by Mark Joseph
“You’re fulla shit. They got tattoos in China, in Japan, in Africa, everywhere. The Iroquois had tattoos, and they didn’t know jack from Polynesia.”
“Well?”
“Well?”
Alex grinned. “Are we gonna stand here on the sidewalk and piss in our pants, or are we gonna go in?”
It hurt. Dean said it hurt the way it must hurt a girl to lose her cherry, and Lyle Tuttle smiled like he’d heard that one before. They picked the suit by asking Lyle Tuttle to cut a deck of cards—Alex had one handy—and it came up diamonds and that was that. Alex spread a royal flush in diamonds face down on the counter over the tigers and wounded hearts and naked women and each picked one. Bobby got the ace.
“You Italian?” Lyle Tuttle asked Bobby.
“No. Irish. Why?”
“Some people believe the ace of diamonds is cursed because a famous mobster named Joe the Boss Masseria was killed playing pinochle with that card in his hand.”
“I don’t care. We’re poker players. As long as it’s not aces and eights, it’s okay.”
It took ninety minutes for each tattoo and they emerged onto Seventh Street at six in the morning. Each of the five young men wore a bandage on his left triceps. The tattoos would be scabs for a day or two …
Bobby’s hand went to his shoulder. The ace was still there, of course, still cursed, his only tattoo, the high card in the royal flush. After two or three days the scabs fell away and the five young men full of braggadocio and teenage cool paraded their new tattoos through Mel’s drive-in and the Doggie Diner on Van Ness. Ah, man, everything was set up. They were going to be buddies for life, bound together with blood and ink, and then Shanghai Bend, the fragmentation grenade, and monstrous, barely controllable rage.
He’d loved her. It was simple, really, and sudden, like a falling star, and in the next instant, they’d taken her away.
He walked a few yards to the corner of Market and hailed a cab. “Airport,” he said, sliding into the back seat.
“Airport it is,” the driver replied, making conversation. “Where you flying tonight?”
“Reno.”
“I coulda guessed. No luggage.”
The cab turned right on Sixth and headed for the freeway. The driver was a woman about thirty, trim, dark-haired, with a hardened, citywise gleam in her eye. She glanced at the passenger in the rearview mirror and saw a good-looking man, a little older, no kid, with a pale complexion, dark eyes, and the aura of a guy with something on his mind. He was looking back at her in the mirror, and she thought, Uh oh, here it comes. Wanna fuck me? Wanna have the time of your life, baby?
“It’s like a confessional back here, you know?” Bobby said. “Dark and secure, and all I can see is the back of your head and your eyes in the mirror.”
“And you’re a chainsaw murderer and you want to confess, right?”
Bobby chuckled, his voice dark and hollow. “You’d be surprised.”
“You Catholic?”
“Retired,” Bobby said.
“Well, you’re right,” she said. “People like to get things off their chest, and they talk, especially if they never expect to see me again. They say things to a perfect stranger they wouldn’t dare say to anyone else. I’ve been drivin’ this cab for eight years, and I’ve heard sob stories, tragedies, injustice, sex and drugs and rock and roll. It’s fifteen minutes to the airport, mister. You can talk all you want.”
Bobby leaned over the seat and asked, “How much to take me to Reno?”
She laughed. “Airfare is maybe a hundred bucks if you walk in and buy a ticket.”
“I have a ticket but I don’t want to fly. How much?”
She stopped at a light, turned around and regarded him closely. “You serious? It’s over two hundred miles and I have to come back empty.”
“It’s exactly two hundred and twenty-eight miles. You ever go that far in your cab? It’s gotta make your night. How much?”
The driver calculated time and distance on her watch, saying, “I’ve gone much farther than Reno, for your information, but you’re right. It would make my night. Five hundred dollars in advance.”
“How about four hundred?”
“You want to negotiate? Okay, let’s see the money, Mr. Passenger, unless you’re wasting my time. I won’t take your credit card. For a ride outta town like this, it’s cash on the line.”
