“Liar’s dice,” Calypso said with a smile. “Individual-hand style. A simple little game of chance and skill.”
“And what do you want me to put on the table?”
Calypso took a drag from his cigarette, studying me through the haze. I felt like he was peeling me back, layer by layer, measuring how badly I wanted the contract and what he could get in return.
“One year of your life.”
I tried to look like the proposal didn’t faze me. In any contest of wits, steady nerves are half the battle. If you don’t have them, fake them.
“Front end or back end?” I asked.
“Back end. Memories aren’t worth a thing to me. Now and then, though, I get a client who wants to live just a little longer. Five years, ten years, enough time to appreciate what they’ve got. Those years have to come from someplace. Every man has his time to go, and your candle will burn out exactly one year sooner than its appointed date.”
“Daniel,” Caitlin said warningly.
“Could we have a second?” I said to Calypso.
He slowly rose from his chair. “Take your time,” he said. “Need to freshen up.”
I waited until he was out of earshot—I hoped—and leaned in.
“Cait, I have a plan, but we’re going to need that contract to swing Roth. It’s worth the risk.”
“A year of your life?”
“On the back end,” I said. “And if Lauren wins, I’m gonna lose all the years left in my life, along with everybody else on Earth. Look…if you really don’t want me to do this, I won’t. But I believe it’s worth taking a chance.”
She reached out and put her hand over mine. She looked me in the eye.
“All right,” she said, “here are the rules. He has to play fair, and so do you. That means following the spirit of the game. He can bluff, he can use wordplay, he can mislead within reason, but he can’t use loaded dice or cast a spell to swing the outcome. He likes games where you have to read people’s faces, because he’s been doing it for a very, very long time. You’ve never played against anybody this good.”
“Oh, I doubt that. You’ve never played Scrabble with Bentley. He has all the X, Y, and Z words in the dictionary memorized. Triple word score, every time.”
She squeezed my hand. “Please, Daniel. Take this seriously.”
I leaned in closer. I couldn’t resist a kiss at her earlobe as I whispered, “See? I’m nervous as hell, and I made myself look flippant. Trust me, I can take this guy.”
Calypso came back and slid into his chair, looking between us with an unspoken question on his lips.
“Let’s do this,” I said.
He smiled.
“Did your lady explain the rules?”
I nodded. “We play by the spirit of the game.”
Now there were two identical leather cups on the table and two sets of dice, as if they’d always been there.
“Then let’s play,” Calypso said.
Individual-hand liar’s dice is a stripped-down version of the real game. It’s a two-player showdown based on a little luck and a lot of bluffing. I scooped up the bones and spilled them into the cup, keeping my palm pressed over its mouth as I gave it a shake. All the while my eyes were fixed on Calypso’s face, roaming from his forehead to his lips, trying to get a read on his expressions.
They say that everybody has a tell. That’s not true. Everybody has lots of tells. There are over forty muscles in the human face, working in concert with thousands of possible ways to put your feelings on display to the world. Add in little twitches, shrugs of the shoulder, or the curl of a finger, and the number of tells—and the number of possible interpretations—is too many to count.
Show me a stone poker face when you’ve been expressive all night, and I know you’re hiding something. The right way to bluff isn’t to throw up a wall, because it can’t be done. What you want to do is mix your signals, throw up so many conflicting reads that your opponent can’t possibly get a fix on what you’re thinking. Baffle them with noise, not silence.
I slapped the cup onto the table mouth-down and listened to the dice rattle. We peeked under our cups at the same time, tilting the rims back. I had three twos, a one, and a five. Three of a kind, solid hand.
“Runt,” I said, calling the lowest hand. Calypso stared me down long enough to turn the silence into a weapon. His quiet patience grated at my nerves. I willed my shoulders to unclench and thought of a dirty joke Corman had told me a couple of days ago. The amused smile that rose to my lips was smooth and genuine, just not related to the game at hand.
“Pair,” he said.
