by Grant Mccrea
But he had a tell you couldn’t miss from thirty feet.
There’s a vein in the throat. I don’t know what it’s called, maybe it’s the jugular. Maybe not. Everybody has one. In scrawny guys like Harold, it’s easy to see. And when they get nervous, like when they’re on a big bluff, trying to hide something, you can see the thing go crazy. Thump, thump, thump. Elevated heart rate.
I decided not to dick around. With a guy like Harold, the bull rush was the best. My decision was no doubt influenced by the scotch. But that isn’t necessarily fatal to an idea.
So you know them.
I said it as a fact, not a question.
I engaged his eyes.
He looked away.
Then I was dead certain.
And he knew that I knew.
Yeah, he said. So?
Now I knew not only that he knew them, but that they and he were involved in something. Not that I cared. But it was information. And information is … well, it’s information. And that can come in handy when you’re, like, looking for a missing person.
Any idea where they are?
Haven’t seen them, he said.
Since?
I don’t know, six months.
You’re sure it was that long?
Yup, he said.
He was a terrible liar.
C’mon, man, I said. I don’t care what they’re doing, you’re doing. I just got to report to the lady. She wants to know is her sister alive.
Yeah. I got it. She’s alive.
I sighed. I mean, I hate to be crude. Obvious. Trite. But it was now or it was after another half hour of fencing.
I put two C-notes on the smoked glass table.
He looked at the money. He looked at me.
One thing I knew about myself, I looked harmless.
I’m not that big a tipper, I said.
All right, he said, reaching for the bills.
I snatched them back.
Wait a second. Information first, money later. And the same again if it checks out. Besides, I know where you work.
He looked disappointed. But two hundred bucks was a lot of money to a guy like Harold.
I used to run errands for them, he said.
Ah. Thank you, Harold. You’re a good man. But that won’t help me find them. Where are they now?
Last I heard, something bad happened.
Shit, I said, really? What kind of bad?
Not hurt bad, money bad. I heard they got ripped off, they ripped somebody off and got caught, something like that.
And?
And they ended up in some trailer park. Out in the desert somewhere.
Can you be a little more vague?
He looked at me blankly.
Any more than that? I mean, east, west, near the city, in Mongolia, what?
I don’t know. But I know a guy I can call.
All right, I said. Now we’re getting somewhere.
Harold took out his cell phone, got up, left the bar. I took the opportunity to order another drink. It was weak and watery.
I had to get out of the place.
Harold came back.
He says he’s not sure, he said. But it’s somewhere north of Red Rock.
Somewhere north of Red Rock, I said. Very helpful.
It’s out there. Just go to Red Rock. Go north from there. There’s only one road.
Okay. You’re all right, Harold. And if it checks out, like I said, another two hundred.
That didn’t make him look happy.
But then, guys like him, nothing would.
I had downed enough scotch by then that I might have been mistaken, but I could have sworn that I saw, on my unsteady way to the lobby, Bruno and Evgeny shooting craps.
Bruno and Evgeny?
I resisted the urge to get closer, verify the sighting.
I tried to process the information.
I supposed, for a moment, that they could just have run into one another, each having submitted more or less simultaneously to an urge to play craps at the Terrible Bar and Casino, or whatever it was called.
That notion refuted itself.
Then what?
It would not compute.
I resolved to revisit the issue. Once the scotch-flavored fog had dissipated a mite.
32.
WHEN I GOT BACK TO THE ROOM, I called Sheila.
Sheila, I said. Sorry to have to do this by phone. I know you don’t approve.
It’s not that I don’t approve. I just think that it’s not as effective. And also, you’ve been drinking.
I knew enough not to deny it.
Yeah, I know. But I’m in Las Vegas. Not much I can do. About the phone thing, I mean. The drinking, I’m working on.
I understand.
She always understood. It was one of the great things about her.
I’m starting to realize that I never know what other people are really thinking, I said, apropos of nothing.
What about when you’re playing poker? I thought you said you could read them. The other players.
Well, that’s true. In a limited sense. Often, you know exactly what someone is trying to do. What their cards are. Or at least a probable range of cards. But that’s just it. It’s probability, really. You can never be one hundred percent sure.
Why would you want to be?
Easy money.
Not in the poker context. In the real world. Why would you want to be sure? Wouldn’t that make life a little boring?
Poker, too. It would be just like picking up money off the table.
Let’s get back to the real world.
Me?
Yes, even you.
Okay. What about it?
Why would you want to be certain about what others are thinking?
I guess I wouldn’t. Too boring. I know, that’s what you said. You were right.
Okay, then let’s talk about why you said that.
Said what?
That you’re beginning to realize that you don’t know what others are thinking.
What I was getting at, I guess, is that I’ve been feeling very alone.
Lonely?
No. Alone. Not quite the same thing. Worse, actually. If you’re lonely, you can call up a friend. Go meet somebody in a bar. Whatever.
And if you’re alone?
You’re just … alone.
Nothing to be done?
