by Mark Joseph
No one played banker. Each player put his money into a compartment in the carousel designed for that purpose and counted out his own chips. The four players laid their cash on the table. Twenty thousand dollars, most of it in hundreds, was a lot of bulk paper.
“There’s too much damn money,” Nelson exclaimed. “It won’t fit.”
“Here, I got somethin’,” Dean said. Grabbing his bag, he pulled out a boxed bottle of 150-proof Jamaican rum and removed the bottle.
“You gonna drink that and play cards?” Nelson squawked. “You’re whacked.”
“Mind your own fuckin’ business, Nelson,” Dean snarled and stuffed his fifty one-hundred-dollar-bills in the box. All the money went in, and everyone counted out chips.
“The rules,” Charlie insisted. “Let’s get clear on the rules.”
“How’s about no rules, Charlie?” Dean said. “Just play. Fuck rules.”
Alex chuckled. Dean was in Oakland Raider mode. In the glory years of the Raiders in the 1970s, Oakland players picked fights on the field to distract opponents. If an opposing player was into the fight, he wasn’t into the game, and the battle was half over before it started.
“We’ll have to go through this when Bobby gets here,” Charlie whined, “so we might as well get it straight now.”
“If he gets here,” Dean said.
“He will,” Alex said.
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
“The rules, goddamnit,” Charlie groaned. “What’s the limit?”
“No limit,” Dean suggested tersely.
“You’re flamin’ out of your mind,” Nelson shot back. “There has to be some kind of limit.”
“Why?”
“Table stakes,” Alex said. “The only limit is what you have on the table. You can’t go in your pocket or the bank once the hand has started. Okay?”
“Right,” Nelson agreed.
“Okay,” Charlie consented and they all looked at Dean.
“Ah, you bunch of spoilsports, all right.”
“Check and raise?” Nelson asked. “Are we gonna allow sandbagging?”
“No,” Charlie said. “We never do that.”
“Yes,” Dean contradicted emphatically. “That’s how they play in casinos. That’s real poker. Damned straight, sandbagging allowed.”
“How would you know?” Nelson asked.
“Wise guy.”
Nelson chuckled and Dean cracked up.
“Bobby wants to play that way,” Nelson said. “That was one of his conditions along with the five grand buy-in. I told you that, Charlie. Sandbagging is permitted.”
“Okay, okay, check and raise.”
“Anything else?”
“A maximum of three raises on any one card.”
Nods all around. “Agreed.”
“Dealer’s choice. No wild cards.”
“Let’s play, for chrissake,” Dean thundered and unscrewed the cap from the rum.
“Any more quibbles?” Alex asked, handing Dean a sealed deck of red Bicycle cards. He took a blue deck himself, broke it open, removed the jokers, and began shuffling, a plain gambler’s shuffle, scarcely bending the cards. The stiff, new cards felt light in his hands, perfectly sized for his fingers. When the cards were thoroughly melded he announced, “First jack deals,” and dealt cards face up to each player in turn until Nelson received the jack of spades.
“First jack, you’re the man.”
Alex handed Nelson the rest of the blue deck. To speed the game, they alternated red and blue decks as they passed the deal clockwise around the table. Since Alex, sitting to Nelson’s left, would deal next, he took the red deck from Dean.
Nelson winked at Charlie, wiggled his fingers like a hypnotist, and intoned in a vibrating basso profundo, “Your eyes are getting sleepy. You’re under my spell, and now you’re mine,” finishing with a wicked, theatrical laugh. “All right,” he said, shuffling the cards. “Twenty-five dollar ante, that’s one white chip. I don’t mind saying these are the highest stakes I ever played for.”
“You gonna eat one?” Charlie asked. “Expensive snack.”
Nelson smiled. “You got caviar?”
“Yeah, all you want.”
“If you come out ahead, Charlie, I’ll eat a blue.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Starting with Nelson, the dealer, they anted in turn, each placing a white chip in the center of the table. Nelson passed the deck to Charlie who cut the cards.
“What’s the game? What’s the game?” Charlie cried impatiently.
Nelson scooped up the deck and held it under Charlie’s nose.
