by Gale Massey
Keating said, “I saw a guy throw his wedding ring in the middle once. He was out of money and had a full house. Another guy had four kings, but he folded because he was worried that the guy’s wife came with the pot.”
Everyone laughed like they’d never heard the joke before. Phoebe shuffled the deck, but she was thinking about the next hand. She’d throw some good cards to TJ, put a smile back on his face. He’d bounce out soon enough on his own accord, but a guy like TJ would get his wallet out and get back in the game. He was still famous enough that his misery wouldn’t be too pathetic. In fact, it would keep the night interesting. She remembered the play in his rookie year—hell, the whole country remembered that play. He was older now, his face gray and washed out. Probably spent a lot of time in card rooms. But it was stupid to come to this town and play this home game, a game that had been around for decades. What did he expect but to lose everything in his wallet?
Keating poured another tumbler of whiskey and passed the bottle around the table. With the whiskey flowing and the cards flying, the conversation turned, inevitably, to luck. She stifled a yawn. When it came to luck, poker players always had opinions.
“I’ve had my share of it,” the tight end said, dropping his poker face, “but there is no luck without preparation, gentlemen. Every game I’ve ever won was the result of hard work.”
Phoebe assumed he was borrowing material from the motivational speech he was known for on the church circuit. She stopped her eyes from rolling by staring at an old scar on the back of her hand. She’d stopped philosophizing about luck a long time ago when she’d learned the mechanics of dealing and started sending men into the night questioning their very existence. God? Luck? Fate? Men might not want to believe it, but none of that mattered in poker. Not when the deck was stacked. Not when she could place any card in any player’s hand any time she wanted. The longer TJ talked, the harder she stared at that scar.
“Luck is a hard nut.” Keating rapped the table with his knuckles and drained the whiskey from his glass. “I’ve seen the whole of someone’s life hanging by a thread, and I’ve snipped that thread myself a time or two in my courtroom. But, TJ, my friend, you’ve always had Lady Luck by the tail. Let’s get the country boy’s view on luck, shall we?” Keating leaned back in his chair and rested his eyes on Loyal. “Surely, the old dog has given it some thought.”
Loyal twisted his head until his neck popped. “I guess I don’t know much about luck, but what TJ says makes sense. Work hard and say your prayers. You’ll be okay.”
“Ha!” Keating motioned toward Loyal. “Didn’t take you for a praying man.”
Phoebe caught the lift and fall of Keating’s eyebrow, the smirk on his face. The two men stared at each other briefly. Loyal stretched and tensed his fingers, showing the true size of his fist. She’d seen this before. Good cop, bad cop, getting feisty with each other. No one would suspect they were in this together.
Garcia peeked at his cards and said, “As far as I can tell, luck is as reliable as a stripper on meth.” He pushed his chips to the middle. “I’m all in and I’d feel better about it if someone would pass me that bottle.”
“I call,” TJ said, and flipped over eights.
Garcia had sevens.
The hand played out and the cop busted. He pushed back from the table. “Guess I should’ve saved my money for the big tournament this weekend.”
“Buy back in. It’s too early to leave,” TJ said, a slur sliding through his words.
The cop poured himself a shot and said, “I’m a public servant. I don’t have another thousand.”
TJ stacked his chips. “I hate pushing someone out of the game so fast. Come on, Judge, let him back in. And someone tell me about this big tournament. Maybe I’ll stay in town a few extra days.”
Phoebe took her time gathering the cards while Keating decided.
“Normally, I don’t do this.” He tapped the ash off his cigar. “But I have a soft spot in my heart for public servants, especially ones that move here from out of town to serve in Blind River. I’ll front you two hundred chips.” He smiled when he slid twenty black chips to Garcia. “My treat. You came down from Albany, right? What brought you down our way?”
“Been here five years, sir. But it still feels brand new.” He downed the whiskey.
“Seems I remember hearing some story about the feds stepping in and cleaning house, getting rid of deadweight. You part of that?”
