The Scrimshaw Mermaid: a short story

Jake Winters sat at a rickety card table in the Crystal Sandwich Shop. A green tablecloth hid its gouged and pitted surface from sight, but the impressions could still be felt through the emerald fabric. The air was laden with a thick smog of cigar and cigarette smoke which made Jake's eyes burn. Harold McGuire, one of the Crystal's owners and chief bootleggers must have also felt his own ocular orbits beginning to dry. From his place behind the counter, he produced a heavy black fan. The greasy dust-coated blades awakened with a heavy buzz, laboriously pushing the smoky air towards the closed, yet drafty front entrance. Outside the street lamps hit Frankie, silhouetting his hulking figure through the white curtains covering the speakeasy's glass front door. The ethereal sight of the large bouncer reminded Jake that this was a private game.

Five more tables like the one Jake found himself were distributed about the deli. Each table held four players along with a stony-faced dealer. Each player had connections to the San Francisco mob, everyone but Jake.

Two weeks prior, Jake had rolled into town from upstate New York after escaping a nasty bookie he'd ripped off at the Yonkers Raceway. Now only a fortnight after arriving in the City by the Bay, he found himself at the heart of the Saturday night poker game hosted by San Francisco's most notorious up-and-coming crime lord, Francesco Lanza. Jake had made fast friends with Dutch White, the Crystal's other owner at an underground cockfight out in Dogpatch the night before. Having bought the paunchy bootlegger several rounds of bathtub gin fizzes, Dutch had vouched for Jake and gotten him into the game. Preserving the unreadable mask on his face, Jake eyed the table's other players.

To his immediate right sat Samuel "Sammy" Mazzaro's whose looming form reminded Jake of an angry bull. The shaky folding chair Sammy perched upon creaked and squealed as he shifted. The more the chair protested the worse Sammy's hand. It currently sang a full sonata. Jake smiled inwardly. He loved playing against chumps. It was a nice confidence boost, but not much of a challenge.

On Jake's left sat Mike Iannuzzi, a rugged and swarthy thug who sported a deep, red scar running from temple to chin. Rumors floated as to where Mike's pockmarked face had acquired this distinguishing marker. Some said he had been slashed by a jealous husband as he escaped through the couple's bedroom window. A few whispered it was a present from his father when Mike had failed to return with twenty grand worth of high-quality gin from France, having lost the shipment to the fuzz before it could be collected from the docks. Jake, having spent the last three hours in Mike's presence would bet on the latter. Mike was one cold son of a bitch. As if to compensate for either his upbringing or the scar that had caused it, Mike dressed impeccably. His suite cost, at least, three hundred large if it cost a dime, and his alligator shoes carried a sheen that could reflect a visage with scaly integrity.

Finally, across from Jake, leaning back in his chair was the frightening Tony Lanza, the younger brother of Francesco. Much like Mike, it was easy to see Tony had experienced his share of any number of other morally reprehensible acts. Not to be out dressed by Mike, Tony took his ensemble to the next level. His polished gray suit, which looked as if it had been hand-tailored by angels, seemed more appropriate for a weekend in Monaco to dine with the king rather than an underground poker game in a Tenderloin speakeasy.

At only twenty-one, Jake had under his belt an impressive array of talents, some he had taken to a master level. He excelled at the fast con like three-card Monte, taking marks on the street for their pocket change. If necessary, he could pull a longer con, like romancing wealthy widows out of their knickers as well as their bank accounts. Growing up on the streets of Dublin in the 1910s had made Jake a resourceful survivor. It also didn't hurt that his dark hair, bright blue eyes, lean frame, and exotic accent made him exceedingly attractive. People wanted to trust Jake from the moment they met him. It was funny how beautiful people got away with more than the unfortunate looking. As a result, these ruses made Jake low. Duping the unsuspecting and preying on the lonely didn't sit well with him. He preferred a worthy opponent, someone greedier and more unscrupulous than himself. This band of murderous gangsters was the kind of mark that made Jake's heart light and carefree. No, there would be no sleep lost after taking these chumps for all they had.