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the kitchen table for him. Under the bowl was a note stating she'd be back before ten. Marshal glanced quickly at the arrangement: a simple motif containing three calla lilies, two white, one saffron. The long graceful stalks of a white and a saffron calla lily were entwined and separated by a dense growth of crimson nambia berries from the third lily, which swooped away as far as possible from the other lilies and leaned dangerously far over the edge of the crackled lavender ceramic basin.
Why did she leave him these flower arrangements? For a moment, just for a moment, the thought occurred to Marshal that Shirley had been using saffron and white calla lilies a great deal lately. Almost as though she were sending him a message. But he dismissed the thought quickly. The time spent on such evanescent nonsense galled him. So many better ways to use one's time. Like cooking dinner. Like sewing some buttons on his shirts. Like finishing her dissertation, which, flaky as it was, had to be completed before she could start billing patients. Shirley was very good at demanding equal rights. Marshal thought, but was good also at giving her time away and, as long as her husband was around to pay the bills, was content to postpone indefinitely the moment of entry into the adult, billable world.
Well, he knew how to use time. Pushing the flower arrangement out of the way, he unfolded the afternoon Examiner and calculated his daily stock profits. Then, still tense and jittery, he decided on a nautilus workout, grabbed his gym bag, and headed off to the YMCA. Later, at the restaurant at Avocado Joe's, he'd grab a bite.
Shelly whistled zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay all the way to Avocado Joe's. He had had a dynamite week. Playing the tennis of his life, he had carried Willy to the California senior doubles championship and a shot at the national championship. But there was more, much more.
Willy, riding a crest of euphoria, had made Shelly an offer that, with one quick stroke, solved all Shelly's problems. Willy and Shelly had decided to stay in Southern California an extra day to catch the races at Hollywood Park—Willy had a two-year-old named Omaha running in the feature race, the Hollywood Juvenile Derby. Willy was hot on Omaha, as well as the jockey riding him; he'd already bet a bundle and urged Shelly to do the same. Willy bet first, while
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Shelly lingered behind in the clubhouse, doping out a show horse for a second bet on the race. When Willy returned, Shelly left to place his bets. However, Willy, after viewing the horses in the saddling paddock and admiring the sleek black muscular haunches of Omaha and noting, too, that the race favorite was sweating heavily— "washing out"—suddenly rushed back to the betting window. He had just put down another five thousand when he saw Shelly placing his bets at the twenty-dollar window.
"What gives. Shelly? We've been going to the races for ten years and I've never seen you hit anything but the hundred-dollar window. Here I am, swearing by my mother, my daughter, my whore, on this horse and you're at the twenty-dollar window?"
"Well..." Shelly blushed. "Cutting down . . . you know ... for marital harmony . . . little belt tightening ... job market bad ... of course, lots of offers, but waiting for the right thing . . . you know, money only small part of it—got to feel I'm using myself in the right way. Tell you the truth, Willy, it's Norma . . . uptight, very uptight about my gambling action when she's the family honcho earner. We had a big blowup last week. You know, my income was always the family income . . . her big salary she always considers her money. You know how the broads bitch and moan about not getting opportunities, but as soon as they get them they ain't so crazy about the burden."
Willy slapped himself on the head. ''That's why you weren't at the last two games! Shit, Shelly, I must be fucking blind not to have figured—whoa, wait, wait, they're off! Watch Omaha! Watch that fucking horse fly! Number five, McCarron's wearing the yellow jacket, yellow hat; he's gonna stay with the pack on the outside till the three-quarter pole and then shift that horse into another gear! Now, here, they're coming up to it now—Omaha's making his move—taking off. Look at those strides—he's barely touching the ground! Have you ever seen a horse move like that? The place horse looks like it's running backwards. He's pumped up—I tell you, Shelly, he could do a second mile."
After the race—Omaha paid eight eighty—when Willy returned from the festivities at the winner's circle, he and Shelly went to the clubhouse bar and ordered Tsingtaos.
"Shelly, how long you been out of work now?"
"Six months."
