Dead Man's Hand

by Otto Penzler

  Weinberg laughed at the image. "Wow! They ever catch you?"

  "Not very often, thank goodness." Shiny shook his head and laughed again. "I was a little thinner then and could run pretty good for a chubby kid, so I never had to worry about fighting. Not much of a runner anymore, though." He patted his large stomach and casually let his right arm extend, and saw Weinberg glance at the Rolex that rode there. He then carefully raised his left arm, the one with the cigarette, and read the time from his battered old Timex: 5:32 P.M.

  Weinberg watched, fascinated, and asked the inevitable question, "I don't want to be nosy, but why do you wear two watches?"

  Shiny put the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, squinted to keep the smoke out of his eyes, and stuck out his wrist, pulling up his sleeve to show the Rolex with the diamond chips. "I won it off Johnny Chan." Almost the truth. He'd won this watch from Stu Ungar, but you couldn't count on Weinberg knowing who Stuey was. But he'd know Chan from that Rounders movie and from TV. And anyway, until Thursday, there had been another Rolex on his arm that he really had won from Chan. Hell, at one time he'd worn four watches on that arm—Ungar, Chan, Nguyen, and Brunson, in his view the four best poker players of all time, in that order, and he'd won their watches. But that was before—before Margie's cancer, before the Indian casinos, before he started being so tired all the time.

  Weinberg stared in amazement. "You won it off Johnny Chan?" He looked up, suddenly straight-faced, and Shiny wondered if he'd played it too strong. "Are you bullshitting me?" he asked more softly.

  Shiny shrugged. "I don't know you, guy. Got no reason to bullshit you."

  Marc turned and looked for his limo, and Shiny wondered if he'd lost him. Weinberg turned back, smiled. "Sorry, didn't mean to be like that. But man, Dolly Brunson, Johnny Chan. Those are my idols, man."

  Of course they are, Shiny thought, but didn't say. Instead, he pretended to change the subject. "So what do you do, Marc?"

  "Cardiologist," the man answered apologetically. He held up the hand with the cigarette and waved it toward Shiny. "I know, I know. Picked up the habit in school and have never been able to shake it."

  Shiny nodded, a nod that could mean anything the man wanted it to mean.

  "Well, Shiny, you here for a few days?"

  "Just tonight. Got a daughter that goes to school here. Flying out tomorrow, early." He willed his heartbeat to slow down. He'd made his play; now he waited for the other man to decide whether to fold or call.

  Marc hesitated, looked out at the far curb where the limos were lined up, and did not see the placard he wanted. When he finally spoke, he tried to be nonchalant about it. "You know, we have a game some Friday nights. Pretty serious game, actually."

  "How serious?" Shiny asked.

  "Hundred, two for the blinds," the man answered.

  "That's serious," Shiny agreed. A little luck and you could win $10,000 or even $20,000 at a game like that. He thought about Miranda.

  "I'd invite you, but the guys would probably kill me. A pro like you would clean us all out in about thirty minutes, I'd guess." Marc laughed.

  "That's not really the way it works," Shiny lied.

  "Why not?" asked the doctor, curious.

  "Lots of reasons. Run of the cards. Fact everybody now plays Texas Hold 'Em and it makes the odds easier to keep track of. Used to be dealer called the game, and it was Hold 'Em, then it was stud or high-low, and every game has different odds. Hard to keep track of. And of course everybody knows more now from watching the big tournaments on television."

  "But can't you just read us? Tells, and all that?"

  "Some," Shiny admitted. "But I'm not like Forrest or one of those guys. You sneeze across a crowded room, and they can tell you the fourth digit of your Social Security number and the name of your third-grade teacher. They're spooky."

  "So how do you win?" Marc persisted.

  "I got a real good memory and I understand things like playing position and betting. There are four different ways to win in no-limit." It used to drive Pops crazy, the way Shiny always insisted on giving them fair warning—showing them the watches, telling them the Cadillac story, making sure they knew exactly what they were up against. You're way too nice a guy, Shiny, he'd say. They'll find out soon enough.

  Marc stared at Shiny, and Shiny watched him talk himself into it, the way bad players always sold themselves on a dubious call. He waited patiently for the cardiologist to scribble his cell number and an address on the back of a business card and hand it to Shiny, then watched as he scrambled across the six lanes of traffic and into the backseat of limo 7765. The window rolled down halfway, and the doctor stuck his head halfway out. "Nine o'clock."