“I was there about that time.” Garcia poured another whiskey. “A new judge came to town. You know how that can go.”
“I know you ended up here, divorced.” Keating’s face was deadpan and it seemed the air got still.
The men waited, shifting their eyes at each other, until Garcia cleared his throat and said, “I did indeed.”
Phoebe figured he’d been invited to be educated on exactly who ran this town and knew Keating had made his point when he changed the subject. “Our annual poker tournament is a fund-raiser, Mr. Bangor. For our local veterans. It’d be a great honor for you to appear if you’re still in town.”
If Loyal asked her to deal at the tournament she’d come face to face with every boy she’d dated in high school and skip a shift at the diner. But she’d have to agree. She owed him that much.
Keating waved his hand toward Phoebe. “Shuffle up and deal, please. These boys are getting bored.”
TJ started out with a hundred-dollar bet. A two/six/seven came on the flop and both men liked their hands enough to bet another hundred. The turn was a four. TJ was too drunk to see there was a straight on the board and pushed all in. Loyal called him and an eight hit the river.
“My nines good?” TJ asked, flipping his cards over.
“Not against my straight,” Loyal said. “Sorry, buddy.”
“Goddamnit,” TJ said distractedly, and swayed a little in his chair.
Phoebe had seen it a thousand times before. When luck failed, God got cursed. She pushed the pot to Loyal.
“I’m down to two hundred,” TJ said, and bought in for another thousand like she’d expected.
“Lots of bad beats tonight,” Keating said, reaching for the whiskey. He poured his glass full and pushed the bottle toward TJ. “Take heart, buddy. Luck changes with the wind.”
The whiskey was starting to show in their eyes and on their faces. They were all drunk enough to snap if they saw her fish a card off the bottom of the deck. She still had it, the ability to stick the cards when and where she wanted, but her hand was starting to cramp. She dropped it beneath the table, stretched and rubbed her fingers. The whiskey smelled good. A little sip would be okay, but she stifled that yearning and dealt the cards. Maybe she’d slip a beer in her coat pocket on the way out the door.
Empty beer cans and whiskey bottles sat on the bar. They’d gone through five bags of chips and pretzels. It was near midnight when Keating said, “Final hand, boys,” and split the last of the whiskey between the four remaining players. Phoebe knew it was time to wind things up with a big hand when Keating smiled at her and said, “Cheers.”
It was a genuine smile and she took it to mean she’d done an adequate job. Then his eyes rested briefly on her chest and she wondered if he’d meant something else.
Keating had twice the chips as TJ. Garcia had tripled the two hundred chips Keating had extended him on goodwill. Loyal was down to fifteen black chips.
She was tired, but she had one more show to put on. It was time to bring the night to an end, so she chugged her bottle of water and sent the hole cards flying.
Garcia shoved all-in and so did Loyal. TJ called them both and Keating followed along.
She laid out the flop, an open-ended straight.
Garcia and Loyal groaned at the same time and mucked their cards.
TJ was dead serious as he shoved all his chips into the middle.
“I’m all in, too,” Keating said. “And I’ve got you covered.”
Phoebe glanced at their stacks and figured Keating
had twice what TJ had. She started to turn the last card, but TJ held up his hand to stop her. He contemplated his cards and she could almost hear the booze washing through his frontal lobes. “Side bet,” he said, and started to pull out his wallet.
Keating grabbed his wrist and said, “No, no. Your money’s no good on this hand.”
“What do you mean, no? I’m going to cover your bet with cash. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“House rules,” Loyal said. “You can’t add cash to the pot after the hand’s been dealt.”
Keating let go of his wrist and tapped his forefinger on the table. “You want to cover that bet, you got to use what’s already on the table.”
“Everything I got is already in the pot.”
“Not everything.” Keating pointed with his chin. “You got that ring.”
“This?” TJ laughed, his bloodshot eyes going wide. “My Super Bowl ring?”
Phoebe’s grip tightened on the deck of cards. Her hand cramped. She’d been staring at that ring, had never seen one with so many stones. Only a drunk would use it to cover a bet, but she’d seen some crazy bets go down between inmates—like the time two upstate girls went after each other with blades over a bar of soap.
