by Jon Zackon
I WAS waiting on the pavement when Marty arrived to pick me up at my new flat. “Hey, you must be keen,” he shouted. “I was going to hoot.”
There was someone in the front seat so I scrambled into the back and found myself sitting next to a guy with short fair hair and a smile lit up by a gold incisor. The bloke in the front seat was altogether different. Even from behind he looked like a rugby player. Huge neck, mangled ears.
“That’s Koos at the back with you,” said Marty. “And this fairy in front here is Theo.”
“Theo?” I said, staring at the man’s large, misshapen features as he turned to face me. “Theo Oudenstad?”
“The same,” said Marty. “The Theo Oudenstad, no less. But don’t worry, Danny, he’s become a big pussy since he stopped playing. And he’s a terrible poker player.”
The once renowned rugby player had trouble stretching a thick arm over the back of his seat to shake my hand. Then the man sitting next to me extended his hand and said, “I’m Koos van Blatter” with a degree of formality. I was immediately struck by his neat appearance. He alone was wearing a tie and you could have cut a finger on the crease of his slacks. A Harris tweed sports jacket and Italian shoes completed the picture.
“The game’s at Nico Schmidt’s place. Lives in Sydenham. Durban North,” said Marty as he shoved the car into gear. “Take us ten minutes, Danny. Maybe fifteen.”
“And you’ve all come from …?”
“We all live south, on or around The Bluff,” said Koos. “We always share a car. Marty’s turn tonight.”
Marty was in ebullient mood. “These guys are regulars, Danny. And I’ve got to tell you, look out for Koos. He never loses.”
“Ag, that’s just not true, Marty. I lost last time we played.”
“What, a few rand? After skinning the school month after month? Just tell us how you do it, Koos.”
“Poker’s not a difficult game, pal. The number one rule is, never do what the other guy wants you to do. If he wants you to bet, check. If he wants you to check, bet. If he wants you to chuck, call. If he wants you to call, then you chuck. What could be easier?”
“Is it? Ag, Koos, first you’ve got to be able to read the bloke,” said Theo a touch ruefully. “How the fuck do I know what he wants or doesn’t want me to do? And you also have to have a helluva lot of patience, ja? And I don’t have it.”
“No man, Theo, you play too many bloody hands. I’ve told you before. You can’t hope to win them all.”
I was impressed, and more than a little daunted, even though I half-suspected Koos was just bullshitting. He spoke with so much assurance. I loved poker but had never been into analysing it or coming up with a general strategy. For me the most important thing was simply to be in the game, to be transported into a kind of limbo. No past or future. Just playing. A sort of poor man’s existentialism was involved here. Only the present counted when I looked at my hand and wondered at its infinite possibilities.
Of course, such an indulgent, negative attitude meant that I invariably came up with the wrong decision and lost. And when I say invariably, that’s exactly what I mean.
Nico’s wife, Veronica, had made us a variety of snacks. Drink in hand, I munched on Melba toast spread with liver pate and tried to catch up with the conversation, which was mostly in Afrikaans.
Marty sidled up to me. “Don’t worry, the game’s always in English,” he confided.
“No problem,” I replied. “I’ve noticed though that Koos’s English is impeccable when he wants.”
“Yeah. I believe he went to an English boarding school.”
“Impressive bloke. What’s he do for a living?”
“Oh, I thought I told you. He and Theo are detectives. Durban CID.”
The maximum number of players in a five-card draw game is seven and a full table is always the aim. We did not have to wait long for two other players to arrive. One was a small Scot called Jock. He had a red nose and didn’t appear to have any other names. Last to show was Hymie Lazarre, a shopkeeper from Pinetown.
“A Yiddishe boy! Vi geyts, landsman?” he greeted me, a large paw enveloping my medium-sized fingers. “Just remember to respect your elders, son. When I bet, you do the right thing and throw. I never bluff.”
