by Grant Mccrea
Bruno kind of surprised me with that one. I mean, he really was a shit-heel. But he knew how to tell a story.
Ashley came down with the chips. We went to the back room. The tables were full. A wild 25–50 no limit game, stacks of fifty grand all over the table. A tighter 10–25, chip stacks of maybe ten to thirty. A couple guys playing gin on a kitchen table. Another guy I knew from New York, LSD Dan, and a guy Bruno told me was Moishe the Yid, a notoriously sick gambler, playing red card black card for five grand a pop on a coffee table. Very intense. Couldn’t get in the middle of that kind of sick compulsive gambling shit. We had to drag a folding table out of a closet, steal a couple chairs from under the asses of the railbirds. We were paying time, the railbirds were there for the free entertainment, or waiting for a seat in a game; we had the dibs on the chairs.
Bruno stole an extra one. Stacked it on top of the first.
Back bugging you? I asked, with as false an air of innocence as I could muster.
Nah. Just want to intimidate.
That may be the only true thing I’ve heard you say, ever, I said.
Bruno smiled the smile that he no doubt thought was his enigmatic smile. In reality, it was just a slight variation on the same shit-eating I’m-bigger-better-looking-richer-and-more-successful-at-the-poker-table-than-you’ll-ever-be smile that he used for just about every occasion.
I didn’t tell him that. Saved it for later.
Ashley deals the cards.
I look down at Queen, Jack.
I toss in three hundred bucks.
Bruno folds.
My, I’m thinking. How un-Bruno-ish. Folding the first hand? Maybe he’s going to adjust. Or maybe he just has Seven, Two off? Doesn’t want to chip me up right away? Get my confidence up? We’ll see.
It goes back and forth. A lot of dodging and weaving. Small pot poker. Neither of us indulging in the power game. No all ins. No ridiculous over-bets. Not even a whole lot of the usual banter.
Bruno seems way serious.
I’ve never seen him like this.
I’m able to push him out of a few pots, my stack getting bigger, his getting smaller. I can tell he’s getting more and more nervous. This is a new Bruno. When he was on a roll, you couldn’t touch the guy. But, I was discovering, when things didn’t go his way, the cards fell against him for a while, he wasn’t invulnerable. And I could take advantage of that.
Poker’s like chess, or golf. Or life. You let your emotions rule your actions at your peril.
About an hour into the match, he’s in first position and raises. I look down at Jack, Ten of clubs. Hmm. Pretty good hand, heads up. I call. The flop comes King, two rags. No clubs. Bruno bets out about three-quarters of the pot. I look him over.
He’s stroking one hand with the other. Very small movement, but discernible. Bruno, self-soothing? This isn’t the Bruno I know. But then, who the hell said I’d ever known Bruno?
Now, this kind of self-soothing behavior can be a fairly reliable tell. The guy’s nervous. But then you have to figure out, is he nervous because he’s bluffing and doesn’t want a call, or because he hit a monster, and he’s worried you might fold and deprive him of his just deserts? He could have been hit big by the flop. Ace, King or King, Queen would be hands he would raise with in first position, for sure. Or he could have a pair lower than Kings, be nervous that the flop had hit me, and be betting for information. Or he could have Ace, Queen or some such hand, have missed the flop, and be trying to push me out.
Of course, a lot of this thinking is irrelevant: I’ve got nothing at all, not even a flush draw. In most situations, against most players, I would have, should have, stopped overthinking the hand and just mucked it. But I’d been pushing him around. He was nervous. You have to push every edge, against a strong opponent. I can push him out of one more hand, I’m thinking. I’m feeling it strongly. And it isn’t going to cost a big part of my stack to try.
I re-raise him. About two and a half times his bet.
He looks worried. He thinks for a long time.
And calls me.
Okay. He called me. Hand over. Go away, Redman. You took your shot. If he bets the turn or river, fold. If he checks, check behind him. He called. He has a hand. You don’t.
And I tell myself all that. But then, when he checks the turn and I check behind him, and the river comes another rag, he checks again.
This is very strange.
There’s a lot of money in that pot. He’s showing extreme weakness. He still looks nervous as hell. I’ve got him well covered, so he’ll be risking a big part of his remaining stack to call. So …
I push in a pot-sized bet. Shove it in. Put it to him. Eat this, I’m saying. All you can eat.
Yes, I am a fool.
Although …
He thinks a long, long, long time …
Before calling.
And showing Ten, Nine. Off suit.
He thought he might have me, with Ten high?
Inconceivable.
Yet true.
I turn over my crap. My better crap than his.
I knew what had happened. Bruno had convinced himself I was bluffing, and even though he didn’t have a hand that could even beat a lot of bluffs, he figured if he did win that hand, his call would seem almost supernatural. It would have totally freaked me out. Put me off my game. So it was a risk he was willing to take.
But it didn’t happen.
And Bruno went on tilt.
It was beautiful to see.
I’d never seen Bruno on tilt before. Maybe it was because he rarely got taken for a big pot. He was, after all, a sick good poker player. Maybe the added metaphorical weight of this encounter affected him. I doubted it, though. Despite his earlier demonstration of storytelling prowess, I was fairly sure that Bruno did not know what a metaphor was.
