Hero

by Dan Sugralinov

  “Come on, don’t be such a dork! Let’s go together!”

  When we arrived, they’d just sat down to their own dinner. I was only planning on staying for a quarter of an hour and then leave under the pretext of some business, but soon it became clear that my Mom wasn’t prepared to let us go without a meal and a hearty cup of tea. I gave them an abridged version of the last few days, mentioning my latest quarrel with Vicky.

  My father grunted his disappointment. He still held out for some grandchildren. Then I told them about my agency and finally remembered my book still wrapped in the packet I’d left in the hallway.

  I showed it to them. “Mom, Dad, look! I’ve become a writer, after all,” with a smile, I handed them the book and returned nonchalantly to my borsch while closely watching for their reactions.

  My father put his glasses on. “Vladimir Koutzel. His Own Story. And?”

  “Just read what it says below.”

  “Philip O. Panfilov! Look, mother! It’s him! It has our name on the book!” Dad brought the book close to Mom’s eyes. “I just can’t believe it!”

  “What?” she asked, uncomprehending and anxious just in case. “What is it?”

  Half an hour later, my excited old folks had finally calmed down but not before they’d broken the news on the phone to all our relatives.

  It was time for us to get going.

  “Have some more, Gleb,” Mom gently insisted. “You've lost a lot of weight. You’re sure you’re not sick?”

  “Sure, Auntie Lydia. I had a bout of pneumonia,” Gleb lied without batting an eyelid. “And what with my allergy to antibiotics, I spent a whole month in a hospital bed.”

  “How did you manage to get that?” Dad asked in surprise. “You need to be really unlucky to get pneumonia in summer!”

  “Do you need to ask?” Mom replied instead. “They spend all day in their air conditioned offices. No wonder they then catch their deaths of cold! Come on, eat up! Then I’ll give you some more!”

  Seeing me smirk, she added, “What are you grinning at? The same applies to you! Just look at yourself — you’re as skinny as a rake! Eat up!”

  She’d exaggerated, of course. I wasn’t as skinny “as a rake” — but still, I’d lost quite a bit of weight. My belly was virtually gone, my face almost as young as it once had been. Almost — because the years always add a few lines.

  The warmth and comfort of my parental home had brought about memories of my college years when Gleb and I used to drop by each other’s house after classes and sat at the table with the parents. His weren’t with us anymore; but mine were here, within an arm’s reach.

  Instinctively I reached out and stroked Mom’s hand. “Thank you!”

  She squinted suspiciously. “What for now?”

  “And you too, Dad!”

  “What for, son?” Dad looked up sharply.

  “For everything. The borsch was really good.” Indeed, her homemade beetroot soup blew our earlier diner experience out of the water.

  “Dad, we really need to go, we still have some business to do,” I finally said. “Gleb works with me now. We’ve gotta fly.”

  “Go on then, fly! I’m not stopping you!” Mom said, taking offense. “But first you’ve gotta finish your food or you’ll not be going anywhere!”

  “Humor your mother, son,” Dad joined in.

  Them and their tricks! The two just didn’t want to let me go, dragging out the time in a typical authoritarian parental style. But I — or rather — Gleb and I — were basking in their warmth before plunging into our reckless and highly risky venture.

  Because if my cunning little plan failed, I would come off much worse than even Gleb.

  We hugged them goodbye. I gave myself a solemn promise to visit them again this weekend, with my sister this time. Mom clung on to me a long time, as if sensing something. I stroked her shoulders and her pulled-back gray hair, then softly eased myself away. “That’s it, Mom. I’ll come back with Kira in a few days’ time. See you! Dad, bye, then!”

  “Thanks, Uncle Oleg!” Gleb said. “Thank you, Auntie Lydia! I really enjoyed the grub! Till next time!”

  With that, we left.

  * * *

  IT WAS ALMOST 10 p.m. We had very little time left, so we quickened our pace. Gleb walked in silence, lost in his own thoughts. Me, I was still reliving our time with my parents.

