Steph could pinpoint the exact moment that the ecstasy kicked in. She’d folded her first hand, and was watching Martin and Clive play against each other. Suddenly she felt her whole body tingling and a rush of warmth radiated from the base of her spine up to the top of her head. She felt deeply sorry for Clive because she could see how sad and lonely and bitter he was. She experienced a massive rush of love for Martin. He was sweaty and desperate too, but he had been so kind to her and he so wanted to win, and now that was all she wanted too. Steph kept folding her hands like Martin had told her to. Soon enough he had knocked out Clive the Handyman, who stomped out in an absolute fury. As he left, he hissed in her face.
‘This is pathetic. What are you playing at? I should have won this!’
Steph beamed up at him and tried to put her arms around his neck. The floor manager dragged him away, while Steph sat there smiling at Martin, who just looked back at her quizzically, mouthing, ‘Are you OK?’
There was no time for a toilet break this time, so the floor manager counted them back in to the live broadcast. ‘Three . . . two . . .’ Steph swayed in time along to the Poker Nightz theme tune as the camera rolled again.
The dealer hurriedly gave her some cards as he said, ‘You’re big blind, shall I take the chips?’
She laughed at his anxious little face and said, ‘Chill, baby, it’s all good.’
She looked at the cards she had been given. She saw a three of hearts and a seven of the black bobbly thing. Steph had totally forgotten what she was meant to do, but she was feeling supremely confident and happy.
‘So, Steph,’ the dealer chimed, ‘you’re big blind and Martin’s called, so let’s see the flop.’
The dealer put a king, a three and a five on the table. Steph vaguely remembered that she was meant to play a crap hand, and she was pretty sure that a three and a seven weren’t very good. Steph was now completely at ease with herself and her surroundings. She tossed some chips into the middle of the table. She didn’t know or care what they were worth, she just enjoyed throwing them. Martin did the same. Steph chuckled, her fingers were looking really funny and she couldn’t stop stroking her nail varnish.
The dealer turned over another card. It was another three.
Martin allowed himself an encouraging smile and raise of the eyebrows at Steph. There were three threes on the table but Steph had no idea whether that was good or bad. All that she knew was Martin had smiled at her and it was making her feel amazing. She threw some more chips – the really pretty red ones – into the middle of the table. Martin threw some lovely green ones into the mix and Steph thought that she really must get out into nature more – she used to love walking in the Forest of Dean when she was a girl. She wondered if Martin liked trees and leaves and animals and all that shit.
The dealer turned over another three.
Steph looked at it. So many threes! It must be a sign. She thought to herself, what could ‘three’ mean? She pictured her and Martin with a baby. It felt good. She looked at Martin and he was positively radiant. Steph thought he must also be imagining life in a cottage in the woods with their baby. She wanted to give him everything. She pushed all her chips into the middle of the table, as if to say, ‘Here you are, take it all.’ Martin did the same and Steph felt a rush of connectivity.
They turned their cards over . . .
Steph saw the dealer’s eyebrows shoot up and his mouth fall open. She looked down at the table. Martin had a pair of kings.
He shouted ‘You bitch! You should have folded! Why didn’t you fold?’ He clutched his chest, and staggered back from the table. Martin’s mouth fell open just like the dealer’s had, except his lips were turning blue and his eyes were rolling back in his head.
Steph rushed over to him, screaming.
‘But we were going to buy a boat together! And live in a cottage in the woods with our baby! I love you! Martin, I love you!’
She held him and wept through the Poker Nightz theme tune until the floor manager came and prised her away.
*
The next morning in the hotel, Steph was woken by her phone ringing. It was Jess.
‘Did you see it, babe?’ Steph croaked. ‘He died. He actually died. I killed him. I didn’t mean to.’
‘Yep, awful, isn’t it?’ Jess lied. ‘What an awful thing . . . Anyway, you need to get back to London ASAP. There’s a car coming for you now, so get up and get dressed. You’re on Back of the Sofa on ITV this afternoon and then it’s wall-to-wall TV and radio appearances for the rest of the week.’
Steph sat bolt upright in bed.