Now I could call his bluff, raise my own bid, or roll my dice again. Sticking with my hand felt like the safest move. By the odds, he probably didn’t have a runt—a no-combination roll—so he most likely wasn’t bluffing.
“Two pair,” I said.
“Three of a kind,” he shot back, upping the bid without skipping a heartbeat. I blinked, rattled.
Now I was leaving safe harbor. If I upped the bid past the real hand under my cup and he called me on it, he won. Was he bluffing? It didn’t feel right. He was confident. Not the kind of bluster you see from someone overplaying their hand, but the quiet confidence that comes from a winning hand.
I didn’t like it. I needed to mix things up.
“Rolling again,” I said. “All five dice.”
The bones rattled in my cup and bounced on the table. I kept my face slack as I looked underneath. Now I had nothing but a lousy pair. I’d landed in the exact same boat I’d tried to jump out of, and it had just sprung a leak.
“Low straight,” I said, upping the bid.
Calypso smiled like a wolf.
“Liar.”
My stomach clenched. We both uncovered our dice at the same time. I sat there, exposed with my single pair. On his side of the table, a scattering of mismatched and worthless dice.
“You had a runt,” I said.
“What do you know? Looks like I did, looks like I did.”
Caitlin’s hands clenched on the edge of the table, knuckles turning white.
“What now?” I asked him.
Calypso reached out across the table, like a gentleman.
“We shake hands on a game well-played.”
I took his hand. He took my life.
It didn’t hurt, not like a punch or a burn or a shock, nothing on the level my flesh could understand. It hurt like racing to meet a lover at the airport, only to get caught up in traffic and miss her flight. It hurt like discovering you’ve forgotten your mother’s face, and you don’t have any photographs left. It hurt like realizing a decade just slipped out from under you, and you don’t have anything but missed opportunities and empty bottles to show for it.
He let go and gave me a firm nod.
“I appreciate a man who pays his debts,” he said. “Respect.”
“Again,” I said.
Caitlin’s eyes widened. “Daniel—”
“Again,” I said, harder.
Calypso nodded and waved his hand slowly across the table, gesturing to the dice. We rolled and slapped our cups down at the same time.
Two sixes and three ones. Full house. Strong hand. He went first this time, bidding a runt. I upped it to a pair.
“Think I might just roll again,” he said, scooping up his dice.
He didn’t like his old hand, but that didn’t mean his new one was any better. His cheeks tightened when he tipped back his cup. Just a little. Just enough for me to notice.
“Two pair,” he said.
I pretended to mull it over. “Three of a kind.”
“Low straight.” His voice caught on the “low,” the faintest edge of a nervous hitch.
My fingers curled against moist palms. Time to lay it on the line.
“Liar,” I said.
We lifted our cups. He ran his fingertips over his bone dice, arranging them in a neat little row. One, two, three, four, five. A low straight. If I had pushed hi
m for one more round, he would have been in the danger zone. So he made sure I didn’t.
“Sorry, son,” he said. “Guess this just isn’t your night.”
He extended his hand. I took it firmly in mine, without flinching. I paid my debt. The sense of loss washed over me like an early winter, when you’ve lived long enough to start wondering how many summers you’ve got left. I put my hands in my lap to keep anyone from seeing them tremble.
Calypso shook his head, looking almost regretful. “That’s two years of your life gone, son. An old man can do a lot with two years if he puts his mind to it. Out of respect to your lady, I think we’d best—”
“Five years,” I blurted.
They stared at me. I wasn’t sure whether Calypso or Caitlin looked more shocked.
“Five years,” I said. “Last game, last try. Five more years of my life against the contract. Except this time we play a different game.”
Calypso quirked a smile. “Hell, son, I’ll give you points for moxie. What’s the game?”
I took the deck of cards from my hip pocket and set them down on the table.
“Three-card monte. I deal, you pick one card. You find the queen, you get five years of my life, and I go home a loser. You fail, I get the contract. Deal?”
