Jack of Diamonds

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Jim . . . Jim Negas.’

  I extended my hand, ‘Jack Spayd.’

  He made no move to take it. ‘Nah, poker game, better leave it at that.’

  But this didn’t stop him asking me questions. He knew nothing about jazz and was being far too curious. In fact, he was insulting my intelligence, thinking me just a kid. But when you’re brought up to be polite and respect guys older than you it’s difficult to be rude. Even with Reggie I’d felt a bit guilty making that crack about pigs.

  The guy sitting directly opposite me was a big lummox in farmer’s overalls and a red tartan shirt. He had a strange unblinking stare, snake’s eyes, which he directed at me as if he were trying to establish his dominance over a younger player. Apart from his fixed stare there was something else disconcerting about him: his nails were clean and his fingertips weren’t split and stained with ingrained dirt. As a Cabbagetown kid, I knew about labourers’ hands.

  Negas, the big mouth next to me, was proving a nuisance. Being a polite kid was one thing, but poker has certain unspoken but universal rules, and unless it’s a social game among friends, you keep the chat to a minimum. I realised he was trying to disrupt my concentration. No chance; I’d been trained by Miss Bates to concentrate; he could jabber on all night and it wouldn’t make any difference. I’d simply ignore him.

  The guy sitting next to the so-called farmer was perhaps in his mid-forties, brown hair parted in the centre and slicked down against his skull, the hair oil turning his hair a shade darker. He was in a grey suit typical of a commercial type, necktie, white shirt, a small dark cigarillo stuck unmoving in the corner of his mouth. He hadn’t said a word since entering the room.

  All of them smoked, so that soon the fug was rising towards the high window. I had picked my seat well and most of the smoke drifted away from me.

  It was five-card draw poker, with a fifty dollar buy-in, and no limit on raises, so I needed my wits about me. The first three hands didn’t even render me a pair to start with, so I was watching rather than playing, picking up body movements, anything I could see, which wasn’t much. It was still too early.

  Grover won a small pot, so did Cigarillo and Negas on my left, who made a big fuss over winning a few bucks, again addressing most of his enthusiasm at me. (‘See how it’s done, kid? Whacko!’)

  The next hand I was given a pair of kings, a reasonable start.

  The first bet was from Jabber on my left. ‘Check,’ he called, meaning he wanted to see if any of us would bet before he came in.

  The starter, the farmer type who I’d decided to dub ‘Mr Manicure’, bet two dollars and Cigarillo raised it to four. Grover put in his two bucks to make it six. This meant it would cost me eight bucks to stay in the hand and draw three more cards in an attempt to improve it. I added my chips to the pot in the centre, but apart from the eight dollars I didn’t raise it further. My hand simply wasn’t strong enough, although it could still, with the right three cards, lead to a good one.

  Jabber decided to come in and added ten dollars and took three cards, probably like me trying to improve a pair.

  Mr Manicure, the starter, discarded two cards and Reggie dealt him a further two, dealing each of us in turn the number of cards we’d discarded.

  Doing a quick calculation (not necessarily correct), this possibly meant that before they got their new cards, Mr Manicure had three of a kind; Cigarillo two of a kind; Jabber, like me, two of a kind; Grover maybe two pair and looking for a straight or a flush.

  Everyone arranged their cards and the serious betting began. The three strangers, Jabber, Mr Manicure and Cigarillo, all raised each other’s bets so I had to put in an extra ten just to stay in the game. My cards had fallen the way I needed, with another king and two aces – a full hand – and the two aces meant no one could have a better full hand than the one I held. It was good but not unbeatable if someone had four of a kind.

  I matched the bet. This implied I had something and probably wasn’t bluffing but wasn’t overconfident either.

  Grover threw in his hand; he obviously hadn’t received the cards he needed and there was no point trying to bluff with four of us still in the game. Jabber matched the previous bets and raised it another ten, all the while jabbering in my ear. Mr Manicure only matched Jabber’s bet, saying ‘See ya’. But then Cigarillo raised it another twenty dollars. This meant thirty dollars if I wanted to stay in and at least forty dollars to bet again. I took a hundred from my wallet and bought chips. ‘Your thirty and another thirty,’ I said quietly. Grover gave a soft whistle and at long last Jabber shut up and to my surprise folded. The remaining two players matched my bet and paid to see my hand.

