The Music of Chance

by Paul Auster

  Just as he was about to switch off the light and leave the room, Nashe turned around and walked back to the model. Fully conscious of what he was about to do, and yet with no sense of guilt, feeling no compunctions whatsoever, he found the spot where Flower and Stone were standing in front of the candy store (arms flung around each other’s shoulders, looking at the lottery ticket with their heads bowed in concentration), lowered his thumb and middle finger to the place where their feet joined the floor, and gave a little tug. The figures were glued fast, and so he tried again, this time with a swift, impulsive jerk. There was a dull snap, and a moment later he was holding the two wooden men in the palm of his hand. Scarcely bothering to look at them, he shoved the souvenir into his pocket. It was the first time that Nashe had stolen anything since he was a small boy. He was not sure why he had done it, but the last thing he was looking for just then was a reason. Even if he could not articulate it to himself, he knew that it had been absolutely necessary. He knew that in the same way he knew his own name.

  When Nashe took his seat behind Pozzi again, Stone was shuffling the cards, getting ready to deal the next hand. It was past two o’clock by then, and one look at the table was enough to tell Nashe that everything had changed, that tremendous battles had been fought in his absence. The kid’s mountain of chips had dwindled to one-third its former size, and if Nashe’s calculations were correct, that meant they were back where they had been at the start, perhaps even a thousand or two in the hole. It didn’t seem possible. Pozzi had been flying high, on the brink of sewing up the whole business, and now they seemed to have him on the run, pushing hard to break his confidence, to crush him once and for all. Nashe could barely imagine what had happened.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” Pozzi said, whispering with pent-up fury.

  “I took a nap on the sofa in the living room,” Nashe lied. “I couldn’t help it. I was exhausted.”

  “Shit. Don’t you know better than to walk out on me like that? You’re my lucky charm, asshole. As soon as you left, the goddamn roof started to collapse.”

  Flower interrupted at that point, too pleased with himself not to jump in and offer his own version of what had taken place. “We’ve had some big hands,” he said, trying not to gloat. “Your brother went for broke on a full house, but Willie came through on the last card and beat him out with four sixes. Then, just a few hands later, there was a dramatic showdown, a duel to the death. In the end, my three kings prevailed over your brother’s three jacks. You’ve missed some excitement, young man, I can tell you that. This is poker as it was meant to be played.”

  Curiously enough, Nashe did not feel alarmed by these drastic reversals. If anything, Pozzi’s slump had a galvanizing effect on him, and the more frustrated and confused the kid became, the more Nashe’s confidence seemed to grow, as if it were precisely this sort of crisis that he had been searching for all along.

  “Maybe it’s time to inject a few vitamins into my brother’s stake,” he said, smiling at the pun. He reached into his jacket pockets and pulled out the two envelopes of money. “Here’s twenty-three hundred dollars,” he said. “Why don’t we buy some more chips, Jack? It’s not much, but at least it will give you a little more room to work with.”

  Pozzi knew that it was the last money Nashe had in the world, and he hesitated to accept it. “I’m still hanging in there,” he said. “Let’s give it a few more hands and see what happens.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Jack,” Nashe said. “Take the money now. It’ll change the mood, help to get you going again. You’ve just hit a lull, that’s all, but you’ll come roaring back. It happens all the time.”

  But Pozzi didn’t come roaring back. Even with the new chips, things continued to go against him. He won the occasional hand, but those victories were never large enough to shore up his eroding funds, and every time his cards seemed to offer some promise, he would bet too much and wind up losing, squandering his resources on luckless, desperation efforts. By the time dawn came, he was down to eighteen hundred dollars. His nerves were shot, and if Nashe still had any hopes of winning, he had only to study Pozzi’s trembling hands to know that the hour of miracles had passed. The birds were waking up outside, and as the first glimmers of light entered the room, Pozzi’s bruised and pale face seemed ghastly in its whiteness. He was turning into a corpse before Nashe’s eyes.