Five-card draw, as most South African poker schools played it, was a strange game with a string of house rules. For example, double bluffing – which, by definition, meant saying anything deliberately misleading about your hand – was banned. Offenders were not invited back.
Another arcane rule said that if you looked at your bought cards and checked, then you could not raise when the betting came round to you again. But you could “check in the dark” before looking at your bought cards. You were then allowed to back-raise later on. All incomprehensible to the uninitiated, granted, but the intention was to protect the weak and make the game fairer. A friendly, homely way to pass the evening. Forget it. Draw poker is as cutthroat as any poker game. Look what happened to Doc Holliday.
We started quietly, Hymie betting and winning most of the early hands.
Then Marty went wild and raised a hand. Koos called. Marty bought three cards, indicating a high pair, and checked dark. Koos, who had bought a single card, bet. Marty raised and Koos re-raised.
Marty picked his nose and scratched his neck as he studied his hand. “Why do I always bump my head against you, Koos?” he said plaintively as he threw his cards in.
Koos did not celebrate, although his eyes sparkled. “Good pass,” he teased.
“I had a pair of queens,” said Marty. “What did you have?”
“Massive hand, Marty” was all Koos would say. But he hadn’t shown the cards, so it was impossible to say whether he was telling the truth.
In any case, Marty had played the hand like a beginner. My own dad always drummed it into me to “respect your mother, your father and a one-card buyer.” In other words, Marty should just have called Koos’s bet instead of back-raising and then we’d all have seen what Koos was betting with. And Marty might even have won the hand.
I wondered about Koos. He seemed a charming bloke with a ready smile. Very polite. But there was something about his eyes. They didn’t smile along with the rest of his face. And every now and then a shadow seemed to fall across them, as if they were warning you not to approach too near.
After an hour or so we had a round of jackpots. Wonderful to relate, I actually won one. So when Veronica came into the smoke-filled room to announce that it was eleven thirty, I was only losing a few rand.
We trooped into the kitchen where homemade pies and a huge plate of steak sandwiches awaited us. So this was why Marty had warned me not to eat too much. Despite Hymie crying off on the grounds that he was on a strict diet, the rest of us soon polished off the food. We washed the grease off our fingers and the game resumed. I was close to being in a state of euphoria. What could spoil such a mood?
The answer was good cards. In draw poker, bad cards don’t, or at least shouldn’t, cost you much money. You simply throw them in. It’s the good hands that do you in and the really good ones that destroy you. Like three of a kind, for example.
Ten minutes after the break I sat staring at three nines. I raised and everyone except Theo chucked. He bought three cards to my two. My new ones were a pair of sevens so I had a full house. I bet, Theo raised, I re-raised and he bet the limit.
“I’ve got a house,” I said, showing my hand as I called him.
“Ag, sorry Danny, but I’ve bought a miracle.” The affable giant laid his cards down. “Came in with threes and bought three kings off the reel.” My full house was no match for his.
Nothing went right for me after that and I hardly won another hand.
We had decided in advance to play until 2am and with fifteen minutes to go we began a final round of jackpots. This was a game where the hand couldn’t be won until someone had “opened” with a minimum of a pair of jacks. The kitty built up
over several deals until there was enough in it to make me a winner on the night.
I was dealt a pair of aces and duly opened. Koos, sitting on my immediate left, stared at me through the fug of smoke and doubled the bet. I back raised and he re-raised. I called.
Everyone else was out of the hand by now. I bought two cards, trying to make out that I had three of a kind - hoping this might induce Koos to pass if he only had two small pairs. Which he probably wouldn’t have done, but I was desperate to win this pot. I found out immediately that my little gambit was in tatters. If he had two pairs he’d have bought a single card. Instead he “smoked”, slang for not buying any cards at all, indicating he already had a very big hand. A straight or a flush perhaps. Possibly even a full house.
I looked at my two new cards. Rags. I checked and naturally, Koos bet.