  Which was why it took me some time to understand what Gleb wanted from me. We were standing by the locked steel door of some seedy bar.

  “Phil, we need two grand,” he said, shaking my shoulder.

  “Oh yes, sorry,” I reached for my wallet and gave him the money.

  Clenching it in his hand, he rang the bell.

  I listened to its staccato tinkling behind the door. It sounded like a secret code signal.

  A hatch in the door opened, offering a glimpse of a grim burly face.

  “Good evening,” Gleb said, shoving the money into the hatch. “We’ve come to play.”

  The money immediately disappeared.

  The door opened. Gleb walked confidently past some big guy in a cook’s apron. Correct me if I’m wrong, but he looked Korean to me. The man peeked out from behind the door, took a look around and locked the door again, then said something in a foreign language into his walkie talkie.

  “Follow me,” he finally said, heading into a corridor to his right.

  We walked along a dimly lit passage past a red-hot kitchen bustling with cooks, took another corridor — a short one this time, passed the restaurant entrance and stopped by another steel door. The Korean left us in front of it.

  The door opened. I saw a large gaming table for ten people which was only half full, and a Korean girl who must have been the croupier.

  A bleached, gray-haired man met us and showed us to our seats. We sat down, and the girl gave us some chips for the money we’d paid at the entrance.

  “Not for me, thanks. Give it all to him,” Gleb nodded in my direction. “I’m the support act tonight.”

  The girl nodded impassively, pushing all the chips toward me.

  “Should I play too, maybe?” Gleb whispered. “That way, our chances will improve!”

  “One more word, and you’ll be waiting for me outside,” I had to be brutal in order to get through to him. “Just think how are you going to tell Lena that you’ve lost your apartment in a game of cards!”

  He nodded, coming back to his senses. I understood, of course, how difficult it must have been for him to resist temptation, otherwise I wouldn’t have taken him with me. It’s the same as with an alcoholic that tries to quit: the greatest trial of all is a trial at a party.

  We were playing no-limit Texas hold 'em. That meant that a player could bet any amount — and if you ran out of chips you could always buy some more. That played right into my hands.

  It was a motley crew seated around the table: two middle-aged Korean men, a young Korean girl and three more players at different stages of gaming addiction. One was a fat pompous government official, a fidgety guy of indeterminate age in a black turtleneck and a grim, hot-blooded Caucasian in his early thirties.

  During the first dealing round, I once again pretended to be a clueless newbie. I kept betting and calling regardless of my hand, and always revealed my hands in the final showdown just to convince everyone how weak they were.

  Gleb kept clutching his head, watching our money whittle away, but I couldn’t have cared less about his feelings. My head was packed full of numbers, strategies and calculations.

  Our initial two grand hadn’t lasted. I dived into my wallet to buy some more chips with whatever I had left. The two middle-aged Koreans looked at each other while the Caucasian suppressed a smirk. All of them had recognized me as a fish — a poor, weak player whose lame playing style promised them good pickings. Our penny bets were only the beginning because each one of them knew that no one would be able to leave the table until he either lost everything or came up trumps. As Gleb had explain
ed to me, it was considered bad form to leave the table immediately after winning: one had to give his or her opponents a chance to recoup their losses. Having said that, nothing prevented them from leaving the table at any given moment. Nothing but their own fervor, that is.

  Having changed up the last of my money — almost three thousand rubles — I started to play like I normally do.

  I beat the Caucasian’s two 2s with a couple of 3s, halving his bank roll... Six grand.

  A Queen I’d received on the river gave me a senior straight. The Korean girl discarded a junior straight, losing all her chips, but immediately bought another ten grand’s worth.

  Almost twelve.

  I had only another couple of grand left until our target, then we could leave. Still, we also needed some pocket money to get a cab home and grab a bite to eat, so I decided to bring our winnings up to twenty grand.

  Then my luck ran out. I didn’t have one good hand. Still, I was obliged to maintain the image of a reckless gambler, so I began to lose little by little.

