by Mark Joseph
“You’ve been drawing one card all night and then bluffing that you caught a hand,” Dean said and pushed all his chips into the pot. “I call.”
“You can bet more,” Bobby said, “like the truth against your machine shop.”
“Fuck that. That won’t work with me any better than it did with Charlie.”
“You sure? If your cards are worth one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, surely they’re worth an answer to a simple question. Who killed, Sally, Dean? Was it you?”
“Just show your cards, Bobby.”
“Three tens,” Bobby said and laid his cards face up on the felt. “Read ’em and weep.”
“Holy shit.”
Dean sighed and tossed his hand willy-nilly onto the table. Alex spread out the cards and revealed three fives.
Bobby tensed, expecting a violent explosion from the big man.
Dean’s eyes fluttered around the table, from the cards to the chips in the pot to Alex to Bobby and landed on the revolver, still on the table next to Bobby’s chips.
Reaching into his pocket, Bobby drew out a single cartridge, tossed it in the air and caught it. Prudently, he removed the gun from the table and placed it under his seat.
“It’s a cruel game,” Alex said.
“I need a drink,” Dean said and reached for his bottle of rum.
“You lost your business but not your house,” Alex commented dryly. “You still have something to play with.”
“Do you want everything, Wiz, down to the last nickel?”
“I’m just a player, Dean. If you want to play, we’ll deal you in. I don’t give a shit one way or the other.”
“The house isn’t mine. It belonged to Billie before we got married, so the answer is no. I’m tap city.”
The second bedroom door opened and Charlie emerged in fresh clothes, hair dripping from the shower.
“What’s going on, guys?” he asked.
Bobby didn’t glance up. Alex turned around briefly to look at Charlie, then focused intently on the cards in Bobby’s hands.
Dean pushed himself away from the table, cleared away his glass and ashtray, and daintily swept the felt with his hands.
“What’s happening is what we all suspected would happen,” he said to Charlie. “A shootout at the OK Corral.”
Charlie and Dean pulled their chairs away from the table and settled in to watch, the pain of their losses tempered by the sheer excitement of the confrontation. Their lives had become chips in somebody else’s game, a peculiar situation that wasn’t too far removed from the world beyond the Enrico Caruso suite. At its best, poker is a facsimile of the human condition, charged with vigor and energy, fraught with whimsy and unexpected twists, and always ending in sudden death. The best man didn’t always win, but the best player, no matter what his character, almost always took the final pot.
“I guess it’s time to go fishing,” Charlie said to Dean.
“Looks like.”
Bobby and Alex paid no attention. All that existed for them was a deck of cards, two immense piles of chips, and each other.
48
“Just you and me,” Alex said. “Heads-up.”
“I’m glad you can count to two, Alex,” Bobby said. “Let’s put that mathematical talent to work. What do you say we raise the ante?”
Alex lit a Lucky and smiled. “Sure. Anything you like.”
“Ten grand?”
“Sounds right, like bare knuckles.”
Alex was as dangerous as any player Bobby had ever faced. By now the Wiz had picked up one or two of Bobby’s tells that gave him an edge in certain hands. A superior player like Bobby exhibited few signs that gave away his cards, but some tells always existed: if nothing else the autonomic physical response that dilated and constricted his pupils. Observant and astute, Alex was watching everything, and Bobby believed that if he continued to play his aggressive game, he’d lose.
“Your deal,” Alex said.
Bobby slowly and methodically shuffled the cards, no longer pretending this was just another game. Sultans and tycoons didn’t play for these stakes. With two and a half million dollars in chips and millions more in property on the table, it was not only the biggest game he’d ever played in, it was the biggest game he’d ever heard of. Ironically, because of Shanghai Bend, news of the million dollar game played by the boys from Noë Valley would never travel beyond the hotel suite. No legend was in the making here. The losers would find ways to explain their losses without revealing the truth, and the winner would do the same. It occurred to Bobby that if he lost everything, including the money downstairs in the hotel safe, he’d drop no more than the original five thousand dollar buy-in, not too steep a price for an interesting session at cards, but it meant he had little to lose while Alex had his life on the line.