I shot a glance at Caitlin and touched her knee under the table, gently. Trust me. She didn’t look too confident, but she gave me a slight nod.
Calypso ashed his cigarette and took a sip of whiskey while he thought it over. Suddenly, he rapped his knuckles on the table and stood up.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, making his way over to the crowded bar.
Caitlin squeezed my hand under the table and whispered, “What are you doing? He just beat you twice without even trying. Is this some sort of pride thing? Calypso’s a legend, Daniel. I won’t think any less of you for walking away from the table.”
I lifted her hand to my lips, and kissed the curve of her fingers. “Trust me. I think I’ve got him figured out. Besides, the monte isn’t a game, it’s a hustle.”
“You think he doesn’t know that?”
“Oh, he knows it,” I said. “In fact, I’m counting on him knowing it.”
I fiddled with my deck, idly shuffling, until Calypso returned. He held up a fresh pack of cards, still sealed in cellophane.
“We play,” he said, peeling the translucent plastic open, “but not with your cards. With these.”
My shoulders tensed. I forced myself to nod and smile. “Fine.”
He handed me the open pack, and I shook the cards out into my palm. Smooth, glossy, never creased, and slick as grease. I fanned out the deck on the table, so they could both see every move I made. I slid out the queen of hearts and held it up.
“Behold, the lady fair,” I said. “This is the money card. Keep your eye on her, she’s more slippery than she looks.”
The jack of spades and the jack of clubs joined the queen of hearts, and the other cards went back in the pack, set off to the side. I flipped the blue-backed cards facedown, then picked up two in my left hand and one in my right.
In any game of three-card monte, the opening throw is the most crucial. A good operator learns how to make a deal from the top of two cards look like a deal from the bottom, and vice versa. Before you even start shuffling the cards around, the mark is already looking in the wrong place. Get that right and the game is yours.
The three cards hit the table. A perfect bottom deal, undetectable and designed to throw Calypso off the trail.
His unblinking gaze darted straight to the middle card. Straight to the queen.
Twenty-Nine
I took a deep breath and laid my fingertips on the outer cards, swapping them, jumping to the middle card and sliding it around to the left, keeping them in constant motion. As I did, an old patter line spilled from my lips, words dancing to the beat of the cards.
“It’s a little game from Kathmandu, the black for me, the red for you. One gets you five, and five gets you ten. I don’t get mad when I lose, I get happy when I win. Hey, diddle diddle, the queen’s in the middle. Now, sir—”
I pulled my hands back. The three cards lay on the table between us, facedown and anonymous, waiting for Calypso’s choice.
“Tell me,” I said, “can you spot the queen? Where’s that slippery lady hiding out now?”
Calypso lifted his chin. He smiled, almost condescending, as his finger hovered over each card…then lifted to point at my arm.
“The queen,” he said, “is up your right sleeve, tucked into your watchband.”
I’d been holding my breath while he chose. I let it all out in one sigh, deflating.
“I’ll be taking my five years now,” he said.
I reached out and flipped over the middle card. Showing him the queen of hearts.
“Don’t think so,” I said. “Weird choice, too. I mean, I told you the queen was in the middle. Weren’t you listening?”
Caitlin flashed a sly smile, like she knew it all along, but I could see the relief in her eyes. Calypso just stared, brow furrowed, as he tried to figure out what he’d missed.
“Pull up your sleeve,” he said, wagging his finger. “I can see the corner of a card poking out there.”
“What, this?” I said.
I tugged out the hidden card and held it up. It was the six of diamonds. I turned it around to show him the twined red dragons on the back, not the blue back from the deck he’d chosen.
“This is one of my cards,” I said. “I slipped it up my sleeve while you were over at the bar, before the game even started. Then I let you see it while I was shuffling. Your assumptions did the rest of the work for me.”
Calypso quirked an eyebrow. Then he laughed, a deep and hearty rumble, lifting his glass and tossing back a swig of whiskey.
