The Jackdaw Read online



  The Jackdaw

  By

  Steven Zelko

  Copyright © 2015 by Steven Zelko

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Printing, 2015

  Steven Zelko

  15 Kerang Ave,

  Reservoir, VIC, Australia 3073

  https://www.stevenzelko.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  I

  The blacktop ribbon feeds out of civilisation. The Driver steams his motor down the highway. The Phase III is built for speed. The thick black rear tires consume the road. The 351 Cleveland engine is brutish and unreasonable but the petrol gauge is sliding towards empty. In the back seat sits a full briefcase covered with a folded map and a week old copy of the Business Review. In the distance a small building begins to grow.

  The Driver slows the hungry beast and pulls into the petrol station. He passes a chalk-written sign that reads ‘Last Chance’. Dust covers the pumps, the signs, and much of the one room store. The Driver steps from the car and swaggers around it, stamping out a cigarette before opening the petrol tank. The melodic ting-ting of the old Gilbarco petrol pump speaks of a time when fuel was for going places not fleeing from them. A louder ding signifies the tank is full and the Driver replaces the cap. His hands slide into his back pockets searching for something familiar but they come away empty. He runs his hand over the fronts of his pants but there is nothing in them either. He shoves his hands back into his jacket again. Nothing. He fervently reaches for the lid of the trunk and it pops into his hand but just before he lifts it to his face his eyes search in front of him. He taps his back pocket with his free hand and pushes the packet of playing cards up out of his pants.

  He palms the trunk lid back into place and his hands join together around the packet of cards. He removes the cards slowly and shuffles them with a quiet pleasure, like a shaky chain smoker removing a cigarette from a fresh packet and rolling it between their index finger and thumb before placing it on their lip. Drawing a card, the Driver smiles. He slides it back into the deck lovingly and makes for the store.

  The interior is decorated to find things and not for fashion. The small, hunched over woman behind the counter keeps it tidy just to pass the time. Her hair, like her clothes, is homespun, lacking in grace but it has never bothered her much. She covers it with a màrama, just like her grandmother used to. The bell over the door rings and she looks up from the counter. The Driver moves through the aisles, arbitrarily selecting goods for the road as he scans for something more important. The small frame notices his search.

  “You need help with something?” Her broken English is glued together by years of daytime television.

  The Driver stays silent. He continues scanning until he finds the Miscellaneous Goods section. Beneath fan belts and air fresheners he finds them: an old packet of cards that look as though they have been there since before the store opened. His eyes grow wide. He reaches towards them with care.

  “Is there something...”

  “No. Now be quiet.” He commands as he reaches out and lifts the playing cards from the cheap aluminium hook.

  The Clerk’s mouth opens out of shock and it takes her a moment before she uses it for speech.

  “I mean no harm. I only...”

  As she begins to speak the Driver’s eyes roll back in his head and he stands to face her.

  “You only meant to pry into a business that isn’t your own.”

  “I...”

  “You what?” He aims at her as he begins to approach the counter.

  The Clerk falls backwards from the bench to keep the distance between them more than the reach of an arm, but when he places the goods down calmly, her fear settles into confusion.

  “How much?” He enquires.

  The Clerk swallows the question and just stares at the man.

  “Oh, now you have problems talking?”

  “That is... that is... seven fifty.”

  “Oh, are giving me the petrol for free?”

  The Clerk turns from the waist like a mannequin and stares out the window at the car as though the scene is completely foreign to her.

  “Fifty in petrol and seven-fifty for the goods. So that would be a grand total of fifty-seven-fifty. Correct?”

  The Clerk’s eyes drift back from the window and she faces him as he reaches into his back pocket. He retrieves the deck of cards and as he is lifting them out, the Mateba Model 6 Unica sees daylight from under his jacket. He places his deck on the counter and appraises the Clerk.

  “But you aren’t getting that today.”

  The Clerk looks at him and then looks down at the cards, the confusion on her face is the same as a child looking up at an adult who is trying to explain some universal truth.

  “It is a simple game. We draw a card each, and depending on that card, you will either buy yourself a new dress or I will be leaving with my goods and petrol with the compliments of your fine establishment.”

  The left eyebrow on the Clerk’s face begins to raise and it signals her return to the forefront of her consciousness. She has found something tangible and gravity has settled back into her world.

  “You want to draw card to see if you pay?”

  “Ah, good, I thought I had lost you. That is precisely what I am advocating.”

  “You no can do that.”

  The Driver reaches behind his back and retrieves the gun.

  II

  The Clerk’s eyes go wide. She begins to say something but the Driver speaks first.

  “Shh. You have heard the terms and understand the consequences.”

  “But... I...”

  “You what? Wasted your life sitting behind a counter in a convenience store?”

  “I... did not... you.”

  The Driver reaches for the deck and presents it to her.

  “Open it.”

  The Clerk looks down at them and then back up at the Driver.

  “Open it. Shuffle them and draw a card.”

  The Clerk again looks down at the deck again.

  “You can either pick one or forfeit.” He appraises the immigrant’s face. “Forfeit means you lose.”

  The Clerk stares at the Model 6.

  “Now draw,” he softly insists with a cold malice.

  The Clerk reaches for the packet of cards slowly, savouring what could be her last few moments above the ground. She feels every muscle it takes to extend her arm out. She takes the deepest breath she has taken in several years and envelops the cards gently, scared that if she presses too tight she might cause some uncontrollable cosmic shift.

  The bell above the entrance rings out. The Driver turns abruptly, scanning the store for the intruder, but the aisles are empty. His eyes dart around the rest of the store. He finds nothing. Satisfied he turns back to the Clerk whose arm is now extended underneath the register. In it she is clutching a Colt New Service revolver.

  “I’m surprised you’re not ill with the draft in this place.” The Driver remarks offhandedly.

&
nbsp; As he does he notices the Clerk’s outstretched arm. He smiles.

  “Ever used it before?”

  The Clerk’s eyes grow wide at the suggestion.

  “Why not you just leave?”

  He smiles again.

  “So you haven’t. Well, here’s your chance.”

  The clock behind the Clerk’s head strikes heavily through several long seconds.

  “Go on. Bring it up.”

  The Clerk’s arm shakes.

  “Do it.”

  She slowly raises the gun.

  “Now one of us is going to lose more than petrol money.”

  The Clerk’s head begins to shake from side to side.

  “I no want to play this game.”

  “Sometimes we don’t get a choice with the hand we are dealt, the only freedom we have is what we do with what has been done to us.”

  “And what if I not draw card?”

  “You are free to choose that, but every choice comes with a price. Prepared to pay it?”

  “I not playing you game. Why not you just go?!”

  The Driver leans forward and etches the gun into the Clerk’s chest as though he is grinding into stone.

  “Because this is what is happening, right now, in your life. You can’t run from it.”

  The Clerk looks down at the gun at her chest then to the one in her own hand.

  “What if... me win... and I not want to shoot you?”

  “Then you will have soiled the game, and thus have forfeited. You introduced your gun into the game and changed the rules.”

  “Always you have answer.”

  “I have played this game before.”

  “You leave now!”

  The Driver reaches for the deck with his free hand. As he expertly removes the cards from the box and cuts them, the Clerk’s breathing shortens. He draws a single card and turns it over. It is the Jack of Clubs.

  “He is a tricky