by JF Freedman
The living room of the penthouse is huge, at least two thousand square feet. A bank of windows lines one wall. From this perch you can see the lights of the Strip and the city glimmering far below, the suburbs beyond that, then the outskirts, and finally the endless stretches of desert.
There are six players in this game, all men in their late middle age. The deal passes clockwise around the table in turn. The dealer calls the game, draw or stud. The ante is one thousand dollars per hand, with no limits on the amounts of the bets. All the players have stacks of chips in front of them in various sizes and colors. Besides the players there are two hostesses provided by the hotel, both of them former Penthouse centerfolds, who are there to get the players anything they want, food or drink, compliments of the house. This is cherry duty—only the cream of the women who work for the casino pull it. Every two hours the players take a twenty-minute break, at which time they may, if they choose, ask the hostesses to provide other services as well. Nothing is denied, except drugs. All the players have smaller suites on this floor or the one directly below, also on the house.
The only other person in the room is a representative of the hotel. He’s there to make sure nothing goes wrong. These are all very wealthy men playing in this game, and their comfort and security is paramount.
The house serves as the bank. It takes a small percentage for doing so, and for providing the facilities and all the amenities. These men have accounts here, they’re good for whatever they need to be, that’s been established over the years. Some men, these six and many others, have been playing cards and gambling other ways in this and other Vegas hotels for decades. Some of them have lost tens of millions of dollars. One man who owned a professional sports franchise lost $85 million over ten years. Another, one of the most popular singers in the world, once lost four million in one night.
The men have been playing for several hours. Two of them have large stacks of chips piled in front of them. The other four don’t. Frederick is one of the latter group.
The dealer, a plump man named Easton, who is one of the biggest car dealers in the Pacific Northwest, is sitting two seats to Frederick’s right. Easton is a major-league gambler who wins more than he loses. Right now he’s winning big. The other winner is the man sitting to Frederick’s left. His name is Simpson, and he is a corporate lawyer out of New York.
“Stud poker,” Easton announces.
He deals the first card facedown in turn around the table. No one lifts to peek. Card number two follows, again facedown. Then the third card—up.
Easton surveys the table, calling the up card in front of each player. “Jack of hearts.” His voice is flat, no inflection. “Four of clubs. Seven of clubs. Queen of clubs. Ten of spades. And the dealer has a six of diamonds. Queen bets.”
Frederick has the four of clubs. He glances at his hole cards. One is the king of clubs. He has the makings of a club flush at this point, although there are already a lot of clubs showing. Still, worth finding out. He glances around at the others. They’re all concentrating on their hands and the cards in front of the other players.
The player showing the queen is Calvin Rogers. From Dallas, real estate. A tall rangy man, from mid-distance he looks like the actor James Coburn, especially with that thick head of long white hair. Frederick’s been playing in card games with Rogers for a dozen years. Win or lose, the man keeps coming back. Like all the others in this room.
“Five hundred,” Rogers says, throwing a chip into the pot. He has a distinct West Texas accent.
“See you,” says the man to his left, a diamond merchant from South Africa named Leewourk, who flies in once a month to play in these games. He tosses in a chip. The pile in front of him is getting low.
Easton throws in his chip without comment. The player to his left and Frederick’s right is Mark Taylor, the movie star. Of all the players in the game, he is the most fidgety. He looks at his hole card, at the pot, at his hole card again. Like Leewourk’s, his stack is in serious decline.
“Your play,” Easton nudges him.
Taylor looks at the cards one more time. Then he turns his second card facedown and pushes them away from him, towards the middle of the table. “I’ll sit this one out, thank you,” he says, flashing the smile that has enabled him to command ten million dollars a picture and a piece of the gross.
It comes to Frederick. Smiling slightly, he picks up a chip and tosses it on top of the others. “I’m in,” he says.
The fourth card is dealt, again faceup.
