Dead Man's Hand

by Otto Penzler

  What the fuck were they doing here?

  Oh, no ... Behind them the door opened again, and the guards—two of them, big and armed, of course—were wheeling the cart containing the cash suitcases along the path.

  Shit! The two men in front were screwing everything up.

  How was he going to handle it?

  He crouched in the bushes, pulling the pistol from his pocket.

  "Gotta say, man. I loved your show."

  "Homicide Detail? Thanks."

  "Classic TV. Righteous."

  "We had fun making it. That's the important thing. You interested in television?"

  "Probably features for now."

  Meaning, O'Connor supposed, after a successful career he could "retire" to the small screen. Well, some people had done it. Others, like O'Connor, thought TV was a medium totally separate from feature films, but just as valid.

  "I saw Town House," O'Connor offered.

  "That piece of crap?"

  O'Connor shrugged. He said sincerely, "You did a good job. It was a tough role. The writing wasn't so hot."

  McKennah laughed. "Most of the script was like: 'SFX: Groaning as if the house itself is trying to cry for help.' And 'FX: blood pouring down the stairs, slippery mess. Stacey falls and is swept away.' I thought it would be more like traditional horror. The Exorcist. The Omen. Don't Look Now. Or Howard Hawks's The Thing. Nineteen fifty-one and it still scares the piss out of me. Brilliant!"

  They both agreed the recent British zombie movie, The 28th Day, was one of the creepiest things ever filmed.

  "You mentioned a new project. What's it about?" O'Connor asked.

  "A caper. Sort of The Italian Job meets Ocean's Eleven. Wahlberg kind of thing. Pulling the money together now. You know how that goes.... How 'bout you?"

  "TV, probably. A new series."

  If I get my bump, O'Connor thought.

  McKennah nodded behind him. "That was pretty bizarre. Celebrity poker."

  "Beats Survivor. I don't dive off any platforms or eat anything too low on the food chain."

  "That Sandy, she's one hot chick. I'm glad she's still with us."

  McKennah wore no wedding ring; nor did Sandra Glickman. O'Connor wished them the best, though he knew that two-career relationships in Hollywood were sort of like hammer at Texas Hold 'Em—not impossible to win with, but you needed luck and a lot of careful forethought.

  "Oh, watch it there." McKennah pointed to a thick wire on the sidewalk. It was curled and O'Connor had nearly caught his foot. The young actor paused and squinted at it.

  O'Connor glanced at him.

  McKennah explained that he was concerned about paparazzi. How they'd stalk you, even lay booby traps to catch you in embarrassing situations.

  O'Connor laughed. "Not a problem I've had for a while."

  "Damn, look!" McKennah laughed sourly. He walked to what the wire was attached to—a photographer's light, set up on a low tripod halfway along the path. He unplugged it and looked around angrily. "Some goddamn photog's around here somewhere."

  "Maybe it's part of the show."

  "Then Aaron should've told us."

  "True."

  "Oh, there're some guards." He nodded at the security detail with the money, behind them. "I'll tell them. Sometimes I get a little paranoid, I have to admit. But there are some crazy fucking people out there, you know."

  "Tell me about it."

  Ralston had to do something fast.

  The two men had spotted the photoflash and, it seemed, had unplugged it.

  And the guards were only about fifty feet behind.

  What the hell could he do?

  Without the flash, there's no way they could surprise the guards.

  He glanced toward Jake, but the biker was hiding behind thick bushes and seemed not to have seen. And the two men were just standing beside the lights, talking and now—fuck it—waiting for the guards. Assholes.

  This was their last chance. Only seconds remained. Then an idea occurred to Ralston.

  Hostage.

  He'd grab one of the men at gunpoint and draw the guards' attention while Jake came up behind them.

  No, better than that, he'd grab one and wound the other—leg or shoulder. That would show he meant business. The security guards'd drop their guns. Jake could cuff and tape them, and the two men would flee. Everybody would be so busy caring for the wounded man, he and Jake could get to their truck before anybody realized which way they'd gone.