Nothing to be done.
But are you so sure? That there’s nothing to be done?
What could one do?
Well, you’d be right, if the aloneness was something from outside of you. But if it’s something inside of you. Within your control.
It doesn’t feel that way.
How does it feel?
Frightening.
Yes, but can you put it in words? The feeling of aloneness?
I thought for a while. I lay back on the sectional. I lit a cigarette.
No, I said. I can’t.
Then let’s make that your homework.
Thinking about how to put it into words?
Putting it into words.
Anyway. It’s all a disaster.
How so?
I told her about the poker losses. The twenty grand. The Bruno Episode. Relying on ephemeral promises from known Russian scumbags. Known scumbags who happened to be from Russia. Embezzling Louise’s retainer.
Sounds like you’ve put yourself in a spot, she said.
Yes, I replied. It seems that I have.
I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be unhelpful.
You’re always helpful.
Well, let’s try to figure this out.
Okay.
In terms of the money, the situation, I’m not sure that you and I can do anything about that.
I know, I said. It is what it is.
I hated that phrase. But it seemed awfully apropos.
Yes, she said. But let’s see if we can come up with something. A plan, at least. To get you through it.
T
hat would be something, I said.
We batted it back and forth. We ran it up the flagpole. We saluted it. We tried it on for size. We waved the red flag. Or the white one—there was no bull in the room, after all. I woke up. Saw it for what it was. What ‘it’ was, I wasn’t sure.
We decided that I’d do my best.
It was the best we could do.
33.
IN THE MORNING, after four hours of what could only nominally be called sleep, it occurred to me that I still hadn’t qualified for the Main Event. It was preying on me. I had enough other shit to deal with. At least if I could qualify, it would take that load off. There was a mega-satellite. I resolved to win it.
I had some time to kill before it started. Thought I’d pay a visit to the beer tent. Natalya might be there.
Rick! she greeted me with her big-boned Slavic smile.
Natalya, I said with a calculatedly sheepish one.
Just happens I have about a half a bottle of that Johnnie Walker back here. Just enough to warm you up.
You are my princess, I said.
She batted her eyes in faux flirtation. I knew it was faux. I was twice her age. She hung out with tattooed guys younger than her. Guys with the vocabulary of a sea snake and an attitude to match. I wasn’t her type. I was an amusement. Possibly a distorted sort of father figure. But I sure wasn’t a prospect.
Though maybe, I thought, with a little convincing …
I sat at the bar. There were the usual number of customers in the tent: none. Good, I thought. We can have a private moment.
So where’s your boyfriend? I asked.
My boyfriend?
Yeah, isn’t he your boyfriend?
Who?
Whoever your boyfriend is.
Are you trying to make a joke, Rick?
Yeah. Guess it didn’t work.
Nope, she said, refilling my glass.
So, I said, you know those guys?
Is this the same joke?
No.
What guys?
Those guys who Brendan left with? The Russian guys?
Andrei and Anatoly? You asked me that before.
Yeah, but you were a little vague.
Sure, I know them.
More than just from around here?
She gave me a sideways look. Who wants to know? she said.
That would be me, I replied.
Ah. I see.
Well?
Sure. It’s a community, you know? Young Russian kids.
They don’t look all that young to me. Andrei and Anatoly.
Okay, she said.
How do you know them?
Rick, are you interrogating me?
Just making conversation.
Hmmm.
Okay, I said, I’ll be straight with you. Brendan is, I don’t know, sort of my ward.
Ward?
Like Robin. You know, Batman and Robin?
Oh, yes, she said without conviction.
A bit like that. Anyway, I’m a little worried about him. Hanging with those guys.
Why worried?
I know them from New York. They’re sort of, I don’t know, gangster types.
Gangsters? Natalya laughed. I don’t think so.
What makes you not think so?
They’re too stupid. And ugly.
Maybe you got your gangster ideas from the movies. Lots of gangsters are stupid and ugly. Most of them, maybe.
She refilled my scotch. Looked at me with her head at an angle, chin raised, eyelids lowered to half-mast.
I read the signal. I’d gotten as far as I’d get. Might be some more later. Right now, back to the poker room.
Thanks for the drinks, I said.
She handed me a bill. Thirty bucks.
Suddenly I wasn’t quite as grateful. But I put forty on the bar. Left her with a smile.
The poker gods weren’t with me. I busted out of the satellite early. I decided to check out some cash games. I put my name on the list. Hung around waiting to be called. Watched some of the TV stars play. Hell, I lied to myself, I can play better than them. Or at least as good.
Grandiosity, I heard Sheila’s voice say. Watch out for that. There are ups. There are downs. When you exaggerate them, they’re destructive. Both of them. Melissa had succumbed to the downs. Others to the ups.
Of course. It was obvious. But like so many things, easier to understand than implement.