  I wasn’t surprised when both folded their hands without showing them. These guys were giving nothing away. For a moment I toyed with the idea of turning to Jabber and saying, ‘See how it’s done, kid? Whacko!’ But, of course, I didn’t. Poker, well played, means you button your lip and show nothing when you fold. My full house had won, though frankly I would have been unlucky to lose; four of a kind doesn’t happen along too often and straight flushes are even rarer. At least thus far the Spayd luck was holding.

  The stakes were not higher than some of the games I’d played in over the past few months, but the early aggressive start indicated that these guys were serious players. The game was hotting up. This was no friendly game arranged by Reggie Blunt. One wrong move could quite easily cost a hundred bucks. I was already up nearly two hundred but knew it could disappear in a single hand if these guys continued the way they’d started. I didn’t have to be Albert Einstein to know that Jabber, Cigarillo and Mr Manicure were playing to a plan and that Grover and I were on our own.

  The way it went was that if the two of us were still in the game, or if Grover was in on his own, putting in chips to draw the extra cards we needed to attempt to play a winning hand, then they played normally, dropping out or bidding up. But if Grover was out and I was left to play against the three strangers, then they went to town, raising aggressively and forcing me to match or better their bets if I wanted to stay in the game.

  The very beauty of the game of poker is that it is one man against another, individuals daring their particular genius against each other. But when there is collusion, say two or more opponents working together against you, then they can just keep on raising the ante until you drop out and lose the money you’ve put on the table. Unless you have a good stake to start with, possibly more than their combined stake, you lose all your money and walk home with the linings of your pockets on the outside of your trousers.

  If I’d been sensible when I began to suspect what was happening I would have told myself I’d had enough. But it was early, I was ahead, and it’s a kind of unspoken rule that you don’t leave a game early when you’re ahead. It’s . . . well, it’s not done if you want to be invited back.

  Not that I wanted any more of these guys now or in the future. It was becoming increasingly apparent that Reggie Blunt was stitching me up, but why? One of his favourite sayings was, ‘Revenge is a dish best eaten cold,’ but as far as I knew, I hadn’t done anything to upset him. He’d even thanked me for taking his job. But he hadn’t left Moose Jaw to catch up with his possibly mythical grandchildren in Winnipeg. Nevertheless, he’d organised the raffle night. Admittedly he could be a crushing bore, but I’d never been anything but polite, sitting through endless sessions over his ‘whisky with a splash’ and enduring a thousand bad puns. On one occasion Juicy Fruit had remarked casually, ‘Our Reggie isn’t all he seems.’ It was a throwaway line, delivered with a laugh, as if she didn’t want or need to explain further. Then again, her warning tonight had seemed a lot more serious. As the game continued I was beginning to realise that Reggie’s favourite saying about revenge had been intended for me all along. He was going to clean me out. My heart skipped a beat when I remembered that I’d once told him about my mom’s nose money. Holy smoke, I was in deep shit. Cut and run while you can, Jack Spayd. Get the hell outa h
ere, son.

  The only thing keeping me in the game was the extraordinarily good cards I kept getting. Every poker player hears stories of nights when every hand you play turns out perfectly – opponents drop out, the right card turns up to complete your hand and you keep getting better hands than the other players when it comes to a showdown and they call you. Even Jacoby had mentioned this phenomenon in his book. Now it was happening to me.

  Every time they came after me in a combination of two or three I had the hand I needed. I lost a few hands, smaller ones when Grover played and the game normalised, but the big hands where Grover couldn’t afford to be involved kept on falling my way. Three kings would beat their three nines, my straight would beat their three of a kind and the biggest hand of the night to that point was when I held four tens and I beat Cigarillo’s full house of three aces and a pair of eights. It was the first time the cigarillo, which had been unlit throughout the game, jumped in the corner of his mouth. There was an angel sitting on my shoulder; the cards just kept falling my way.

  After two hours or so Fred, Grover’s fireman, appeared. Oh, how I pitied the poor girl he’d been visiting. Reggie invited him to sit in and he glanced at Grover, who shook his head. ‘Thanks, but nah, I’ll just sit in an’ watch for a while,’ Fred said, then jerked a thumb as big as a medium-sized cucumber at the whisky table. ‘Mind if I help meself?’

