by Mark Joseph
When they were sidekicks, Bobby had never used the name of the Lone Ranger’s companion. Like the superb poker player he was, he wanted to push that button only once.
He saw the consternation in Nelson’s face. Confusion, indecision and weakness made the policeman’s voice waver as he said, “I have a hundred and seventy-five thousand in chips.”
“Okay,” Bobby said. “I see your hundred and raise a hundred seventy-five. And just for fun I’ll put up the Hooper Fish Company against the rest of the cars and the apartment building.” He clucked his tongue, folded his arms, and sat back.
“You can’t do that!” Charlie protested.
“Yes, he can,” Alex declared. “It’s his, it’s on the table and he can do whatever he damned well pleases with it.”
“That’s my life; it isn’t a commodity.”
“Can it, Charlie,” Alex snapped. “You made it a commodity when you tossed it in the pot. You never gave a damn about the business, anyway. All you ever wanted to do was run around town and spend the money like a big-shot.”
“Fuck!”
“I knew it was coming,” Nelson said, shaking his head.
“Check it out,” Dean said. “If Nelson has two pair, the only way Bobby can win is with three threes, but wait! Nelson might have three nines, or Bobby may have two pair with threes and queens, or—”
“Shut up, Dean,” Alex snarled. “We can all see the cards.”
“What’s it gonna be, Nelson?” Bobby demanded. “You can fold and still be in the game, you can bet the one seventy-five, or you can put it all in. You might win. Wanna be in the fish business?”
Nelson looked at his hole card again and shook his head.
“I fold,” he said. “I can’t do it.”
“Excellent,” Bobby said. “Smart move.” He flipped over his hole card, a third three that would have won a showdown. “You’re still in the game, but I got the car, right?”
“Yeah, you got the car.”
“Tell you what, Nelson. I’ll trade you the car for the revolver.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your big pistola there. I think I fancy that more than a car right now. How about it? Car’s worth more, I believe, a lot more. Not a bad deal for you.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Is that an issue?”
“Why do you want the piece?”
“Afraid I’m gonna shoot you? Bang!”
“I dunno, Bobby.”
“Don’t you want the car back? I’m feeling generous.”
Nelson reached under his seat and brought up the Smith & Wesson Model 29 and set it in front of Bobby who let it remain where it lay next to his chips.
“Just like the Wild West, hey, boys? This game is getting serious. I do believe that Paladin and Wyatt Earp would approve. Whose deal? Don’t worry, Nelson. You’ll get another chance.”
42
Bobby won several pots in a row, intimidating Nelson, Dean, and Charlie with large bets irrespective of the cards. Showing the three of clubs on the first card in seven stud, he bet twenty thousand and everyone dropped.
Psyched, tormented, his threshold of pain raised to a nearly intolerable level, Nelson exclaimed, “Why don’t we just give everything to you and not bother with the cards?”
“That wouldn’t be much fun. Aren’t you having fun, Nelson?”
“Shit.”
“This is your game, fellas. We can quit right now.”
No one spoke. No one said: When the game is over, we have to tell Bobby what happened at Shanghai Bend, and we’re going to put that off as long as possible, if not forever.
Finally Alex said, “We have to play.”
“Why?” Bobby demanded. “It’s a hell of a game, but after all, it’s only poker.”
“We’ve been planning this game for a long time, and we agreed we needed to do this. It’s who we are. The lives we live outside this game just aren’t that important.”
“Speak for yourself, Alex.” Charlie said.
“That sounds like existential Kleenex to me,” Bobby said. “Last night you guys made a lot of noise about doing the right thing, but I think you’re in this game because you don’t have a fucking clue what the right thing is. Nelson, in the laundromat you made a big deal out of the right thing, the right thing. Okay, copper, what is it?”
“Beyond playing the game, I don’t know. I don’t want to go to prison, the answer is: nothing. Doing nothing is the right thing.”
“That’s great, that’s terrific, that’s a comment on our times. You don’t know. The great moral dilemma of your life and you don’t know what to do except nothing. How about you, Charlie? Do you know? What’s the right thing?”