  He pulled on the ski mask and, taking a deep breath, stepped fast out of the bushes, lifting the barrel toward the older of the two men, the one in the T-shirt and jacket, who gazed at him in astonishment. He aimed at the man's knee and started to pull the trigger.

  O'Connor gasped, seeing the small man materialize from the bushes and aim a gun at him.

  He'd never had a real gun pointed toward him—only fake ones on the set of the TV shows—and his initial reaction was to cringe and raise a protective hand.

  As if that would do any good.

  "No, wait!" he shouted involuntarily.

  But just as the man was about to shoot, there came a flash of motion from his right, accompanied by a grunting gasp.

  Dillon McKennah leaped forward and, with his left hand, expertly twisted away the pistol. With his right, he delivered a stunning blow to the assailant, sending him staggering back, cradling his wrist. McKennah then moved in again and flipped the man to his belly, and kneeled on his back, calling for the guards. The gesture seemed a perfect karate move from an action-adventure film.

  O'Connor, still too stunned to feel afraid, glanced back at the sound of footsteps running toward the parking lot. "There's another one, too! That way!"

  But the guards remained on the sidewalk, drawing their guns. One stayed with the money, looking around. The other ran forward, calling into his microphone. In less than ten seconds, the walkway was filled with security guards and Las Vegas cops, too, who were apparently stationed in the motel for the show.

  Two officers jogged in the direction O'Connor indicated he'd heard fleeing footsteps.

  The assailant's ski mask was off, revealing an emaciated little man in his forties, eyes wide with fear and dismay.

  O'Connor watched a phalanx of guards, surrounding the money from Go for Broke, wheeling the cart fast into the motel. Still more guards arrived.

  The officers who'd gone after the footsteps reported that they'd seen no one, though a couple reported a big man had jumped into a van and sped off. "Dark, that's about all they could tell. You gentlemen all right?"

  O'Connor nodded. McKennah was ashen. "Fine, yeah. But oh, man, I can't believe that. I just reacted."

  "You've got your moves down," O'Connor told him.

  "Tae kwon do. I just do it for a sport. I never thought I'd actually use it."

  "I'm glad you did. All I could see was that guy's eyes. I think he was about to pull the trigger."

  Diane came running out—word had spread quickly—and she hugged her husband and asked how he was.

  "Fine. I'm fine. Just ... I'm not even shaken. Not yet. It all happened so fast."

  A police captain arrived and supervised the arrest. When he was apprised of the circumstances the somber man shook his head. "Gives a new meaning to the term 'reality TV,' wouldn't you say? Now, let's get your statements taken."

  Shaken, Aaron Felter walked into the bar and found O'Connor and Diane, McKennah and Glickman. He ordered a club soda.

  "Jesus! How are you all?"

  For a man who'd almost been shot, O'Connor admitted he was doing pretty well.

  "It was my idea to use cash. I thought it'd play better. Man, this is my fault."

  "You can hardly blame yourself for some wacko, Aaron. Who was he?"

  "Some punk from L.A., apparently. Got a history of petty theft, the captain tells me. He had a partner, but he got away."

  They talked about the incident and O'Connor recounted McKennah's martial-arts skills. The young actor seemed embar
rassed. He repeated, "I just reacted."

  Felter said, "I've got to say, I'm sure this fucked you up some, pardon my French," he said, glancing at the women.

  Sandra Glickman said, frowning, "I'm so offended, you motherfucking cocksucker."

  They all laughed.

  Felter continued, "Are you cool with going ahead with the show?"

  McKennah and Glickman said they were. O'Connor said, "Of course," but then he caught something in the producer's eyes. "That's not really what you're asking, is it, Aaron?"

  A laugh. "Okay. What I want to know is: If we go ahead with the show tomorrow, how are people going to react? I want your honest opinions. Should we give it some time to calm down? The dust to settle?"

  "Which people?" McKennah asked. "The audience?"

