“Ordinarily I’d say yes, but if you’re unemployed now, that’ll be a little trickier.”
“Please, Doctor. Who else do I turn to? Who else do I ask for help? My wife is dead. I have no job. My friends are all as broke as me.”
“I’m sorry, Alex. Isn’t there something you can do to raise the money?”
“If I had the time, sure. But how can I make enough money in time?”
“Do you have a skill of some sort? You’re good with computers; how can you turn that into cash? Are you good with anything else?”
* * *
Alex stopped in to see Daisy before he left. He wondered if this would be the last time he’d see her alive. In such a deep slumber, she already looked dead. Her arms were as thin as the IV needle in the crook of her elbow. Purple shadowed her eyelids. Daisy was thin as a stem, pallid as a petal.
His heart fisted, and he fought to keep his nausea down.
People said she looked more like Alex than her mother and, until she turned ten, he believed them. Now, she was the very photo of Shelia. She may have been her ghost.
He kissed her forehead while the sun set behind him in the window. He hated hospitals, hated the smell of antiseptic and the soft padded footfalls of the nurse. He wanted desperately to scoop her up and rush her out the door, to take her home and let her live out her final days with Dad in the comfort of their home, but that would kill her faster than anything else. As long as there was a chance, he had to take it. He knelt beside her, took her hand and squeezed it. He spoke softly, through tears.
“Daddy has to go now, just for a little while.”
The thought of leaving her there in the hospital with no one next to her nauseated him, but he had to take the chance. Quickly, he left her a note, a daisy, and the newest edition of her Seventeen magazine. “I love you, Daisy. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” Then, for the first time in months, he walked out of the hospital.
* * *
Back in Vegas, he tried to forget the image of his dying daughter and focus on the task at hand. He let the neon lights of the strip illuminate him, warm him like a surrogate sun. He drove the roads from memory, as if he’d never left. He turned off the strip, drove north a few miles, and parked outside a rectangle of a building, little more than a box with stucco. The lighted sign read Cards @ Ginos. Here was his best shot at curing his daughter.
He got out of his clunker into the warm summer evening, pocketed his keys, and walked inside the smoke filled casino, to the table in the back room. The man in the red hat was in his seat. He thought to tell him so, until he remembered he’d left it twelve years ago at his new wife’s behest. To the left of Red Hat was a young man with a large pile of small chips. He looked 21, perhaps celebrating his birthday. Across from him was an elderly gentleman in a camelhair jacket. Alex guessed him to be on the down side of his seventies. The table offered the diverse crowd a large pot, and an open seat. He sat between Red Hat and Camelhair, sliding his final paycheck to the dealer.
“We don’t cash checks here.” The dealer only looked a few years older than his daughter, and she didn’t smile.
Small Chips laughed. “Rookie.”
A fog of blue smoke emanated from the cigar hanging between Red Hat’s teeth. Gino’s had hardly changed; scotch in unwashed glasses, green felt stained a forest hue from glasses left too long, and dealers in red, black, and white uniforms. But policy, it seemed, had changed.
He sighed, felt his spirit slipping. A five hour marathon car drive in a too-old Chevy, two stops at grimy gas stations for soda and bathroom breaks, a flat tire and an overheated radiator had come to this: they no longer cashed checks.
“Cash it,” a man said. He stood behind the dealer, wore a black vest and slick gel. “Alex is good for it.”
Alex smiled. “Gino. You let your hair get gray?”
“You let yours fall out.” He slid Alex a small stack of chips. “Been too long. Where’ve you been? Still with that waitress friend of yours?”
Alex shook his head, swallowed hard. “Not for a year.”
“Too bad. You looked good together. How long you in town?”
Alex counted his chips and wished for more. He normally started with twice this much. He’d have to play smart and aggressive, especially since Red Hat, Camelhair, and Small Chips all seemed to have nearly three times what Alex had. He was a bleeding fish in a pool of sharks. “Just long enough to win a little.”
