They descended in the dark, Seth behind him on the stairs. Mason’s nausea felt cold now—icy vomit waiting in his guts. They pushed through the curtains.
The Cave looked cool like this, open for business but empty, the dim light, black and burgundy, shadows and candle flame. Chaz was standing behind the bar like a saloon keeper, wiping out a highball glass. Seth crossed the room towards him.
“Howdy,” said Seth.
Chaz nodded, still wiping the glass.
“You’re the guy who broke my nose.” He sat down at the bar.
“Yeah?”
“With a motorcycle helmet, I believe.”
Chaz nodded, like that sounded about right.
Seth flipped back his hood, the cap still on. His face looked leaner in the light.
“Double Jack on the rocks,” he said. “And one for my buddy.”
Chaz looked to Mason.
“Soda water.”
Seth laughed. “Oh, how the worm has turned!”
Chaz poured.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” Mason said, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Weakness.
“Only when I’m on parole.” Seth leaned over and pulled up his pant leg. There were red lines where the tracking bracelet had been. “What’s your excuse?”
Mason took a breath.
“You’re playing over there,” said Chaz. He was trying to sound casual, like he was assigning a lane in a bowling alley, still wiping that fucking glass.
At the table were two chairs, and two stacks of chips. Mason walked over and put down his glass of soda water.
“No way,” said Seth.
“What?”
“I’m not sitting with my back to him—or to that mirror.”
Mason glanced towards the bar. “Your call,” he said, switching his drink to the other side. There was no angle from the mirror. He felt eyes on his back, and Chaz just trying to stay calm.
Seth walked around the table and unzipped his hoodie. He pulled it off as he took his seat, under the yellow light. He was wearing a dark blue T-shirt, the sleeves rolled up tight over cut, sinewy muscles. Mason’s glass was almost empty. Chaz came over to get it.
“Is he going to be here while we play?” said Seth.
“It’s his place,” said Mason.
“It wasn’t in the rules. If you have someone, I get someone.”
“What?”
“It’s only fair.”
“How are you going to …?”
Seth got up and drank down his drink. The pudginess had disappeared. He looked lean and mean. “Back in a minute.” He crossed the Cave and went out through the curtains. Mason looked at the unopened deck of cards. Chaz brought his drink over. “He’s been here before.”
“So it seems.”
“You think he’s coming back?”
Mason shrugged.
“He looks different, right?”
Mason nodded. “He’s stopped the progesterone,” he said. “It made him fat and bloated.”
“It’s only been a week.”
“A very long week.”
Chaz went to the bar to watch the monitor. Mason concentrated on his breathing.
They stayed like that for a while, then eventually Chaz spoke: “He’s got someone with him.” The curtains parted.
Seth walked to his chair and sat down. The other man stayed standing, to the right of Seth’s chair. He was facing Mason, but looking over him, past him—his hands in the air circling each other slowly like he was reeling out line, or invisible string.
“Jesus!” said Mason.
“You want something to drink, buddy?” said Seth. The Kite Man said nothing. Seth held up his glass. “Another for me, Chaz.” He looked at Mason. “How’s that soda water treating you?”
Mason picked up the deck.
“Let’s crack ’em open,” said Seth.
The plastic foil put Mason’s teeth on edge. His mouth was dry. Another sip and his drink was empty again. Seth heard the clink of ice in his glass, and laughed. Mason felt his anger rising like quicksand around his shoulders. The Kite Man’s stare had shifted—the same line, just farther away. Mason took a breath, began to shuffle. Seth watched him, his eyes flicking with the cards. Mason placed the deck in the middle of the table: “Cut for deal?” he said.
Seth nodded with a smile, then reached out and cut the ten of clubs—Mason, the six of diamonds. Chaz arrived with the drinks. Seth began to shuffle: a classic waterfall for a while, then he triple-cut one-handed, drinking from his glass with the other. Mason stacked his chips into five piles. “Small blind,” said Seth.
