Bluff

by Michael Kardos

  Victor approached me holding his refilled glass of whiskey. Softly, he said, “You sure you don’t want a real drink? We’ve got stuff above top shelf here. I actually had to build a special shelf.” He laughed at his own joke.

  I told him I was sure.

  “And you feel ready for … this?”

  On the poker table, the chips were already divided and placed in front of each of the six positions. Also on the table were two decks of cards in their seals.

  “Of course I’m ready,” I said, forcing a smile. “Why do you ask?”

  “I know you’ve come all this way in the weather, but I wonder if maybe you shouldn’t play.”

  I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “I just mean it’s a lot of money.”

  “I know it is. That’s why I’m here.”

  “No. I mean it’s a lot of money. A quarter million dollars …”

  “I know how much it is.”

  He nodded. “I have a beautiful home, don’t I?”

  I agreed that he did.

  “The video screen, 4K projector, the Bose speakers and soundproofing and seating … it’s all top of the line. That’s a fifty-thousand-dollar home theater. And this?” He rapped his knuckles on the game tabletop. “Nineteen thirty-five, genuine Cuban mahogany. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you what it cost.” He sighed. “I didn’t always have all this.” He gazed around the room, as if skeptical of what he’d just told me. “For a long time I had very little. My point being, I know how hard it is to accumulate—”

  “Victor?”

  “I’m not saying you aren’t a good poker player. Emily says you’re good, and I’m sure she’s right. But you should protect your assets. You don’t have to play tonight.”

  “Victor—”

  “Please. Hear me out. It’s never good to get in over your head. That’s when you make poor decisions.”

  “Victor?” Finally, he stopped talking. “I’m starting to think your concern for me is an attempt to psych me out.”

  He examined me the way he’d probably examined that Civil War drum before deciding to call the deal final. “All right, Nora. Good luck. I hope everything goes well for you tonight.”

  “No, you don’t,” I said. “You hope I lose all my money.” I let him watch me a moment, perhaps surprised by what I’d said. But I wasn’t being rude, only blunt, and maybe a little flirtatious if he chose to think of this as banter. I reached out and touched his hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Here.” I patted the tabletop to my right. “Sit next to me.”

  He placed his drink in the recessed holder in the table. Immediately, Ellen appeared beside us and placed her own glass in the spot to Victor’s right.

  “We have him surrounded!” She laughed, and winked at me as if we were pretending to be in cahoots.

  Ellen wouldn’t begin to stack the deck for at least an hour. We wanted everyone to loosen up a little first—to become less attentive, more inebriated, and readier for the excitement of a big hand. That meant doing whatever we could to reduce any drama in the game before then. We would try to keep the wins and losses small. We would play tight poker. We would be careful.

  The other men placed their drinks on the table, found seats, touched their poker chips. On the large video screen across the room, the Fiesta Bowl was on, the sound turned down. The men glanced at the game and made grunts of interest, and Jason explained that UCF wasn’t supposed to be ahead. We all drew cards from the deck. Victor’s was a jack, higher than anyone else’s. He’d deal first.

  As we began to play, I made a point to call small bets and fold prudently but not fearfully. I played my best poker. While we played the hands, chatter was sparse and perfunctory.

  Been a solid winter without the snow. The BMW Seven Series is a hell of a car.

  Heard you on the radio, Vic. Sounded real good.

  I gotta get a new lawn guy.

  How close, really, are we to self-driving cars we can buy?

  I found myself tuning out the music and the chatter and focusing on my cards, on betting or not betting, on deducing what the other players might have in their hands. Gradually my heartbeat found its natural rhythm. Cards in my hands, cards in my thoughts. The cards brought me back to myself. But I knew that before long Ellen would need to make her move. Jason was already way down, just as Ellen had predicted. Danny was close to even. On the table were two decks of cards—blue-backed and red-backed, one to get shuffled while the other got dealt—and from the time Ellen first started controlling cards and palming them off to the time I dealt the fully prepared deck, there would be a minimum of eight hands played. That would take a while. We couldn’t wait too long.

  Whenever it was Ellen’s turn to gather the played cards and shuffle the deck, I would glance at her in my periphery. It was after almost exactly an hour of play when she finally clasped her hands together and set them on the tabletop in front of her, an attentive pupil in school. That was our signal. When the hand ended, she gathered up the cards to shuffle.

  And with so little fanfare, it began.

  2

  We had another signal. There was no predicting exactly how many cards Ellen would be able to locate, control, and palm off the top of the deck during a single shuffle. She had to locate a total of nine cards: three jacks, three queens, and three additional hearts. We hoped she could find five of them during her first shuffle. Five would leave four more the next time the deck came around for her shuffle. But even if her injured thumb and Band-Aid didn’t much hinder her card handling, several factors were beyond her control. If any of the cards happened to have been played during the prior hand, then Ellen would have an easier time locating them. If none got played, her job was harder. There was no predicting.