In three hours, Alex played a week’s worth of poker. Small Chips, who often seemed more interested in the dealer than in winning, found his large pile waning. Red Hat and Alex split a number of hands. Camelhair never spoke, and grew accustomed to losing. He’d taken a hand or two, but only when everyone else folded.
“I’m in.” Red Hat tossed five fifty dollar chips in the middle of the table. His face flushed; a nervous sign. Bluffing. He slid his chips when he had a hand, and tossed them when he didn’t.
Camelhair held his cards loosely. His stringy gray hair covered the sides and back of his head; a hoary hippy crown. The charcoal lenses of his sunglasses covered his eyes, though the dim light of the room made them highly impractical. He matched the bet and nodded.
Small Chips did likewise. “Count me in, gentlemen. Y’all should just fold now and save yourselves the trouble.”
His brashness was like a rash, but he was foolhardy, and prone to losing large. He was the kind of guy who’d forfeit the pair to fill the straight and try to bluff his way out of his mistake.
Alex swirled a tawny liquid in the stained glass in front of him and returned it to the felt covered table. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He wiped it with the back of his sleeve. The bet was to him. Two pair, Jacks over eights. Not the best hand, but good enough to win. He called.
Red Hat spread his cards face up on the table. “Pair of aces.”
Camelhair flipped his cards. He also had two pair, eights over fives. Close, but not enough to take the pot.
Small Chips threw his cards on the table: pair of jacks.
Alex collected the pot.
Small Chips shuffled his chips, a trick Alex guessed he’d picked up from watching poker tournaments. His style of play seemed to beg for more practice and less study. Hope bloomed in his heart. Suddenly, five thousand dollars seemed possible, so long as these three stayed at the table.
The dealer shuffled the cards and dealt a new hand. Alex checked his cards. A queen and a three wasn’t much of a hand, but it was impossible to win if he didn’t stay in. Hold’em was a long game with four betting rounds, plenty of opportunity for the pot to grow. He took a chip from his stack and threw it in the middle. “Twenty-five,” he said. A good opening bet. Not too much, not too little.
Red Hat scratched his thick lumberjack beard. He pulled his crimson sweat-stained hat down on his forehead, hiding his eyes. He held his cards one behind the other close to his chest with one calloused hand. The other slid a blue-and-white chip to the pot. A good hand, Alex thought. Maybe an ace? Maybe a pair?
Camelhair nodded. He wore the collar of his jacket flipped up. Salty stubble covered his jowls. He curved his cards in his hands, a nervous habit. He’d lit a Cuban cigar and rested it in a yellow ashtray beside him. Slowly, he pushed a stack of ten fifty-dollar chips toward the middle of the table. He didn’t look up from his cards, nor did he speak.
“That’s five hundred dollars, old man,” Red Hat said. “You can’t be serious.”
Camelhair shrugged.
A bluff. He’d been betting low all night. A bet so far out of the ordinary play style had to be a bluff. Or had he simply been setting the table up all night long?
Small Chips leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Trying to buy the pot?” He tossed his chips into the middle of the table. “Not tonight.”
The bet was back to Alex. He couldn’t risk that
much money with a queen and a three. He had a daughter to think of. But with Small Chips staying in, the pot might grow exponentially. It would help if he could just see a few more cards, but he’d have to buy them, and the sticker price was four hundred and seventy-five dollars. Alex consulted his cards, and, if he didn’t know better, would have sworn that the queen winked at him. “All right. You got me.” He matched his bet and swallowed hard. “Call.”
Red Hat grimaced. He drummed his fingers on the thinning felt. “Sorry guys. I wanna play, but not at those stakes.” He exchanged his cards for a short glass of Irish whiskey.
Camelhair sat silently, head angled down toward the card or the pot, Alex couldn’t tell which. His drink, ordered and paid for by Small Chips, sat mere inches from his hands, still full.
“It’s to you,” Alex reminded him.
Camelhair nodded.