Keating, seemingly unfazed by all the booze he’d sucked down, said, “Yeah. You’ve been flashing it all night. In my house you only bet what’s on the table.”
“It’s late,” Loyal said. “What’s it gonna be?”
TJ stared at the ring, wagged his head from side to side. He drained his glass and lifted his chin toward Keating. “Normally, I’d say no, but I got the best hand and I’m not letting you bluff me off it.” He worked the ring off his finger and set it on top of chips.
The diamonds caught the overhead light. Lots of diamonds, lots of gold.
“Show me a winner,” Keating said and motioned to Phoebe.
She turned the last card. Her hand ached with the motion, but she managed to pull the ace off the bottom of the deck. It snagged on the top card that was slightly out of place, but she recovered quickly and landed it on the table. She felt sure TJ had missed the fumble.
“Turn them over, gentlemen,” she said, staring hard at the green felt.
Keating turned his cards over first. The ace gave him a full house.
TJ sank into his chair. His straight was beat.
Loyal and Garcia pushed back from the table like they didn’t want any part of what happened next. Phoebe set the deck down but kept her hands in front of her just in case a fist came flying.
TJ slammed his hand on the table and the ring tumbled toward Keating. When Keating chuckled, Phoebe thought the whole thing might have been a joke, but he picked it up and slipped it over a knuckle, inspecting its facets in the overhead light.
“You know I can’t let you keep that,” TJ said, and reached his palm across the table.
“What did you say earlier about speaking at the Methodist church? Seems to me you’re a man of your word, isn’t that so?”
“I am a man of my word, sir. But I want that ring back.”
“A man of his word only bets what he can afford to lose, and when he loses he takes responsibility for his actions.”
TJ’s jaw went slack as his face shifted, and he went pale for the second time that night.
Keating took the ring off and said, “I shouldn’t gloat.” He put the ring in his breast pocket. “Don’t worry, son. I’ll keep her safe.”
TJ shook his head and pointed a finger at Phoebe. “That ace come off the top?”
Keating used his courtroom tone. “Don’t blame her; she dealt those cards straight.”
“You paid her though.”
“She got paid out of the buy-ins.”
“But you picked her.”
“I hired her for the evening. Nobody made you place that bet. You lost fair and square.”
“I want to hear her say it.” He leaned over the table toward Phoebe, his breath foul with whiskey and cigars. “Lady, say you didn’t cheat me. Say it in front of the cop.” He motioned toward Garcia.
Keating raised his voice and stood up. “I’m telling you, there’s no cheating in my house.”
TJ pushed himself upright, but it took a moment for his feet to move. Phoebe watched him carefully. A man that big and drunk could take this place apart in seconds. He picked up his coat and turned toward the door. “Cheat,” he said with as much scorn as the booze made possible, and walked out of the room.
It made her queasy to think she’d been part of that hand. The ring was worth thousands, enough to elevate a charge to grand larceny. She took her time collecting the chips and placing them back in their case, hoping to give TJ plenty of time to get to his car and drive into the night, hoping the cop hadn’t been watching too closely when that last ace appeared.
Garcia stood. “I don’t think he should be driving.”
The front door slammed shut. Keating raised his voice. “Leave him alone. He’s a grown man.”
Garcia draped his coat over his shoulder, looked toward the hall, and asked Keating, “Are you really going to keep that thing?”
“I won it fair and square.” He reached out and shook Garcia’s hand. “Thanks for coming tonight, son. It’s always nice to have someone from downtown in my home.”
The implication was clear. Keating meant to use the cop’s presence to prove the game had been legit. He’d invited the cop and expected loyalty in return. It chilled her, how effortlessly some men wielded power.
Garcia shook his head. “Thanks for inviting me, but what are you going to do with it?”
“Add it to my collection of priceless items handed to me over the years by drunk men,” he said. “But first, I’ll get it appraised.”
A car engine started up outside, tires squealed.