  "Exactly. Are they going to think it's in bad taste? I mean, somebody could've gotten hurt bad."

  O'Connor laughed. "Excuse me, Aaron, but when have you ever known a TV show to fail because it's in poor taste?"

  Aaron Felter pointed his finger at the man.

  "Score one for the old guy" was the message in his eyes.

  The Thursday finale of Go for Broke began with a description of the events of last night. But since Entertainment Tonight and every other quasi news program in the universe had covered the story, it made little sense to rehash the facts.

  Besides, there was poker to be played.

  With the same fanfare as yesterday—and five sunglass-clad guards nearby—the play among the last three contestants began.

  They played for some time without any significant changes in their positions. Then O'Connor got his first good hole deal of the night. An ace and jack, both spades.

  The betting began. O'Connor played it cautious, though, checking at first, then matching the other bets or raising slightly.

  The flop cards were another ace, a jack, and a two, all varied suits.

  Betting continued, with both Glickman and McKennah now raising significantly. Though he was uneasy, O'Connor kept a faint smile on his face as he matched the $100,000 bet by McKennah.

  The fourth card, or the "turn," went faceup smoothly onto the table under the dealer's skillful hands. It was another two.

  Glickman eyed both of her opponent's piles of cash. But then she held back, checking. Which could mean a weak hand or was a brilliant strategy if she had a really strong one.

  When the bet came to McKennah he bet $50,000.

  O'Connor raised another $50,000. Glickman hesitated and then matched the $100,000 with a brassy laugh.

  The final card went down, the fifth, or "river" card. It was an eight. This meant nothing to O'Connor. His hand was set. Two pair, aces, and jacks. It was a fair hand for Texas Hold 'Em, but hardly a guaranteed winner.

  But they'd be thinking he had a full house, aces and twos, or maybe even a four of a kind—in twos.

  Of course, they could have powerful hands as well.

  Then Glickman made her move. She pushed everything she had left into the middle of the table.

  After a moment of debate, McKennah folded.

  O'Connor glanced into the brash comedian's eyes, took a deep breath, and called her, counting out the money to match the bet.

  If he lost, he'd've had about $50,000 to call his own, and his time on Go for Broke would be over.

  Sandy Glickman gave a wry smile. She slid her cards, facedown into the mush—the pile of discards. She said, for the microphone, "Not many people know when I'm bluffing. You've got a good eye." The brassy woman delivered another message to him when she leaned forward to embrace him, whispering, "You fucked me and you didn't even buy me dinner."

  But she gave him a warm kiss and a wink before she headed off down the Walk of Shame.

  About twenty minutes remained for the confrontation between the last two players, O'Connor with $623,000, McKennah with $877,000.

  The young actor, to the dealer's left, slid in the small blind, $10,000, and O'Connor counted out the big blind, $20,000.

  As the dealer shuffled expertly the two men glanced at each other. O'Connor's eyes conveyed a message: You're an okay kid, and you saved my hide yesterday, but this is poker and I wouldn't be honest to myself, to you, or the game, if I pulled back.

  The faint glistening in McKennah's eyes said that he acknowledged the message. And said much the same in return.

  It's showdown time. Let's go for the bump.

  The deals continued for a time, with neither of them winning or losing big. McKennah tried a bluff and lost. O'Connor tried a big move with three of a kind and got knocked out by a flush, which he should've seen coming.

  A commercial break and then, with minutes enough for only one hand, the game resumed. The new deck of cards was shuffled, the cut offered. McKennah put in the small blind bet. He chose $25,000, and O'Connor himself put in $50,000.

  Then the deal began.

  O'Connor was astonished to glance at his hole cards and see he'd gotten a pair of aces.

  This was the best hand to get in Texas Hold 'Em.

  McKennah glanced at his own cards without emotion. And bet a modest—under the circumstances—$50,000.

  Careful not to give away his pleasure at the hole cards, O'Connor pushed in the same amount. He was tempted to raise, but decided not to. He had a good chance to win, but it was still early and he didn't want to move too fast.