  Still, the show wasn’t over yet. On the next hand, Pozzi was dealt two kings in the hole and the ace of hearts up, and when the fourth card was another king—the king of hearts—Nashe sensed that the tide was about to turn again. The betting was heavy, however, and before the fifth card was even dealt, the kid had just three hundred dollars left. Flower and Stone were running him out of the game: he wasn’t going to have enough to see him to the end of the hand. Without even thinking, Nashe stood up and said to Flower, “I want to make a proposition.”

  “A proposition?” Flower said. “What are you talking about?”

  “We’re almost out of chips.”

  “Fine. Then go ahead and buy some more.”

  “We would, but we’ve also run out of cash.”

  “Then I suppose that means the game is over. If Jack can’t stay in for the rest of the hand, then we’ll have to put an end to it. Those were the rules we agreed on before.”

  “I know that. But I want to propose something else, something other than cash.”

  “Please, Mr. Nashe, no IOUs. I don’t know you well enough to offer credit.”

  “I’m not asking for credit. I want to put up my car as collateral.”

  “Your car? And what kind of car is that? A second-hand Chevy?”

  “No, it’s a good car. A year-old Saab in perfect condition.”

  “And what am I supposed to do with it? Willie and I already have three cars in the garage. We’re not in the market for another one.”

  “Sell it, then. Give it away. What difference does it make? It’s the only thing I have to offer. Otherwise, the game has to stop. And why put an end to it when we don’t have to?”

  “And how much do you think this car of yours is worth?”

  “I don’t know. I paid sixteen thousand dollars for it. It’s probably worth at least half that now, maybe even ten.”

  “Ten thousand dollars for a used car? I’ll give you three.”

  “That’s absurd. Why don’t you go outside and have a look at it before you make an offer?”

  “Because I’m in the middle of a hand now. I don’t want to break my concentration.”

  “Then give me eight, and we’ll call it a deal.”

  “Five. That’s my final offer. Five thousand dollars.”

  “Seven.”

  “No, five. Take it or leave it, Mr. Nashe.”

  “All right, I’ll take it. Five thousand for the car. But don’t worry. We’ll deduct it from our winnings at the end. I wouldn’t want you to be stuck with something you don’t want.”

  “We’ll see about that. In the meantime, let’s count out the chips and get on with it. I can’t stand these interruptions. They destroy all the pleasure.”

  Pozzi had been given an emergency transfusion, but that did not mean he was going to live. He would pull through the present crisis, perhaps, but the long-term prospects were still cloudy, touch-and-go at best. Nashe had done everything he could, however, and that in itself was a consolation, even a point of pride. But he also knew that the blood bank was exhausted. He had gone much farther than he thought he would, as far as it was possible for him to go, but still it might not be far enough.

  Pozzi had the two kings in the hole, with the king and ace of hearts showing. Flower’s two up cards were a six of diamonds and a seven of clubs—a possible straight, perhaps, but still weak when compared to the three kings the kid was already holding. Stone’s hand was a potential threat, however. Two eights were showing, and from the way he had led off the betting on the fourth card (coming on strong, with consecutive raises of three hundred and four hundred
dollars), Nashe suspected that good things were hidden in his hole cards. Another pair, perhaps, or even the third and fourth eights. Nashe pinned his hopes on Pozzi drawing the fourth king, but he wanted it to come at the end, face-down on the seventh deal. In the meantime, he thought, give him two more hearts. Even better, give him the queen and jack of hearts. Make it look as though he’s risking everything on a possible straight flush—and then stun them with the four kings at the end.

  Stone dealt the fifth cards. Flower received a five of spades; Pozzi got his heart. It wasn’t the queen or jack, but it was almost as good: the eight of hearts. The flush was still intact, and Stone no longer had a chance of drawing the fourth eight. As Stone dealt himself the three of clubs, Pozzi turned to Nashe and smiled for the first time in several hours. All of a sudden, things were looking hopeful.