“Let’s go,” Loyal said. He pointed at Phoebe. “You’re square with her?”
Keating’s eyes slid from her cleavage to her mouth. “Of course. I always treat the ladies right.”
The look he gave her made Phoebe wonder if she should stay behind a minute, see what might come of things. It had been so long. His hair was gray, but it was full, and his belly wasn’t as big as most men his age. As far as she knew he’d never married, never had kids. This house was too big for one person. Maybe he was lonely, too. But then he yawned and she reconsidered. It had been too many years anyway. Maybe if he gave her that same look another time, like in the diner when he dropped in each morning to fill his thermos with coffee. Maybe then, but not tonight. She buttoned her coat and followed Loyal and Garcia outside.
Low-slung oak trees lined the avenue. Streetlights glowed in the cold night air. Garcia offered them a ride.
She’d die before she ever rode in a car with a cop again. “No, thanks, I need the exercise.” The three of them walked to the end of the drive.
“I’m just over there,” Loyal said, pointing his key fob. A truck made an awful honk and its parking lights flashed obnoxiously.
“New Dodge?” Garcia asked.
“Yeah,” Loyal said.
“Nice.” The cop jiggled his car keys. It was obvious that he’d been upset by that last bet and wasn’t ready to let it go.
“Man, you ever see anything like that?” Garcia asked.
“Like what?” Loyal asked. “A straight beat by a full house?”
“Not that,” Garcia said, his voice incredulous. “He took that man’s ring.”
The two men stood under the street light. Garcia shook a cigarette from his pack, lit it, and offered one to Loyal.
“I think he took a lot more than his ring,” Loyal said, tipping his chin and exhaling a cloud of smoke over the cop’s head.
The cop scraped his shoe against the curb. “What do you mean?”
“The way I see it,” Loyal said, climbing into his truck, “he took his soul.”
Phoebe started walking. Their doors slammed shut, the engines started up. She jammed her hands deep into her pockets and picked up her pace for the
dark walk home.
CHAPTER
7
THE NEXT MORNING, Carl Garcia slipped inside the sanctuary one minute before nine and took a seat near the center aisle. The nave of the church was plain and unadorned, with drab pine paneling, walls that hadn’t been painted in decades, and threadbare wall-to-wall carpeting. Off to one side behind the pulpit, TJ Bangor sat slack-eyed and pale in an ornately carved high-backed chair, going over the notes for his speech, buttoning and unbuttoning the tweed jacket that fit a little too snug across his middle.
During the minister’s introduction, Garcia learned that TJ had been one of the few in his class to get drafted into the NFL before his senior year at Ohio State, and that after a long football career he’d gone back to finish his degree in communications and launch a second career helping others pursue their dreams through a relationship with God. The minister droned on, and the more Garcia thought about that poker game, the more unsettled he got.
It wasn’t the money—Garcia knew he wasn’t a good player and hadn’t expected to win. He also knew that losing had earned him more favor with the judge than if he’d won. But he wasn’t sure he wanted the judge’s favor anymore, not if it meant putting up with swipes at old wounds. Who brought up a man’s divorce in front of a group like that? Keating was connected throughout New York, and everyone in law enforcement at the time knew Garcia’s wife had left him for a circuit court judge. It had wiped out his credibility within the force and left him no alternative but to leave town. When he’d gotten a job in this little town, he’d told everyone his leaving had to do with the department’s reorganization, but everyone knew the truth. He was just saving face. For five years now, he’d kept his head down and worked his way to detective. He figured the promotion had earned him the invitation.
The game wasn’t illegal—the stakes set and agreed on by the players—but the dealing had seemed shady. He knew Phoebe Elders had done time and was pretty certain she’d been working that deck. She’d probably learned a lot of bad habits in prison.
He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and was glad for the padded red cushions on the pew that vaguely matched the carpet. He’d been to every church in town over the years, funerals and such, and only the Methodists had the decency to provide seat cushions. This morning he was grateful for them and for the aspirin he’d taken before leaving home.