“All right gentlemen.” The dealer flipped three cards into the flop. “Good luck.” Ace of clubs, queen of diamonds, and three of clubs. Unbelievable. Two pair. An excellent hand.
Bet low, keep them guessing, string them along and keep them betting. “Fifty.”
Camelhair scratched his nose. His shaky hand slid a stack of five fifties into the pot. Alex swallowed hard.
“Unreal,” Red Hat whispered. “That’s over seven hundred dollars in two rounds. You’ve snapped.”
With a queen and an ace on the table, the old man could be trying to fill a straight. Chances of him filling a straight were slim. He must have a pair. Aces? That’d be enough to get him betting.
Yes, he must have a pair. But Alex had two.
“I call.” Disappointment colored Small Chips’ voice. Must be trying to fill a five card hand. A flush? Two clubs showed; he must have two more.
Anxiety smoldered inside Alex. What if he lost? He should fold, but he’d already invested five hundred dollars. He couldn’t drop out now; it’d be a complete waste. “Call,” he said.
“Here’s the turn.” The dealer flipped the next card: Queen of spades.
Alex buried a smile under his poker face. A full house was a tremendous hand. It even beat a flush. There were only two better hands: A straight flush and four of a kind. The only pair on the table was the queens; no one could have four of a kind. And there was no way to fill any kind of a straight with the cards showing.
Alex must be in the clear. Time to see how much faith Camelhair had in his hole cards. He slid three hundred and fifty dollars into the pot.
Camelhair deliberated, then matched the bet, his trembling hands still cradling his cards.
“You guys are insane,” Small Chips said as he matched the bet quickly.
The dealer flipped the final card: the ace of hearts.
Two aces? Could Camelhair have two more? No. Red Hat sounded disappointed when he folded, like he’d been cheated out of a good hand. He must have had an ace. And if he did, that meant Alex would win. “It’ll cost you another three hundred and fifty to stay in.”
The aged man held tightly to his cards.
Alex had him.
Camelhair’s quivering fist pushed another five hundred dollars in.
Alex blinked twice.
Small Chips folded with a grunt.
Alex stared at the old man. He’d come too far to fold. He closed his eyes and thought of Daisy, then checked his chips. It would cost him everything to stay in the game. He felt as if he had swallowed Rhode Island. His stomach churned acid and he wanted to throw up. He said, “Forgive me, Daisy,” and slid his chips in.
Camelhair furrowed his brow, his lips pulling thin in a frown and spoke his first word of the evening. “Call.” His voice sounded like he’d been gargling razor blades.
Alex showed his cards. “Full house. Queens over threes.”
Camelhair smiled nervously, exposing yellow teeth, then turned his cards face down on the table. “You win,” he whispered in a thick Russian accent as he rose from his chair. He extended his hand. “Quite a game that was. You play an excellent hand.”
Alex matched his stature and gripped Camelhair’s hand firmly. His poker face dissolved into a broad smile.
He’d won.
Daisy would be okay.
Camelhair gathered his few remaining chips, shoved them in the pocket of his ridiculous jacket, nodded to Red Hat and Small Chips, and made his way out of the back poker room.
“Amazing hand,” Red Hat said. “Glad I folded when I did.”
“Thanks,” Alex pulled in the pot and organized the mound of chips in neat, orderly rows by color and size. Then, out of divine curiosity, he collected Camelhair’s cards to slide to the dealer: two aces.
Four of a kind.
Alex lost.
Chapter 28
Tuesday, September 8th
I leaned back in the chair and put my hands behind my head. Either he’d left something out of his story, or I’d missed something vital in my fog of exhaustion. “You lost?”
Alex stared at the ceiling. “I would have, if the old man had stuck around.”
“So what’s a casino do in a situation like that?”
Alex coughed; he grimaced and his face soured. “Blood don’t taste too good, especially on top of hospital food.” He spit in a pink basin beside his bed. “They counted it as Camelhair folding, so I took the pot.”
“He had to know he had the better hand.”