  Eight grand.

  Gleb had been taking full advantage of their free drinks, gulping down Coke by the bucketful. He was a sorry sight. His Gambler debuff counter kept renewing itself, making me realize that in order to quit poker cold turkey, he shouldn’t even watch it.

  Finally, I had a half-decent hand. And fortunately for me, the rest of the table were in luck too. The nervous guy was the only one who threw his hand in, the rest continued to play, raising the stakes, until we had a massive kitty.

  Gleb had bitten his nails to the quick, waiting for everybody to show, until he finally covered his eyes with his hand. Our opponents seemed to be playing it cool. You couldn’t fool the program, though: all of them were on edge, secretly envying Gleb and wishing they too could chew on something without giving their poker faces away.

  I alone was as cool as a cucumber even though by then I had over fifty thousand at stake.

  “Two pairs,” the croupier called out the Caucasian’s cards.

  “Straight,” she said next about one of the Koreans.

  The Caucasian slammed a furious fist on the table.

  “Junior straight.”

  The government official cussed in disappointment and lit up a cigarette.

  “A pair,” the croupier said, collecting the cards of the other Korean, then opened the Korean girls’ hand. “A flush!”

  The girl beamed, anticipating her victory. Still, she was celebrating too soon. Because I had a...

  “Four of a kind!” the croupier’s voice rang with admiration.

  No one feels ashamed of losing to a hand like that, no matter what cards you hold. My opponents jumped from their seats in surprise to make sure I indeed had four aces.

  Congratulations! You’ve received a new skill level!

  Skill name: Poker Playing

  Current level: 5

  XP received: 500

  Current level: 15. XP points gained: 14100/16000

  The croupier pushed all the chips toward me and began to shuffle the cards, looking unfazed. I generously set six small chips aside, then handed them to my opponents with a smile.

  Was this a superstition or just good manners? No idea; all I knew was that my Reputation with them had grown 5 points, with the exception of the fidgety guy in the turtleneck — and naturally, the croupier.

  “Shit!” the fidgety guy snapped. “Beginner’s luck!”

  “That’s awesome, man!” the previously impassive Korean exclaimed.

  The Caucasian gave me the thumbs-up. “That was a beauty!”

  I shrugged. “I was just lucky, guys.”

  I sorted my chips out into stacks of different values. Gleb tapped me on the shoulder, making me lose count.

  “Keep it cool, man,” I mouthed furiously into his ear.

  By now, I had over forty grand in the kitty. I spent another half-hour playing leisurely, losing little bits here and there until I finally recouped all my losses manifold, growing my cash pot.

  Once I’d had about seventy grand in total, I lost a little again, stopped playing, exchanged my chips for money and dragged the disbelieving Gleb away from the table. I shook hands with my partners, thanked them, left a generous tip for the croupier and headed for the exit.

  Contrary to my reservations, no one tried to mess with us on our way out. We left through the same back door we’d arrived through.

  Finally, Gleb could give way to his emotions. He kept on talking to me waving his hands in the air, but I ignored him as we walked along toward the restaurant’s main entrance.

  The cab I’d called earlier was already waiting for us. I sat in the back and slid over to make room for him.

  “Where to?” the cabbie asked.

  “Gleb? Where to now? Where’s that club of yours?”

  “The railway workers’ community center,” Gleb told the cabbie. “Know it?”

  The car pulled away. I closed my eyes and gestured to Gleb to keep quiet for a bit.

  I needed some rest. I’d had very little sleep last night. I was really drowsy.

  We’d achieved our short-term goal. I hadn’t even received the Gambler’s High this time: possibly, because my triumph had nothing to do with luck. It was cheating, pure and simple.

  Because every time I’d taken a look at a card, my Insight helpfully offered me the following data:

  Name of the item: a card for the playing of poker

  Size: 2.5” by 3.5”

  Maker: Fournier

  Date of manufacture: 2017

  Material: Plastic

  Suit: Spades

  Value: Ace

  So how can you not win, pray tell, when you know your opponents’ hands, the closed flop and all the other cards in the pack?