The ten of clubs to Frederick, giving him three clubs, two showing. Ace of hearts to Simpson, the player on his left. Rogers gets the king of spades. The next card is a three of diamonds, and Easton, the dealer, pulls an eight of spades.
“Still yours,” Easton says to Rogers.
Without looking at his hole card, Rogers throws in ten chips of a similar color to the first one he threw. “Five thousand,” he says in his flat Texas twang.
Leewourk looks at his cards. A ten of spades and a three of diamonds showing. The best he can have so far is a pair of tens—a straight or a flush is out. A hand to be folded.
“I’m probably crazy,” he tells the others, smiling politely, “but I’ll stay in.” He throws in the necessary chips. His stack is getting perilously low.
Easton gives him the subtlest of skeptical eyes, but says nothing. No one else does, either. They all know each other, having played in high-stake card games together over the years, here and in other locales, and they like each other well enough, superficially, but there is no kibitzing here, no friendly banter.
“As will the dealer,” Easton says as he antes up.
Frederick glances at one of the hostesses, who is immediately bending at his side, her lightly perfumed ear an inch from his lips. He whispers something, and she nods and moves to the far end of the room, where there is a full bar. She returns with a cold glass of Pellegrino on shaved ice.
“Thank you,” he says to her, giving her a hundred-dollar chip for her efforts.
“You’re welcome, sir.” She retreats to her position, the chip going into a small gold-lame purse she keeps on a chair next to her. Over the course of the game, which will go all night, these women will make several thousand dollars in tips.
The final faceup card is dealt. Frederick draws the king of diamonds, giving him a secret pair. No more flush, but the possibility of two pair or three of a kind, depending on what he draws. If he stays in. To his left goes a six of spades, then a nine of spades, a nine of diamonds, and Easton deals himself a ten of hearts.
“Still yours,” Easton says again, looking across the table at Rogers.
Rogers looks at his cards. At his hole cards. At the other cards on the table.
He’s out of it, Frederick thinks. That was a costly try.
“Ten thousand,” Rogers says, his voice still low and flat, dry as tumble-weed. If he’s nervous about this hand he isn’t showing it. He counts out the proper number of chips, stacks them neatly, and pushes them into the pot. They sit next to the others in the center, a tiny tower of power.
Leewourk breathes out a sigh of disgust. “That was a dumb move, sport,” he says to himself as he turns all his cards over and pushes them away. He gets up from the table and walks to the bar, where he pours himself a stiff Johnnie Walker Black over ice cubes, swirls it, and downs it in one gulp. Then he looks out the window, not wanting to watch the remainder of the hand.
Easton looks at his cards for a moment. “Can’t win if you don’t play,” he says, half-smiling. He stacks an equal number of chips to those played by Rogers, and pushes them into the pot, touching Rogers’s.
It swings to Frederick. The best anyone can have so far is a pair, and he knows he has one: kings. Only Simpson to his left could have better. Playing the odds, that’s what it’s all about. Over twenty K in this pot already, he observes, counting the stacks of chips to himself.
He feels lucky this hand. This could be his hand, unless Simpson has t
hat second ace.
“Truer words were never spoken,” he says in response to Easton’s comment, as he, too, stacks his chips and pushes them in.
To his left Simpson says nothing. He merely shakes his head and turns his cards over, at the same time cocking a finger an inch, like a bidder at Christie’s. Instantly one of the hostesses is at his side, and a moment later she’s handing him a Coke on ice.
Frederick breathes a sigh of relief. Simpson’s out. He’s the one Frederick worries about. Over the years he’s lost serious money to Mr. Simpson. When Simpson is out of a hand Frederick feels a lot more secure.
Three in, three out. Last card. Facedown. He takes a peek at his card. A king: king of hearts. Three of a kind, kings. In this game, this is a winning hand.
It’s Rogers’s bet. He looks at the cards on the table. He peeks at his hole cards, looking at them, down at the three on the table, at the three at Frederick’s spot, at the three sitting in front of Easton.