  Our method was this: after Ellen was done shuffling and palming off as many cards as she could, she would set the deck down on the tabletop and lay one of her hands at the table’s edge with the number of palmed cards indicated by the number of fingers pointing outward. Ideally, four. Three was less than optimal. Two would be deeply unfortunate: we’d almost certainly have to go through three entire rounds of Ellen palming cards. Not a total disaster, but the thought made us very uneasy.

  It was Victor’s deal, and while he began to lay out everyone’s hole cards I forced my eyes away from Ellen while she shuffled the blue-backed deck. Eyes anyplace else. Create a small distraction, I told myself, and asked Danny where I could get a busted car window repaired.

  He stared at me as if I’d just belched. “Try a windshield repair shop.”

  Victor finished dealing the hole cards and set the deck down.

  “But does it have to be the dealer?” I asked. “Or can it be any repair shop?”

  “I don’t—it doesn’t matter.” Danny was playing with the chips in front of him, making his organized stacks more organized. “Just a place that does windshields.”

  My hole cards were terrible and I folded quickly. While the others continued betting, I watched the TV while keeping Ellen in my periphery. Her shuffle seemed to go on awhile. That was probably only because I was bothering to notice. Victor burned a card, and just after he laid the flop on the table, Ellen set down the shuffled blue deck. I casually glanced over, hoping to see four fingers. Dreading seeing only two. She adjusted herself in her chair, most likely moving her thigh on top of the palmed cards, and leaned forward.

  Her entire left hand lay flat on the table.

  I looked away, my heart lurching.

  Five. She had stolen five cards from the deck.

  She was so much better than I was.

  Now I had to keep myself calm for an agonizing six more hands of poker before the blue deck would make its way back to Ellen to shuffle and—I prayed—position all the cards for my Greek deal.

  I tried to play good poker, but the blinds were increasing and my palms were sweaty and I lost a couple of hands. By 10:15, when Ellen claimed the blue deck and began to shuffle once more, I was down f
ifty thousand. Ellen was up close to a hundred thousand. Whether that was from honest play or opportunistic cheating I had no idea. I made a point not to watch her when she had the deal. Ian was down a little, and Jason was down more than a quarter of his chips. Danny was about even when he made an aggressive move and lost what to my mind was an astonishing amount, fifty-two thousand dollars, to Ian on a hand he had no business being in. I wouldn’t even call it a bluff. It was more as if Danny was foolishly trying to force his will onto the cards. When the hand was over and Danny had lost, he balled up his fists and I could see the tension in his forearms. He cracked his neck, stood up, and went to replenish his drink. Ian followed. When the game resumed, all the men were showing signs of becoming antsy—shifting in their seats, tapping on the table, checking the TV, where UCF was still beating Baylor. They were ready for something even if they didn’t know what.

  Victor dealt the red deck, and we began to play the hand while Ellen shuffled the blue deck. When she was done she set the deck down. She rested her hand on the table and softly scratched the tabletop with her fingertips. Our last signal. All the cards were now in position. She had done it.

  She had found the last of the cards and returned to the deck the five she had taken six hands earlier. Without anyone noticing, the blue deck had just grown again to fifty-two cards. The evidence—our greatest risk—had just melted away. It was an incredible moment, a milestone I celebrated by not reacting at all.

  The deck now sat in front of Victor. Though I couldn’t see it, the bottom card was crimped, and the next cards were all in position. As soon as the current hand was over, Victor would cut the blue deck and I would execute the classic pass. Then I would deal the cards. My heart began to race faster, and I told myself to be calm, be still, but these were commands that my body would not obey. I had never been this nervous during a performance. I had never been this nervous.

  I was banking on having a little longer to control my breathing and ready myself, but the hand went fast: Danny raised, Jason called, Danny raised some more on the flop, and everybody folded.

  “Well, that was easy,” Danny said, collecting the small pile of chips, and it was over.

  I rubbed my hands on the thighs of my jeans to dry them off. Victor reached out for the blue deck, lifted half of it, and placed the top half on the table beside the bottom half. Two equal piles. Then he began to gather up the cards from the previously played hand so he could shuffle the red deck.

  It was my turn. Complete the cut, do the pass, deal the cards. Quickly. Now. Don’t think. Do not think. Do not.

  It happened so fast.

  One second I was completing the cut, and the next, it seemed, Victor was saying the words. He didn’t sound menacing or angry. He sounded almost weary, as if he didn’t want to be saying anything but had no choice. But he was saying it. He said it.

  He said: “Wait.”

  Everybody’s hole cards were dealt. I had just placed the remainder of the deck on the table in front of me.

  “Hold it a second.” He was staring at me.

  I stared back. “What?”

  He hesitated a moment. Then: “I saw something.”

  I fought the urge to glance over at Ellen.

  “What are you talking about?” Danny said.

  “I don’t know,” Victor said. “Something about the way she dealt the cards to herself. I can’t”—he shook his head—“I’m just … I don’t know.”

  “Speak English,” Danny said.

  “Something was different about it.”

  “You sure, Vic?” Jason said. “You were shuffling the other deck.”

  “Yeah, but still,” Victor said. “I think I saw something.”