  In spite of the three, Stone opened by betting the limit, the full five hundred. This puzzled Nashe somewhat, but then he decided it had to be a bluff. They were trying to squeeze out the kid, and with so much money in reserve, they could afford to take a few wild punches. Flower stayed in with his possible straight, and then Pozzi saw the five hundred and raised another five hundred, which Stone and Flower both matched.

  Flower’s sixth card turned out to be the jack of diamonds, and the moment he saw it skidding across the table, he let out a sigh of disappointment. Nashe assumed that he was dead. Then, as if by magic, Pozzi came up with the three of hearts. When Stone drew the nine of spades, however, Nashe suddenly began to worry that Pozzi’s cards were too strong. But Stone bet high again, and even after Flower dropped out, the hand was alive and well, still growing as they moved into the home stretch.

  Stone and Pozzi went head to head on their sixth cards, going back and forth in a flurry of raises and counterraises. By the time they were done, Pozzi had just fifteen hundred dollars left to use on the last deal. Nashe had figured that ransoming the car would buy them at least another hour or two, but the betting had become so furious that everything had suddenly boiled down to the one hand. The pot was enormous. If Pozzi won, he would be off and running again, and this time Nashe sensed that there would be no stopping him. But he had to win. If he lost, that would be the end of it.

  Nashe knew that it would be too much to hope for the fourth king. The odds against it were simply too great. But no matter what happened, Stone would have to assume that Pozzi was holding a flush. The four exposed hearts had seen to that, and since the kid was playing with his back to the wall, his big bets would seem to eliminate the possibility of a bluff. Even if the seventh card was a dud, the three kings would probably do the trick anyway. It was a good hand, Nashe thought, a solid hand, and from the looks of things on the table, the chances of Stone beating it were slim.

  Pozzi drew the four of clubs. In spite of everything, Nashe could not help feeling a bit let down. Not so much for the king, perhaps, but at least for the absence of another heart. Heart failure, he said to himself, not sure if it was meant entirely in jest, and then Stone dealt himself the last card and they were ready to square off and finish the hand.

  It all happened very quickly. Stone, still leading with his two eights, went in for five hundred. Pozzi saw the five hundred, then raised another five hundred. Stone saw Pozzi’s raise, hesitated for a second or two with the chips in his hand, and clinked down another five hundred. Then, with only five hundred left at that point, the kid pushed his remaining chips into the center of the table. “All right, Willie,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Stone’s face gave away nothing. One by one, he turned over his hole cards, but even after all three of them were showing, it would have been difficult to tell whether he had won or lost. “I have these two eights,” he said. “And then I have this ten” (turning it over), “and then I have this other ten” (turning it over), “and then I have this third eight” (turning over the seventh and last card).

  “A full house!” Flower roared, pounding his fist on the table. “What can you do to answer that, Jack?”

  “Not a thing,” Pozzi said, not bothering to turn over his cards. “He’s got me beat.” The kid stared down at the table for several moments, as if trying to absorb what had happened. Then, mustering his courage, he wheeled around and grinned at Nashe. “Well, old buddy,” he said. “It looks like we have to walk home.”

  As he spoke those words, Pozzi’s face was filled with such embarrassment that Nashe could only feel sorry for him. It was odd, but the fact was that he felt worse for the kid than he felt for himself. Everything was lost, and yet the only feeling inside him was one of pity.

  Nashe clapped Pozzi on the shoulder, as if to reassure him, and then he heard Flower burst out laughing. “I hope you boys have comfortable shoes,” the fat man said. “It’s a good eighty or ninety miles back to New York, you know.”

  “Cool your jets, Tubby,” Pozzi said, finally forgetting his manners. “We owe you five thousand bucks. We’ll give you a marker, you give us the car, and we’ll pay you back within a week.”

  Flower, unruffled by the insult, burst out laughing again. “Oh no,” he said. “That’s not the deal I made with Mr. Nashe. The car belongs to me now. If you don’t have any other way of getting home, then you’ll just have to walk. That’s the way it goes.”

