Pokergeist

by Michael Phillip Cash

  POKERGEIST

  Michael Phillip Cash

  Copyright © 2015 Michael Phillip Cash

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1512074969

  ISBN 13: 9781512074963

  To my Casella and Salzman clan:

  Good times in Vegas + Friends like you = Amazing memories

  “I used to be a heavy gambler. But now I just make mental bets. That’s how I lost my mind.”

  —Steve Allen

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Prologue

  Like taking candy from a baby, Clutch Henderson thought. He took a deep pull on his whiskey, allowing the burn to numb him from gullet to stomach. The room reeked of smoke, even though it was not allowed in the main ballroom during the tournament. Overhead, giant television screens focused on two players. Clutch looked up, winked, and watched the camera close in on his craggy face. I still got it. He smirked at his image. He was tall, lanky, and deeply tanned, which accentuated his silver hair and light eyes. Even though he was pushing seventy, he knew the ladies still found him attractive. They didn’t call him the Silver Fox for nothing. Clutch patted the blister pack of Viagra in the pocket of the polyester bowling shirt that he wore in homage to the Big Lebowski, the fictional kingpin legend. Gineva would be picking up a celebratory bottle of champagne right now, as soon as she clocked out at the Nugget. They wouldn’t give her the day off today—the bastards. There was a good chance he was going to make an honest woman out of her tonight…a rich, honest woman.

  Clutch shifted in his seat, his hemorrhoids making their presence known. They burned his ass more than the cocky kid sitting opposite him. He looked over to his opponent who was sunk low in his seat, his face swallowed by the gray hoodie he wore. Adam “the Ant” Antonowski, boy wonder, who rose from the ranks of online card games, had beaten out a seemingly impossible one hundred sixty-five thousand players to earn a coveted seat at the International Series of Poker. His pimply face peeked out from under oversized sunglasses. Clutch sneered contemptuously at him. They let everybody play today. The kid did look bug-eyed with those enormous glasses. Adam curled his hands protectively over his cards, his bitten-down fingernails repulsive.

  “Rookie,” Clutch muttered under his breath, his lips barely moving.

  “Looks like Clutch Henderson is praying, folks,” Kevin Franklyn said into his mike from where he sat in a small room watching the game. He was a former champion turned seasoned sportscaster on the poker circuit, well respected, and the senior of the two anchormen. He was completely bald, his fleshy nose slightly off center on his craggy face, a victim of his youthful and unsuccessful boxing career. He’d made a mint once he turned to poker and had never looked back.

  Stu James shook his head. “Clutch could be at his last prayers; this kid is the terminator.” Stu was a tall cowboy with wavy blond hair and mustache left over from his 1970s poker-playing heyday. He looked like a country singer.

  “Let’s see if Clutch can exterminate the Ant,” Kevin replied.

  They shared a laugh. The sportscasters wore matching light blue jackets with the Poker Channel logo on the chest.

  Kevin nodded, placing his hand on his earbud, and said, “Yes, this is it, folks, in case you’ve just tuned in. A record fourteen thousand entrants, and it all comes down to this—the final moments. The rookie versus the pro: it could have been scripted by a screenwriter. David versus Goliath. Adam ‘the Ant’ Antonowski going up against the legendary Clutch Henderson.”

  Kevin continued, “Legendary, yes, but Clutch has yet to take home that million-dollar bracelet, Stu. This must be his eighteenth try at the title.”

  “Nineteenth. However, he did come in sixth place last year.”

  Kevin nodded. “But the Ant is certainly the Cinderella story of the year. An online poker phenom who beat out thousands of players in a twenty-dollar online satellite game. And here he is today. How old is he?”

  Stu turned around to a huge monitor. “I’m not quite sure, but I found out a lot about him earlier today when I interviewed him. Let’s take a look.”