  Chapter Fifteen. A Socially Meaningful Action

  “How can I reward Rome's greatest general?”

  — “Let me go home.”

  Gladiator

  YOU SHOULD NEVER underestimate the benefits of a catnap. Even though the twenty minutes I’d spent dosing off in the cab hadn't really refreshed me, they’d allowed me to quickly defrag and optimize my inner OS.

  Predictably, being shoved in the ribs by your best friend isn’t the best way to wake up. I zoned out momentarily, trying to recollect where I was and what was going on. Finally, I remembered everything and coughed to clear my throat.

  “Are we there?” I asked, stretching to get the blood flowing through my numb body.

  “Yeah,” Gleb’s voice sounded unnaturally loud to me. “Let’s go!”

  I scrambled out of the car and took in a lungful of the fresh night air, then followed after him.

  As I walked, I took a better look at his stats, his renewed debuffs and especially his soaring Mood. I had a bad feeling about it. “Gleb, wait a sec.”

  “Yes? Whassup?” he looked at me impatiently, about to open the club’s door.

  I didn’t like his agitated state one bit, so I decided to pour some cold water over it,

  “Listen up. We haven’t done jack until now, got it? We’ve only just started. Your job is to stay cool and out of my way. Don’t even think about playing. Just keep an eye on me and if you think you have a suggestion to make, be my guest. That’s the extent of it, you hear me? If not, just wait outside.”

  “Got it,” he said, looking embarrassed. He must have thought I might eventually allow him to play.

  “Remember our plan?” I said. “Your family, your kids, the sea, the beach, the palm trees?”

  “Yes, yes, I remember. Come on, let’s go in.”

  The so-called Poker Sports Club made up a part of the local Railway Workers Community Center. I found this quite appropriate because it’s in our railway workers’ interests to support the game, considering how much time is idled away playing cards on interminable Russian train journeys. Every one of us who’s ever been on a train has shared a hand of cards with fellow travelers.

  We entered the building unhindered and took a massive stair
case up to the third floor, its steps almost three feet wide at their base. Here we were finally confronted with a locked door to the right-hand wing. Two tense grim young men with crew cuts flanked the entrance, wearing monkey suits. They were apparently some sort of security.

  On seeing us, one of them began mouthing something into his headset microphone. Serious establishment.

  “Hi, Andy,” Gleb greeted one of them. “We’d like to play for a bit.”

  Andy pointed a quizzical chin in my direction.

  “It’s Phil. He’s a buddy of mine. He’s a real greenhorn.”

  “Go on in,” the other guard said, apparently having received a green light from higher up.

  The two stepped aside, letting us in. The door opened, revealing a wide, brightly lit, carpeted corridor. To our right lay a reception area manned by two beaming floor managers: a young man and a girl.

  “Good evening, Gleb!” they greeted my friend virtually in unison.

  “Evening, Anton,” Gleb gave the young man a ceremonious nod, then hurried to greet the girl, “Hi, Regina! How’s it going tonight? Gotta big crowd in?”

  I couldn’t recognize him. He was agitated and feverish. This was his domain. Still, his excitement had nothing in common with his earlier enthusiasm at our office. This wasn’t Gleb the graphic designer, the happy-go-lucky joker. His elation was the devil's work: this was the sick animation of a gambler whose blood was seething with feel-good hormones in anticipation of a game.

  What I’d just seen at the Korean restaurant’s poker den was nothing compared to what I was witnessing now. All his needs, dreams and goals had shrunk into insignificance. The game was the only thing that mattered: both the process and the result, the stress of winning and losing,. The higher the stakes, the sharper the adrenalin rush. Because what we’d been playing earlier was for him neither risky nor too interesting.

  “A regular night as usual,” the guy replied. I got the impression his smile was glued to his face. “It’s been a while since we saw you. You look great. How’s things with you?”