Bobby took four hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and fanned them like tail feathers. “Four hundred, take it or leave it.”
The light changed and the cab moved slowly down Sixth Street, the driver watching Bobby in the mirror.
“You gonna hit on me?” she asked. “You gonna give me a hard time, ask a lot stupid questions?”
“No. What is this, an interview?”
“This is my office, Mr. Passenger. If I’m gonna drive you to Reno, I want to be sure you’re gonna behave. You drunk or coked up or any shit like that?”
“I’m on the wagon. I’m being a good boy.”
“Why d’you want to go to Reno?”
“What’s it to you? I live there.”
She took the money and packed it away in her jeans. “I’m gonna gas up, and we’ll be in Reno by two in the morning, about three and a half hours from now. I’m just a driver, not a shrink or a priest. You can talk, but I can’t say as I’ll listen.”
11
“It’s eleven o’clock and all is not well,” Nelson said. “We’ve been stiffed.”
“No shit,” Dean hollered. “Maybe this is your big surprise, Nelson. Maybe you never talked to him at all.”
Nelson pulled a firecracker from his pocket, lit it, and threw it across the table at Dean. Bang!
“What the hell? Watch it.”
“I talked to him three times,” Nelson said heatedly. “I made the airline reservation and paid for the ticket myself.”
“You throw another firecracker at me, Nelson, and I’ll toss your skinny ass right out the window.”
“Yeah, macho man? Remember what happened the last time you tried to fuck with me?”
“Shit,” Dean cursed and then laughed a big laugh that shook his beard and lit up his eyes. “A little tension around the old card table, fellas? I wonder why.”
“Just deal the cards,” Alex said. “We can work out anything if we play.”
Holding the red deck in his hand, brow furrowed in concentration, Dean worked his jaw and leaned over the table. He’d drunk a half pint of rum and smoked a fat joint and was feeling no pain.
“Let’s get some broads,” he said.
“Whaddya mean, get some broads?” Nelson sneered. “You mean hookers?”
“That’s exactly what I mean, dummy. I mean, Jesus.”
“For what? Gratuitous sex?”
“Yeah, and any other kind I can think up. Ha!”
“Let’s play cards,” Nelson suggested. “Roll ’em, Deano.”
“Well, it’s not all that entertaining with only four players, you know?” Dean said, dropping the deck on the felt. “Alex is winning even faster than usual. I’m down fifteen hundred, Charlie about two grand, and you’re down what?”
“I’m up five hundred,” Nelson said. “And I want to win some more. Deal the cards, Stud.”
Dean stood up from the table and started making a sandwich. Slathering mustard on rye, he hummed a few bars of the Grateful Dead’s “Casey Jones” and then said with a teasing lilt, “You really want to play cards, is that it, Nelson? Just play cards?”
“Yeah. That’s why I drove up here.”
A sly smile from Dean. “Is it?”
Alex’s eyes snapped from Nelson to Charlie to Dean. They all had a reason for being there, and it wasn’t just cards.
Dean wagged a finger at Nelson. “Want to ante your Corvette?”
“No, no, no. Christ, you’re nuts. It’s table stakes. The car is not on the table.”
“I bet you have the pink slip in your pocket.”
“You’d lose.”
“You’re chickenshit, Nelson. Crazy Nelson, that’s a laugh.”
“Crazy Nelson is not insane Nelson. You do this every year, Dean. You screw up the game with a lunatic bet because you want to stop playing so some whore can suck your dick.”
Laughing, Charlie said, “Hey, Dean, what do you put in the pot with Nelson’s car? Your boat?”
“Fuck you. That boat is worth two hundred grand. Maybe my truck.”
“How about your old lady? Would you put Billie in the pot?”
“And what would you do with her if you won, you old buttfucker? Give her away? I’ll tell you what, Charlie,” Dean said. “You put in your krautmobile, and then we’ll see what I put in.”
“The Mercedes?”
“Yeah.”
“Too bad. I lease it. I don’t own it.”
