Three Deuces Down. Keith Donnelly

that in college as a joke. It was not very original, but it stuck as sort of an inside joke. Billy finds the nickname rather amusing and teases me that it is racist, but I suspect he likes the bond that it creates between us. Only one other person calls Billy “Chief,” though others have tried.

      “Send them in,” I answered as I shut down solitaire.

      A tall, lean man entered my inner sanctum. I would guess six-foot-two. He had salt and pepper hair and steel gray eyes. Ruggedly handsome, a woman would say. He was dressed in an expensive suit and was maybe ten years older than me, but in really good shape.

      “Mr. Joseph Fleet requests your presence as soon as possible at his residence,” the man said in a monotone. He wore a deadly serious expression. He stood waiting for a response from me as I stared at him. He seemed in no hurry.

      “I’m supposed to bring you now,” he added, matter of factly.

      I didn’t know Joseph Fleet but I certainly knew of him. If he wasn’t the richest man in Mountain Center he was at least in the top five.

      “You have a name?” I asked the messenger.

      “Roy Husky,” he said. Upon closer inspection Roy did not exactly look like a typical employee. More like a bodyguard. He was polished and spoke with some education but I guessed that underneath it all he was basically a thug.

      “So, Roy, it’s take me or die trying?”

      “Something like that,” he said, with a tight grin.

      “Think you could?” I smiled.

      Roy looked over his shoulder toward Billy in the outer office. “Probably not,” he said with a little larger smile. At least he was honest.

      “You’re in luck. I’m not busy. Let’s go.”

      I followed Roy out to a black limousine. He opened the back door and I got in. Once we were moving he lowered the privacy partition.

      “You Fleet’s chauffeur?” I asked.

      “Among other things,” he answered in a flat tone.

      I didn’t want to know what the other things were and so I kept my mouth shut.

      After a few minutes Roy broke the silence. “The other man at your office, American Indian?” he asked.

      “Yes.”

      “What tribe?”

      “Cherokee.”

      “Been inside?” asked Roy. He wanted to know if Billy had been in prison. Billy had. I guessed that Roy already knew the answer. He was just looking for confirmation.

      “For him to say,” I answered, and paused. “You?”

      “Yep,” he nodded, and the conversation was over.

      The drive took a while. The Fleet Addition was an exclusive neighborhood on the extreme north side of town. The rumor was that when Joseph Fleet developed the subdivision and built his mansion there he pulled some political strings and had the Addition annexed so that his children could go to city schools. Fleet was supposedly a devout family man. Actually, he had only one child, a daughter, Sarah Ann. She was a few years behind me in high school and I had not really known her and had not seen her in years. Fleet’s wife died a few years back and he had not remarried, at least that I had heard.

      As we drove I thought about Roy’s interest in Billy. I suspected that Roy recognized and respected power and danger when he saw it. Billy was an imposing figure. At six-foot-six he didn’t look so tall at first glance because his body was so perfectly proportioned. He did look immense.

      Billy and I had met during our first basketball practice at the University of Connecticut. Billy was there on a basketball scholarship and trying desperately to get an education. I was there on an academic scholarship and trying desperately to forget about Marlene Long who had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth. Since I was a pretty good high school player, I had decided to take my just over six-foot frame and walk on to the UConn basketball team. I hoped to win a guard position, but two weeks later I was told my services were no longer needed.

      Billy and I sat next to each other in a freshman Geography class. Billy was very quiet. I think he was afraid of saying something stupid, so he said nothing. I rarely got more than a one-word response to anything I said to him. But I hung in there with him and one day after class he asked if I wanted to go someplace and get something to eat. I said yes and that was our start.

      Billy gradually opened up. In fact, sometimes I could not shut him up. I don’t think he had anyone else to talk to. We became the dynamic duo, the basketball star and the playboy scholar. For countless hours I helped him study. He was brighter than he gave himself credit for, but he was deliberate and he was afraid of books. It took him a while to get things, but when he finally understood he didn’t forget. We both graduated in the spring of 1980, Billy with a degree in Art and I with degrees in Finance and Economics. We went our separate ways vowing to stay in touch.

      I ended up on Wall Street. Billy made some bad decisions, kept some bad company, and ended up in prison. I visited Billy on a regular basis while he was in Danbury prison for the entire five years I worked in New York City. It took years for Billy to tell me what he was in for and up until that time I never asked or tried to find out. When he got out, I quit the rat race and we headed south. I was amazed that Roy had spotted Billy as an ex-con. It takes one to know one ran through my mind.

      At the driveway to the Fleet mansion, the big iron gate magically opened. The drive was long and gently winding between well-placed trees that hid the big house from the road. It was early October and the leaves were beginning to change color. When the leaves were gone I suspected the house might be seen from the road. The house was splendid in a facsimile of the old Southern tradition. Four giant white columns framed the double-door front of a three-story center section flanked by two-story side sections. I looked for a Marriott sign but didn’t see any.

      Roy turned back toward me and said, “Stay in the car. I’ll let you out.”

      I’m not too fond of taking orders of any kind, but I let it pass and waited until Roy opened the door. After all, opening doors was part of a chauffeur’s job. He led me up the steps and into a large tiled oval foyer. To the right were double doors that were shut. Just to the left of those doors was a circular staircase to the second floor. To my immediate left was another set of double doors, also closed.

      “Wait here,” Roy said as he walked down a wide hall in front of me and just to the left.

      More orders. I obeyed. Roy’s job description was becoming increasingly clear. Part chauffeur, part butler, and part bodyguard. I wondered if he cooked.

      Roy returned.

      “Mr. Fleet will be with you in a moment. You can wait in the study. Come,” he said as he turned and walked back down the hall.

      I followed.

      Roy nodded toward a doorway to the right and waited until I was inside the study and then shut the door behind me. I smiled to myself and wondered if he locked it to be sure I stayed put.

      The room was a typical rich man’s study. Bookshelves were everywhere and full of books. Leather-bound classics, books on politics, novels, and reference books. Facing away from a picture window obscured by sheers was a large leather-topped desk with a big overstuffed black leather chair behind it. The chair was showing some wear. Evidently Joseph Fleet spent a good deal of time at his desk. A computer desk was on the right within swivel distance of the main desk. Fleet had basically the same setup as I did: monitor, hard drive, modem, CD player, and printer. A fax machine and answering machine were within reach on a small table to the left. There was a large leather couch, a large coffee table, two leather chairs, two end tables with matching lamps, and a floor lamp that serviced both chairs, all set strategically around an ample fireplace. In one corner was the obligatory freestanding globe. I gave it a spin. It seemed to be current.

      “I cannot resist doing that from time to time myself,” said a