“The right thing would be to call the Yuba County Sheriff and tell him who Sally is,” Charlie said nervously. “If it wasn’t for Nelson, that’s what I’d do. It’s what we should’ve done when it happened, so it’s the right thing to do now.”
“So, you want to fess up and suffer the consequences. Just what exactly do you think the consequences would be?”
“The case would land in the lap of the Yuba County District Attorney who might not press charges. If he did, he’d probably negotiate a plea. The problem is the records that Nelson took.”
“You’re afraid Nelson’s little peccadilloes might be found out, and you want to protect your friend who protected you.”
“Yeah. If all the different authorities and agencies put their heads together, they’ll figure it out and Nelson’s in the slammer.”
“That’s truly noble, Charlie. You can say, ‘Let’s call the cops,’ and in the next breath say, ‘Well, not really.’ You can’t have it both ways, pal. You don’t know any more than Nelson. Dean, how about you?”
“I agree with Charlie. Call the police.”
“Really? Your little wifey will learn how naughty you were.”
“Sure, but it’s the right thing to do.”
“What about Nelson?” Bobby asked.
“I think we’ll all go to jail, not just Nelson,” Dean answered.
“You must be suicidal or a masochist or some damned thing, Studley. Who do you think you are, Dostoyevski? What is this, Crime and Punishment or some crap like that?”
“That’s about the size of it, Bobby. I want to clear the air, but I’m afraid I don’t have the balls. That’s why we’re going to leave it up to you.”
“Alex?”
“Charlie and Dean think we should call the sheriff, but obviously neither has picked up the phone. Nelson almost agrees, but he has more to lose than they do. They might suffer, but they can walk away from it. Without a doubt Nelson goes to jail, so he’s conflicted. As for me, I would prefer we not call the police. I have selfish interests, of course. I don’t want to be publicly vilified, and I’d like to spare our families the pain of our shame. My folks are long dead, but there’s Nelson’s mom, Charlie’s mom, and Dean’s dad, the old drunk. Then there are kids and wives. They’re innocent, but they’ll pay if we turn ourselves in.”
“What would you do if everyone except you agreed to call the sheriff?”
“I can’t stop anyone from doing that short of murder, and that’s absurd.”
“Is that what it is, Alex, absurd? Ridiculous? Wouldn’t it be another murder to cover up the first?”
Embarrassed silence. Finally, Nelson said, “Look, Bobby, it’s up to you to decide,” Nelson said. “If you want to call the sheriff, so be it.”
“What good would it do me to call the sheriff? How would it help Sally? I have a better idea.” Bobby picked up the revolver and pulled back the hammer with a loud click. “Frontier justice. Which one of you killed Sally? Or was it all of you?”
Blanched faces, naked fear. Bobby gently released the hammer, cracked open the gun, and removed the cartridges, weighing them in his hand.
“Shit,” he said. “You guys are a bunch of nervous girls. Come on, act like men. Live up to your heroes. Let’s play cards.”
43
After a few more hands Dean fired a joint, and Charlie smoked it with him. To everyone’s surprise, Bobby asked for a hit.
“So you’re not so pure after all,” Nelson said.
With a shrug Bobby said, “It’s only weed.”
“No, it isn’t,” Dean declared. “It’s Rocket Fuel.”
Bobby sucked hard on the fat tube of reefer and then, turning away, used his tongue to force the smoke out his nostrils without inhaling. He finished the deceit with a coughing fit.
Pretending to be stoned, Bobby changed his style and began to play cautiously, folding early on most hands. He stopped badgering his opponents. After moving them from fear to hostility and back to fear, he wanted them to forget about him for a while. Each time someone raised, he folded, removing himself from the action and watching quietly as the others played.
Presently Dean won two hands in succession, the last an impressive win over Alex that put him a hundred thousand ahead. He celebrated with a glass of rum.
“You like that weed, Bobby?” he asked.
“Pretty potent shit, Deano. I can’t play cards when I’m loaded, and that weed, man, I dunno. I don’t know anybody who can play stoned, but a lot of folks try. How ’bout you, Stud?”
Dean laughed and tossed his ante into the pot.
Your turn, Bobby thought, and said, “My deal. Five stud.”