  Stu was in a suite overlooking the Strip. It was hotter than hell outside, but the room was icy cold. The Ant slouched in a Louis XV Bergere chair, his hands deep in the pocket of the jersey hoodie. The gold brocade of the chair was a stark contrast to the varied shades of gray he habitually wore. His Converse-clad feet lay propped on a golden rococo coffee table. Stu noticed that Adam seemed unaware that the rubber of his tennis shoes was peeling off the gilt surface of the coffee table. Every time he moved, another strip of paint flaked away.

  Stu leaned forward, his large hands gesturing the spacious suite. “Nice room, Ant.” Everything about the newscaster was big, from his shoes to his huge chest. He was a former ranger-cum-football player and an avid golfer as well. The Ant truly resembled an insect next to the bigger man. “You have quite a view.”

  The Ant shrugged indifferently. “I don’t care about stuff like this. I’m happy with a room in Motel 6.”

  “This is a far cry from Motel 6. Why do they call you the Ant?”

  “I’m small,” the Ant said. He smiled, revealing tiny, ferret-like teeth that looked mashed together. A frizzy curl escaped his hood to land over his shiny forehead. “But I can carry fifty times my weight in chips.” He laughed.

  “Ha!” Stu joined him. “Fifty times. Is that what you’re expecting to take home?”

  “Maybe more, if I can help it,” the Ant added defensively.

  “Adam—I mean, Ant—you’re coming into the final table with little more than half the chips in play.” Stu paused for effect. “What’s your strategy in the face-off with the legendary Clutch Henderson?”

  The Ant looked straight into the camera, his dark eyes fierce. “I want to eat that old shit alive.” The curse was bleeped out by the station.

  Stu shifted uncomfortably. “That’s pretty competitive, son.”

  “Let’s get this straight. I’m not your son, Stu.” This was said with dripping scorn.

  “All right, Ant.” Stu’s voice turned decidedly cool; he did not like this kid. The sportscaster was freezing as well. What the hell was wrong with the air conditioner? Stu suppressed a shiver as he smoothed his mustache. The Ant was cold as ice; not a drop of human kindness flowed in his veins. Not only that, but he could swear the kid’s lips were turning blue. He wanted to end this farce and get out of Dodge. “So, how do you plan on winning against one of the greatest cash players of the last century?”

  The Ant glanced out at the stark light in the picture windows. Heat shimmered in the desert, making the horizon look smeared and indistinct. The Strip was jammed already; a long line of red taillights filled the road as cars made their way down Las Vegas Boulevard.

  The ants go marching one by one…Ant hummed the nursery song in his head, lost in
the moment.

  Stu pulled him back. “Ant?”

  The younger man stared at him blankly, as if he’d just awakened. He twisted to look at the messy bar, just off camera. Crushed cans of beer and energy drinks littered the floor of the suite, and laundry was strewn all over the bedroom adjacent to the living area. Turning back slowly, dismissing one of the most important sports interviewers on television, the Ant said brusquely, “Next question.”

  “All right.” Stu pursed his lips, trying not to lose patience. Maybe the kid is on something, he thought. He’d been playing in eighteen-hour shifts for days now, beating out thousands of players. The interview was going to the crapper fast, and this surly guy might be the next world champion. Give me something. He checked his notes and then blurted, “How does it feel to rise from relative obscurity and find yourself face-to-face with the one and only Clutch Henderson?”

  “Look, this story is about me, right?” The Ant jabbed his finger into Stu’s face. “Not him. I’m the greatest player. I’m gonna create my own legacy, and it’s gonna be tonight.”

  Stu sat back in his seat, shocked by the Ant’s hostility. “Isn’t that a little premature articulation?” Stu couldn’t help the jab. This kid was nuts. He must be wired on the cans of caffeinated drinks tossed all over the floor of the bar area.

  The screen faded as the two sportscasters turned to face each other.

  “Interesting interview, Stu. So, what did you really learn about Adam ‘the Ant’ Antonowski?” Kevin chuckled as he shook his bald head with amusement.

