The Stooper

Episode 1

It was Vic's deal. As usual, Dougie sat to his right at the hexagonal poker table. Vic shuffled the deck of cards, set them down on the green felt tabletop next to Dougie, and announced to the five men seated around the table, "Seven card stud, low in the hole is wild." Then to Dougie, who had shown up to the poker game a bit drunk and who appeared distracted, Vic barked, "Cut the cards, for Chrissake!" Dougie flinched, then he sheepishly lifted a few cards from off the top of the squared-up deck. Vic slapped the taller stack of cards atop the shorter and commenced dealing: two cards face down and one card face up to each player. A man with a bad 70s porn 'stache and unruly eyebrows received an ace; he bet first, plucking a few chips from his formidable stack and tossing them into the center of the table. Without peering at his other cards, he said flatly with a straight face, "Fifty blind on the bullet." The next two guys folded. Although Dougie held a garbage hand, he saw the bet, as did Vic who had a nine showing and a pair of threes face down – the "hole" in the parlance of this particular game. Vic dealt another card to the remaining players, providing colorful narration along the way.

"A trey to Ray . . . a king to Eyebrow . . . my nine of clubs to Dougie . . . Dealer gets a fuckin' jack-off." Vic deferred to the man he called Eyebrow. "Ace-king bets."

Pushing $100 in chips past an ashtray full of butts to the center of the table, Eyebrow announced, "Ace-king bets a buck." This time Dougie folded. Without looking at Dougie, Vic addressed him sarcastically, "Couldn't fold last time, could you asshole?" Dougie frowned and looked down at his hands like a dejected child. It hurt to be called an "asshole" by Vic in front of the others.

Vic Schuyler was the big man of the neighborhood, a tough punk who had grown up to become a fearsome financer of other peoples' vices and a connoisseur of activities treading the borderline of illegality and immorality: gambling, racketeering, money laundering, fencing of stolen goods and chasing pussy, sometimes paying for it, sometimes not. A nasty bully in school, Vic dropped out at 16 and spent a couple years in juvenile detention. Upon release at age 18 and seeing no future in petty crime, he hooked up with an aging gangster, determined to learn the art of loan-sharking and the craft of persuasive intimidation. During his apprenticeship Vic refined his image, upgrading his wardrobe, controlling his temper, and governing his impetuousness. Over time, Vic's business rewarded handsome dividends, affording him a fine German-crafted automobile and a spacious co-op in a desirable section in the Gramercy Park district of Manhattan. He cultivated a respectable, dedicated clientele for his usurious loans and illegal gambling operations – quiet, docile, mostly unlucky men who faithfully adhered to the terms and conditions, requiring minimal intervention from Vic. For those occasional fools who allowed debts to languish or tried to leave behind an outstanding balance Vic inflicted cruel and effective punishment. Around the neighborhood, behind his back, Vic Schuyler was unaffectionately known as "Vic the Prick."

Dougie liked to think of himself as Vic's pal, fortunate to be favored by such an influential, powerful player – even though the man had duly earned the nom-de-fuck "Prick." Dougie became an associate of Vic's in junior high school after Vic agreed to protect the fragile, defenseless teen in return for cash payments and bottles of prescription painkillers he stole from his grandmother's medicine chest. Now, 25 years later Dougie accompanied Vic everywhere, and although he couldn't honestly call himself one of Vic's confidantes, he faithfully did the man's bidding, never asking questions, never complaining, and never, ever challenging Vic's oft-demented demands. To an outsider Dougie was a simple stooge, an errand-running gofer beholden to his hard-hearted master; but in Dougie's mind he was a privileged member of Vic's inner circle, invulnerable to the evil forces that would otherwise threaten him absent Vic's protective wing.

The gamblers at the poker table threw chips and bills into the pot. Out of the hand, Dougie poked a finger into his ear, rotated it like a post-hole digger, examined the orange wax under his fingernail, and surreptitiously wiped the greasy mass onto the underside of the table. He grabbed his cash from the table, stuffed it in his shirt pocket and said, "Deal me out. I'm goin' outside . . . get some air . . . take a piss." No one seemed to notice or care that Dougie had left.