"Six months! Christ, that's awful. Look, I was going to sit down
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and have a long talk with you soon, and it might as well be now. You know this big project I own in Walnut Creek? Well, we been going through the city council for about two years trying to get the go-ahead to condominiumize all four hundred units, and we're just about there. All my inside sources—and I'm telling you, I'm spreading a lot of money around—say we're a month away from approval. Our next step is to get the go-ahead from the residents—of course we've got to offer them first rights at deep discount prices—and then we start conversion construction."
"Yeah, so?"
"So . . . the bottom line is: I need a sales manager. I know you haven't done real estate, but I also know you're a fabulous salesman. A few years ago when you sold me a million-dollar yacht, you did it so smoothly I left the salesroom actually feeling you had done me a favor. You're a fast learn and you've got something going for you that no one else can duplicate: trust. Total trust. I trust you one thousand percent. I've played poker with you for fifteen years—and you know that bullshit we throw around that if the roads are ever closed by an earthquake we could still play poker on the phone?"
Shelly nodded.
"Well, you know what? That's not bullshit! I believe it—we may be the only poker group in the world who could do that. I trust you and all the guys—eyes closed. So, go to work for me. Shelly. Shit, I'm going to have you on the tennis courts for so many hours training for the nationals, you'd get fired from any other job."
Shelly agreed to go to work for Willy. At the same sixty-thousand-dollar salary he had in the last job. Plus commissions. But that wasn't all. Willy wanted to protect the game, wanted to insure that Shelly could continue to play.
"You know that million-dollar yacht? I've had some good times on it, but not million-dollar good times, not like the good times I've had in the game. It doesn't compare. If I had to give one up—the yacht or the game—the boat would be history in a flash. I want the game to go on and on and on, just like it's always been. And I'll tell you the truth, I didn't enjoy the last two games as much without you. Dillon took your place—he's tight, squeezing his cards so hard the queens were crying. Ninety percent of the hands he drops without even staying for the flop. Dull evening. Some of the life was gone from the game. Lose one key guy like you and the whole thing col-
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lapses. So tell me, Shelly—and I swear to God, this is between you and me. What do you need to play?"
Shelly explained that a forty thousand stake had carried him for fifteen years—and would be carrying him still if not for that card streak from hell. Willy readily offered to bankroll the forty thousand—a ten-year, renewable, interest-free loan to which Norma would not be privy.
Shelly hesitated.
"Let's call it," Willy said, "a signing bonus."
"Well..." Shelly waffled.
Willy understood and instantly sought a better way to offer the money without compromising their relationship.
"Wait, a better suggestion. Shelly. Let's cut ten thou off your official salary, the salary Norma would know about, and I'll give you a forty thousand advance—hidden in a Bahamas offshore account— and we'll be square in four years. Commissions gonna outweigh your salary anyway."
And that was how Shelly got his stake. And a job. And a ticket to the game forever and ever. And now even Norma could not deny the business advantages of his little social
poker game. What a day. Shelly thought after their talk, as he stood in a long line to collect on his twenty-dollar win ticket. A near perfect day. Only one blemish: if only, if only, this conversation had happened last week! Or yesterday. Or even this morning! I'd be standing in the hundred-dollar line with a fistful of tickets. Eight-eighty! Goddamn, what a horse!
Marshal arrived early at Avocado Joe's, a large neon-gaudy casino with a flaming red Mazda Miata convertible on display just inside the front entrance—a promotional prize to be given away next month, the doorman explained. After plunging ten or fifteen steps deeper into the dense cloud of cigarette smoke. Marshal quickly looked around, then backed out immediately and returned to his car. He was seriously overdressed, and the last thing he wanted to do was to call attention to himself. The best-dressed players at Avocado Joe's were wearing San Francisco Forty-niner warm-up jackets.
Marshal cleared his lungs with a few deep breaths and then moved his car into a darker corner of the well-lit parking lot. After making sure there were no observers, he climbed into the backseat, pulled off his necktie and white shirt, opened his gym bag, and
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slipped on the top of his warm-up suit. Still not right, with polished black shoes and navy slacks: he would call less attention to himself if he went the whole way. So he put on his basketball sneakers and squiggled into his warm-up pants, hiding his face from two women who had pulled into an adjacent spot and whistled as they peered into his car.