  Shiny smiled, nodded, and waved as the limo pulled away. The act of raising his arm above his shoulder left him breathless, and he had to lean against the glass shelter to regain his breath before going inside to the bank of telephones. Lucky to find a phone. No one uses pay phones anymore except in airports. Everybody's got a cell phone. Bet somewhere there's a homeless guy with a cell phone. From his wallet, he fished out a calling card some airline had given him, and made two calls, the first to Miami.

  "Pete Sarkisian," the voice on the other end answered.

  "Pete, this is Shiny, checking in," the fat man said.

  "You're what?" the voice answered carefully.

  "Checking in. What's wrong with that?"

  "Just that you haven't checked in since you left for Vietnam. What's the matter? Did you miss the plane?"

  "I made the plane." Shiny tried to insert a hint of indignation into his voice. "I'm in Chicago. I'll be in Miami at eleven forty-eight tomorrow."

  Pete was quiet. "Please be here, Shiny. This is a cruise ship, it ain't gonna wait. You ain't here and you can kiss this thing good-bye. You're supposed to be here already, helping me set up. You know that."

  "I'll be there, Pete. I promise," Shiny said. "I appreciate what you're doing for me."

  Pete's voice was warm, but careful. "This is a great opportunity for you, Shiny. Teach the cruisers to play a little poker, lose a hand every once in a while, let them buy you drinks while you spin a few stories. Smoke duty-free cigarettes. Meet some women. This works out, it could turn into a permanent gig for you, 401K, health insurance, the whole enchilada. I know you got reservations about this, Shiny, but sometimes you got to do what it takes to get over, you know?"

  "Sure, Petey, sure. This is gonna be great." He hesitated, then continued. "Pete, I was wondering, you being the pit boss and all, you think there's any chance you could wire me sort of an advance? I thought maybe I could give Miranda something to help her out, you know?" He waited, listening to the heavy silence coming from Miami.

  When Pete replied, the warmth was gone from his voice. "Shiny, don't do this to me. Just get down here." He hung up.

  Shiny shrugged philosophically, and placed another call. An operator came on the line and told him the area code had changed to 773, then put him through.

  "Rackaroo," the voice on the other end of the line mumbled.

  "Let me speak to Malek, please," Shiny said.

  "Ain't no Malek here," said the voice and hung up.

  Shiny called again, and this time spoke as soon as the phone was answered. "Listen to me, playa, when Malek finds out you hung up on Shiny the Shark, he's going to stuff your bee-bees through your grills. He's at the first table up front on the left, and you know it. Now hand him the damn phone." Grills. When did teeth become grills? He stopped, out of breath, and held the phone away from his face so the other man could not hear him panting. There was a clatter as someone laid thé phone on the counter, and a moment later it was picked up.

  "Shiny, Shiny, Shiny," a pleasant voice laughed. "What's with this hard-ass stuff? You're supposed to be the nicest guy in poker. This stupid nigger you bluffed is about six foot twelve and weighs half a ton. You two ever meet up, you might wished you had'na spoke like that."

  "Nah. I still outweigh him." Shiny laughed.
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  "What you so cheery about?" Malek replied. "I thought you was dead, man. Somebody said something about your heart or something."

  "That's why I sound happy, because I ain't dead," Shiny said, watching his own rubber smile in the shiny metal of the payphone.

  "Yet. You ain't dead yet," Malek laughed. "Wait till you see this nigger."

  "I got business, Malek," Shiny said.

  "Well, then, Uncle Shiny, come on down. You know where I stay." Malek laughed. "And spend the time in the cab thinking about how you gonna talk my boy DZ out of pulling your little fat arms off." He laughed again and hung up.

  The Rack and Ruin was a classic pool hall, on Montrose at Broadway, cool and dark with three long rows of tables running up toward a plywood counter with a glass-fronted cooler behind it, a coffeepot with a poisonous-looking black brew, and a Crock-Pot that Shiny knew from previous visits held hot dogs. Four black trays of balls rested on the counter in a neat line. Shiny noticed the old tin ashtrays had been taken down off the walls, and over the brackets that had held them hung neatly lettered signs that said, "No smoking." He wondered if the back room was nonsmoking now. Shiny patted the pack of Newports in his pocket. Casinos were the last place left.