Across the table, the immediacy of finally squaring off against Bobby McCorkle severely tested Alex’s remarkable cool. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and ashes spilled down the front of his shirt. Unlike Bobby who was used to playing for days at a time, Alex’s stamina was near the end. Running on pure adrenaline, he was close to exhaustion. Furthermore, three decades of relentless anticipation were taking their toll. He’d played this game in his head so many times, it was hard to clear away all the possible scenarios and concentrate on the game at hand. He blinked, trying without success to steady his mind. Ghosts swirled around the table, his grandfather, Sally, the Cincinnati Kid. This game, right now, was the focal point of his life, and he was terrified.
Bobby noticed Alex’s sweat and ashes; looking deeper, he saw Alex’s fantasy in which the Wiz was the greatest poker player on earth living out his dream here in the Enrico Caruso Suite. If Alex won, he’d go straight to Binion’s Horseshoe in Las Vegas, and with a stake of millions he’d be the toast of the town—until he lost. The scary thing about Alex was that he knew what would happen, win or lose, and didn’t care. At the end of the line was a Nelson Algren nightmare, a seedy life of cheap hotels and two-dollar games. Trapped in a midlife identity crisis, Alex desperately sought la nostalgie de la boue; he wanted to wallow in the low life, and in his warped perception of the universe, that had to cost him millions. He was afflicted with the fatal flaw of every poker junkie who ever lived, including his father and grandfather. At the very bottom of his twisted heart he needed to lose. Bobby knew the only question was when: now or later.
“Been thinking about this game, Wiz?” Bobby taunted, and when Alex produced a tiny smile, Bobby clucked his tongue and asked, as if admiring a voluptuous woman, “The million dollar game, wow. Does it give you a hard on?”
Alex blushed. “What if it does?”
“Then you’re a player.”
The blush told Bobby that Alex did indeed have an erection, and in that moment Alex’s marvelous poker face was stripped away to reveal the fear underneath.
“What are you going to do if you win, Alex? You’ll have a hell of a bankroll, and all this property and businesses to run.”
“I’ll sell it all. Cash it in. Not a problem.”
Bobby observed that neither Charlie nor Dean reacted to this callous declaration.
“That’s a hell of a thing to do to your friends.”
“We all knew the risks when we sat down to play.”
“Are you sure? I didn’t,” Bobby contradicted. “I came down here for a five thousand dollar game. I had no idea this was a setup for you to rip off your friends. Just a friendly little game among old pals, my ass. You conned these guys into throwing in a half million each of their hard-earned dope money, plus their property, just to fatten your kitty. I bet you keep a book on everybody, a secret book that describes every game you ever played, the habits of the players, and all their secrets. You’ve been doing it for years, just to prepare for this game. What do you think, Dean? Does Alex keep a book?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Well?” Bobby asked Alex.
“I keep a book, yes. There’s nothing wrong with
that.”
“But you never told anyone, did you?”
“No.”
“Winning is really important to you, isn’t it?”
“This isn’t a gentlemen’s sport, Bobby. It’s not how you play the game that counts, it’s whether you win or lose.”
“And every year you set up these patsies so you can inflate your ego, right?”
“The wild card is never a patsy. You’re certainly not.”
“Would you cut the cards right now for a million dollars?” Bobby asked sharply, pushing the deck into the middle of the table.
Alex didn’t hesitate before he said, “No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not poker.”
Bobby laughed quietly. A genuinely good player, intensely focused and confident of his skill, Alex could be psyched and beaten by making him think too much, thus turning his strength against himself.
“Well, I hope you read your old notes on me. When I was eighteen, I used to light a cigarette every time I got good cards. Do I still do that? Gee, I don’t know. C’mon, Wiz, let’s play seven stud. Cut the cards.”
Alex won the first hand when Bobby folded on the second card, and Bobby won two in similar fashion, bang bang. Then Alex won three, bang bang bang, then Bobby five, bang bang bang bang bang, with no hand taking more than thirty seconds. Heads-up poker is quick, the betting fast, the atmosphere auction-like in its cadence.