  “Not a whole lot, Kev. He is a close-mouthed little guy.” Stu turned to gaze down at the single table where ten million dollars in cash had been strewn across the green baize in anticipation of the winner. A chunky gold bracelet glittered from the nest of cash, looking like pirate plunder. “It’s so quiet down there, you can actually hear the Ant thinking, I am the best player at this table.”

  Kevin rolled a pen between his fingers. He looked at the camera and continued with his commentary. “The fairy-tale story versus the legend. Let’s not forget that Clutch may be the greatest earner in the history of the game: fifty million in lifetime earnings, one hundred twenty-one cashes, twelve final tables, and four number-one best-selling books.”

  “What about his instructional videos? He made a mint with those in the nineties. Looks like the Ant’s asked for a break. Getting back to Clutch, he wrote what many call the Bible of Poker: Clutch Time: To Live and Die at the Poker Table. Will he make history tonight, Kevin?”

  “He should. Been trained by the best—poker runs in the family.” They shared a laugh.

  “I’d call the Hendersons poker royalty.”

  Kevin nodded in agreement. “I’ll say. Clutch is well-respected on the circuits; not many of those kind of guys left. He’s a true gentleman, a dying breed. I sat down and spoke with him earlier today. Let’s take a look.” Kevin turned back to the screen.

  “You’re close,” Kevin grinned at Clutch. Clutch inclined his head with a gracious smile. They were in his residence, a ranch in the seedier part of Vegas. Clutch sat on a gold velvet sofa covered with plastic slipcovers in a heavy Mediterranean style left over from the seventies. His girlfriend, Ginny, beamed from the kitchen as the interview progressed. Just past fifty, she was a chubby Filipina with brassy blond hair that clashed with her olive complexion. Kevin knew they’d been together for more than ten years, even though Clutch was still married to his wife, Jenny Henderson. Kevin paused for a minute and wondered if Clutch ever accidentally called Ginny Jenny or Jenny Ginny. That could make for some uncomfortable moments.

  Ginny leaned against the doorjamb as the spotlight shined on Clutch’s silver head. She had pressed his shirt earlier today and made the sharp crease in his pants as well. His scuffed cowboy boots were too old to take the polish, and only she knew that cardboard replaced the worn soles.

  “Very close,” Kevin pressed. “One play away from claiming your first-ever International Series Main Event bracelet.”

  Clutch looked happy; his blue eyes were dreamy. “Livin’ the dream, man.” The camera caressed his face.

  “How do you feel?”

  Clutch cocked his head. “With my fingers,” Clutch said, wiggling his slender fingers for the camera. He glanced to Ginny as if to share a private joke. Winking, he smiled widely and a blush rose across her ample chest. She had great tits, Ginny did. Clutch knew that for a fact. He’d paid for them. He turned back to the interviewer. “Look, I’ve been playing this game since my granddaddy showed me the difference between an ace and a deuce. I’ve prepared my whole life. I’ve been taught by the best.”

  “Buster Henderson practically created poker.”

  “You ain’t lying,” Clutch agreed. “We didn’t have a kitchen table. We ate off a poker baize, and there was always a game going on. Ruthie, my grandmother, was a pretty good player too.”

  “Yet it skipped a generation.”

  “My daddy died on the beach in Normandy,” Clutch explained. “He never had time to learn the game.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Never knew her. Buster and Ruthie raised me. They lived and breathed poker.”

  “Must have been an interesting childhood living with not only one, but two poker legends.”

  “Yeah,” Clutch agreed darkly. “It was a barrel of laughs.”

  “What do you think Buster would say to you if he were here today, as you enter the final table?”

  “‘Better not screw this one up, boy, or I’m gonna kill you.’”

  They shared a chuckle. “He was certainly a character,” Kevin added.

  “Yep.” Clutch wasn’t smiling anymore. “A real character.”

  “All kidding aside, even if you lose, second place has a hefty payout.” Kevin looked at his notes. “You stand to win four million.”