He hunkered down low in his double-high chair. His biceps throbbed. Or at least, some veins in his biceps throbbed. Another novelty. Shit, I thought, is this a tell I’d never picked up before? Or a new one, specific to the occasion?
I watched the veins. Autonomic response. By far the most reliable. Only the most accomplished sociopath could control an autonomic response. It did not escape me, of course, that Bruno might qualify as a highly accomplished sociopath, but on this night, at least, he didn’t seem to be fully in control.
It went like that. I’d slow play a monster, King, King with another King on the flop. He’d jam his two pair. I’d call, he’d throw his disgust across the table, muck his second-best hand. Another pile of chips in my corner. I’d jam a pair of Deuces, he’d fold his Jacks. I’d show my hand. He’d steam like a hot turd on a cold sidewalk.
Sometimes it just goes like that.
It was a beautiful thing.
I took his whole stack.
He sat back, eyed me with something on the fine hard edge between homicidal intent and respect.
All right, he said. You win.
I’m okay with that, I said magnanimously.
I counted the chips. Twenty-two thousand, as agreed. My eleven, his eleven. I’d deliberately ignored my stack during the session. You can’t let your current situation affect your judgement. Or, well, you can. You should. But not in this situation. I knew any excess thinking or emotion would kill my game. So I just let the chips stack up. Knew I was ahead. That was enough. Once we were done, and only then, I counted them up, racked them up, handed them to Ashley. Took a deep breath.
Bruno tossed two stacks of five grand at me, another grand loose.
Victory. It was sweet.
Survival was better.
Information was best. Information was survival.
Information was everything.
85.
TALK TIME, I said to Bruno.
He took it in stride. Wasn’t the bad loser I’d expected.
Shoot, he said. Wait a minute, he interrupted himself. Don’t take that literally.
I laughed.
I’m impressed, I said. You kno
w the word ‘literally.’
Fuck you, Redman.
I laughed again. He smiled. The genuine smile of the defeated.
It was starting to look like maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all.
All right, man, I said. Tell me about it.
About what?
Well, for starters, how do you know Andy, Delgado, whatever the fuck his name is?
I get around.
Come on, Bruno. Listen. I already know half of it. Just spill me the other half.
What half do you know?
I told him what I knew.
He laughed. Then you know all you need to know, he said.
No, I don’t, I said. I don’t know who the fuckers were behind this shit.
Aw, Ricky. I thought you were a smart guy.
I thought I was, too. Till I woke up naked, strapped to a contraption. Then I didn’t think I was so smart.
Bruno let out a large laugh.
Then it worked, he said.
Oh, fuck, I said to myself.
So it was you, I said.
Me and Evgeny, Ricky. Guys you don’t mess with. C’mon, man. We were fucking with you. You deserved it.
What’d I do to Evgeny?
You don’t remember?
I thought about it.
Shit, you mean that little diss? The ‘you lose’ thing?
Evgeny don’t forget, man.
Jesus Christ on a stick. So this whole job thing, the package, Yugo, all that shit.
All part of the game, man. Jesus, you got no idea how hard we were all laughing. It was great for Yugo. Probably added a week to his life.
Oh Christ, I said.
C’mon, man. We’re all even up, now.
I guess so. Seems to me you guys are a little more even than me, though.
Fuck, Ricky, you shot me. I still can’t even lift my arm over my fucking shoulder. It’ll be months before I can do presses.
Yeah, I said. I guess that was kind of mean.
Get a sense of humor, man.
I resolved to take Bruno’s sage advice.
Listen, man, I said. You got to be straight with me on the other thing. This is really important.
What other thing?
Brendan.
Oh shit, man, I don’t know dick about that.
And if you did, you wouldn’t tell me.
Probably not.
But you don’t.
I don’t, man. Talk to Anatoly. I don’t know what the fuck happened.
I’d talk to Anatoly if I could find him.
Can’t help you there either, man.
Bruno was finished talking. We could try the kneecap thing, I supposed. But it probably wouldn’t be prudent.
I got up to leave.
Ah, Ricky? Bruno said.
What?
That money you just took off me?
Yeah .
I’ll take ten grand back now.
What the fuck?
You owe it to Evgeny. I’ll give it to him.
You are one sweet motherfucker, I said, handing over the two banded stacks of hundreds.
I shouldered my bag of humiliation, got the hell out of there.
86.
BUTCH WAS AT THE BAR, chatting up Hector. I took a stool next to him.
You learn anything? I asked.
Not much. You?
I told him the latest developments. Some Eloise stuff. Nothing on Brendan. I left out the practical joke stuff. My humiliation. Save that for ten or twelve drinks later.
By the way, I said, any word on Anatoly and Andrei?
Not yet.
Fuck.
Yeah, fuck. They gotta know something.
You would think.
Good reason for them to get the fuck out of town.
Yeah .
We drank for a while in silence. Hector kept a respectable distance. She could see it was a business meeting.
All right, I said, it’s time to get to the heart of the matter.