  “What kind of bullshit poker player are you, Hippo-Face?” Pozzi said. “Of course you’ll take our marker. That’s the way it works.”

  “I said it before,” Flower answered calmly, “and I’ll say it again. No credit. I’d be a fool to trust a pair like you. The minute you drove away from here, my money would be gone.”

  “All right, all right,” Nashe said, hastily trying to improvise a solution. “We’ll cut for it. If I win, you give us back the car. Just like that. One cut, and it’s finished.”

  “No problem,” Flower said. “But what happens if you don’t win?”

  “Then I owe you ten thousand dollars,” Nashe said.

  “You should think carefully, my friend,” Flower said. “This hasn’t been your lucky night. Why make things worse for yourself?”

  “Because we need the car to get out of here, asshole,” Pozzi said.

  “No problem,” Flower repeated. “But just remember that I warned you.”

  “Shuffle the cards, Jack,” Nashe said, “and then hand them to Mr. Flower. We’ll give him the first try.”

  Pozzi opened a new deck, discarded the jokers, and shuffled as Nashe had asked him to. With exaggerated ceremony, he leaned forward and slapped the cards down in front of Flower. The fat man didn’t hesitate. He had nothing to lose, after all, and so he promptly reached for the cards, lifting half the deck between his thumb and middle finger. A moment later he was holding up the seven of hearts. Stone shrugged when he saw it, and Pozzi clapped his hands—just once, very fiercely, celebrating the mediocre draw.

  Then Nashe was holding the deck in his hands. He felt utterly blank inside, and for a brief moment he marveled at how ridiculous this little drama was. Just before he cut, he thought to himself: This is the most ridiculous moment of my life. Then he winked at Pozzi, lifted the cards, and came up with the four of diamonds.

  “A four!” Flower yelled, slapping his hand against his forehead in disbelief. “A four! You couldn’t even beat my seven!”

  Everything went silent after that. A long moment passed, and then, in a voice that sounded more weary than triumphant, Stone finally said: “Ten thousand dollars. It looks like we’ve hit the magic number again.”

  Flower leaned back in his chair, puffed on his cigar for several moments, and studied Nashe and Pozzi as though he were seeing them for the first time. His expression made Nashe think of a high school principal sitting in his office with a couple of delinquent kids. His face did not reflect anger so much as puzzlement, as if he had just been presented with a philosophical problem that had no apparent answer. A punishment would have to be meted out, that was certain, but for the moment he seemed to have no idea what to suggest. He didn’t
want to be harsh, but neither did he want to be too lenient. He needed something to fit the crime, a fair punishment that would have some educational value to it—not punishment for its own sake, but something creative, something that would teach the culprits a lesson.

  “I think we have a dilemma here,” he said at last.

  “Yes,” Stone said. “A real dilemma. What you might call a situation.”

  “These two fellows owe us money,” Flower continued, acting as though Nashe and Pozzi were no longer there. “If we let them leave, they’ll never pay us back. But if we don’t let them leave, they won’t have a chance to come up with the money they owe us.”

  “I guess you’ll just have to trust us, then,” Pozzi said. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Butterball?”

  Flower ignored Pozzi’s remark and turned to Stone. “What do you think, Willie?” he said. “It’s something of a quandary, isn’t it?”

  As he listened to this conversation, Nashe suddenly remembered Juliette’s trust fund. It probably wouldn’t be difficult to withdraw ten thousand dollars from it, he thought. A call to the bank in Minnesota could get things started, and by the end of the day the money would be sitting in Flower and Stone’s account. It was a practical solution, but once he worked out the sequence in his head, he rejected it, appalled at himself for even considering such a thing. The equation was too terrible: to pay off his gambling debts by stealing from his daughter’s future. No matter what happened, it was out of the question. He had brought this problem down on himself, and now he would have to take his medicine. Like a man, he thought. He would have to take it like a man.