  The place was empty except for three Latino kids playing cutthroat at a table in the back, a Filipino guy practicing alone by the window, and four men stalking around Malek's table, squinting and gesturing at an orange ball. A giant young black man looming behind the counter scowled at Shiny as he walked in.

  One of the four men at the front table was Malek, young, very dark, and immaculately dressed. He looked away from the game, smiled at Shiny, and arched his eyebrows toward the counter. "That's DZ, Shiny. I told you he was big." He laughed. A melodious tinkle of a laugh. Shiny nodded, walked over to the counter, and stuck out his hand. DZ stared at it for a moment, shook his head in disgust, and snatched a towel off a small hook and began polishing the balls in the first tray.

  Shiny shrugged, turned, and walked past Malek's table toward a row of elevated chairs at the back. He heaved himself onto one, and rested his hands on his knees, pursing his lips and sucking in a long stream of air, the way the doctor had told him to. Malek scampered up beside him.

  "So, Shiny, what brings you to my little corner of the world?" Malek asked pleasantly, although Shiny had known Malek his whole life and knew he wasn't really a pleasant man. Malek did not wait for Shiny to answer, but spoke again, "You got no idea how many Shiny stories I heard growing up, man, from Pops."

  "I need a little stake, Malek. Got a game," Shiny wheezed. "Standard deal. Fifties on the ups, and I'm responsible for the down."

  Malek nodded. "I can go for that, Shiny, but how much you talking about here?"

  "Twenty would do it," he answered carefully.

  Malek laughed. "Don't got it. Well, I don't got it here. I got it, all right, but not here." He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash wrapped in a blue rubber band. "See what you can do with this." He tossed it at Shiny, who trapped it on his stomach.

  Shiny fanned it expertly. "There's maybe six or seven here, Malek. This is a bigger game than that. With a good stake, I can pick up four or five pots betting. Can't do that if I'm on the short stack."

  Malek shook his head, laughed again. "Pops used to tell me all Shiny the Shark ever needed was a chip and a chair. Well, you got a chip and a chair, so now go win us some money." He slapped Shiny on the shoulder lightly. "How many days this game going for? When should I expect to see you back here?"

  "It's a friendly," Shiny said. He looked at the Timex: 7:13. "Figure me for two, three A.M. Does that work?"

  Malek laughed. "Sure it works. I'm 'bout to head down the street for a little nap, should be back about eleven or so. You know, my sort of business don't really get going until late."

  Shiny pulled up his sleeve and started to unsnap the Ungar watch, but Malek reached out and laid his fingers on the dial. "Don't give me that old-style bling, Shiny, nobody wants that stuff. You keep it. I don't do that collateral stuff no more, anyways. I keep it simple. You not back by breakfast, and my boy DZ will settle up for me. Di-rectly, so to speak."

  Shiny hesitated and Malek continued, "And anyway, I know you ain't going to win a bunch of money and skip town. Shiny don't do stuff like that."

  Shiny smiled and nodded, worked his way down off the chair. Malek called out to the man at the counter, "Hey, DZ, bring the Sclade around and give my man a ride up to Loyola. He's got family up that way." Malek beamed at Shiny, who stared back expressionless.

  Shiny fingered the money. "Was that a threat, Malek?" he asked carefully.

  Malek shook his head, still smiling. "Don't be so sensitive, man. Just go win us some money. Go on, now." He made a gesture with his hands like the one Shiny's grandfather employed to chase pigeons off Brooklyn park benches.

  Miranda already had a table at Vege-Thai when he arrived. She leaped from her seat and bounded toward him the instant he pulled the door open, ensnaring him so tightly in her long arms that he could barely breathe. And he pulled her in as tightly as he could, closing his eyes and smelling the shampoo in her dark brown hair. They stood, rocking back and forth, smiling, until interrupted by a busboy with a full tray.

  At the table, they sat across from each other, uneaten spring rolls on a small rectangular dish between them. He thought she was too thin and was probably smoking too much to keep her weight down, and gestured toward the rolls. She picked one up, took a micro-nibble, and placed it on her plate. He wondered about boys, but knew not to ask. "So how you doing, baby?" Shiny asked. "How's school? The dancing? You getting by okay?"