‘But I’m a murderer now,’ she said. ‘Won’t that kill my career?’
‘Are you kidding?’ Jess laughed. ‘It’s the biggest thing that’s ever happened on the Lad Channel! Usually, it’s just Italian soft porn and documentaries about benefit cheats! You held a man as he was dying and showed your tender side – that clip has been seen all over the world and now you’re a tragic heroine who’s just lost the love of her life.’
Steph bounced out of bed and immediately started doing her make-up. She hadn’t taken it off for two days now. It was still looking good, although her mascara had run a bit from all the crying.
‘I’ve got you a meeting with BBC2 about a home makeover show,’ Jess continued.
‘Babe,’ Steph interrupted, ‘I’m not going anywhere near BBC2. It’s BBC1, ITV or nothing. Now, can you get onto a few designers and line up some free clothes for this week’s telly spots? Tell Darren to meet me at ITV and he can do my roots in the make-up room there. Just email me the schedule . . .’
‘That’s more like the old Steph I know and love. Oh, and Channel 5 want to know if you’ll do a poker tournament for them?’
She pondered for a moment before replying.
‘No, I don’t think I’ll play poker again. I guess I’m just not a lucky person??’
The Old Card Room
by Patrick Marber
I was winning that night. I’d walked in at three in the afternoon with two hundred pounds and turned it into three grand. This was a lot of money in those days, enough to live on very well for a month or two. I’d been lucky; I played hands I shouldn’t have been in, made wild calls and got paid, ran bluffs people believed. My play was eccentric and seemingly unreadable. I made myself look nervous when I wasn’t, I kept my mouth shut and faked a tremble with the nuts. I was loose. Alone and loose. I played blackjack too. Won at that and then roulette. My numbers were magical: zero one two, eight eleven, thirteen, twenty-seven. I imagined being approached by a house manager and accused of having a system. I’d rehearsed my response: ‘Sir, I’m a lucky idiot. Check my bank statements. I’m in to you for thousands.’ This was true.
I was younger then. Just twenty. But no one called me ‘The Kid’. I didn’t have the flair for that. I played like a novice: tight and scared with occasional bouts of bravado provoked by boredom. Sometimes they said, ‘Your deal, young man,’ but they never called me ‘The Kid’.
It was 2 a.m. in the old upstairs room. In those days the game was seven-card stud, pot limit. We were playing six-handed. On my right was a smartly dressed man they called ‘The Chauffeur’. I’d not seen him around before. He was in his sixties, pale, with quick, careful hands. He never made a mistake on the shuffle or the deal. Opposite him was an old Indian gent. Always wore a dark suit and sober tie. The regulars called him Dr Patel but I didn’t know if that was his real name or even if he was a doctor. Whenever he won a hand the man to my left would murmur, ‘The Doc’s got the lot.’
I cupped my hand over my two down cards and saw two black ducks. I glanced up and the two of diamonds was dealt to me. I hadn’t caught a wire up in weeks. Dr Patel spoke first with an ace. Two guys passed and The Chauffeur raised, showing the Suicide King. I figured he was trying to get a quick read on that ace. I called with my best fool face on – along for the ride, a lunatic limping in. The Doc raised again and The Chauffeur called. Almost as an afterthought I ca
lled too. By now there was a good four hundred in the pot and we all had a few thousand in front of us. I vaguely considered that I was facing bullets and a pair of kings – possibly with an ace. I didn’t much care. I’d decided I was winning this pot. The only question was how much money I could make.
The fourth card came. No help anywhere as far as I could see. I got a useless eight of diamonds. The betting went as before. The Doc opened big, The Chauffeur raised, I affected to think about it a while and then called. The Doc raised again. We both called. At that point The Chauffeur looked at me for the first time. He smiled. He gave me a look so benign and gentle I wished he was my father. It could’ve been a warning, it could’ve been a blessing.
