In the Cards(8)

She’s fond of my dimples, so I’m careful to conceal them by replying with a closed-mouth smile.

“I’m planning a little party tonight. Care to join us?” Her hand catches her sun hat before the wind blows it off her head. “A few friends will be coming around seven. Margaritas for all!”

“Sounds real nice. I might wander in, thanks.” I don’t invite her to come up, which is what I suspect keeps her lingering around the base of my deck stairwell.

After an awkward moment, she waves good-bye. “All right, then, hope to see you later.”

She adjusts her hat and struts away with an exaggerated sway of her hips. Without regret, I watch her depart. She’s always been obvious about her attraction to me, touching me when we talk, remarking on the honey color of my hair and the way I wear a pair of blue jeans.

While I enjoy the benefits of my appearance with plenty of women, I’d never take advantage of one who hankers for more than I can give, or bed an emotionally vulnerable woman. Elena seems to be both. Plus, with her being a neighbor, it would only lead to complications. I love my little shack by the sea and don’t want to be forced to consider uprooting myself because of a jealous woman.

The heat outside keeps me thirsty, so I duck back inside to grab another beer. As I toss the cap into the garbage, I hear a knock at my front door. When I answer it, I’m confronted with a cop. My body reacts to his presence—pulse skips, muscles tighten—just like when I was a kid living in fear of Pop being arrested.

“How can I help you, officer?”

“Are you Levi Hardy?”

“Yes, sir.”

The cop removes his Ray-Bans. “Are you related to a James Hardy?”

Guarded, I reply, “That’s my pop’s name. I haven’t seen him in a while. Is he in town?” If Pop somehow used one of my accounts in another one of his scams, I’m gonna wring his neck.

“No, sir. We received a call from an Officer Hopkins in the Lake Havasu Sheriff’s Department. He found your name and number in your father’s wallet.”

Agitated, I interrupt, “What’s he done now?” Facing a prison sentence is one of many risks of life with Pop I don’t miss at all.

“Well, sir, I’m sorry to report he’s been killed. I don’t have all the details, but it appears he may have been involved in some illegal activity. Since you’re next of kin, they’d like you to come identify the body and answer some questions.”

I fall silent, dumbfounded by the news. Jesus Christ. Dead?

The cop holds out a card. “Here’s Officer Hopkins’s contact information.”

My arm feels like it’s battling a riptide when I reach for the card. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” The officer nods and then walks to his patrol car.

I stand in the doorway and watch him pull out of my driveway. Cars whiz along the highway. The sun is still shining. Life keeps moving along while I’m absorbing the news.

May 24, 2013. My pop’s dead.

Murky snippets from my past fill my mind. Pop’s disdain for the so-called educated elite mitigated any guilt he felt about running long cons. He joked about helping them out by teaching them a valuable lesson in humility. After stealing a pile of money from one, he’d target his next unassuming mark, dragging me along for the ride, all the while preaching the value of life lessons over school.

Many probably consider him the devil, but he and I shared some good times along the way, too. I remember him swinging me over his big shoulders so I could fly, or wrestling me on the rug—my only real physical contact until I was old enough to take notice of girls.

I’m sure some part of him appreciated having me around because, as a youngster, I was easily impressed. Even as I grew older, I never judged him too harshly—at least not to his face. He made a lot of mistakes, neglected me too often, and taught me lessons others would find appalling.

But, looking back, he proved I mattered to him by keeping me with him, which is more than Mama can say. He did the best he knew how. In the end, perhaps one can’t ask much more of another.

Startled by the painful lump swelling in my throat, I raise my unfinished bottle of beer in the air in a silent toast to the old man. Who knew even a poor parent was better than no parent at all? After my final swig, I walk into the bedroom and sit on the bed, subdued.

While packing a few things for my trip, I recall the cop’s comment. Appears he may have been involved in some illegal activity. Even from the grave, Pop manages to drag me into a legal hassle. Fitting end to our short life together, I guess.



Lake Havasu’s surprisingly striking, set among desert palms and rocky canyons and outcroppings. Home of the reconstructed London Bridge, it’s a touristy town. It doesn’t take me long to note its aging population, a key demographic for a grift. This city provided ample marks for my pop.