Marshal waited till they had gone, took one last breath of clean air, and plunged back into Avocado Joe's. The enormous main gallery was divided into two gaming rooms, one for western poker, the other for Asian gambling. The western room contained fifteen green-felted horseshoe-shaped tables, each illuminated by a hanging imitation Tiffany light, and each ringed by ten seats for players and a central dealer's seat. Coca-Cola dispensers filled three corners of the room, and the fourth contained a large vending machine full of cheap dolls and stuffed animals. For four quarters you could purchase the privilege of maneuvering a large set of pincers in an attempt to clasp one of the prizes. Not since he was a kid walking the boardwalk of Atlantic City had Marshal seen one of those.
All fifteen tables played the same game: Texas Hold 'em. They differed only in the size of the bet permitted. Marshal strolled up to a five- and ten-dollar table and, standing behind one of the players, watched a hand. He had read enough of the booklet Shelly left him to understand the rudiments of the game. Each player got two down cards. Then five communal cards were dealt face up, the first three all at once ("the flop"), the next two singly ("fourth street" and "fifth street").
A lot of money was being bet on the hand. Marshal started to edge closer to the table for a better look when Dusty, the pit boss, a sandy-haired, cigarillo-smoking, Alan Ladd look-alike who needed no assertiveness training whatsoever, strode briskly over and looked Marshal up and down, focusing especially on his air-inflatable basketball sneakers.
"Hey buddy boy," he said to Marshal, "what are you doing here? Halftime?"
"Watching," Marshal replied, "until my friend gets here and then we plan to play."
"Watching? You gotta be kidding! You think you can just stand here and watch? Ever think about how the players might feel about it? See, we worry about feelings here! What's your name?"
"Marshal."
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"Okay, Marshal, when you're ready to play, come to me and I'll put your name on the waiting list. All the tables are full now."
Dusty started to walk away, but then turned back and smiled: "Hey, glad to have you here, Sheriff. No kidding. Welcome to Avocado Joe's. But, meanwhile, until you play, you want to do something, anything . . . don't do it. Come to me first. If you want to watch, go back there," he instructed, gesturing toward the distant gallery behind a glass partition, "or the Asian room—go there; plenty of action and it's hip to watch."
As he walked away. Marshal heard Dusty say to one of the dealers leaving a table for a break: "He wants to watch! Can you believe it.^ Surprised he didn't bring his camera!"
Feeling sheepish. Marshal stepped back unobtrusively into the gallery and surveyed the scene. At the center of each ten-player table sat the dealer, dressed in the house uniform of dark trousers and bright floral vest. Every few minutes Marshal saw the winner of each hand toss the dealer a chip, which the dealer clicked crisply on the table before dropping it into his inner vest pocket. A custom. Marshal figured out, meant to signal to the floor manager that the dealer was putting his personal tip money, rather than house money, into his pocket. It was an archaic custom, of course, since the action at each table was being fully televised for later scrutiny if any irregularities arose. Ordinarily not a sentimental man. Marshal welcomed this one tiny obeisance to ritual in Avocado Joe's fast-paced click-clacking temple of materialistic expediency.
At the onset of each hand of Texas Hold 'em, three of the ten players, in rotation, were forced to ante. The dealer divided the ante into three parts: one part stayed in the hand, one part was deposited into the house slot—that was the house rental fee for the game—and the third went into the jackpot slot, which, according to a wall poster, was paid when someone had a hand that could beat a full boat of aces over tens. The jackpot was in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars, most of which went to the winner and the second-best hand, but some of which was shared by the other players at the table. Every twenty minutes or so the dealer took a break and a replacement took over. Marshal saw players who had done well during a dealer's shift slip him a few extra chips as he was going on his break.