Which is?
The other matter.
The heart in question, I was convinced, resided in Louise. We split the joint. Outside, on the sidewalk, I called her. She answered. I was mildly surprised. I didn’t know why. She sounded sad. I thought I knew why.
Can we meet? I asked.
Where?
I’ll come there, if it’s okay.
Where?
Wherever there is.
Okay, she said. Come here.
Where’s here?
I don’t know. Give me a second.
I heard some shuffling, muffled talking, faint laughter. I assumed the laughter wasn’t hers.
I’m at the funeral home, she said.
What?
I knew you wouldn’t get the joke.
You’re right, I said. I didn’t get the joke. Was that a joke?
I guess it wasn’t. I’m trying to cope. Don’t worry about it. I’m at a place called the Sirocco. It has something to do with a southwest wind.
I think I knew that. Or Volkswagens. Does it have an address?
I’m sure you can find it.
I’m sure I can.
I closed the phone.
All right, I said to Butch. I got her. I’ll get what we need to get.
You are one deluded drunken asshole, he said.
You’re probably right, I said. But I wish you’d stop saying it.
It was okay. I’d proven him wrong before.
He headed back to the Strip. I flagged a cab. The driver knew where the Sirocco was.
The cab smelled of bad champagne, and disappointment.
Probably redundant, I thought.
Take me there, I said.
You’re the boss, he replied.
If only that were true, I thought. Life might be bearable.
With Louise, I was determined, I was going to be the boss. It was what she seemed to respond to. I knew I had some work to do. I’d always known there was hidden stuff. She’d even said so herself. Before, it hardly mattered. But when there’s a murder involved, hidden stuff can start getting a little inconvenient.
At the Sirocco she was ensconced at a red and black bar. The place had a Parisian air. Shiny silver-colored tin ceilings. If vintage, very valuable. If new, very expensive. Black leather chairs and red drapes. Deep carpets. That hushed dark wood thing going. I liked it.
I suggested we move to a corner table. If indiscreet things were going to be said, it was better to say them discreetly.
She uncoiled herself from the bar stool. Her eyes were dark. Perhaps it was the lighting. Maybe something else. She was dressed in black. Black dress, simple and elegant. White pearls. Very classic. A classic mourning outfit.
If I hadn’t gotten to know her better, I’d have thought she was very proper.
I pulled my chair close to hers. Leaned forward.
You look beautiful, I said.
She shook her head. No. It wasn’t appropriate.
Interesting, considering some other things she’d thought appropriate.
Louise, I said.
She lifted her head. Her eyes were red.
Emotion. So she was capable of it.
Or maybe she’d just been smoking a little reefer.
Louise, I said. I need your help. I spent some time at the police station. And not voluntarily. They suspect me of involvement in this. Or at least knowing more than I do.
How can I help you? she said weakly. She took a small sip of some extravagant-looking pink drink.
You could start by telling me everything you know.
You could start by giving me my money back.
Oh, Jesus, I said. Of course. Of course I’ll give you your money back. After what happened—
No, Rick. I don’t want my money back. Keep it.
But you just said—
A grieving sister is allowed her little jokes, Mr. Redman.
I wasn’t going to argue. I had more important things to talk about. And anyway … I didn’t have the dough.
/> So, I said, can you tell me what you know?
About what?
My sympathy for the grieving sister was not too slowly turning to suspicion.
About Eloise, I said. What do you think?
Oh, she said, turning her head away. It was a good simulacrum of someone attempting to hide her tears.
And maybe there were tears. For whom, that might be a question.
You can start with this Vladimir guy, I said. Wouldn’t he be suspect number one?
There was a long pause. She took out a long thin cigarette. Lit it. Blew pretty smoke in spiraling rings to the ceiling. Turned to me.
No, she said.
No?
No.
Louise. If you think the answer to that is no, then clearly you know something more than I do. So I’d really appreciate it if you’d share it with me.
Don’t be harsh with me, Rick, she said. Her voice was trembling.
Sorry. But you didn’t have to spend four hours in a tiny overheated locked room at downtown cop heaven. Maybe I’m a little impatient.
I’m sorry that had to happen, she said, with apparent sincerity.
I wasn’t at all sure that it had to happen. But I wasn’t going to argue the point.
She sighed. Blew some more pretty smoke around the room.
I don’t know, she said.
What don’t you know?
I don’t even know that it was murder, Rick, she said, turning to look me straight in the eye.
I sat back. Took a large slug off my scotch. Tried to reconcile what I’d just heard with everything I knew.
It didn’t compute.
What do you mean? I asked. She was bludgeoned. Bruised. There were ligature marks on her neck. Someone had tried to attack her in her home just a week before. If I hadn’t been there, he probably would have killed her right then.
Oh, Rick, she said, shaking her head. Oh, Rick.
I was missing something. I was missing something big.
We were sisters, Rick, she said. Sisters share things.
I thought you weren’t close.
You don’t have to be close to share some kinds of things.
Like?
She lit another cigarette. Her lighter was platinum, had a blue, insistent flame. It took up too much space in the room.
She didn’t answer the question.