Decision time. The cost of calling was just a fraction of the pot’s total value. But he hadn’t bought any cards, I was already losing heavily and to add to all this my ploy, my stratagem, had gone all awry. It was hopeless. I thought for a while and disconsolately threw my cards in.
“Hard luck, Danny. But you know, pal, you should have called me,” said Koos, opening his hand. He had nothing. Five odd cards.
He’d pulled off a monumental bluff. He reached across the table, touched my hand and said, “I shouldn’t have shown the bluff. Bad form. Sorry, pal.”
I shook his hand. “No worries, Koos. Great bluff.”
But inside I was seething – at myself more than at him. Why did I redouble first time round? That was looking for trouble. And hadn’t I only recently read Herbert Yardley’s The Education of a Poker Player? Did Yardley not specifically advise never to throw away a pair of aces or kings in a draw poker game? Isn’t that exactly what I’d done?
Koos was annoyingly talkative on the way home, asking me questions about my Jo’burg background and why I’d become a journalist, a career he was adamant he would have loved.
Then Marty, the scab, told Koos and Theo about the woman who had saved my life with a plate of lamb stew. He embellished the story, describing as fact and in detail how the jealous husband had come home, seen the flowers and chocolates I had given his wife, and beaten her senseless. This caused some hilarity. Koos made a noise between a cackle and squeak. Theo rumbled away several octaves down. Marty was laughing so hard at his own joke that he could hardly drive.
Their good humour lasted less than five minutes. Koos and Marty got into an argument over money. I was preoccupied, so never heard the details. As far as I could make out though, Marty owed Koos two hundred rand. An old debt. Suddenly Koos was shouting at Marty. His voice was naturally high-pitched, so now he was virtually screaming. I couldn’t bear it and sunk back in my seat.
Koos suddenly moved towards Marty. Theo flung an arm out to bar his progress and exhorted, “Ag man, calm down!”
Koos was breathing heavily. He hesitated for a moment, then sat back, his rage now under control. Marty, to his credit, never stopped driving, although he had slowed to a crawl.
I looked at Koos. To my astonishment he began to smile.
“Sorry to scare the horses,” he said. And then, “You OK, Marty? Don’t worry about the fucking money, hey? Just don’t fucking argue with me in future.”
I was glad to get home. I had to admit that I’d had better nights. As I went to bed I wondered about Koos’s astonishing mood change. Then I got round to wondering why the hell I had thrown that last hand in. It was all to do with him, I decided. Never mind his temper, his coldness alone was intimidating. I was too bloody soft for that game and I hoped they wouldn’t ask me back.
Sadly, I knew that if they did I’d go. What a glutton for punishment I was.
Chapter 8
MARTY SAT on the edge of my desk. “Hope you enjoyed the game, Danny,” he said. “You made a good impression so I think there’s a seat for you next week if you want.”
“Can I think about it? I really can’t afford to lose that much.”
“You never know your luck. You could win it back.”
“Tell me something, Marty. Those cops. They seem to be quite affluent, especially that Koos. How do they manage it?”
“Ah-ha. You know how Koos was quizzing you about coming from the Transvaal? He didn’t say so, but he does too. His old man owns a huge farm in the Western Transvaal. Maybe more than one. Koos’s elder brother was supposed to inherit – you know, the old primogeniture business – so Koos left to become a cop. But his brother was killed in a tractor accident a year or two back and now Koos will get the farm. Or farms.”
“Why doesn’t he go back and help now?”
“Nah. You can see what he’s like. He loves the city.”
“And Theo?”
“Durban boy, English school. He’s not going anywhere, either. I’ve been told they were both approached by the security police and they turned them down because it could have meant leaving Durban. Interesting, hey?”
“Well, good for them, I say.”
“Oh, I’m not sure it had anything to do with a moral stance. Durban police have to be just as rough and tough as the security guys.”
Marty scratched his throat, which I now realised he did habitually. “I owe those guys a lot,” he said. “They’re happy to feed me information when they can. They’re good guys.”