“Want to kiss ’em first, Charlie? For luck?”
“What’s the game, for chrissake?”
“Blackjack.”
“C’mon, Nelson.”
“Maybe a little canasta. You know how to play canasta, Charlie?”
“Fuck you.”
“Okay, then, seven stud,” Nelson declared and began dealing clockwise, flipping each player a card face down, called a hole card, then a second hole card followed by one face up, announcing each up card in turn. “Deuce to Alex, jack to Dean, eight to Charlie, and the dealer gets the big ace. Ace bets twenty-five dollars without looking.” Nelson tossed in a white chip, peeked at his hole cards, raised his eyebrows and sighed.
“I call,” Alex said, adding his chip to the pot.
“I call,” Dean went along. “Charlie?”
“I’m in.”
Alex smoked a Lucky and watched the others as each received his next card. Nelson often made gestures that indicated the opposite of his cards. A gleeful laugh meant he had bad cards while a sigh or groan usually indicated good cards. Dean revealed very little and folded early and often. When he stayed in he usually had a decent hand. Not always. He bluffed in streaks. Charlie gave his hand away by silently reading his cards while moving his lips. All Alex had to do was lip-read. Years ago, he’d told Charlie what he did, but he still did it. Too bad for Charlie.
“Deuces paired to the Wiz,” Nelson sang out, issuing the next round of cards. “No help for Dean, the nine of diamonds to go with the eight for Charlie, and the dealer gets no help. Alex, deuces bet.”
“Fifty dollars.”
“I’m out.” Dean dropped his cards face down on the table and poured himself a rum.
“Deuces?” Charlie croaked. “You’re gonna bet fifty dollars on deuces? I call.”
“I raise fifty,” Nelson said.
A nice pile of chips occupied the center of the table. As Alex looked around the table, he figured Charlie had a seven and a king in the hole which meant he had three cards to a straight. Nelson was acting as if he had aces paired or even better.
“I fold,” Alex said and threw his cards into the center, all face down.
“God damn,” Charlie swore and dropped a red chip on the pile.
Nelson dealt the rest of the hand, bet his cards, drew Charlie in and won the pot with three aces. Alex smiled. The iceberg was shattered. The game was underway.
7
The cable car turntable at Powell and Market was surrounded by tourists, hustlers, pickpockets, and a teenager on his knees dealing three card monte on the brick sidewalk.
“Pick the red jack, the red jack is the winner, pick the red card and win. How ’bout you, mister? Think you can pick the red jack?”
More than thirty years had passed since Bobby McCorkle had planted himself at the foot of Powell Street and taken in the sights. Except for the cable cars and street signs he didn’t recognize anything. He watched the kid. The jack of hearts had a bent corner. Three rubes in a row bet five bucks and picked the card with the crease that turned out to be a black king. The kid was good but not that good.
“Hey,” Bobby said, crouching down and speaking softly to the monte dealer. “Wanna go fifty? You got fifty?”
“I got fifty, mister. Let’s see your money.”
“Tell you what,” Bobby said. “You got
fresh cards?”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“You got the rest of the deck? We can play with any three cards.”
“These cards are just fine. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with these cards.”
“Okay,” Bobby said and dropped a fifty dollar bill on the pavement. The kid laid down two twenties and a ten.
The kid showed three cards, two black kings and the jack of hearts, flipped them face down, and began mixing them up. The kid was quick but Bobby was quicker. His left hand shot out and grabbed the dealer’s wrist while a knife in his right flicked inside the kid’s jacket and tickled his chest. It was so fast and quiet no one in the crowd noticed.
“Open your hand,” Bobby demanded, “or I’ll cut it off.”
Five cards fell out of the kid’s hand.
“Thank you.”
Bobby picked up the hundred dollars and slowly backed away, watching the crowd in case the kid had a confederate. He didn’t, and Bobby turned and strolled down Market toward New Montgomery, whistling.
He just didn’t give a damn, he said to himself, and that was why he did things like take down a street hustler. It was crazy, that was the word. That was the kind of thing he and Crazy Nelson used to do, and he guessed he just never stopped. Nelson was a cop so it was guaranteed he never stopped either.