“Can’t win if you don’t play,” he says, smiling at Easton. He pushes three stacks of thousand-dollar chips into the pot. “Thirty thousand,” he tells the other two.
Easton blinks. “You are a player,” he acknowledges. He looks at his own cards for a moment. Then he says: “So am I.” He counts out thirty thousand-dollar chips, pushes them in.
They turn to Frederick. He looks at Rogers, at Easton. He’s played hundreds of hands of cards with these men over the years. He knows them, knows their tendencies. Like they know his.
Rogers likes to bluff. This would be a time to try one. It’s possible he could be sitting on a high straight, which is what he wants them to think. But that’s really dicey, the odds are probably fifty to one—bad odds to be throwing forty thousand or more at. More likely he’s got a pair of queens. It could even be three of a kind. That would give him confidence, forty thousand dollars’ worth. Except it won’t beat the three kings Frederick is holding.
Easton isn’t bluffing; Frederick would take a separate side bet on that. He plays the odds. He’s sitting on two pair, that’s almost a sure bet. Forget the straight; you don’t pull two insides on a straight. Frederick doesn’t know the odds on that, but it would have to be over a thousand to one. Easton is tonight’s big winner, and he’s holding two pair. For him, it’s a good bet.
Easton turns to Frederick. “In or out?”
“I’m in.” He counts his chips, slides thirty thousand worth of them into the pot. He fingers his cards. This one is his, this one will even out the evening. Quickly, he eyeballs the rest of the chips sitting in front of him. Fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of chips in five-hundred-and thousand-dollar denominations.
“And I raise fifteen thousand,” he adds, pushing all but a few chips into the center. He looks up at Easton. “Your play,” he says, his voice calm.
Rogers scratches hard at his nose. “You keep a tight asshole, man,” he says with admiration.
“Your play,” Frederick answers.
“Is it? Well …” He takes one more look at his cards. “In for a dime, in for a dollar, I reckon,” he says finally, pushing in fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of chips.
They both look at Easton. Wordlessly, he pushes the required amount of chips into the center.
“What’ve you got, boys?” he asks.
Rogers turns his cards up, one at a time. The queen of spades and the queen of diamonds. Just as Frederick had thought.
“Three little ladies,” Rogers says. He figures he’s maybe got it won, but he’s not overly confident. What goes around comes around, it’s happened to all of them.
They look to Frederick. It’s his turn to show his hand; Easton as dealer will go last. It doesn’t matter—Easton can’t beat what he has.
“Three kings.” He flips over his hole cards, smiles at Rogers. “You don’t have to keep it tight when you’re sitting pretty on it.”
Rogers slumps. “Well, shit. Good hand, partner,” he congratulates Frederick, with reluctant grace.
They look to Easton. He gives a sheepish little shrug. “If I had known you two sandbaggers were actually holding strong hands like these I wouldn’t have stayed in.”
Frederick finally permits himself a smile. A huge pot, a pot to get well on. The first one of the night. He was afraid he might go down hard.
“Lucky for me I did,” Easton continues.
He turns over his cards. A seven and a nine. A straight.
Frederick sags back into his seat, a wan smile crossing his lips.
“You drew to an inside straight?” Rogers says in utter disbelief. “You were sitting on that shit and you drew to a straight?”
“Like I said, it was a dumb move. But I’ve been winning big, I figured it was time to let the rest of you back in the game. I tried, boys. Sorry.” Almost apologetically he gathers in the mountain of chips.
Frederick looks at the few chips remaining in front of him. Less than five thousand dollars, not even enough for one more hand. He raises a finger to the house man.
Frederick gets up from the table. The man comes to meet him. They talk quietly for a moment. The man takes a pad from his inside tuxedo pocket, writes something on it, hands it to Frederick, who looks at it cursorily, then signs.
The house man walks to a cabinet on the other side of the room. He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks it. He reaches in and withdraws a tray of poker chips, which he brings to the table and sets at Frederick’s spot.
“One hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Sparks,” he informs Frederick.