Dean cut the deck and Bobby slowly passed out the cards, dealing sloppily as though he were stoned out of his mind. Blinking, clearing his throat, rocking in his seat, calling out the cards haphazardly. “Nine to Charlie, ah, what’s that? A six to Nelson, yeah, a six, and another six to Alex, a queen to Dean—hey, that rhymes, and a jack to me. That right? Yeah, queen is high. Jeez, I guess I’m stoned. Whoa.”
“Queen bets five.”
“Okay, I’m in,” Bobby said and tossed a chip into the pot. It landed on edge and rolled across to Nelson who caught it and placed it in the center of the table.
“I see it,” Charlie said.
“Out,” Nelson declared.
And Alex, “Likewise.”
“Next card, another queen to the stud for a pair, and another jack to me for a pair, and a nine to Charlie for three pairs showing on the table. That’s pretty nifty. Queens.”
“Twenty-five on the queens.”
“Ooo, ladies showing their teeth. Twenty-five it is.”
“Too rich for me,” Charlie said, and turned over his cards.
Bobby seemed to lose interest in the hand and stared at the photo of Wyatt Earp as though it were the most fascinating image he’d ever seen.
“Bobby, you gonna deal?”
“What? Oh, yeah. Let’s see, whose in? Dean and me? Okay. A ten to the queens and a seven to the jacks. Queens still lookin’ good.”
“Fifty.”
“Movin’ up there, queenies. Fifty, fifty, okay. Fifty and up one fifty. Jeez, that weed. Wait a minute. Is that what I wanna do? Yeah, what the hell. Up one fifty, Deano.”
“You losin’ it, man? You okay?” Dean asked.
Bobby chuckled. “I dunno. You gonna see the raise?” “I’m in.”
“Last card. A deuce to Dean and Dean’s queen to me. How about that. Your bet.”
“One fifty,” Dean said.
Bobby leaned over the table and knocked over his stacks of chips. “Shit,” he swore. “Maybe I am losin’ it, betting into such a pretty pair of queens. Oh, dear, what to do.”
He halfheartedly tried to stack his chips again, snorted, cleared his throat and said, “One fifty, okay, and I’ll raise—what d’ya got there, Stud?”
“Four eighty.”
“Keepin’ track, hey? Four fifty? No. Four-eighty.”
“And I got my boat.”
“Your boat? Oh, yeah, your hot rod boat. You want to bet your boat? What’s it worth?”
“Two large.”
“Two grand? That’s all?”
“Two hundred grand,” Dean said. “It’s a Cigarette Racing Top Gun with twin Mercury Marine Bulldogs that I tweaked myself, a hell of a boat. I bet my boat.” Dean got the giggles. Laughing, drinking more rum, he repeated, “Hell, yes. I bet my boat, the Queen of Diamonds.”
“Two hundred thousand dollars for a speedboat. That’s an expensive toy, Studley. What else do you have? A business, right? Your garage or machine shop or whatever it is. Wanna put that in, too? Against Charlie’s business, naturally. You think about it. Here’s four eighty plus another two hundred for the boat.”
Bobby pushed a huge stack of chips into the pot.
“You’re really gunning for us,” Dean said.
“It’s a poker game, isn’t it? I didn’t come here to lose, but maybe I will. You in? You see my raise? You aren’t chickenshit, are you, Dean? You gonna fold like Nelson? This is a man’s game.”
Dean’s upper lip began to tremble, and with a violent shove pushed all his chips into the pot.
“I’m in, the boat, the shop, everything,” and he flipped over his hole card, a ten that gave him two pair, queens and tens.
“Wow, two pair, that’s pretty good,” Bobby said and turned over his hole card, the jack of clubs for three jacks. “But not good enough.”
Shaking, Dean stood, fists clenched, sweat streaming down his temples. “You … you, God damn!”
“Wanna kiss me again?” Bobby asked, and when Dean leaned over the table toward him, Bobby snatched up the revolver, pointed it at the big man’s chest, and commanded, “Sit down, captain, sir.”
Nelson dove to the floor, Charlie yelped and covered his face with his arms, and Alex calmly lit a cigarette. Bobby burst out laughing.