Here he was in Frisco again and he could hardly believe it. They had a subway now—he saw the stairs going down—but it still smelled the same, salt air and car exhaust, and the streetcars and cable cars and trolley buses were the same. Sleazy old Market Street hadn’t changed, still jammed with junkies, whores, tourists, suits, panhandlers, bums, and goo on the sidewalk. They had all these new stores, Virgin Records and Nordstrom’s with pretty windows full of stuff, but Bobby had no use for stuff. As he made his way toward the Palace, he amused himself by picking out the junkies, wondering if they picked him out, too. He didn’t give a damn about that, either.
At eight-thirty the lobby was crowded. Bobby stood just inside the door rocking on his heels, taking in the elegant dresses of the Rainbow Girls and the men in tuxedos. He’d like to see those fat cats in a game of seven stud. He was about to light up when he noticed no one was smoking. This was California, after all.
Old friends. Those guys. Alex was what now? A professor or something like that. Alex the genius, Alex the National Merit scholar, Alex with the perfect SAT scores. He always was an arrogant prick. And Dean who joined the Marine Corps and went to Vietnam, he knew, and was at Khe Sanh. He lived up in the boonies somewhere and raced cars or boats or something. Charlie the gay doofus still lived in the city and ran his family fish business, and Nelson was a cop. It was Nelson who’d called him. The Feather River, he said, they’re building a new levee and digging up the old riverbed for a housing development or some crap. Thanks, Nelson, and fuck you and the horse you rode in on. I’ve only been trying to forget that place for thirty-two years.
He went into the lobby bar and ordered a soda and lime. Nelson said they’d reserved a room for him, but he didn’t want to stay at the Palace. Not his style. He wasn’t sure he wanted to play cards or even talk to those guys. What for? He’d put Shanghai Bend to rest a long time ago and it wouldn’t do him any good to stir up that old shit again. The old feelings, the nightmares. Nelson said they had to talk about it, and maybe they did. But he didn’t. Maybe he’d just turn around and go back to Reno.
He looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar. Receding hairline—hell, he was damned near bald. No more pompadour, that was for sure. A little plump in the gut but not too bad. He looked a little closer. Twenty years in the army and not a scratch on him. Ho ho ho, Bobby me lad, the scars are all inside, aren’t they? And not from the war, either.
He paid for his drink and found the men’s room. The old feelings of hatred and revenge stirred in his guts. Washing his hands he said, “Fuck it,” and walked out of the hotel.
8
“It’s going to cost you three hundred dollars to see the last card,” Dean said and gently laid three blue chips in the pot. He was dealing five stud and no one had folded. Each player had one card face down and three up with one more to come.
Charlie leaned over to look at Dean’s cards as though they might change if he looked away. Dean had two queens and a three showing.
“Got three queens?” Charlie asked.
“Pay up and find out.”
Charlie had the deuce, nine and ten of diamonds face up, three cards to a flush, and was betting as though he had a fourth diamond in the hole. “Okay, I’m in,” he said and dropped three blues onto the pile.
Nelson had a pair of sixes and a five. “Three hundred, okay.”
Alex had an ace, a seven, and a four showing. “I raise five hundred,” he said.
“Got that ace wired?” Dean asked. “Think you’re gonna get another one? I see your five hundred and raise you another five.”
The pot was the largest of the evening so far. Dean had the queen and three of diamonds, Nelson the six of diamonds and Alex had the ace of diamonds up, reducing the odds against Charlie making his flush. Nelson had either three sixes or two pair, and Dean definitely had three queens.
“Oh god oh god oh god,” Charlie prayed and pushed a thousand dollars into the pot.
“Screw this,” Nelson said. “I’m out.”
“I’ll see your five,” Alex said. “Roll ’em.”
Dean quickly dealt Charlie the four of clubs, killing his flush, Alex the ace of hearts, making a pair of aces showing, and himself the seven of spades.
“Aces bet,” Dean said to Alex.
“One thousand dollars.”
Charlie grimaced and threw in his cards out of turn with a groan of disgust.