The guy dealing was two to my left. He whistled as he flipped a red ace to The Doc. The man next to me murmured, ‘Got the lot.’ The Chauffeur hit a ten of hearts. I saw he was flushing and pitied him. Me? I got the case deuce. Two of hearts. How pretty it looked on that blue baize. Dr Patel looked at my up hand over his glasses. Deuce – eight – deuce. Then he flicked a look at The Chauffeur’s king – seven – ten – suited. He shrugged and lobbed a single chip into the pot. A thousand. The Chauffeur took a sip of his lemon tea. I lit a cigarette and tried not to shake. I was reading – if I read at all – the poor old Doc for a full house aces over who cares. And I reckoned The Chauffeur had been running a bluff with the vague out of making a house or a flush. So I was surprised when The Chauffeur put his tea down and raised another grand. I took a drag. I glanced at his cards and took in those three hearts. I knew I had four ducks. At least, I thought I knew. With fingers like custard I checked my hole cards. Two black twos. They hadn’t morphed into threes. I was home. I looked at The Chauffeur.
He smiled again. His eyes lively with pleasure. I called two grand.
Dr Patel scratched his temple. He frowned a moment. He sighed. He took his glasses off and put them back on. He leant forward from his seat and studied my hand and the chauffeur’s hand. Then he said, ‘I don’t know what madness is occurring. Good luck, crazy men.’ And he passed his cards. The dealer said, ‘And then there were two.’ He rapped the baize and dealt the final up cards: The Chauffeur caught a king and I paired my eight. I was showing two pairs. My bet. I looked at his cards again, pretending to think, a procedural nicety. And then I felt a strange heat flare through me, as if someone had turned the gas up to full inside my body. It occurred to me that I was looking at four kings. I was looking at two showing but realised he had two more in the hole. His smile had been a warning, ‘Get out while you can.’ He’d been dealt a wire up, same as me. No, impossible. What are the odds? No idea. The dealer, from some other planet, murmured, ‘Your bet.’ I panicked and checked.
The Chauffeur nodded. As if to suggest, ‘Smart move.’ In a sense it was true. I’d slow played the hand from the off and a check here seemed consistent. And then he surprised me again, he said, ‘Check is good.’ My entire system melted with relief. No decision required. No humiliation necessary. Yet.
I watched the dealer pass the hole cards across the table. I watched The Chauffeur pick his up and squeeze. I studied that profile, the eyes, the ears, praying for a flicker of disappointment. There was none. Can’t you just shed a tear? I pulled my useless card towards me, nearly flipped it. I put it on top of my dead deuces and cupped my hand over all three. I squeezed. Two of clubs – two of spades – king of diamonds. I looked again. The fabulous old dude was staring at me. ‘Yes, I’m the king of diamonds, I really am. The fact that I am the king of diamonds means that The Chauffeur on your right does not have me in his hand.’ Unless they’d invented a new suit it was impossible for him to have four kings.
It was my bet. I had him locked up. I glanced at him. Still twinkling, enjoying his night. He responded with a slight movement of his head, a kind of shrug and bow on an angle. A ‘do what you must do’. I stared at the pot. Hard to tell, four or five grand in there. The biggest pot I’d ever won. And I still had a grand in front of me. Now . . . how to get him to call? Maybe lob a playful five hundred in there? Show ‘weakness’ and he might even raise and set me in? Then again, the poor man’s pot committed. If I shove my grand in he has to call it anyway. He’s beaten. Beaten by a lucky kid. I saw him driving home in another man’s flashy car. I saw him smarting with sadness he called that final bet. I thought and thought. I saw his disappointed wife, I saw grandchildren with lousy Christmas presents. I saw a front door needing new paint. I said, ‘Check.’ The dealer exhaled. Dr Patel stared in surprise. The Chauffeur made a tiny movement with his tongue, I saw his cheek move a touch. He said, ‘Check is good.’ I showed my cards. He nodded. The man on my left muttered, ‘Huh, kid got the lot.’ I kept my head down, avoided their eyes. They knew I’d spared him. I didn’t want their admiration nor their scorn. The game continued. I passed most of my hands. The Chauffeur played a few more, lost the rest and scooped up his jacket. ‘Gentlemen, you’ll find me in the bar. Good luck all round.’ He bowed to the table. He didn’t look at me.
