Men from Boys

by John Harvey

  Score another one for Grandpa. He’d spotted that Keller had been passing on the bet and folding good hands on purpose – to build up Tony’s confidence and to make him believe that Keller was a lousy bluffer.

  ‘You’re setting him up for a big hit.’

  Keller shrugged. ‘I tried to talk him into walking away.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Stanton countered. ‘You take a kid like that and tell ’em to leave, what’s their first reaction? To stay. . . . Come on, Keller, he hasn’t got that kind of money to lose.’

  ‘He inherited a shitload of cash.’

  ‘So you invited him into the game as soon as you found that out?’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact, he came to me. . . . You’re just pissed ’cause he treats you like a has-been.’

  ‘You’re taking advantage of him.’

  Keller shot back with, ‘Here’s my real rule number one in poker: as long as you don’t cheat you can do whatever you want to trick your opponents.’

  ‘You going to share that rule with Tony?’ Stanton asked.

  ‘I’m going to do better than that – I’m going to give him a first-hand demonstration. He wants to learn poker? Well, this’ll be the best lesson he ever gets.’

  ‘You think breaking him and taking his tuition money’s going to make him a better player?’ Stanton asked.

  ‘Yeah, I do. He doesn’t want to be in school anyway.’

  ‘That’s not the point. The point is you’re an expert and he’s a boy.’

  ‘He claims he’s a man. And one of the things about being a man is getting knocked on your ass and learning from it.’

  ‘In penny ante, sure. But not a game like this.’

  ‘You have a problem with this, Grandpa?’ Angry, Keller turned ominously toward him.

  Stanton looked away and held up his hands. ‘Do what you want. It’s your game. I’m just trying to be the voice of conscience.’

  ‘If you play by the rules you’ll always have a clear conscience.’

  A voice called from the doorway, Lasky’s. He said, ‘They’re here.’

  Keller slapped Stanton on his bony shoulders. ‘Let’s go win some money.’

  More cigar smoke was filling the back room. The source: Elliott Rothstein and Harry Piemonte, businessmen from the Windy City. Keller’d played with them several times previously but he didn’t know much about them; the two men revealed as little about their personal lives as their faces shared what cards they held. They might’ve been organised crime capos or they might have been directors of a charity for orphans. All Keller knew was they were solid players, paid their losses without griping and won without lording it over the losers.

  Both men wore dark suits and expensive, tailored white shirts. Rothstein had a diamond pinkie ring and Piemonte a heavy gold bracelet. Wedding bands encircled both of their left ring fingers. They now stripped off their suit jackets, sat down at the table and were making small talk with Stanton and Lasky when Tony returned. He sat down at his place and pulled the lid off his new Starbucks, nodding at Rothstein and Piemonte.

  They frowned and looked at Keller. ‘Who’s this?’ Rothstein muttered.

  ‘He’s okay.’

  Piemonte frowned. ‘We got a rule, we don’t play with kids.’

  Tony laughed and shoved his nerd glasses high on his nose. ‘You guys and your rules.’ He opened an envelope and dumped out cash. He counted out a large stack and put some back into his pocket. ‘Hundred large,’ he said to Stanton, who gave a dark look to Keller but began counting out chips for the boy.

  The two new players looked at each other and silently decided to make an exception to their general rule about juveniles in poker games.

  ‘Okay, the game is five-card draw,’ Keller said. ‘Minimum bet fifty, ante is twenty-five.’

  Piemonte won the cut and they began.

  The hands were pretty even for the first hour, then Keller began pulling ahead slowly. Tony kept his head above water, the second winner – but only because, it seemed, the other players were getting bad hands; the boy was still hopeless when it came to calculating the odds of drawing. In a half-dozen instances he’d draw a single card and then fold – which meant he was trying for a straight or a flush, the odds of doing that were just one in twenty. Either he should’ve discarded three cards, which gave him good odds of improving his hand, or gone with a heavy bluff after drawing a solo card, in which case he probably would’ve taken the pot a couple of times.

  Confident that he’d nailed the boy’s technique, Keller now began to lose intentionally when Tony seemed to have good cards – to boost his confidence. Soon the kid had doubled his money and had close to two hundred thousand dollars in front of him.

