I love this country"... he cracks me up. Anyway, he was looking for a game and wanted the nine and the breaks. Harry managed to talk him into a better spot, protesting he hadn't seen him play and wasn't a charity organization. Right from the start, Harry seemed to have his number. He's pretty much pro level is Harry and this guy was maybe an APA level six on his best day. A decent enough short-stop but not any kind of a match for Harry. I rubbed my hands together, this was going to be fun... and profitable.

Harry let him win a few and then started on the cycle of doubling up that makes for real money. Yakob, or whatever his real name was, seemed to have more money than sense because he just kept going, even after the bet had migrated into some serious money. He seemed a bit distraught and finally declared this would be his last set... he suggested twenty big ones - winner takes all. I knew Harry only had about five dimes in total, so I was hoping he'd decline and keep what he'd already earned, but you know Harry - he had to go for it. Suddenly, Yakob's game improved markedly. His buddy's all had big grins on their faces and I knew Harry was in real trouble. It seemed the damned Russian was no short-stop after all and had been playing possum.

It was time for a diversion.

I know I said 'never again' but those Russian boys looked tough and Harry was in deep trouble if he lost. I slipped out while everyone was concentrating on the game and donned the outfit. This time I didn't bother with the tights or the lipstick - I figured Harry didn't have much time left. I was leaving the trailer when I had to make a detour around this huge guy. He must have been close to seven feet tall and as big around as an oak barrel. It was easy to tell he was a wee bit drunk because he smelled like a brewery overflow and slurred his words...

"Hi, Darlin'..." he said, grabbing me by the arm. "Wanna date?"

"Huh?" I said, incredulously. "You can't be serious..."

Seems he was. I shook his hand off my sleeve, but he reached out and put a huge arm around my waist. It was an awkward situation and I knew Harry was waiting - maybe if I cold-cocked him with my purse I'd be able to escape. I wound up hard as I could and smashed him in the jaw with the buckle.

He laughed.

"I like a woman with some moxie..." he said, and grabbed me by the arm and pulled me down so that we were sitting on a nearby bench. "Gimme a kiss, Darlin'...."

"I'm a married woman..." I said, in a high pitched soprano voice, made higher by sheer panic. "Let me go at once...!"

"Just one kiss and I'll let you go, Darlin'..." he slurred. "I promise..."

I struggled for a while to no avail. He was simply too big and too strong. I'm no midget myself, but I have to confess I'd rarely come across a gorilla like this. I thought for a while and then... leaned across and gave him a perfunctory peck on his rough beard. For God's sake, don't tell anybody... this may have been the low point of my life up until then.

"There..." I squeaked. "You promised.... let me go."

I should have known better. I can remember doing the same thing to Amy when we first started going out, and when she gave me that first kiss I just assumed she was hot for me and wanted more. Seems like the big ape thought the same way... must be a male testosterone type of thing. He pulled me closer and puckered up. I felt distinctly faint as his foul breath threatened to suffocate me and he had me in a bear hug that I couldn't break. If he ever thought about going for second or third base, I thought, I was a dead man...

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the pool-room door and Harry came flying out, enthusiastically assisted by two Russian apes. He landed hard and something about the way he just lay there made me realize he was hurting more than a little. I slapped the gorilla hard and screamed.

"That's my husband... he's hurt... let me go you big ape..." which thankfully he did.

Apparently he wasn't such a bad guy after all. With some help from the big lug, I got Harry into the Winnebago and closed the door. The gorilla wanted to stay and help, but I persuaded him to wait outside. Harry wasn't hurt all that bad, maybe a couple of cracked ribs, a possible broken arm, and some bruises. He'd survived much worse in the past but he still needed to get to a hospital fast. As I looked down on him, his eyes opened and he said faintly,

"Where were you, sweet-heart? Some wife you are... they beat the crap out of me..." Always the smart-ass, even if he was in pain.

"I know" I said. "I... um... got delayed."

He raised himself on the elbow of his good arm and looked at me quizzically.

"What's that on your neck...?" he said incredulously. "A hickey?"

"Shaddap." I said.

I drove him to the hospital like the good buddy I am, but the dress, the blonde wig, and the tights went out the window on the East Bonanza Road and neither of us have ever mentioned the incident since.