Pokergeist

by Michael Phillip Cash

  * * *

  Gretchen rubbed the sleep from her eyes and picked up the phone. “You OK, Tel?” He sounded nervous.

  “Fine,” Telly insisted loudly, then repeated more softly, “Fine; it’s not bad. I actually like it.”

  “Good, good,” Gretchen yawned. “I’m so proud of you. Love you.”

  “Love you too,” Telly said sincerely. He slid his phone back into his pocket, got into the car, and gave the ghost the silent treatment. Clutch hung from the ceiling of the car, dangled his feet out the rear, and felt up the female passengers. Telly steadfastly refused to look at him.

  He ignored Clutch when he stretched across the passengers’ laps and looked in the other direction when he opened their purses or stuck his fingers in Telly’s ears. Telly slammed the door in the ghost’s face when he left to grab a bite at an Ethiopian restaurant the cabbies all talked about. The food was great; he wasn’t sure what he had, but the rice was incredible. He stalled before getting back into the car, staying longer with Gretchen on the phone for his second call than he was supposed to. Clutch tried to distract him, but Telly tuned him out, refusing to acknowledge him no matter how outrageously he behaved. By four in the morning, Telly had made a few hundred dollars. He was nearing his shift’s end when he pulled into the Wynn. The line was always long there, but someone had told him it was a good door for tips. The doorman whistled for his attention, and Telly slid into place. The door opened, and a man fell into the backseat, clearly drunk. “Take me downtown! No, never mind. Take me to the desert, and leave me there to die!” he slurred. He sighed so deeply it reverberated through the car.

  “Bad night?” Telly asked sympathetically.

  “Bad week—no, bad year…”

  “Bad life…” Clutch finished. “This oughta be fun. Roy Rogers been drinking?” Clutch was mildly bored.

  Momentarily diverted, Telly asked, “Who?”

  “Not who, where. I changed my mind. Take me downtown. Binions,” the older man demanded.

  “Roy Rogers? You don’t know Roy Rogers? He was a famous singing cowboy from the fifties,” Clutch informed him.

  “Before my time,” Telly said, shaking his head.

  “Look, kid, I know Binions is an old place, but I like the atmosphere. These new casinos are like hospitals—antiseptic, you know. They don’t have any mojo.” He sighed gustily. “I don’t feel comfortable here anymore. I wish I’d never come.”

  Telly realized he’d answered Clutch instead of his patron. He looked at the passenger in the rearview mirror. He wore a white Stetson and a cowboy shirt. He was definitely on the later side of sixty. The man tipped up his hat so he could make eye contact with Telly.

  Telly shrugged. “They all seem alike to me.”

  “Are you kidding me? Casinos used to be fun. Now it’s all computer games, sweet-smelling perfume, and loud music. I like to smell sweat.”

  “I miss the good old days,” Clutch said wistfully.

  The passenger complained: “We used to come here all the time, m’wife and me. Had a ball. They treated us like a king and queen. Anything we wanted—show tickets, dinner with Sinatra, boat rides on Lake Mead, you name it. It’s like I don’t fit in anymore here. Kids everywhere, messing up the rhythm of the tables. I feel like I’ve lived my time, like I’m almost invisible. They—”

  “They?” Telly asked, looking at him in the rearview mirror.

  “You know, the younger generation. They make me feel useless. Like I don’t have anything relevant to add. I miss my wife. I miss my old life.” He ended the sentence, his voice barely audible.

  “I’m sure you have plenty to contribute to whatever you do. You have experience. You can’t buy that. You look like you have a lot to offer.”

  “Looks can be deceiving. I loved my wife. I liked being married. She died four years ago, and I really struggled. Then this year, I met a gal. She’s really nice, but she’s still stuck on her guy as well.”

  “Break up?”

  Stan shook his head. “He died last year. Well, she told me she wasn’t ready yet. Do you know how hard it was for me to approach her? I didn’t want to even come here again; I miss being with my wife. She always knew what to do. I figured if I could just get a sign from her…a message…but that psychic would only meet me here on her western tour. It was the only reading she had for me.”

  “What psychic?” Telly asked.

  “Georgia Oaken, the TV medium from Long Island. She was performing here. I had my office call, but that was it. Here and on Tuesday. Everything went to shit when m’wife passed away. Cancer, you know.” Telly nodded sympathetically. “Been working at the grindstone for over fifty years. I built my business with my bare hands.” He held up his hands as if Telly could envision their capabilities. “It’s this new generation. The kids don’t respect me. The minute I open my mouth, I see them roll their eyes. They think they know everything. It’s ruining everything for me. I don’t think I can do anything anymore. Especially not alone.”

  “Tell me about it,” Clutch chimed in.

  Telly nodded. “I know how you feel. But seems to me you have a few choices…mister…”

  “Stan. Stan Jarvis. What’s your name?”

  “Telly.”

  “Tell me, Telly, what choices do you see?”

  “It’s simple. You have to reinvent yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?” Both Clutch and Stan said it at the same time. Telly smiled.

  “Sometimes when you don’t fit in, no matter how old you are, no matter how set in your ways, you have to make a new mold.”

  Stan leaned forward, sticking his head through the opening. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Sounds like too much work.”