  Larry Stanton didn’t seem happy with Keller’s plan to take the boy but he didn’t say anything and continued to play his cautious, old-man’s game, slowly losing to the other players.

  The voice of conscience. . . .

  As the night wore on, Lasky finally dropped out, having lost close to eighty thousand bucks. ‘Fuck, gotta raise the price for ding-pulling,’ he joked, heading for the door. He glanced at the duo from Chicago. ‘When you gentlemen leave, could you bang inta some parked cars on the way to the expressway?’ A nod toward Keller. ‘An’ if you wanta fuck up the front end of his Merc, I wouldn’t mind one bit.’

  Piemonte smiled at this; Rothstein glanced up as if the body-shop man were speaking Japanese or Swahili and turned back to his cards to try to coax a winning hand out of them.

  Grandpa too soon bailed. He still had stacks of chips left on the table – but another rule in poker was that a player can walk away at any time. He now cashed in and pushed his chair back glumly to sip coffee and to watch the remaining players.

  Ten minutes later Rothstein lost his remaining stake to Tony in a tense, and long, round of betting. ‘Damn,’ he spat out. ‘Tapped out. Never lost to a boy before – not like this.’

  Tony kept a straight face but there was a knowing look in his eye that said, And you didn’t lose to one now – I’m not a boy.

  The game continued for a half-hour, with big pots trading hands.

  Most poker games don’t end with dramatic last hands. Usually players just run out of money or, like Grandpa, get cold feet and slip away with their tails between their legs.

  But sometimes there are climactic moments.

  And that’s what happened now.

  Tony shuffled and then offered the cut to Keller, who divided the deck into thirds. The boy reassembled the cards and began dealing.

  Piemonte gathered his and, like all good poker players, didn’t move them (rearranging cards can telegraph a lot of information about your hand).

  Keller picked up his and was pleased to see that he’d received a good one: two pairs – queens and sixes. A very winnable one in a game this size.

  Tony gathered his five cards and examined them, not revealing any reaction. ‘Bet?’ he asked Piemonte, who passed – chose not to bet at this time.

  To open the betting in draw poker a player needs a pair of jacks or better. Passing meant that either Piemonte didn’t have that good a hand or that he did but was sandbagging – choosing not to bet to make the other players believe he had weak cards.

  Keller decided to take a chance. Even though he had the two pairs, and could open, he too passed, which would make Tony think his hand was poor.

  A tense moment followed. If Tony didn’t bet, they’d surrender their cards and start over; Keller would swallow a solid hand.

  But Tony glanced at his own cards and bet ten thousand.

  Keller’s eyes flickered in concern, which a bluffer would do, but in his heart he was ecstatic. The hook was set.

  ‘See you,’ Piemonte said, pushing his chips in.

  So, Keller reflected, the man from Chicago’d probably been sandbagging too.

  Keller, his face blank, pushed out the ten thousand, then another stack of chips. ‘See your ten and raise you twenty-five.’

  Ton
y saw the new bet and raised again. Piemonte hesitated but stayed with it and Keller matched Tony’s new bet. As dealer, he now ‘burned’ the top card on the deck – set it face down in front of him. Then he turned to Piemonte. ‘How many?’

  ‘Two.’

  Tony slipped him the two replacement cards from the top of the deck.

  Keller’s mind automatically began to calculate the odds. The chances of getting three of a kind in the initial deal were very low so it was likely that Piemonte had a pair and a ‘kicker’, an unmatched card of a high rank, probably a face card. The odds of his two new cards giving him a powerful full house were only one in one hundred and nineteen. And if, by chance, he had been dealt a rare three of a kind at first, the odds of his getting a pair, to make that full house, were still long: one in fifteen.

  Filing this information away, Keller himself asked for one card, suggesting to the other players that he was going for either a full house or a straight flush – or bluffing. He picked up the card and placed it in his deck. Keller’s mouth remained motionless but his heart slammed in his chest when he saw he’d got a full house – and a good one, three queens.

  Tony himself took three cards.