Mason tossed a five-dollar chip into the pot. Seth put in his ten bucks and placed the deck next to it. Mason cut the cards, then watched as Seth began to deal.
67. There is no try—only do and do not.
68. It’s sometimes hard to breathe.
Mason looked at his pocket cards: a suited connector—ten and jack of hearts. He put them down on the felt. They felt good beneath his fingers. “Plus twenty,” he said, sliding the chips into the pot.
“All-in,” said Seth.
To Mason it felt like a giant had grabbed him, picked him up and slammed him back into his chair.
Seth picked up his chips in two large stacks and placed them in the centre of the table. He looked at Mason, his face blank.
Mason’s mind stumbled, from gear to gear, his thoughts chugging out, then racing over everything—all the possibilities. The more he thought, the less it made sense: Seth ready to end it all—right now, on the first hand—with so much at stake. Not only life and death, but the game itself…. The bet was insane. It was ludicrous…. Wondrous. It was the kind of bet Mason would make on a grand or so—but on his life?
An awesome move.
And then, before he realized what was happening, Mason smiled at his opponent—an impressed, heavy grin, full of awe and respect.
Just fold the fucking hand!
“I fold,” said Mason.
Seth nodded and gathered up the chips. Mason sat back in his chair. He’d lost the first hand—not a lot of chips, but that stupid smile: a victory for Seth he hadn’t meant to give.
For a while they traded hands, big blind picking up antes, maybe forty dollars on the flop … nothing made it to the turn. Mason was focused on two things. One was keeping their stacks close to even.
It wasn’t until the seventh hand that they went all the way—from the flop, to the turn, to the river. But still the betting was low, $180 in the pot: Seth turned over three sixes, beating Mason’s two pair. But Mason was feeling okay: the game was young, they were finding their pace.
“What time is it?” said Seth.
Mason shuffled.
“Nine forty-five,” said Chaz.
“Aren’t the blinds supposed to go up?” said Seth.
Mason kept on shuffling.
“Blinds are ten and twenty,” said Chaz.
As if on cue, Seth pulled something from his pocket.
“Can you pass me one of those?” he said, pointing at the bar. Mason didn’t turn around, just shuffled. Seth got up from the table and came back with a metal coaster in his hand. He sat down, and without looking at Mason, dumped a pile of white onto the shiny chrome in front of him.
“No fucking way,” said Mason, trying to swallow the words as he said them.
Seth glanced up at him, some poor sucker’s credit card in his hand. He pressed it down—that crunching sound. Mason’s chest constricted, he fumbled the shuffle—and now Seth was chopping; chop-chop-chopping … little piles, thick white lines …
As Chaz came around the table the Kite Man lifted his hands quickly, as if trying to avoid snagging him.
“Sorry,” said Chaz. “No drugs at the game.”
Seth looked up. “Oh,” he said, still chopping away, “that’s actually not true.” He nodded at Mason. “Ask your buddy there. The Rules of the House apply.”
“It’s my house,” said Chaz.
“And
it’s our game,” said Seth. “Should we take it somewhere else?”
They both looked at Mason.
Mason looked at the pile of coke. Never in his life had he wanted a line so badly. He dropped his gaze and shook his head. As Seth turned back to Chaz, a look of satisfied innocence on his face, Mason—halfway through a shuffle—stretched his arms across the table, the cards in an arch between his fingers. Then he let them go.
“Oops,” he said, as the cards riffled down. Cocaine blew across the table, into the air like a cloud. “Sorry about that.”
Seth turned to him. “Don’t worry, buddy.” He smiled. “There’s a lot more where that came from.
Seth snorted a rail before every hand—sometimes between bets—and he was sharp with it, too: cutting lines, cutting cards, his hands flashing in perfect practised motion. He hit the coke, then popped a popper. He drank down his bourbon in long gulps, struck a match one-handed.
The man knows how to do it.