  “Did anyone else see it?” Danny asked, looking around the table.

  “Ian?” Victor said.

  “I wasn’t really watching. I’m just not—”

  “Hey!” I snapped, shutting Ian up. It was almost a bark, the result of a monumental effort to push sound from my throat. I’d been paralyzed for a few seconds, struck stupid and mute, until I finally produced from my befuddled brain the knowledge of what was happening, and what I was supposed to do about it.

  Deny vehemently.

  I struggled to transform my terror into something more useful, like anger, like deep offense. I looked right at Victor. “Exactly what the hell are you getting at?”

  But Danny spoke next. “Did you just try to cheat?” His own struggle sounded like the opposite of mine. He was working to control his rage.

  “This is so stupid,” I said. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Guys,” Ellen began, but Victor ignored her.

  “I think you might have,” he said, his voice remaining measured. “I think you were dealing from the bottom or something.”

  “That’s total bullshit,” I said. “You’re being ridiculous and paranoid.” I laid it on thick. I dared him to keep it up, knowing it would lead nowhere because there was nowhere for it to lead. You deny vehemently, and then you stop cheating. The end. There was no evidence other than in the accuser’s memory, and memory was a sieve that trapped nothing reliably, and everyone knew it. What had he seen? He thought he knew, maybe, but he didn’t know, and he would become less certain with every one of my denials. That was how it went. There was no evidence. We hadn’t used a cold deck. Ellen had already put the palmed cards back into the pack. No evidence. Not a shred.

  “Well, was she or wasn’t she?” Danny asked.

  “I just told you I wasn’t,” I said.

  Victor kept his gaze on me. “I think you’re lying,” he said.

  “Then I think you’re an idiot.” I made myself keep up the terrible attitude. The sense of outrage. I made myself act as belligerent and sarcastic and nasty as I knew how. “So aren’t we in a bind?”

  He watched me a moment longer, then shook his head and said, softly, almost apologetically, “No. Not really.” He stood up and, without a word, reached up to the black beads draped around the chandelier and tapped one of them. “There’s one,” he said.

  The camera was so small that even if I’d had a reason to peer straight into the chandelier’s wattage I never would have seen it.

  Hidden in the patterned picture frame that held one of the gull paintings was a second camera. The third camera was mounted just under the lip of the bar.

  “Do you always use those, Vic?” Jason asked.

  “No,” Victor said. “And I hope no one’s offended. But there’s a lot of money at stake tonight, and a new player I never met before. I thought it might be prudent.”

  “I’d say it’s fucking prudent,” Danny said. “Let’s watch it. Let’s watch this bitch trying to cheat us.”

  “Wait.” I hated the weakness in my own voice, but I couldn’t catch my breath, was having trouble processing what was happening. Only a minute ago I was dealing the cards. Now everything was moving too fast. “This is all … Let’s just play the game.”

  “You need to play the game called shut the fuck up,” Danny said. “Victor, how good are those cameras?”

  I knew the answer without needing to be told. Everything would be top of the line. Those cameras would catch every pore on my hands.

  “I don’t feel good,” I said, which was the absolute truth. “I’m gonna go. I’m gonna go now.” The door was fifteen feet away. Beyond that was a hallway and another door and then the outside world. I went to stand.

  Victor hadn’t raised his voice. He still didn’t, even as he reached out and gently held on to my arm to stop me from going anywhere. “You’ll wait and watch the video with us. And Jason? Go find Russell for me. Ask him to come in here.”

  Russell?

  Jason got up from the table and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  “What are we gonna do?” Ian asked. “This is crazy.”

  “We’re gonna see,” Victor said.

  “Yeah, but then what?”

  “First we see,” Victor said. He had removed his hand,
but I knew to stay where I was. When the door opened again a minute later, Jason was accompanied by another man. Seeing him, I was glad I was still seated, because my legs would have gone weak. I felt the sudden urge to urinate.

  I had seen him once before, years ago. He was older now, but the years had brought no warmth to his eyes.

  “It seems,” Victor explained to this other man, “we have a situation.”

  He looked on, unsurprised, unconcerned. Situations were his business.

  “I need to get something cued up on the screen,” Victor said, “and I want to be sure that Nora—it is Nora, isn’t it?”

  “You want to see my business card?” I said.

  “I want to be sure this young lady stays right here with us while we all watch.”

  Russell wrapped his hand around my upper arm and led me over to the screening area. His grip wasn’t as soft as Victor’s had been. I knew there’d be a mark.

  Several soft leather seats faced the screen. The other men sat down but Russell stayed standing on my right side, behind the row of seats, his hand never letting go of my arm. Ellen, in a tacit show of solidarity, I supposed, stood beside me. The screen was immense, installed for football games and movies in high definition. Victor had spent a fortune on the setup, but he was no master at cuing up the file that had been recording, and we stood there for several agonizing minutes while he changed inputs and channels, the football game being replaced by a blank screen, then by static, then a blank screen again, and it all would have been comical—another old man bested by his technology—if Russell’s fingers weren’t digging into my arm.