  Okay, Keller told himself, run the numbers. By taking three cards the boy signaled that he’d been dealt only one pair. So in order to beat Keller he’d have to end up with a straight flush, four of a kind or a full house of kings or aces. Like a computer, Keller’s mind went through the various odds of this happening.

  Based on his calculations about the boy’s and Piemonte’s draws, Keller concluded that he probably had the winning hand at the table. Now his goal was to goose up the size of the pot.

  The boy shoved his glasses up on his nose again and glanced at Piemonte. ‘Your bet.’

  With a cautious sigh, the player from Chicago shoved some chips out. ‘Twenty thousand.’

  Keller had sat in on some of the great games around the country – both as a player and an observer – and he’d spent hundreds of hours studying how bluffers behaved. The small things they did – mannerisms, looks, when they hesitated and when they blustered ahead. What they said, when they laughed. Now he summoned up all these memories and began to act in a way that’d make the other players believe that he had a bum hand and was going for a bluff. Which meant he began betting big.

  After two rounds, Piemonte finally dropped out, reluctantly – he’d put in close to sixty thousand dollars – and he probably had a decent hand. But he was convinced that Keller or Tony had a great hand and he wasn’t going to throw good money after bad.

  The bet came around to Keller once more. ‘See your twenty,’ he said to Tony. ‘Raise you twenty.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Stanton muttered. Keller shot him a dark look and the old man fell silent.

  Tony sighed and looked again at his cards, as if they could tell him what to do. But they never could, of course. The only answers to winning poker were in your own heart and your mind.

  The boy had only fifteen thousand dollars left on the table. He reached into his pocket and took out an envelope. A hesitation. Then he extracted the rest of his money. He counted it out. Thirty-eight thousand. Another pause as he stared at the cash . . .

  Go for it, Keller prayed silently. Please . . .

  ‘Chips,’ the boy finally said, eyes locked in Keller’s, who looked back both defiant and nervous – a bluffer about to be called.

  Stanton hesitated.

  ‘Chips,’ the boy said firmly.

  The old man reluctantly complied.

  Tony took a deep breath and pushed the chips on to the table. ‘See your twenty. Raise you.’

  Keller pushed ten thousand dollars forward – a bit dramatically, he reflected – and said, ‘See the ten.’ He glanced at all he had left. ‘Raise you fifteen.’ Pushed the remaining chips into the center of the table.

  ‘Lord,’ Piemonte said.

  Even gruff Rothstein was subdued, gazing hypnotically at the massive pot, which was about four hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

  For a moment Keller did feel a slight pang of guilt. He’d set up his opponent psychologically, calculated the odds down to the last decimal point – in short, he’d done everything that the youngster was incapable of. Still, the boy claimed he wanted to be treated like man. He’d brought this on himself.

  ‘Call,’ Tony said in a whisper, easing most of his chips into the pot.

  Stanton looked away, as if avoiding the sight of a roadside accident.

  ‘Queens full,’ Keller said, flipping them over.

  ‘Lookit that,’ Piemonte whispered.

  Stanton sighed in disgust.

  ‘Sorry, kid,’ Keller said, reaching forward for the pot. ‘Looks like you . . .’

  Tony flipped over his cards, revealing a full house – three kings and a pair of sixes. ‘Looks like I win,’ he said calmly and raked the chips in.

  Piemonte whispered, ‘Whoa. What a hand. . . . Glad I got out when I did.’

  Stanton barked a fast laugh and Rothstein offered to Tony, ‘That was some fine playing.’

  ‘Just luck,’ the boy said.

  How the hell had that happened? Keller wondered, frantically replaying every moment of the hand. Of course, sometimes, no matter how you calculated the percentages, fate blindsided you completely. Still, he’d planned everything so perfectly.

  ‘Time to call it a night,’ Piemonte said, handing his remaining chips to Stanton to cash out and added humorously, ‘Since I just gave most of my fucking money to a teenager.’ He turned to Rothstein. ‘From now on, we stick to that rule about kids, okay?’

  Keller sat back and watched Tony start organising the chips in the pile. But the odds, he kept thinking . . . He’d calculated the odds so carefully. At least a hundred to one. Poker is mathematics and instinct – how had both of them failed him so completely?