Seth played and drank and drugged and smoked—like the Mason of old, just better. Lighting a cigarette, his eyes shone in the flame—this is what they said: It’s worth it—even if my judgment falters—to drink so well, to get so high, to watch you suffer so.
And the Mason of new could but sit and watch. He fumbled the cards. His hands shook as he sipped his soda water. He dropped his chips, gritting his teeth as if in pain. But in truth, Mason wasn’t suffering.
Inside he was Zen.
It had happened four hands ago. Surrounded by triggers—the snap of the cards, the click of the chips, the strike of the match, the clink of the glass, the cut of the chrome, the pop of the poppers, the inhale, the long, lovely drawing in, the exhale, everything he’d lost—and forced to face the end, the never again … not ever, he’d thought, as violent a thought as losing the game. Then suddenly it had disappeared. And in its place a gentler one: not now.
He’d breathed this thought in deep. Not now. And then he’d breathed it out, aimed at all his triggers. It blasted straight through them.
He saw clearly, with focus. He kept on fumbling, just for show—shaking, dropping his chips. And now, six hands later, they were almost back to even.
There was $60 on the table, and a flop, but nothing on the board: nine, four, queen—all different suits. Mason checked.
“Sixty,” said Seth, betting the pot.
Mason hesitated, then mumbled, “Okay, plus two hundred.”
A moment of silence, then Seth slammed his cards down—a violent fold. “You’re kidding me!” he said, and glared at Mason.
Mason, still futzing around with his chips, lifted his head—and then he grinned. The air left the room—backdraft in a burning house. Seth burst out, “You’re fucking kidding!”
Mason swept the pot towards him. He was the chip leader now—not by much, but it meant a lot. If, say, in this next hand, they both went all-in and Mason won, then Seth was done, Seth was dead. Mason stacked his chips. By the way he’d played it, his cover was blown—Seth knew he was strong and had been for a while. But the grin, too, was worth a lot. It said that Mason was more than strong. He took the cards to shuffle.
“All right,” said Seth. He did a last thick line, then swept the rest onto the floor. “You think you can get into my head? Is that what you think?” He pulled off his cap and threw it. The Kite Man flinched, pulling back with his forward hand. “Take a look!” He bowed across the table, giving Mason a bird’s eye view. The purple flesh seemed to pulse. “Get right in there,” he said, then lifted his head and stared into Mason’s eyes.
“Cut,” said Mason.
Seth tapped the deck. Mason began to deal.
They looked at their cards.
“Fifty,” said Seth, bumping up the blind.
Mason nodded, and put it in.
He burned a card, then dealt the flop: eight, eight, two. He always liked the way two eights looked—like infinite snakes.
“A hundred,” said Seth.
Mason looked at him, then down at his cards. “Plus a hundred,” he said, and reached for his chips.
“All-in,” said Seth.
It is a particular kind of stillness—when even an invisible kite stops moving.
Mason took a breath. “All-in,” he said.
Chaz was coming out from behind the bar.
Seth turned his cards over: an eight and an ace. He smiled.
“Oh, God,” said Chaz, in the voice of someone watching death.
Mason flipped his cards: a jack and an ace.
Chaz sat down. His mouth hung open. “Oh, God,” he said.
Seth grinned. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Mason didn’t answer. He looked up at the Kite Man and shivered. He turned back to the table, then looked at Chaz. “I was pot committed …”
Chaz said nothing, still staring at the cards.
“Burn and turn,” said Seth. “Burn. And. Turn.”
Mason reached out. He burned a card. Then turned a jack.
There was a quick inhale and Seth laughed. “Not a chance in hell,” he said.
Two running jacks is impossible.
Like finding God … well, anywhere.
Mason burned the last burn. Only the jack could save him.
“Hey, Chaz,” he said, his hand still shaking. “I think I could do with a drink.”
Then he turned the final card.
75
“Show me again.”