“Ten on the queen.”
“Your ten plus twenty on the jack.”
“See your twenty and bump fifty.”
“Fold.”
The game ebbed and flowed like the tide in the bay, back and forth, back and forth, each player looking for the tiny advantage that would break the game open. After fifteen minutes of furious action, Bobby started a streak in which he checked or folded on the first card for twenty-three hands in a row. Calmly smoking Winstons and saying nothing except, “Check,” and “Fold,” the tactic called “no-stay” in poker parlance frustrated Alex who tried raising and lowering his opening bet to no avail. Nothing kept Bobby in the game. Five stud, seven stud or draw, Bobby folded and conceded a ten thousand dollar ante each time. As the streak continued, Alex’s biological poker computer began to melt down trying to guess what Bobby was trying to do. Was he simply waiting for an exceptionally good hand? That had to be it. Bobby folded high cards and low cards, and when he folded an ace on the first card in five stud, Alex shook his head, mumbling, “What’s the matter with you? I thought you wanted to play.”
Bobby shrugged and remained silent.
A few minutes before first light, Alex dealt a hand of seven stud, and when Bobby looked at his hole cards he had a pair of tens to go with a queen up against a king up for Alex.
“King bets twenty thousand,” Alex said, expecting Bobby to drop again.
“See your twenty and up twenty,” Bobby said.
“So you’re finally going to play a hand? See your raise and raise another twenty.”
Bobby knew Alex had at a least a pair of kings if not three. “Call,” he said.
“Next card. A seven to Bobby and a nine to the dealer. Dealer bets fifty.”
“Fifty and up fifty.”
“See your raise and raise a hundred.”
“I’m in,” Bobby said.
“Next card. A queen for a pair to you and a seven to the dealer.”
“Queens bet a hundred grand,” Bobby said.
“I’ll see your hundred.”
“Not going to raise me, Alex? All right. Roll ’em.”
“An ace to you and a queen to the dealer.”
“You got my queen,” Bobby said.
“It’s my queen now.”
“Since you got my queen, I’ll only bet a hundred grand again.”
“See your hundred and raise two hundred.”
Without a doubt Alex had three kings. Bobby was ready to rock and roll with a full tilt bluff. He pushed three hundred thousand in chips into the pot.
“Okey dokey smokey, deal.”
“A six to Bobby and a jack to the dealer. One more card to go. Queens bet.”
“Hmmm,” Bobby said. “One million dollars.”
Charlie gasped. Dean popped his lips and uttered, “Wow!”
Bobby watched the tiny muscles twitching in Alex’s face that revealed tension. Alex truly didn’t know what Bobby had, but he knew Bobby knew he had kings. No one bet a million dollars into three kings unless he had a better hand. Alex concluded that he had to improve his hand on the last card to win, but it would cost him a million dollars to buy that card.
“Call,” he whispered, and put ten bumblebees into the pot.
“Last card, down.”
Alex dealt the cards, and Bobby watched his opponent hesitate, his eyes lingering a split second on the back of his final card before he glanced up to check out Bobby. You never should have taken your eyes off me, Bobby thought, and he knew Alex needed that card to make his hand.
Relaxed, Bobby watched the artery pumping in Alex’s temple. When he finally raised the corner of his card, the pulsing blood vessel remained steady.
Bobby counted out the rest of his blues and reds and put them into the pot. “I have three hundred thousand here, and I’ll toss in Dean.”
Under his breath, Dean exclaimed, “Jesus.”
Alex was losing control. His breath was constricted, his face flushed. He looked like he was about to wet his pants. Uncharacteristically, he picked up his hole cards and studied them.
“Fuck no,” he swore, throwing down the cards. “I fold.”
Bobby deliberately turned over his tens. “Two pair, queens up.”
Alex began to tremble, took a deep breath, and quickly gained control of himself. He’d been bluffed into folding a winning hand, three kings, and lost over a million and a half dollars.