  She answered nonspecifically, as grown children do, and tried to deflect the conversation back toward him. To Minnesota. To the doctor. To Miami. He dodged most of the questions, not giving specifics, as parents of grown children do.

  "Yeah, I think I'm going to like this new job," Shiny answered. He couldn't stop looking at her, smiling.

  Miranda laughed, a loud hoot at odds with her small, elegant dancer's physique. Just like her mother, Shiny thought. A wave of loneliness washed over Shiny so cold and deep that he thought it would never pass. He closed his eyes for a minute. A diner at the table next to them turned. When he opened his eyes, his daughter was watching him, a worried smile on her face. He forced a grin. "What's that cackle for?"

  "How many jobs have you had, Dad? Like, ever?"

  Shiny pondered and answered seriously, "Does the army count?"

  Miranda hooted again and shook her head. "No."

  "Then this would make one," he said, holding up a finger. They laughed together. They talked about Miami, then Margie, then school, then Margie again.

  At the end of the meal, Shiny pulled the five crisp $100 bills from his wallet he'd gotten hocking the Johnny Chan watch. "Here." He slid them across the table.

  She looked down at the money but did not pick it up. "You're a sweetie, but I'm doing okay, really. They're talking about finding some scholarship or grant or something to help me finish up." He read the lie, and it hurt him. He thought about her face when he brought her the money from the game tonight, and the secret excited him.

  Shiny pulled the wad Malek had given him from his pocket. He waved it toward her. "Really, honey, I'm flush. Got into a good game just before I got on the plane. That money is for you."

  She stared at him, then smiled and picked up the money, "Thanks, Dad. This will help so much." They drank their coffee silently, and as they stood to part, she said, "I wish you could stay."

  Shiny nodded. "Me, too, baby, but my plane's in a couple of hours, and Uncle Pete is meeting me at the airport, so I better get moving. You know how it is with security and all that." They held each other on the sidewalk for a long time.

  Finally Shiny pried himself loose. "You got to get going, kiddo," he said. "And I do, too. Hey, I'll bring you down for a cruise or something in a couple of months when I get settled. How does that sound?" She grinned and waved furio
usly as she weaved backward down the street toward the El.

  The game was in a smaller mansion in a suburb called Winnetka, immaculate streets and lawns so perfect that Shiny reckoned the maids here probably had porcelain caps on their teeth. In addition to Shiny, there were six poker players and a blond woman dealer moonlighting from the casino in Joliet. She wore her work uniform of white shirt, black pants, and a vest. The players were Marc, another doctor named Bill who owned the house, a landscaper named Dave, two lawyers, and a kid named London.

  Marc threw his arm over London's shoulders and introduced him to the professional. "This is our ringer, Shiny. London here is a sophomore at MIT, but he's already competed in a couple of WPT events." The kid eyed Shiny speculatively, half-smirk on his face. Shiny extended his hand, and the kid shook it with his fingers. He was tall and thin, and his oxford shirt and khakis made him look very young. He waited for Shiny to sit before selecting a chair to his right.

  At the end of the first hour, there were three winners. Dr. Bill played carelessly, but got a run of cards. He had increased his chip pile by $3,000 or so. Shiny had nursed a series of marginal hands to add a few hundred. London was up $10,000, mostly at the expense of Marc. Shiny felt himself tiring. He wanted a cigarette.

  The woman dealt them each two cards, then patted the felt in front of London, telling him it was his play. Three seats to London's left, Marc threw his cards into the center in disgust.

  "Please wait your turn, sir," the dealer said.

  "Please shut the fuck up!" Marc snapped. The dealer colored. Bill opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. The rest of the players exchanged glances, looking to the dealer for a sign she wanted them to intervene. She stared at the cards noncommittally and they stayed silent.

  Shiny turned up the corners of his cards, and saw red. He pulled the cards closer, and peeked again. A six and a seven of diamonds. He laid the cards flat on the cloth. London moved first, limping in. Bill raised it $100. Shiny raised $200 on top of Bill's raise. The button and the two blinds tossed their hands into the pot, and the bet went back to the kid.