  Grover’s wordless sign to stay out of the game was unusual. In the previous games we’d played together, Fred was a pretty competent poker player and Grover, playing within his original fifty-dollar stake, was up at least a hundred and fifty, whereas I was up nearly two grand.

  Two thousand dollars! Holy mackerel! Jabber had shut the hell up, but was drinking heavily, and the second bottle of rye was all but gone. Mr Manicure continued to give me the evil eye, not that I cared, and except for the jumping cigarillo, Cigarillo kept his cool.

  After a few more hands where nothing much happened and Grover increased his takings another eighty bucks, Reggie Blunt called a break. ‘I need to get more whisky, gentlemen. Time to stretch your legs.’ But it wasn’t said with the usual Reggie ebullience. Looking into his weepy eyes I could see he was mad as hell or panicking; something was definitely different. The usually urbane pontifical Reggie Blunt was falling to pieces.

  Grover stood up, nodded to Fred and then turned to me. ‘Let’s take a break, kid,’ he said, indicating the door. As we made our way out onto River Street, Girls Etcetera had almost ground to a halt, with no sign of any girls, nor as far as I could make out, any Etcetera, beyond half-adozen drunks in a circle with their arms around each other’s shoulders singing ‘Rosemary’. Out on the street it was a beautiful clear mid-summer night with a near full moon, perfect prairie weather.

  Grover touched me lightly on the shoulder. ‘Say, kid, have you seen these guys before?’

  ‘No, first time; Reggie Blunt set things up. Old friends in town looking for a game, he said.’

  ‘Yeah, thought as much. You’ve had an amazin’ run, Jack. Never seen the likes, but you’ve played your hands damn well.’

  Grover looked over at Fred standing silent, big as a tree stump. ‘Tell him, buddy.’

  ‘Nah, no good them dudes . . . them lot. We played them a while back over in Calgary. Reggie was with them.’

  ‘It was a set-up, kid,’ Grover said, taking over from Fred again. ‘Some poor small-time sodbuster just sold his wheat crop, took him for near four thousand.’

  ‘But . . . but I don’t understand. Why? I’ve done nothing to Reggie.’

  ‘Hey! Whoa, kid, you took his job. He worked half his brothel clients from his piano seat at the Brunswick.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You mean you didn’t know? He owns a share in Madam Rose.’

  ‘You for real?’ I asked, flabbergasted. Like I mentioned before, I thought they might have something going between them, but I never suspected the brothel, that Reggie, for all his bluff and bluster and stories of innocent Olga, was a shareholder in a bordello!

  ‘Had to let four girls go when you nabbed his job,’ Grover said. ‘You’ve cost him a lot of bread, kid.’

  ‘Hates your guts, Jack,’ Fred said, cackling. ‘Tonight’s supposed to teach you a lesson. Only the goddamned furnace fired up and the Jack engine is comin’ full speed down the tracks and they’re in a truck stalled at a crossing.’

  It was a nice compliment but I was smart enough to know I’d been dead lucky and that luck doesn’t hold forever, in fact it can turn on a single card. I was still trying to make sense of the Madam Rose connection. Why hadn’t Juicy Fruit mentioned it? Now I thought about it, it made sense. But this was no time to speculate, I had to turn my attention to the problem at hand. ‘So what next, Grover?’ I asked, genuinely confused and in need of some advice. Then a nasty thought struck me. Why were the two of them in the game? Maybe he and Fred were a part of the scam!

  Grover looked at me steadily. ‘Jack, Reggie isn’t your problem right at this moment. He’s set this up but he was simply relying on the three of them being good enough to take you to the cleaners, suck you dry. The guy with the slicked down hair, the quiet one, he’s the real pro. He pretends to be a commercial traveller, sells lubricants and fancy condoms in whorehouses, probably does it for a cover, but he’s really a professional player. So is the guy with the big mouth.’

  ‘And the big brute, the farmer?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah, the farmer . . . ha ha. Only thing he’d ever do with a pitchfork is stick it up your ass. He’s the muscle, although he’s not a bad player. He’s little league hockey compared to the other two.’