“It’s too early for this,” Alex said. “Settle down, you guys. Dean, what’s the matter with you? Is it Bobby? You want to talk about Bobby now, or play cards or get laid, or what?”
“Look, he’s not here and he’s not coming,” Dean said, his voice hard and flat. “We need a fifth player. Maybe we should call in somebody. Charlie, you must know people in town who’ll come and play.”
“I dunno.” Charlie shrugged, mentally running through his inventory of friends and acquaintances. “It’s late, it’s short notice, and not many guys keep five grand around like loose change.”
“We can call Bobby in Reno,” Nelson suggested. “Maybe he never left.”
“What kind of place does he live in?” Alex asked, curious.
“A slummy residence hotel right downtown,” Nelson answered tersely, as though he were filling in a police report. “Six hundred a month.”
“Sounds practical,” Alex said, nodding his head. “Makes sense.”
“Should we call?” Charlie said. “Maybe we should call.”
“And what if he’s there watching TV at home?” Dean snapped. “What do we say? Where the hell are you? That’d be idiotic. It doesn’t matter where he is. He’s not here. He bailed, and that’s all there is to it.”
“I disagree,” Alex declared, taking off his glasses and snuffing out his Lucky. “He’s in the city. I’m sure of it. He just needs to make up his mind to come to the hotel, and it’s hard for him. There’s just so much baggage, so much crap that’s happened in his life. We were all bright boys, right? But Bobby was smarter and better than all of us and we know it. They called me a genius and we laughed at that because we knew who the genius was. Bobby was doing calculus when he was ten, but he flunked math in seventh grade. He just didn’t give a shit, that’s all. He saw things we didn’t see. He understood things as a kid that we’ll never understand when we’re old men, and it was too much for him. He was fragile in ways that only we can say. But you know what? He’ll show.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Hell, yes, Dean. A hundred bucks says he’ll turn up.”
“You’re on. Put your money where your mouth is.”
Alex pulled a wad of cash from his pocket, furiously peeled off a hundred-dollar bill and slammed it on the table, rattling the chips.
Dean winked and taunted, “Gettin’ to ya, Wiz?” He matched the wager while letting his voice drop to a mutter. “He ain’t comin’.”
“Ooo,” Charlie said. “Alex made a side bet. Can’t remember the last time I saw that.”
“Let’s play cards, for chrissake,” Nelson insisted.
“What about the broads?”
“What the fuck, Dean,” Alex said. “Do what you want. If you don’t want to deal, pass the cards.”
“Ah, well, what the hell. Okay. Let’s play.”
He shuffled and the rippling sound seemed to calm nerves all around.
“What’s the game? What’s the game?” Charlie wanted to know.
“Five draw, jacks or better. That okay with you? Cut, Alex.”
In draw poker each player receives five cards, a complete hand, and plays those through one round of betting, including raises. In jacks or better, a player must have at least a pair of jacks to open the first round of betting. After the first round is completed, each player in turn can replace cards—the exact number of discards allowed varies from game to game and with the number of players; in this game one could throw away four cards—and receive new ones from the dealer. A second round of betting follows the draw.
The cards fluttered across the felt like snowflakes, coming to rest in four neat piles around the table. Charlie picked up his cards, moved them around in his hand, put them on the table, fiddled with them, and picked them up again. Nelson puffed on his cigar for a while before snatching up his cards, glancing at his hand, and uttering a yelp of disgust. Alex peeked at the corner of each card one at a time without lifting the ducats from the felt, then arranged them in a fan and left them on the table. Dean spread the cards in his hand and studied them as though they were holy writ.
As dealer, Dean was obliged to say, “Charlie, you gonna open?”
“I open for one hundred.”
“I call,” Nelson said, matching the bet.
“I raise it to two hundred,” Alex declared.
“Think you got a hand?” Dean asked.
“It has potential.”
“I see your potential and raise another hundred,” Dean said.
“I gotta take a card,” Charlie said. “I call.”
“I’m in,” Nelson said.
“You gonna raise it, Alex?” Dean waved his cards around like notes for a speech. “Come get me, boy.”