“Spirit of the game,” I said. “We both know that three-card monte is a grift. Therefore cheating is in the spirit of the game. You assumed I chose the monte because I thought I could pull one over on you with some simple carny tricks. I chose it because I knew I couldn’t. I did the one thing you didn’t expect.”
I tapped the queen.
“I played fair.”
“Well,” Calypso said, reaching into his suit coat. “That was nicely done, son. Like you said, I don’t get mad when I lose. I get happy when I win. This is yours, fair and square.”
He took a furled sheaf of papers from inside his coat, rolled up and bound with a black silk ribbon, and handed it over to me. I raised my glass to him with my free hand.
“Cheers,” I said. “And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about this.”
He laughed again, looking incredulous. “You won’t? Why you’d better, or I’m gonna have to do all the work.”
It was my turn to be baffled.
“Wait,” I said, “you want people to know you lost a bet? I thought the whole point with you guys is that you never lose.”
Calypso looked over at Caitlin. “M’lady fair, you need to school this boy.”
“Can’t say I don’t try,” she said, sipping her whiskey.
“I deal in stories,” Calypso said. “Stories of temptation and ruin, of damnation and repentance, risk and reward. Let me lay one on you. Once upon a time, there was a boy named Johnny. He was a fiddle player, swore he was the best there’d ever been.”
“Yeah,” I said. “‘Devil Went Down to Georgia.’ I’ve heard the song. Everybody has.”
Calypso snorted. “Don’t interrupt a storyteller. For the record, the real deal went down in Tennessee, back in the nineteen twenties. Johnny wagered his soul against a fiddle of gold, betting he could outplay the devil himself. Well, a dark and handsome stranger who he thought was the devil, anyway.”
“In the song, Johnny wins,” I said.
“And that’s just how it happened. Except for one little detail.”
Calypso beckoned us closer. Caitlin and I leaned against the table to listen as he dropped his voice low.
“That
boy,” he said with a grin, “couldn’t fiddle for shit. Sounded like beating a sackful of cats with a hickory stick.”
“You…let him win?” I said.
“Mm-hmm. I’d been in a slump. Then there’s good old Johnny, holding aloft his golden fiddle—which he never did learn to play worth a lick—and bragging to everyone from Appalachia to the Florida shore that he beat the devil and won a prize. Put a lot of bad ideas in people’s heads. Bad for them, anyway. Good for my business. And as for good old Johnny, well…pride’s a terrible sin.”
“Art,” Caitlin told me. She left it at that.
“You beat me fair and square today,” Calypso said, “and that’s something that has to happen once in a while, just every once in a while, to spice up the story. It’s the reward to the risk, the pot of gold everyone who buys a lottery ticket dreams about even though they’ll never, ever win. Every once in a while, some clever son of a gun has to beat the devil. That’s what makes everyone else think they can do it, too.”
Calypso finished his drink and laced his fingers together, cracking his knuckles.
“Besides,” he said, “I’m walking away with two years of your life tucked in my back pocket. That’s not bad for a lazy night. Best of luck to both of you, and I hope that paper helps you out some. Remember, you can play with Roth all you want, just make sure he lives through it. Don’t step on my toes, and I won’t step on yours.”
“He’s not the person we’re after,” I said. “He’s just going to help us get to her.”
Calypso reached down and tugged up the strap of a big black guitar case. He slung it over his shoulder and stood, pushing his chair back.
“Now, I know you’re on a tight schedule,” he told us, “but I’m just about to go up on stage and do a little set. Keeps me from getting rusty. If you’ve got any love in your heart for the Delta blues, I’d be honored to have you stay a while.”
“We’d love to!” Caitlin gushed, squeezing my knee hard enough to make my leg ache. She beamed like a teenager in the sixties who had just been offered front-row tickets to a Beatles concert.
“Sure,” I said, nodding slowly. “Sounds good.”
Daniel Faust 03 - The Living End Page 18