*
A while later I’d lost a few hands, given back a few hundred to the table. I was exhausted. I took my chips and got up. The other players nodded amiably when I said goodnight. I took my chips to the desk. They gave me six sealed plastic bags with a thousand in fifties in each. A year ago I’d never seen a fifty-pound note. They gave me another eight hundred in fifties and twenties. I went to the gents and locked myself in a cubicle. After some effort I was able to put the bags in my suit pockets without my winnings being too obvious. Alone and unseen in that cubicle I celebrated. My arms aloft, a brief dance of victory. Nearly seven grand from two hundred.
I headed downstairs for the exit. Not tempted to risk a penny more on the gaming floor. I was thinking about The Chauffeur. He’d been on my mind since he’d left the table. I wanted him to be OK. I wanted ‘it’ to be OK. At the exit I turned round and made my way to the bar. He wasn’t there. A waiter told me he’d just gone. I ran downstairs and out of the building. The car park was to the left. If I stood by the ramp I thought I might see him driving out. I waited. I lit a cigarette. A minute later a black Bentley appeared at the foot of the ramp and headed up towards me. I peered in as it passed. Not him. A stern-looking man with a velvet collar on his coat. I took a drag. Patted a pocket, felt the little crackle of plastic. A silver Polo appeared. I ignored it and pulled on my cigarette. As the car hit the top of the ramp it slowed. The driver’s window was open. It was him. He stopped when he saw me. We looked at each other a moment. Him slightly confused, me amazed by his vehicle.
‘Need a ride?’ he said. I told him I didn’t. ‘Least I can do,’ he responded.
‘I’m sorry about that pot,’ I said. ‘If I should be.’
‘You took pity on an old man. Don’t do it again.’
He stared at me, the engine ticking over.
‘Are you upset I didn’t thank you?’
I thought about this.
‘Maybe a little.’
He nodded. ‘It wasn’t the place.’
Another car was heading up the ramp. The Chauffeur said, ‘See you around, kid.’ He drove away. I never saw him again. No one did. Someone said he stopped playing. Another guy said he spent his whole time chauffeuring his daughter to various hospitals and doctors.
It’s gone now, the old upstairs room. I don’t even know where it was, I mean in that building. The game changed, the casino changed. The smokers got shunted outside to a heated terrace. The dress code went too. I used to like putting on my poker suit. But it wouldn’t fit me now. I’m too old.
Heads Up
by David Flusfeder
At moments like this, when time was being pulled so tight that she felt impossibly stretched and narrow herself, she would add to her mental list of Things She Hated About Dealing.
She hated players who helped themselves to change from the pot.
She hated bets that were barely pushed forward so she had to reach for them, putting even more strain on her lower back and sh
oulders.
She hated players who had to keep being reminded to put in blinds and antes.
She hated players who took advantage of her enforced proximity to leer at her and flirt.
She hated card-room managers who filled out rotas without any regard for the personal lives of their staff.
She hated the pains in her shoulders and neck and back.
She hated herself for giving up on having a personal life.
She hated players who blamed her for their losing hands.
She hated players who took out their disgruntlements, with themselves, their lives, their luck, by not tipping her.
She hated card-room managers who stole her tips from her.
She hated being treated as part of the furniture of the card room, which meant that any passing man with power could rest his hands on her shoulders.
She hated moments like this one, still waiting, the deck held up in her left hand, as she was poised to pitch the first card, as the speeches went interminably on, and the players hadn’t even been introduced yet, and she had forgotten how not to smile.
She was already hating Kenneally, who was still making his speech.
His hair was grey, what was left of it, and he wore a grey suit, and was the President of the Federation, which had set itself up to be the organising body for all tournament poker. He was telling this shiny room about the Federation now, and how far it had come in a very short time, and thanking his broadcasting partners and his corporate partners, as two other members of the Federation’s steering committee, Lucio Tambini, who was slick and handsome in a vacuous sort of way, and a red-haired man called Robinson, whom she would never hear speak, adjusted the position of the screen that displayed the names and logos of all the Federation’s sponsors so it would fit in the shot with Kenneally.
He Played for His Wife and Other Stories Page 9