  The dealer burned the top card—slid it aside—and then dealt the flop. First, a two of hearts, then the four of hearts, and then the ace of spades.

  Suddenly O'Connor had three of a kind, with the other two board cards yet to come.

  McKennah bet $50,000. At this point, because he himself had upped the bet, it wouldn't frighten the younger player off for O'Connor to raise him. He saw the $50,000 and raised by another $50,000.

  Murmurs from the crowd.

  McKennah hesitated and added the amount to see.

  The turn card—the fourth one—wasn't helpful to O'Connor, the six of hearts. Perhaps it was useless to McKennah as well. He checked.

  O'Connor noted the hesitation of the man's betting and concluded he had a fair, but unspectacular hand. Afraid to drive him to fold, he bet only $50,000 again, which McKennah matched.

  They looked at each other over the sea of money as the fifth card, the river, slid out.

  It was an ace.

  As delighted as O'Connor was, he regretted that this amazing hand—four of a kind—hadn't come when more people were in play. It was obvious that McKennah had a functional hand at best, and that there'd be a limit to how much O'Connor could raise before he folded. If McKennah folded now, the younger actor would still have enough in his bankroll to be declared the winner.

  "Sir, the bet is to you."

  He'd have to handle it carefully. Too much and the man would fold, and he'd lose.

  Too little and the man would simply call, and O'Connor would still come in number two.

  He bought time. "Check." He rapped the table with his knuckles.

  A ripple through the audience. Why was he doing that? He'd seemed so confident before.

  McKennah looked him over closely. Then said, "Five hundred thousand."

  And pushed the bills out.

  The crowd gasped.

  Bluff, O'Connor thought instantly. The only thing McKennah could have that would beat O'Connor was a straight flush. But, as Diane had made him learn over the past several weeks, the odds of O'Connor's winning under these circumstances would be 80 percent, the odds of McKennah were less than 20 percent.

  Still, O'Connor was painfully aware that he could fold now and walk away having won close to a quarter million in cash. He'd lose the bump but maybe he could use that to bankroll a production company of his own and get Stories produced independently.

  O'Connor looked up from the money to McKennah.

  He said, "All in," pushing every penny of his into the huge pile of cash on the table, nearly $1,500,000.

  "Gentlemen, please show your cards."

  O'Connor
turned over his two aces. The crowd erupted in applause.

  And they then fell completely silent when McKennah turned over the modest three and five of hearts to reveal his winning straight flush.

  O'Connor let out a slow breath, closed his eyes momentarily, and smiled.

  He stood and, before taking the Walk of Shame, shook the hand of the man who'd just won himself one hell of a bump, not to mention over $1 million.

  The weeks that followed the airing of Go for Broke were not the best of Mike O'Connor's life.

  The loss of a quarter million dollars hurt more than he wanted to admit.

  More troubling, he thought he'd get some publicity. But in fact there was virtually none. Oh, he got some phone calls. But they mostly were about the foiled robbery attempt and Dillon McKennah's rescue. He finally stopped returning the reporters' calls.

  His pilot for Stories was now completely dead, and nobody was the least interested in hiring him for anything other than things like Viagra or Cialis commercials.

  "I can't do it, honey," he said to Diane.

  And she'd laughed, saying, "It wouldn't be truth in advertising anyway, not with you."

  And so he puttered around the house, painted the guest room. Played a little golf.

  He even considered helping Diane sell real estate. He sat and watched TV and movies from Netflix and On Demand.

  And then one day, several weeks after the poker show, he happened to be playing couch potato and watching a World War II adventure film from the sixties. Mike O'Connor had seen it when it first came out, when he was just a boy. He'd loved it then, and he'd loved it every time he'd seen it in the intervening years.

  But now he realized there was something about it he'd missed. He sat up and remained riveted throughout the film.

  Fascinating.

  Long after the movie was over, he continued to sit and think about it. He realized that he could identify with the people in the movie. They were driven and they were desperate.