“I’ll see it,” Alex said, putting in his chips.
“Cards,” Dean recited, asking for discards.
“One card,” Charlie said, tossing his discard face down next to the pot, as was proper.
Dean gave him a new card, face down. Charlie grabbed it and wrinkled his nose.
“One,” Nelson said and took his card.
“No cards. I’m good,” Alex said.
“Standing pat?” Dean inquired.
“You heard me.”
“Uh oh, look out, magic is afoot,” Dean said. “Dealer takes two cards. You opened, Charlie. Your bet.”
“I check,” Charlie whispered, eyes riveted to Alex’s cards which lay face down, untouched.
“I check,” Nelson echoed.
“Two hundred,” Alex bet.
Without hesitation Dean said, “See your two hundred and raise you to three hundred.”
“Oh, God, I fold.” Charlie threw in his cards.
“Check and raise, right?” Nelson looked at Alex, arbiter of rules. “Sandbagging?”
“Right.”
“Okay. I see the three hundred and make it five hundred. That’s three hundred more to you, Alex.”
“Ho ho ho,” Alex said. “It’s wild and wooly now. You took one card and you must have caught something, Nelson. Okay, here’s three hundred and I raise five hundred more. It’s seven hundred to Dean.”
Thirty-one hundred dollars in chips made a tidy pile in the center of the table. Alex was making it expensive for the other players to see his cards.
“I drop,” Dean said.
“You what?”
“You heard me. He’s got a pat hand,” Dean conceded.
“What do you have?” Nelson wanted to know. “Three of a kind?”
“Something like that.”
“It’s a thousand to you, Nelson.”
“Ah, shit. I fold.”
After winning the hand by default, Alex was not obliged to show his cards but the others really wanted to know what he had. Did he have a pat hand or was he bluffing? They would never know. Alex picked up the red deck and mixed in his cards.
“Shit fire,” Nelson swore and tossed his cards on the table. One flipped over, the six of hearts. Disgusted, he turned over the rest, a five, seven, eight, and nine of mixed suits.
“I made my straight, but a hell of a lot of good that did me.”
“I told you magic was afoot, boys,” Dean said, shaking
his head. “The Wiz is on a roll. Maybe we should just give him all our money and call it a night.”
“Charlie’s deal,” Alex said and lit another Lucky.
12
The taxi was speeding across the Bay Bridge, the city a sea of lights in the rearview mirrors, when Bobby started to second-guess himself. His livelihood was playing high stakes poker with amateurs, and twenty thousand dollars was waiting like ripe fruit in the Palace Hotel. The game was no different from hundreds he’d played in, so what was the big deal, that he might lose? It wouldn’t be the first time. Was it the wizard? Was he afraid of Alex Goldman? The Alex he remembered was a smug teenager who thought he couldn’t lose. Alex was the only player who’d consistently beaten him, but that was a long time ago. As kids they’d been equals, novitiates to the game, but now Alex was a fifty-year-old college professor who played once a year while Bobby was a pro who played every day. If he played Alex tonight, he’d crush him like a cockroach. So, if he wasn’t running away from the game, it had to be something else.
He stared through the windshield at the tunnel-like lower deck of the bridge, five and a half miles of steel girders and cars all zooming in the same direction. He felt weird and disembodied, as though he were locked inside a metal cage rushing headlong to nowhere. In the distance the dismal yellow lights of Oakland offered neither solace nor answers to his questions.
Needing a foil to sort himself out, he asked the cab driver, “You play cards?”
“Why do you ask?” Her eyes flicked in the mirror and then locked on the roadway.
“Just curious. That’s what I do. I’m a professional poker player.”
“Poker only?”
“That’s right. No blackjack, no bridge, just poker.”
“Must be an interesting life.”
“It has its moments, like pushing a hack. What’s your name?”
“Driver,” she answered quickly, the moniker prepared in advance.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Well,” Bobby cleared his throat. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Driver. My name is Bob,” and when Driver said nothing, Bobby asked, “Ever been to Reno?”
“Yeah, once.”
