Lessons Learned
Doyle held his cards in one hand, his cigarette was balanced between his lips and his other hand was curled around his drink. A soft mewling sound came from the basket of kittens sitting in the middle of the table.
'What's it gonna be, Doyle?' Vito - the lubbock demon who ran the poker ring - asked him.
He looked at his cards. They were lousy. Even if he threw them all out, asked for four more… this late in the game there probably wasn't anything left in the deck that could save him.
He brought his hand up, took the cigarette from his lips and stubbed it out. 'Fold,' he said heavily, dropping his cards down on the table and pushing his chair back. He hadn't put up too much money tonight, he hadn't lost so much. He was getting better at knowing when he was beaten; not keeping going until he was in over his head, too deep and staring down the barrel of trouble.
It wasn't like he was suddenly a boy scout or anything, but all these years in the demon world - he'd finally learned when to fold.
He lit up another cigarette and took a swig of his beer, watching the rest of the game as it finished up. One of the tiny tabbies managed to nudge the lid of the basket open and its head suddenly popped up, looking ludicrously adorable. He tried not to think about whichever demon won it eating it later that night. Maybe it was time to give up on this particular poker ring … he was getting sentimental in his old age, getting back to the point where kitten slaughter actually made him feel something.
He blamed Whistler. If Whistler was real - which he still wasn't sure about. Whoever that strange man really was, even if he was just a hallucination Doyle had imagined - and given a strong Brooklyn accent to for baffling reasons of his own - being told that the PTB were watching him, planning to use him, make him part of their team, had given him hope. Hope that there was something more out there than … this: kitten poker and excessive drinking and smoky dens full of demons. It gave him hope that he had some kind of future after all.
Though … he still wasn't a boy scout. He wasn't going to be saying goodbye forever to gambling and drink. He enjoyed them too much. He needed them too much. But maybe - just maybe, a time was coming when he could balance the half demon lowlife part of his life with something a bit more meaningful.
Maybe he shouldn't hope. He should have learned his lesson by now - his hopes were always crushed. And yet - hope he did. And care - he cared those tiny kittens were going to be eaten, even if there was nothing he could do about it. He had cared about those homeless kids he'd seen in the diner and hoped they had found safety. He had recognised the pain in the young waitress' eyes, seen beyond his own pain for the first time in … forever, and worried about her. When he had gone back to the diner, she was gone - and he found he was still thinking about her. He still cared. He still hoped that - wherever she had gone to - she was OK. Maybe she had stopped running, gone back to where she belonged. Maybe it was time for Doyle to do the same.
His thoughts were interrupted by the game coming to end. The kittens were doled out to the winner, and Doyle had to fight the sudden impulse to snatch them up and rescue them. Instead, he finished his drink, got to his feet and followed Kizzie out of the back room they were playing in.
'Hey man,' he shoved his hands into his pockets and sloped along beside the other demon. 'I'm lookin' a bit short at the minute - and there's a sure thing at the track tomorrow. Any chance you could lend me somethin'?'
'Yeah? And if I do that - when am I gonna get it back?'
'Aww - come on - you know I'm good for it.'
Kizzie rolled his eyes. 'How much?'
'Couple o' hundred bucks.'
The other demon snorted and shook his head. 'No way - one hundred, that's all you're getting.' He took his wallet out and took out five twenties, handing them over to Doyle.
'Thanks man, I'll get it right back to y'.'
'You better had.' And with that Kizzie walked off into the night.
Doyle pocketed the cash and headed home, feeling pleased with himself. OK - so he hadn't won at poker, but he still had money in his pocket, the ponies would pay out tomorrow and he would pay Kizzie back and still have something left over. Things could be a lot worse.
...
As he crossed the street and headed for the door to his building, two dark shapes suddenly detached from the shadows and cornered him. They were human - but large, and muscular. One of them cracked their knuckles, threateningly. 'You owe money, Mr. Doyle,' the man said.
Doyle sighed. Why did he ever bother feeling anything akin to hope, he wondered, as the first fist smashed into his nose. Why did he never learn?