  Tony eased the chips toward Stanton for cashing out.

  The sound of a train whistle filled the room again. Keller sighed, reflecting that this time it signified a loss – just the opposite of what the urgent howl had meant at the game with the Frenchmen.

  The wail grew louder. Only . . . Focusing on the sound, Keller realised that there was something different about it this time. He glanced up at the old man and the two players from Chicago. They were frowning, staring at each other.

  Why? Was something wrong?

  Tony froze, his hands on the piles of his chips.

  Shit, Keller thought. The sound wasn’t a train whistle; it was a siren.

  Keller pushed back from the table just as the front and back doors crashed open simultaneously, strewing splinters of wood around the back room. Two uniformed police officers, their guns drawn, pushed inside. ‘On the floor, now, now, now!’

  ‘No,’ Tony muttered, standing and turning to face the cop nearest him.

  ‘Kid,’ Keller whispered sternly, raising his hands. ‘Nothing stupid. Do what they say.’

  The boy hesitated, looked at the black guns and lay down on the floor.

  Stanton slowly got down on his knees.

  ‘Move it, old man,’ one of the cops muttered.

  ‘Doing the best I can here.’

  Finally on their bellies and cuffed, the gamblers were eased into sitting positions by the cops.

  ‘So what’d we catch?’ asked a voice from the alley as a balding man in his late fifties, wearing a gray suit, walked inside.

  Detective Fanelli, Keller noted. Hell, not him. The cop had been Jesus Mary and Joseph enthusiastic to purify the sinful burgh of Ellridge for years. He scared a lot of the small players into not even opening games and managed to bust about one or two big ones a year. Looked like Keller was the flavor of the week this time.

  Stanton sighed with resignation, his expression matching the faces of the pro players from Chicago. The boy, though, looked horrified. Keller knew it wasn’t the arrest; it was that the state confiscated gambling proceeds.

  Fanelli squinted as he looked at Rothstein’s and
Piemonte’s driver’s licenses. ‘All the way from Chicago to get arrested. That’s a pain in the ass, huh, boys?’

  ‘I was just watching,’ Rothstein protested. He nodded at the table, where he’d been sitting. ‘No chips, no money.’

  ‘That just means you’re a loser.’ The detective then glanced at Piemonte.

  The man said a meek, ‘I want to see a lawyer.’

  ‘And I’m sure a lawyer’s gonna wanta see you. Considering how big his fee’s gonna be to try and save your ass. Which he ain’t gonna do, by the way. . . . Ah, Keller.’ He shook his head. ‘This’s pretty sweet. I been after you for a long time. You really oughta move to Vegas. I don’t know if you follow the news much but I hear gambling’s actually legal there. . . . And who’s this?’ He glanced at Stanton. He took Stanton’s wallet from one of the uniformed cops and looked at his license. ‘What the hell’re you doing in Ellridge when you could be playing mahjong in Tampa with the ladies?’

  ‘Can’t afford the stakes down there.’

  ‘The old guy’s a wise ass,’ the skinny detective muttered to the other cops. He then looked over Tony. ‘And who’re you?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you anything.’

  ‘Yeah, you do. This ain’t the army. That name rank and serial number crap doesn’t cut it with me. How old’re you?’

  ‘Eighteen. And I want a lawyer too.’

  ‘Well, Mr I-Want-a-Lawyer-Too,’ Fanelli mocked, ‘you only get one after you’ve been charged. And I haven’t charged you yet.’

  ‘Who dimed me out?’ Keller asked.

  Fanelli said, ‘Wouldn’t be polite to give you his name but let’s just say you took the wrong guy to the cleaners last year. He wasn’t too happy about it and gave me a call.’

  Keller grimaced. Took the wrong guy to the cleaners last year . . . Well, that shortlist’d have about a hundred people on it.

  Looking down at the stacks of chips in front of where Tony’d been sitting, Fanelli asked, ‘Pretty colors, red, blue, green. What’re they worth?’

  ‘The whites’re worth ten matchsticks,’ Rothstein said. ‘The blues’re –’

  ‘Shut up.’ He looked around the room. ‘Where’s the bank?’