Dean knew he should raise or drop. It was only nine-thirty, still early, and he didn’t want to be buffaloed by Alex. Did the Wiz have the third ace in the hole? Was it worth a grand or more to find out? If he raised, Alex would raise again. Alex was as immobile as the Rock of Gibraltar, calm and relaxed, eyes shaded by dark glasses, smoking a Lucky. Tiny droplets of moisture wetted his upper lip, but that didn’t mean anything. Over the years Dean had tried valiantly to find meaning in Alex’s tiny gestures, the way he smoked and when he smoked. He hunted for twitches and fidgets, any clue to the cards in his hand. Such a giveaway mannerism in poker is called a “tell.” Dean could read Nelson’s tells about half the time and Charlie’s entire existence was a tell, but as far as he could discover, Alex had no revealing tell. Nothing. Nada. Sometimes Alex had the cards and in other hands he bluffed.
“You’re bluffing,” Dean said, trying to provoke a reaction. Alex shrugged and folded his arms. Dean looked at his hole card. “Okay, I’ll see your thousand and raise … no … I’m not gonna raise. I call.”
Alex flipped over the ace of clubs and raked in the pot.
“This could be a short night,” Dean said, standing up to stretch. “Nice hand, Wiz.”
“My pleasure.”
“I sure ain’t doing any good playing straight, so I might as well get loaded.” Dean dug around in his bag and came up with a fat joint that he lit and offered to Charlie.
“How you doin’, Fishman?” Dean asked. “Wanna smoke some dope?”
“I just can’t get the cards. Four cards to a flush and then shit.” Charlie shook his head and waved off the reefer. “I swore I wasn’t gonna get fucked up, and I’m gonna stick to it. You know what they say.”
“No, Charlie, what do they say?”
“Give a man a fish and he can eat for a day. Give him fishing tackle and he can sit in a boat and drink beer all day. Hahaha.”
Nelson went over to the carts and ate a shrimp. “Where’s our wild card?” he asked.
“You tell us,” Dean answered. “You talked to him. You said he was coming.”
“I bet he’s in the bar downstairs,” Charlie said.
“He quit drinking,” Nelson said. “He told me he hadn’t had a drink in three years.”
“Guys
get thirsty and fall off the wagon,” Charlie said. “Happens all the time.”
“As long as he’s not sticking needles in his arm, I don’t care what he does,” Nelson said. “The man was a junkie for a long, long time.”
“That really bothers you,” Alex said. “Don’t be so quick to pass judgment.”
“Look, Alex, I got his rap sheet from Reno PD. In and out of rehab and detox, the whole nine yards. I don’t give a shit what he does. I’ve met a million guys like Bobby McCorkle, and I’m around them all the time. I work hard keeping them out of jail rather than trying to put them in unless they fuck up.”
“Are you saying Bobby fucked up?”
“No. We’re the ones that fucked up. We owe him.”
“We know that,” Alex said. “That’s why we’re here.”
“He doesn’t,” Nelson replied. “And maybe he can’t be bought off, either.”
“The cat was an Army lifer, man,” Dean said. “He put in his twenty and got a pension at the ripe old age of thirty-eight. Not a bad gig, but it doesn’t pay him anything near what we can offer.”
“He’ll laugh in our faces,” Charlie said.
“No, he won’t. He’s a loser and he won’t be able to resist,” Alex said. “After twenty years the Army showed him the door as fast as they could because he was a drunk and had a gambling problem,” Alex stated. “The Army didn’t know he was a junkie or he would have been gone sooner. You’ve all seen his service record, two silver stars and one bronze. Look, Bobby went to Vietnam and spent ten years trying to get himself killed. He failed. He tried to drink himself to death and failed at that, too. I suppose he could kill himself with an overdose of heroin pretty easily, but he hasn’t. He’s tormented by demons and we know what they are and each of us is visited by them sometimes ourselves. This isn’t about the war or the Army or anything like that, and we’re the only ones who know what it is about. He was our friend, and he’s still our friend. We’re still the royal flush. We know what we have to do, and we’ll just have to wait and see how it goes. In the meantime, let’s play cards. It’s Charlie’s deal.”
9