  Clutch shook his head. “Sometimes it ain’t about the money. My grandpa won that bracelet over sixty years ago. It’s time for me to win mine.”

  “Hmmm. Clutch, how do you feel about the advent of online players today—namely, your final opponent, the Ant?”

  Clutch sat forward, his hands together, his face thoughtful. “The Internet has more porn than you can shake a stick at. What good is that? You can’t touch a computer. It’s sterile. In the end, the game ain’t real if it’s through a machine. Romance and cards have got to be in real time, face-to-face.” He let the comparisons sink in. “Nothing like the feel of a real woman.”

  “Hilarious, Clutch.” Kevin laughed, sharing the macho moment with him.

  “Now the real world has real women.” Clutch glanced back at Ginny, who grinned back at him. She had the worst teeth. They’d never fixed her teeth in the Philippines when she was a child. That was the first thing he was going to do when he won, take her to have implants. Well, after he got a new car, paid his bookies, and paid off his back child support. She never asked for anything, Ginny. She was a good woman. “Poker is a game about communication. It’s about reading people, knowing what they are thinking. You can’t communicate over the Internet. You can’t have a relationship with a keyboard and a screen—well, at least not an honest one. You can’t learn poker with a machine. Ain’t natural.”

  “Have you got any old tricks up your sleeve?”

  Clutch looked at the frayed fabric of his dress shirt. The stripes were so old that there was just a hint of color in the thin cotton. He looked at the gray hairs sticking out of the cuff. He touched the bony point of his wrist, imagining the heavy weight of the bracelet. His grandpa had left his bracelet to Clutch’s cousin, Alf, who had never even played poker. Clutch had wanted it for so long—every year scraping the money together to get into the tournament, playing with infants, hacks, and women who thought they could flirt him out of the game. He was good. He knew he was the best, and he should’ve won a hundred times. He shook his head. A thousan
d times. It came so close, so very close, only to escape his clutches.

  “Clutch…” Kevin’s insistent voice interrupted his wandering mind, pulling him back. “Clutch, you were saying?”

  “Oh, we gonna teach that lil’ doggy how to make pee pee on a wee-wee pad.” The screen faded to black.

  Kevin’s shoulders shook with laughter. He turned to Stu. “That Clutch—he is something else.”

  “I’ll say. I think he has his metaphors confused. He may need a can of Raid instead of a wee-wee pad. Oh, the Ant is back from his break. Let’s see how the game is going.”

  Clutch and the Ant sat opposite each other, the room tense and silent. The older man pressed his cards into the table, bending just the tip to glance at the letters or numbers in the corner. Kings, a good solid hand. He kept his face impassive, stifling a yawn. The Ant simply ignored him, a bored expression on his face. Between them, a colorful cascade of chips littered the table. The room crackled with excitement. Clutch looked up at the dealer, who stonily stared into space. He smiled, and the dealer turned and nodded respectfully, revealing perfect teeth against his dark skin. They both looked to the Ant, who bristled with hostility.

  Clutch narrowed his eyes, and a trickle of sweat began to make its way down from his temple. He stared hard at the Ant, whose dark glasses made him an enigma. The Ant was looking everywhere except at him. Why wasn’t the kid studying him, looking for tells, the signs that hint at what he is holding? He watched his opponent intently. The Ant glanced upward before he made a move, as if asking permission from the atmosphere. While he couldn’t see the kid’s eyes because of the dark glasses, Clutch knew he was looking toward the ceiling from the tilt of his head. A few times, Clutch caught his own eyes gazing in the same direction, wondering what the punk was up to. The room became hot. He was willing to take this to the mats. Based on the kid’s whitened fingertips, Clutch’s gut told him the younger man had nothing. Clutch had a decent hand. He peered at the Ant’s cards on the table, as if he could see through the design to the faces hidden underneath. The kid liked to bluff; he had watched him do it all through the tourney. Clutch was willing to bet his last chip that the Ant had a junk hand. “Check,” Clutch said quietly.