Alex agreed. “Wouldn’t be playing at Gino’s if he didn’t.”
Mason spoke from his bed. “Sounds like a miracle to me.”
Alex’s lips parted in a grim smile. “Some people, the pros, they’ll lose on purpose to claim it as a tax write off.”
I furrowed my brow. “So he loses a few thousand to save a few hundred?”
“I’m not sure how all that works, but it does. Happened all the time when I lived in Vegas.”
I scratched my neck and yawned. “Well, at any rate, the story has a happy ending. At least you got the surgery for Daisy, right?”
Alex frowned. “She got the surgery.”
“She okay?”
Alex coughed and spat again. “She’s fine. Up with her grandmother back in Vegas.”
I nodded, folding my arms across my chest. “Why’s that?”
He struggled to move a bit and groaned with the effort. “Winning got to me. Fell back into old habits, talked to the wrong people.”
“So you got roughed up?”
Pain thickened his voice. “Daisy’s safer in Vegas, away from me.” I couldn’t imagine the sorrow he’d felt over the last few months. To save his daughter’s life and lose her because of a gambling addiction; my heart cramped thinking about it. I stood up and stretched. “Listen, Alex. You can get some help and beat this gambling thing.”
“Thanks, Connor. Do me a favor? Don’t mention where I am in your story?”
I smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
* * *
That evening, I finally found a welcome respite from the bedlam of the last few days. After typing up Alex’s story, Nadine and I watched mindless television. It felt good. Aside from the nurses traipsing in and out with IV medications, pills, and bad food, it almost felt like a night at home again. I made a quick trip to the vending machine and bought a couple candy bars and a bag of popcorn. I’d never imagined I could sleep so soundly, especially on a huddle of armless chairs.
When I woke, Nadine’s color had returned, and she smiled.
“Looks like you slept better than I did.”
The sun rose and poured through the window like pink lemonade. I’d used my coat as a blanket. I stood up, slipped my jacket on, and stretched. Pain arced through my back. My neck stiffened, like I had whiplash.
I couldn’t have been happier. “You’re up early.”
She nodde
d. “Nurses woke me up. I’m surprised they didn’t disturb you.”
“I could have slept through a hurricane.”
She smiled. “I’m glad. You needed that.”
I kissed her. “I don’t deserve you.” I ran my hand from her shoulder down her arm, over the crook of her elbow and just short of her hand where the IV needle was taped. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d move on. You’re a survivor. You’re a fighter.”
I shook my head. “I wish I had your confidence.”
Aida walked in with two coffees. She handed me one and said, “Morning.”
“How’d you sleep?” The bags under her eyes answered my question before I even asked it.
“Not nearly as well as you, apparently.”
I took the coffee and thanked her. It was hot with enough cream and sugar to qualify it as a dessert. I didn’t complain. The sweetness in the morning was a nice change.
“Toothpaste in the bathroom, toothbrushes in the gift shop. You can use Nadine’s shower. She won’t mind, and I know I won’t.”
“I appreciate your subtlety.”
“I aim to please.” She sat down and crossed her legs, leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “I need a nap.”
“Before you do that,” I said, “can we talk shop?”
She didn’t open her eyes. “Shoot.”
“I’ve got a couple more interviews to do. Since Tyler didn’t work out the way we hoped, I wanted to know if you could think of anyone else I might talk to. What do you think of Doctor Slate? Mason mentioned he opened a free clinic in Hailey.”
She shrugged. “Funny. Dr. Slate’s in prison.”
“Are you kidding? What for?”
“Free clinics are expensive, so he found a way to make a little extra money: selling prescriptions.”
Nadine’s eyes widened. “Selling drugs?”
“All over the papers.” Aida tucked her knees into her chest and rested her head on the back of the chair. She looked about as interested in the conversation as a child listening to a presidential debate. “Media’s been calling him Doctor Druggie. Cute, eh?”
The Bargain - One man stands between a destitute town and total destruction. Page 25