Marshal coughed and tried to fan some of the cigarette smoke away from his nostrils. Wearing a gym suit to Avocado Joe's was
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ironic, since the casino was a shrine to bad health. Everyone looked unhealthy. All around him were sallow, shadowy faces. Many of the players had been at it ten or fifteen consecutive hours. Everyone was smoking. The flesh of several obese individuals poured through the slats in their chairs. Two anorexic waitresses flitted by, each fanning herself with an empty tray; several players had miniature electric fans set before them to blow away the smoke; a number of players wolfed down food as they played—shrimp with jellied lobster sauce was the dinner special. Dress code was casual-bizarre: one man with a scrag-gly white beard wore Turkish slippers with curled, pointed toes and a red fez; there were others with hefty cowboy boots and monstrous Stetsons; someone was in a Japanese sailor suit, circa 1940; many were in blue-collar work clothes; and several elderly women wore tidy, floral, 1950s-style dresses, buttoned up to the chin.
Everywhere, gambling talk. Couldn't get away from it. Some talked about the California state lotto; Marshal heard someone entertaining a small group by describing how the El Camino stakes had been won that afternoon by a ninety to one long shot who finished the race on three legs. Nearby, Marshal saw a man give a roll of bills to his girlfriend and say, "Remember, no matter what I do, no matter what—if I beg, threaten, curse, cry, whatever—tell me to fuck off, knee me in the balls, use your karate if you have to. But don't give this roll back to me! This is our Caribbean holiday. Run outta here and take a taxi home first." Another yelled to the floor manager to put the Shark's hockey game on. There were a dozen TV sets, each showing a different basketball game, each surrounded by clients who had action on that game. Everyone was betting on something.
Marshal's Rolex showed five minutes before eight. Mr. Merriman was due to arrive momentarily and Marshal decided to wait for him in the restaurant, a small, smoky room dominated by a large oak bar. Imitation Tiffany glass everywhere: lamps, ashtrays, glass cabinets, panels. One corner of the room housed a pool table around which a large crowd of betting spectators watched an intense game of eight ball.
The food was as unhealthy as the air. No salads on the menu; Marshal studied the offerings again and again, searching for the least toxic dish. The anorexic waitress responded only "Hu
h?" when Marshal inquired about the possibility of steamed veggies. And "Huh" again when he asked about the type of oil used in the
shrimp and lobster sauce. Finally he ordered roast beef without gravy and sHced tomatoes and lettuce—the first beef he had had in years, but at least he would know what he was eating.
"Hey, Doc, how ya doin'? Hey, Sheila," Shelly said as he bounced in, blowing a kiss to the waitress, "bring me whatever the Doc's eating. He knows what's good. But don't forget the gravy." He leaned over to the next table and shook hands with a diner reading the racing form. "Jason, do I have a horse for you! Del Mar derby in two weeks. Save up. I'm gonna make you rich—and all your descendants, too. Catch you later; got some business with my pal here."
This was definitely his element. Marshal thought. "You look buoyant tonight, Mr. Merriman. Good tennis tournament?"
"The best. You're breakin' bread with half the California doubles championship team! But, yeah, I'm feeling good. Doc, thanks to tennis, thanks to my friends, and thanks to you."
"So, Mr. Merriman ..."
"Shh, Doc. None of this 'Mr. Merriman.' Gotta blend in. Gotta pass. 'Shelly' here. 'Shelly' and 'Marshal'—okay?"
"Okay, Shelly. Shall we proceed with our agenda tonight? You were going to brief me about my duties. I need to tell you that I have patients starting early tomorrow morning, so I can't stay till all hours. Remember: two-and-a-half-hour limit, a hundred and fifty minutes, and I'm off."
"Got ya. Let's get to work."
Marshal nodded as he cut away every nodule of fat from the roast beef, made a sandwich, covered it with sliced tomato and wilted lettuce, poured on ketchup, and munched while Shelly outlined the evening's activities.
"You read the booklet I gave you on Texas Hold 'em?
Marshal nodded again.
"Good. Then you understand enough to get by on. Mainly all I want is for you to know enough not to call attention to yourself. I don't want you to focus on your own cards, and I don't want you to play: I want you to watch me. Now there's a twenty-forty-dollar table coming open soon. Here how it works: the ante rotates—three guys have to put up money each hand. One guy puts up five dollars—that's called the 'butt' and that's the house cut: the rental on the table and the dealer. Another guy, the 'blind,' puts up twenty dollars. The guy next to him, the 'double blind,' puts up ten bucks. Capisce so far?"
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