“Still think you’re good enough, Wiz? I’d love to see you in Vegas swimming with the sharks. C’mon, ante up. It’s my deal.”
49
Alex’s stake had been reduced to his property, the property he’d won from Nelson, one short stack of reds, a few blues, one bumblebee, and the whites in reserve. If poker can be compared to bullfighting, Alex was unaccustomed to playing the role of the bull. Across the table Bobby was poised like a fearless killer of toros, a matador sighting down the length of his sword, taking aim for the moment of truth.
Alex tried desperately to maintain a Buddha-like façade, but the inside of his mouth was dry and his eyes watery and red. Reviewing the last hand, he realized he’d psyched himself on the million dollar bet. Just play the odds, he told himself. Just play the odds and ignore anything the son of a bitch says.
Bobby leaned back in his chair, raised his glass of soda and lime and said, “A toast, gentlemen, to the royal flush in diamonds. Your loyalty to one another is astounding.”
“Wait,” Dean said, holding up both hands. “Let me get Nelson.”
Dean banged loudly on Nelson’s door, shouting, “Come out here, Chinaman. Open up.”
After several more bangs and shouts Nelson opened the door. Half asleep, naked to the waist, he asked, “What?”
“Bobby wants to make a toast. It’s just him and Alex left in the game.”
“What?” Nelson blinked and rubbed his eyes.
Dean cupped his hands over Nelson’s ears and pulled out a pair of rubber plugs.
“I was asleep,” Nelson said, yawning. “Is the game over? What time is it?”
“It’s a few minutes past five. Bobby’s going to make a toast.”
“Hey, Crazy Nelson,” Bobby said, raising his glass. “Alex, Charlie, Dean, to the royal flush, the hand that beat the Cincinnati Kid.”
Charlie stuck a glass in Nelson’s hand and they all raised their drinks in salute. No one except Bobby looked festive, and their hollow voices almost groaned, “To the royal flush in diamonds. Hear hear.”
“Hear hear.”
The room was quiet, the stereo off, the hotel dormant in the
wee hours. Alex was flexing his finger muscles, adjusting his glasses, and fiddling with his chair.
“Let’s get on with it,” he urged.
“Tell you what, Alex,” Bobby said. “Let’s let Nelson deal.”
“Why not? Sure,” Alex replied.
“That okay with you?” Bobby asked the policeman.
“I don’t know if I’m awake yet.”
“I’ll get you some coffee,” Charlie said.
Bobby pulled out Nelson’s chair, saying, “Sit down, make yourself comfortable. You’ll be all right.”
Nelson took his seat, picked up the blue deck and started to shuffle.
“My cut,” Bobby said. “The Wiz gets the first card.”
“What do you want to play?” Nelson asked.
With a grin, Bobby said, “Let’s play low hole card wild, just for old time’s sake.”
“Oh, shit, Bobby, no,” Alex protested.
Bobby leaned over the table and said directly to Alex, “Just in case there’s some confusion, let me ask you why we’re here. Is it because they dug Sally’s bones out of the riverbank, or for some other reason, to resolve your identity crisis, perhaps?”
Incensed, Alex retorted, “We’re here for a poker game, and we don’t play wild cards.”
“Ah, so, pure poker, no wild cards. Such symmetry, such elegant simplicity. What nonsense. You were willing to play low hole card wild earlier, but if you’re not now, too bad. Game’s over.” Bobby pushed back his chair and stood up. “Cash me in and we’ll call it a night.”
Alex hissed, “You bastard.”
Bobby smiled. “I’m not greedy,” he said. “I’ve got millions here, more than enough to keep me playing cards for at least a month. I have a game in Biloxi on Wednesday with a crowd of Cajun gun runners, Panamanian dope dealers, and politicians. I really like those guys, and I’m going to be in Mississippi no matter what happens here. It’s up to you, Alex. Either we play the old game, or we quit, and you get to start talking.”
“Bobby—” Charlie started to say, but Dean cut him off.
“Shut up, Charlie.”
Bobby started counting his chips.