Frederick takes his seat again. “Thank you,” he says with a smile. He turns to Taylor, seated to his right. “Your deal. Let’s play cards.”
It’s late evening when the game, by mutual agreement, ends. They have been playing for ten hours without a break, other than the every-two-hour pit stops. No naps; eating is snacks, quick and easy—sandwiches, Mexican food, soft drinks. Virtually no alcohol.
Easton is the big winner. He gathers in a huge pile of chips, stacking them by color. Simpson has done okay, too. He’s up about thirty, forty thousand. All the others are losers, in varying degrees. Frederick lost the biggest, it’s no contest. He’s down to fifteen hundred in chips on the table from the hundred thousand he bought midway through, which doesn’t count his initial buy-in. He gives one each to the two hostesses and the last to the house man. The other players tip accordingly and generously.
Now that the game is over Frederick will have a drink—champagne. On the house, of course. A few of the other players are having drinks, also. The others have already departed, soon to be scattering to the four corners of the continent. Frederick is the only champagne drinker in the group.
“What’s the damage tonight, Wes?” Frederick poses of the house man.
The house man slips Frederick a tally sheet, folded over. One deep cleansing breath, then Frederick opens it. The figure written on the sheet reads a debit of $136,500. “Not a good night,” he remarks, folding the sheet and slipping it in his pocket.
“Not your lucky night, Mr. Sparks,” Wes agrees with cultivated understatement. His accent is like Ben Wright’s, the British golf announcer on television. “You’ll do better next time.”
“Let’s hope so.” One of the hostesses materializes at his side and refreshes his champagne glass, then discreetly moves away out of earshot. “I’ll transfer the necessary funds into my account tomorrow morning,” he adds quietly.
“Not a problem, sir.”
Frederick takes the elevator down one floor to his suite. The elevator is private, serving the top two floors only. A bodyguard is always on board. No one can ride this elevator unless they’re cleared by the hotel. The security here is top-drawer—no one has ever breached it, although some have tried.
He takes a long, refreshing bath and shower, puts on fresh clothing—linen shirt and pants, cotton lisle socks, boat shoes. He eats a fresh peach, washing it down with another glass of champagne. Two fresh bottles are nestling in the ice bucket on the coffee tab
le.
There’s a knock at the door. He opens it.
Two people stand in the hallway. A man and a woman, both with super bodies. They’re dressed casually and expensively, and each carries a small overnight bag.
“Good evening, Mr. Sparks,” the woman says, smiling at him fondly.
“Evening, Brittany,” he greets her, giving her a peck on the cheek.
“This is Alex,” she says, introducing the young stud to Frederick.
“Nice to meet you, Alex,” Frederick says, shaking Alex’s hand. “Are you both ready?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” Brittany answers.
They ride the elevator down in silence. At the bottom it opens onto a private garage, in which a Lincoln Town Car limousine is parked a few steps from the elevator doors. The limo driver is at the ready. “Good evening, Mr. Sparks,” he sings out obsequiously, quickly opening the back door.
Frederick nods to him. The three climb into the backseat, the driver shuts the door, and they take off.
The Sparks family’s Cessna Citation is parked at the edge of one of the far runways at the airport. The limousine drives across the field, directly to the plane. The three passengers get out of the limo and walk the few yards to the door of the plane and up the steps. The limousine drives away.
The pilot, Lew Briggs, is an old-timer who has flown for the Sparks family for years, on call, whenever they need him. Before that he flew for United on their international routes, and before that he was one of the ace pilots for the Flying Tigers; among his duties in that role was as a CIA courier, back in the good old days when the CIA disrupted governments at will, all around the globe. He’s a great pilot and he knows how to keep his mouth shut. The copilot is a woman, who is very competent and properly invisible.
“How’s everyone tonight?” Briggs inquires pleasantly. He knows the score.
“Everybody’s fine,” Frederick answers. It’s part of their ritual, one they’ve been performing for years.