“For cops.”
“Yeah. For cops.” He laughed.
The way he drank made me wonder whether his pals didn’t do him the occasional favour in regard to the drink-driving laws. He and Koos seemed particularly cosy, despite their fight in the car. I couldn’t resist asking about it.
“Ag, it was nothing,” said Marty. “He goes off at me like that all the time. Five minutes later we’re pals again. Believe me, if Koos likes you he can’t do enough for you.”
***
That night something Marty told me when we’d first met, about The Messenger’s lack of interest in crime stories, was put to the test.
It was the last night of Conrad’s holiday and I found myself the lone reporter on duty. Around ten thirty a call came through from a reader saying someone had been shot at the Miramar, an upstairs café not far from the beach.
For the first time all week an incident of importance had happened at night and I felt excited as I drove there. I took the stairs two at a time and found myself on a large, dimly lit French colonial style veranda that looked out over wrought iron railings on to the street below.
To my right, a dozen or so customers sat around tables in generously proportioned wicker chairs. My first impression was that this was a rather romantic place. A good place to bring a girl sometime. I turned to my left, where some of the tables were hidden behind a screen. I peeked round and saw two uniformed police and two men in plainclothes, notebooks in hand, standing over a figure lying slumped in a chair. Some yards away were two ambulance men with a stretcher.
“Danny,” said Koos effusively, putting his notebook in his pocket as he stepped forward to shake my hand. “We meet again, hey kerel?”
Behind him, Theo gave a brief wave.
“Hi Koos. Hi Theo. What the hell’s happened here?”
“Well, as you can see, this poor bloke is no longer with us. He’s been shot straight through the heart.”
“Jesus! Who did it?”
“Don’t worry, we’ve caught the bugger. We’re just catching up with the details and then the body belongs to these guys” – he indicated the ambulance men.
I’d never seen a murdered man before. I busied myself making notes trying to think what to say or do next.
Koos rescued me. “You know, Danny, this is a really strange killing. It happened while the café was full, absolutely bloody full, and nobody noticed. Can you believe that? This poor guy gets shot, then he lies here for nearly three hours before anyone notices.”
“How? Didn’t people hear the gun?”
“That’s what makes it so strange, pal. It
’s the end of Ramadan, you know, the religious festival, and there were youngsters in the street letting off strings of firecrackers. We think the killer fired the gun to coincide with the crackers, and it worked. The bang did not attract any attention. The gunman must have just sauntered off. At his fucking leisure.”
Koos looked down at the corpse and laughed. “The waiters thought this poor bastard here was just drunk and left him. They were busy anyway. Finally, one of the waitresses got suspicious and investigated. She says the guy was lying like that for hours.”
“What a great story. I suppose it wasn’t a very big calibre gun? Not very noisy?”
“No. A point two-two fired with accuracy. We’ve already found it. The two blokes were friends – or alleged friends, hey?” He grinned at his joke. “The killer was apprehended very soon after we went looking for him. More or less confessed. He’s down at Durban Central being charged now.”
“Any names, Koos?”
“Sorry, pal, have to let the victim’s family know before we gives those out.”
***
I raced back to the office, brought my boss, Neal Smythe, up to speed, phoned the police to confirm the suspect had been charged and began to write furiously.
When I’d finished, I left a carbon copy for Neal to read and rushed the top copy into the subs’ room, handing it to the night editor, who was waiting to place it on the front page.
He scanned it and said, “Good story. Well done.”
Then began a nervous wait to see what it would look like in the paper.
Forty-five minutes later one of the subs, Jason McCurren, came upstairs from the stone with a proof of the page. I looked over his shoulder as he placed it on the night editor’s desk.
One paragraph. That’s all I could see. One lousy stinking paragraph under the fourteen point heading, “Café shooting.”
Not one word about Ramadan or firecrackers or no one noticing the body lying there for hours.
“This is just bullshit,” I shouted. “You bastards have destroyed a great story.”