They were sitting on opposite sides of the bar. Mason did a wash, spreading the cards in all directions. Then he gathered them up and started to shuffle every which way: waterfall, chopper, one-handed. He split them one last time, then dealt the cards: Mason a jack and an ace, Chaz an ace and an eight. Then came the flop: eight, eight, two.
“Booyah!” said Chaz.
Then a jack and then a jack.
“Holy fucking crap.”
“It’s not as easy as it looks,” said Mason. “First you got to get a hold of ’em—all nine cards—and nick ’em like so. It takes a lot of hands.”
“That’s why you were playing so tight.”
“Yeah, sure. But that’s just the start.” He picked up the cards. “You got to shuffle the same every time, and get the guy to that special place—rile him up just right.” Then he snapped them together and put them down.
“So he taps the cut,” said Chaz.
“So he finally taps the cut.”
“What if he never did … or you couldn’t get the lead?”
Mason shrugged. “Then I’d just become the Warrior Monk.”
“That was your backup plan?”
“I did get worried a couple of times.”
“You’re fucking insane.”
He shrugged again, and grinned.
Chaz shook his head. “Why that hand?”
“I guess it ate away at me a bit,” said Mason. “That was a bad fucking beat.”
“But you still should have told me the plan …”
“It works!” said Dr. Francis, pushing through the curtain. She looked happy, waving her hands in the air. “I can see him wherever he goes! You should come to my office and take a look.”
Chaz got up to pour her a drink. It occurred to Mason he’d never seen Dr. Francis excited—in an enthusiastic way. “Give me a double,” she said, and sat down at the bar.
She’d bought the GPS microchip and software online. The puncture gun she got from the vet who looked after her cat when she went away on vacation.
“I still can’t imagine you on vacation,” said Mason.
She held up the glass, then drank it straight down. Within forty-eight hours Seth was supposed to kill himself. And now they could track his every move.
She hadn’t said a word to Seth. It was like watching a gangland hit. She came out of the darkness, took a hold of his head and pumped the chip with a blast up through the back of his neck, into the base of his skull. A brain surgeon would have trouble getting it out.
“I can’t believe he just sat th
ere,” said Chaz.
“Actually,” said Dr. Francis, “neither can I.”
“You wanted death,” said Mason. “So we had to renegotiate. The stakes went up at the end.”
They looked at him.
“To what?” said Chaz. “What do you put up against a chip in your head?”
“It should be obvious,” said Mason, and lifted his hands. “You put up your goddamn scalp.”
76
This was to be their last night in the QT room, and Mason and Willy were happy.
“In some ways I’ll miss this place,” she said.
“Yeah,” said Mason, though he didn’t exactly agree with her. Even now the knowledge lurked: how easy this room could turn—if your friends disappeared, if the door refused to open—from a hideout into hell.
“I still can’t believe you bet your scalp! You’re hair’s so thick and nice!”
The nervous energy of watching the game through a one-way mirror had made Willy giddy, then just tired, and soon she fell asleep. Mason lay with her awhile, looking out through the bulletproof window. The Cave would be opening in an hour or so. He got up, put his left hand to the wall, then rolled on out.
Chaz was alone at the bar, still holding a deck of cards. “So tell me,” he said. “How’d you learn to do it?”
“Fifteen years of practice,” said Mason. “And a lot of shuffling.”
“Yeah, but how?”
Mason sat down and looked at him. “I had a good teacher.”
“No way …,” said Chaz.
“Yup.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“Remember what he said that night?”
“Boom, boom … and boom.”
Mason nodded. “Yeah. Then he said, ‘If you’re going to stack the deck …’”
“So he taught you how? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“He told me not to.”
“That bastard! Why didn’t he teach me?”
Mason shrugged. “I guess he just liked me more.”
“Okay. Well if you’re so good at cheating, why do you lose so much?”
“I won today, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. You did.”
“To Tenner.” Mason raised an empty glass.
“To Tenner …” There was silence as Chaz swallowed down his drink. Mason watched him.
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