They called my name. I sat down at a 5–10 table. Full of tourists. Arrogant Internet geeks. And a couple of gray-faced regulars. Rocco, a super-tight player with slicked-back hair and an air of menace. Louie, a scrawny guy with a long red face with a lot of mileage on it, longer disheveled hair. His t-shirt read Let All The Earth Fear The Lord.
I was ready to bust some ass. And for a few hours I did. I stayed sharp. I declined the drinks impressed upon me by the cleavage-enhanced help. I threw my chips in when I saw weakness. I folded when I sensed strength. I was up a couple grand. Okay, I said to myself. Be responsible. Be mature. Cash out. Get the hell out of here with your profit.
I called for the floor person to give me a couple of racks. I needed two, to hold all my chips. I started stacking them into the racks.
The dealer deals me in.
Wait a minute, I’m about to say, I’m leaving.
Before I say it, I peek down at my cards. Ace, Queen. Nice.
Ah, what the hell, I tell myself. I’ll play one last hand.
I lean forward again.
One last hand.
The flop comes Ace, Nine, Three. Rainbow. Three different suits. Could hardly ask for better. I got the Aces. No flushes, no straights on board. I bet. Everybody folds, except the quiet guy. Forgot to mention him. The Quiet Guy. He’s over on the left. Three seats down from me. He plays solid. Tight. Quiet. Like I said.
He calls.
The turn’s a rag. I bet. He calls. What’s he calling with? Got to be an Ace, with a weak kicker. Weaker than my Queen, for sure. Ace, King, he would have raised before the flop. He could have something better, of course. Two pair. A set. He could have come in with a pair of Nines, hit the set. But the probability of that was sufficiently low that, in the absence of further information, I had to assume that wasn’t the case. For now. I need to keep it in mind, though. Future bets may tell me different.
The river’s a Four of clubs. More nothingness. Hah, I think. Got him.
I make one last bet. Two hundred dollars.
He goes all in.
Shit.
Well, I’m thinking. Got to call that. I’ve only got another hundred, hundred-fifty in front of me. Seven hundred in the pot. Too much to fold. I’m probably winning anyway.
I call.
He turns over Ace, Nine.
Two pair.
Shit.
He pulls in my chips.
I get up to leave.
Wait a minute, says Rocco.
I turn to him.
He points at the racks in my hands.
Those chips are live, he says.
I stare at him.
It dawns on me.
That is the rule.
You can’t take chips off the table.
They’re in the game.
I’d called all in.
That meant those chips too.
Jesus.
I look at the Quiet Guy. He’s staring, impassive, at my chips. I plead with him, with my eyes. Don’t stand on the rules, my eyes are saying. Fuck Rocco. You know I only meant to play with the couple hundred on the table.
He doesn’t say a thing.
Which doesn’t stop the rest of the rabble.
Sure, the chorus goes up. That’s the rule. Those chips are in.
I’ll call the floor manager, the dealer says.
No, never mind, I say. I play by the rules.
I slowly stack my chips back on the table. The dealer matches the winner’s remaining stack with mine. At least I have more than him. I’ll get out of there with some money left.
The dealer slides a six-inch pile of my former chips over to the Quiet Guy.
He nods his head. He doesn’t gloat. Not visibly, at least. I appreciate that.
I leave.
I head back towards the exit.
Jesus, I think to myself, it’s true. Only dead fish swim with the current.
I have no idea what it means.
I pass through the reception area.
The sun is coming through the skylight there.
I stop at one of the velvet-draped bars along the way.
The waitress has some nice cleavage going.
And anyway.
I need a drink.
Hell, I needed five, at least. I found my way to the purple velvet emporium.
I was on my fourth scotch when Bruno sat down, complete with leather outfit, shit-eating grin, and a lighter sling. Seemed he’d taken the bandages off.
Oh, fuck, I said, feeling sudden pain in my gut, my sternum, my right ankle.
His grin grew wider.
That was quite a show, he said.
What?
The chips-in-the-rack show.
Shit. You saw that?
Sure did, he laughed.
Well, thanks for the sympathy.
Why’d you just give it up? I would’ve called the floor. Said my intent was clear.
I guess you’re a better man than me.
I’ll buy you a drink, he said.
That’ll do, I replied.
As he rumbled over to the bar, I pondered this sudden change in the Bruno dynamic. It seemed like his pounding me into the emergency room had somehow evened the score. I didn’t feel the animosity. It seemed like he didn’t either.
I wondered if I was losing my edge.
I made a note to look it up.
Bruno came back with a double for me and a bottle of vodka, three extra glasses.
Expecting some company? I asked.
Maybe, he said.
I’m not in the mood for Russians.
Ah, come on. That’s the whole point.
Point of what?
What you’re going to help me with.
That. Right.
Right.
So, what is it?
Not yet, he said.
It isn’t anything yet?
It isn’t anything I can tell you about yet.
At which point arrived the three Russians in question: Alexina, Sashina and Ivankina, as they were introduced. All three were tall and slim. Alexina had on a slinky black dress clinging to her curves. Sashina had white plastic boots flaring to her knees. Ivankina had a magnificent pout.