  ‘But how . . . I mean you and Fred . . . ?’

  ‘How do we happen to be in the game?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, it has its advantages. When we get into town it’s an evening spent free with one of Reggie’s girls.’ He glanced over at Fred and chuckled. ‘Though tonight Fred made a deal with a special girl he’s been after for three years, that’s why he come in late. She had another client or something till ten o’clock. Couldn’t see him until after ten-thirty.’

  ‘Great tits,’ Fred added by way of explanation. ‘I’ve wanted her real bad. Got her tonight.’

  ‘First a poke, then a game of poker,’ Grover continued, smiling at his play on words. ‘It’s a good way to spend the evening before we stoke up and pull out for other parts. We’re the first train out in the mornin’.’

  ‘But you just said this game is rigged.’

  ‘Not for us, Jack. The game is straight for Fred and me. We carry our own muscle and we give the game a wholesome look, so people like you can be . . . enticed . . . is that the word? Yeah, brought in so the game doesn’t look like a set-up. You would have seen for yourself, there’s no screwing around when I’m in the game and generally I can get out without losing my pot. Tonight’s been good, I’m well up.’ He glanced at Fred. ‘Kid’s brought me luck.’

  ‘So why are you taking the trouble to warn me?’

  ‘Madam Rose. She usually doesn’t interfere. But she told us to look after you. She must have a soft spot somewhere after all, though you could have fooled me. Said to never mind Reggie, she didn’t want you harmed or cheated.’

  ‘Thanks, Grover, Fred. I’m obliged. But what now? Head on home?’

  Grover shook his head. ‘No, cain’t do that, Jack. Not smart. If you hadn’t been gettin’ them great hands we’d have taken you aside before you got cleaned out and told you to get the hell outa the game. But with what you’ve won you cain’t cut and run now. They’ll sure as hell come and get you. Mess you up some and take your winnings. The tall lummox playing Farmer Joe is a bad case. Don’t got no conscience like other folk. There’s a fancy name for it.’

  ‘Psychopath?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. Tough hombre, got no conscience,’ he repeated, ‘kill yer and then eat a big breakfast. Fred here could handle him, but I don’t know anyone else who could.’

  ‘So I stay in the game?�
�� I said fearfully.

  ‘Got no choice. Reggie’s got his ass in a crack. He’s got them over here specially. Give them the full free whorehouse treatment and a chance to clean up. But between us we’ve taken them for the better part of three grand. They don’t mind me getting a small share. Matter of fact, it makes it look like a straight game. Which, like I said, it is, when Fred and me are sitting in. But tonight you’ve took the birthday cake and all the candles so there’s no party.’ He grinned. ‘By the way, you play real smart poker, Jack. But all I can say is you must be fucking Lady Luck or something. Never seen anything like it. You’re the problem, kid.’

  ‘But if my luck holds, then it gets even worse?’

  ‘Dead right, deep shit,’ Fred allowed.

  Grover then asked, ‘Do you know what a cold deck is, Jack?’

  ‘Yeah, sure, the dealer swaps the deck for a stacked one, dealing the players the hands he wants them to get.’ I’d read about it in Jacoby’s book.

  ‘That’s correct, he’ll give you something crazy, a routine or a running flush, something you think can’t miss, then he’ll give one of them a higher routine that will beat yours.’

  ‘So I’ll just keep on betting until it’s all in the centre?’

  ‘Yeah, down to your last cent. They’ll suggest we make it a no-limit game.’

  Fred nodded. ‘That’s when you know the fix is in. That Reggie’s gonna top-swap the deck.’

  ‘Too right, that and the crazy good hand he deals for you. They’ll believe that with the great hands you’ve been getting all night, you’ll think it’s your luck holding.’

  ‘What if I throw in my hand?’ I asked.

  Fred looked at Grover. ‘The kid ain’t no idjit.’

  ‘That’s it. They won’t know what to do. Nobody in his right mind would throw in a hand like the one you’ll’ve just been dealt.’

  Fred chuckled. ‘They’ll think Reggie Blunt stuffed up and you didn’t get the hand they’d planned.’

  ‘I’ll throw in as well. Be nice to see the bastards squirm,’ Grover added.