“I love this game,” he said, eyes locked on Dean’s, and Dean realized Bobby wasn’t stoned at all. He was sober as a judge.
“Nicely played,” Alex said.
“All’s fair in love and poker.”
Dean sank into his seat, and Bobby put down the gun.
“Is this thing loaded?” he asked.
“Shit,” Nelson swore.
“I’m only teasing. I’m pretty sure it’s empty.” He opened the gun and showed the empty cylinder to Dean, then pushed two hundred thousand in chips from the pot across the table. “I’ll give you the same deal I gave Charlie,” he said. “You’re still in, Stud. Ante up.”
44
In the dark hours before dawn on Sunday morning the light over the table shined brighter than ever. Bobby tried twice more to goad Nelson into putting everything into a pot, but the policeman was gun shy, as the saying goes, and each time stopped short of risking his fortune.
Where Bobby failed, Alex succeeded. With Bobby dealing a hand of seven stud, after six cards Nelson had four splendid hearts for a possible king high flush, and Alex showed a pair of sevens, a king, and an eight. Everyone else had dropped, and Alex and Nelson faced off, waiting for the final card.
Sweat hung in the air like smoke. Holed by cigarette burns and stained by spilled drinks and gun oil, the dark green felt exuded the raw odor of a battlefield. When the stakes are high enough, poker is war, and cards and chips become tokens for savage emotions.
Right and wrong, crime and punishment, life and death—the grand issues had been pushed aside by the power of the game. Nelson was not meditating on Shanghai Bend as he clenched his teeth and impatiently snapped the corners of his hole cards. He was trying to win the hand, and nothing else mattered.
“C‘mon, c’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, transfixed.
Alex remained calm, fingers folded on the table. Only Bobby noticed a tiny artery pulsing in his left temple, partially hidden by the frame of his glasses. The Wiz was more anxious than he appeared.
Bobby dealt the last card, intoning the customary chant, “One down for Alex and one for Nelson. Sevens are still high. Alex bets.”
Alex glanced briefly at his seventh card and slowly raised his eyes until he met Nelson’s. Without looking down, he pushed a tall stack of blues into the center of the felt.
“Two hundred thous
and,” he rasped, voice harsh and dry.
“I don’t have that much,” Nelson snapped in reply, blood pressure rising. “You can see that plain as day.”
Never taking his eyes off Nelson, Alex asked politely, “How much do you have?”
“Hundred forty-five thousand,” came the terse response.
“Okay, one forty-five it is,” Alex said, taking fifty-five thousand back.
Face flushed, jaw grinding, cheek muscles twitching, Nelson came out like gangbusters. “I’ll tell you what, Alex. It takes a full house or better to beat a flush, and you’ve been bluffing all day and all night. You ain’t the pro from Reno. You don’t fool me with your cooler-than-thou attitude. I’ve seen it before. You’re just a smart-ass punk from Alvarado Street and all you have is a pair of sevens, maybe three sevens. I’ll put in the one forty-five and raise you my cars and the apartment building—if you have anything to put up against it, like guts.”
Bobby saw the muscles in Alex’s face relax. The sign of fear, the bluffer’s tell, the pulse throbbing in his temple, was gone. An intrepid gambler, the Wiz had caught a hand on the last card and Nelson had walked right into the trap.
“What’s the building worth?” Alex inquired.
“Two point one million at the last insurance appraisal.”
Alex bent over the table on his elbows and studied Nelson’s cards. “We started with five grand, then went to five hundred grand, and now you’re betting two million plus on a four heart flush. I never thought I’d see the day. Hallelujah, the poker gods must be appeased.”
“Cut the crap, Alex. I’m all in. Whaddaya got that’s worth anything? I know you own your fancy New York apartment.”
“My assets, let’s see,” Alex said slowly. “There’s the apartment in Manhattan, yes, and the condo in East Hampton, and the stock portfolio, a nice combination of blue chips and high-tech. Pharmaceuticals have been good lately. All together I’d guess I’m worth a little less than two million, depending on the market, but close enough. That sound good enough to you?”