= Sucker
  by Rotimi Ogunjobi

"How much do you think I will get?" I can remember Big Bill asking. But I did not answer. You've got to be really careful in this game. All I could think of was this gadget thing pinned to the lapel of my jacket disguised as a plastic poppy. And when you have that kind of thought running around inside your head, or when you have such a ridiculous object attached to a yellow suit, you really have no other alternative than to keep a straight poker face.

It was the day of the big match of the year: Bombers versus Gunners. The players were already trotting into position all over the field. In a few more minutes the match would be beginning. The spectators were coming alive. Most had been broiling out there in the hot sun since morning. In less than two hours they would be hurling missiles with all their strength. The ruffians had a pattern. And I could empathize with that. Sitting in the hot sun for eight solid hours only to watch your favorite team stumble about the field like zombies is enough provocation. But again it is merely a game, don't you think?

"Remember Joe Stevens?" Big Bill was again asking.

"The referee?"

I am scared, okay? Joe Stevens would never referee a match again. In fact he would never even see a match again. Reason being that he was dead. How? Well if I knew, that would make me an accomplice, wouldn't it? Big Bill was getting into extremes. I mean this is just a game, don't you think?

"Joe Stevens was merely doing his job. You didn't have to knock him off," I told him

"Shut up, man. What the hell are you? A damned evangelist?," Big Bill had growled.

We'd been together for about six years, Big Bill and me. Generally we made a good living out of passing counterfeit stuff out to suckers, right? And it's like I'm the brain behind this racket, meaning that I could do a lot of cool things with electronic gadgets, and Big Bill handled the marketing angle, okay. And as this lark gets boring after a while, we also bought into a betting racket with some other guys. It had been fun initially, but Big Bill had been on a losing streak for some time and was attempting to make a comeback in a pretty mean way. And the general rule of the game had become like -- play wise and put your money where Big Bill does. And I felt it's time to try my hands on something legitimate. Pychopaths make me nervous, right? So, Adios amigo.

Criminals' code of conduct number one: Finger no felon. Which very roughly translates to, if you sow a pointed finger you reap a whole bunch of fists. Big Bill had broken the golden rule on the day he suckered me out to Police Detective James and I got hauled into the cop shop for bootlegging CDs. He'll never know how I managed to get out of that. I'd have been a dead duck if he did.

The yellow suit was Police Detective James's idea. Wicked sense of humor these cops get when they do get around to it, don't you think? The suit was supposed to have been a distraction: to make the plastic flower a relatively minor comedy. But I could feel Big Bill's huge bloodshot eyes burning through my skull and appearing to be subjecting my brains to an intensive examination for bugs, so to speak. But I needn't have been so worried reason being that Big Bill had his sight pensively directed skywards as if woolgathering, which was quite odd as the big match had just begun and the entire stadium was in a major uproar.

"See the tall building over there? I put a sniper up there with a silenced rifle," he whispered conspiratorially.

"Really?" I was flabbergasted. Hey, this was a full-fledged nutcase, or don't you think?

"Would I lie to you?" he said proudly. "See, I had a message passed on to that sucker out there with the whistle. The Gunners score all the goals today, or it will be his wife's turn to wear black tomorrow."

"I know that guy. He's Fred Carlos; tough referee. He's not going to take any such threat seriously," I told Big Bill.

"Well, it's his funeral. He blows his whistle against my team and the sniper drops him."

Hey, this was getting beyond a mere game; don't you think?

My mouth had turned dry as dust. Nervously, I fingered the plastic poppy on my lapel. About twenty seats away, Police Detective James was dutifully recording our conversation. The sniper was a goner. So would Big Bill Basuto be before the day was up.

Time to reap, I had thought. And the harvest promised to be heavy. I'd placed my bets on Bombers winning; so had P.D.James. And we didn't plan to lose. Say hi to a multi-millionaire everybody. That was what I had thought.

"How much do you figure I'll get?" Big Bill was laughing, slapping his thighs excitedly.

"Life. Life is what you're going to get, you sucker," I had smiled to myself.

How was I to know that P.D James had his own game plan? Get me Big Bill and we'll forget that you were ever arrested for bootlegging CDs, he had told me. Hey, you can't rely on even a cop to be honest anymore.

Now don't come calling to ask how it all ended, because I can't let you in. Neither will anyone else around here. But I sure will appreciate a letter if you've also got plenty of time to kill.

ROTIMI OGUNJOBI is a chartered engineer and writer in his native Nigeria where he has since 1982 variously written several newspaper columns and has several short stories published. He has also been winner of a literary award by the Association of Nigeria Authors. The author has written several yet unpublished full-length novels as well as short story collections. "Sucker" is from a collection.

Copyright (c) 2002 Rotimi Ogunjobi

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