  “No such thing. Nature changes, rivers and mountains change. What makes us think we have to stay the same? If everybody is telling you that you can’t dance, you can either sit down or learn a new dance.”

  Stan digested Telly’s statement for a few minutes. He opened his mouth and closed it again. “It’s so simple,” he said to himself. “You’re a bright guy. Think it’ll work on the ladies?”

  Telly shrugged. “Don’t see why it wouldn’t. Maybe if she sees you in a new light, she’ll be more interested.” Telly watched the emotions play over Stan’s face. “Her guy died, right? Your wife died too. Maybe your grief reminds her too much of her own. So, try a different tactic.”

  “Huh.” Stan sat back in the seat, deep in thought. “Never thought about it that way before. Have you ever reinvented yourself?” Stan sat up eagerly.

  “I’m working on it. If you are being minimized, then it’s up to you to maximize yourself and make them take notice.”

  “You play craps?”

  “I like poker,” Telly told him and then added hastily, “but I don’t play anymore.” He ignored Clutch’s loud snort.

  “Too slow for me. Hey, come on in with me, and we’ll play a game or two.”

  Telly shook his head. “Sorry, I—”

  “I’ll pay for your time.” Stan insisted.

  “I just can’t,” Telly said. “I’m on duty.”

  “I’m on duty! What are you, a cop?” Clutch climbed over the front seat through the protective shield. “Are you nuts? This guy’s a high roller. This is our chance, Telly.”

  “I also promised someone I wouldn’t play poker,” Telly retored to both Clutch and Stan.

  “Look, I’m calling your boss. If he says it’s OK, you’re coming in with me. I like you. You make sense, Tony.”

  “Telly,” he corrected him.

  “Like Kojak?”

  “Yes, but I can’t…”

  The passenger took off his hat, revealing his hairless pate. “We’re bald brothers, you know—like blood, only sexier. This is amazing. Now, you have to come in with me. It’s a sign f
rom my Irma that things are going to change.”

  “I don’t have any money!” Telly’s face broke out into a sweat. “And I’m not bald.” He turned furiously to Clutch, whispering, “Are you doing this? Because if you are, it’s not working.”

  “Hello, this is Stan Jarvis. I’m in one of your cabs, and I want the driver, Telly, to go into Binions with me while I play a game of craps. What’s your last name, Tel?”

  “Martin…but I can’t go in. I’ll lose my—”

  Stan wasn’t listening. “Look, I’m putting five C-notes in an envelope for Telly to bring to you if you let him go in with me. Yeah…yeah, OK, a grand. Yes…hold on.” He handed the phone to Telly. “I put it on speaker; he wants to talk to you.”

  “Telly, you do whatever Mr. Jarvis tells you to,” the dispatcher was adamant.

  “But my shift is almost over.”

  “Don’t matter—just bring the car and my grand back when you finish. Stay with Mr. Jarvis,” his boss said.

  “Binions! I am in heaven.” Clutch was ecstatic. “Do you know, Telly, that’s where the poker tournaments started.” He ruffled Telly’s hair. “I hope the dice are hot. Never mind that,” Clutch said, watching a pair of women in short, sequined dresses enter the building. “I know the women are hot! Woo hoo!”

  “Stay close to me, Telly,” Stan told him as they walked through the smoke-filled casino.

  A smarmy man in an ill-fitting suit approached them with his hand outstretched. “Stanley! I was afraid you left us for the fancy bright lights of the Strip.”

  “Left you?” Stan laughed. “How could I leave you when the good steaks and bad women are all here?”

  Telly’s eyes stung from the pall of smoke. The subtle chink of chips was muted in the thick air. The place was filled with an older crowd. Looking around, he realized that nobody but him had their real hair color. The waitstaff was ancient but spry, as they walked the floor with trays filled with drinks. There were no umbrellas in any of the drinks here.

  “This way—stay close to me.” Stan stepped lively toward the center of the casino.

  “Who’s that with you, Stanley?”

  “This is Telly. I was feeling a bit poorly, and he snapped me right out of it. Do you know what that calls for?”

  “What, Stan?” the host asked.

  “A crap game always makes me feel better!” He slapped him on the back. Telly hung behind them. “Belly up to the table, son. Get me a marker, Clay,” he called out to the pit boss.

  “How much, sir?”

  “Start with a hundred, and then we’ll see how it goes.”

  “He’s getting a marker for a hundred dollars? That’s crazy,” Telly muttered.

  “It’s a hundred thousand, Tel. You landed us in a great pile of manure. This guy’s filthy with it!” Clutch told him, his eyes alight with excitement.

  The whole rack was filled with chips. Stan placed a stack of black on the tray in front of Telly. Telly looked at him, his eyebrows raised.

  “You can’t shoot if you’re not on the pass line,” Stan explained.

  “I can’t shoot at all,” Telly told him.

  “Everybody can shoot.” The dealer moved a row of six sets of bright red dice toward them.

  “Pick the pair that speaks to you,” Stan told him. “Make sure you hit the back wall, and don’t overthink it. Oh, and put a hundred on the hard eight,” Stan advised him. “We’re about to reinvent you.”

  “I really can’t.” Telly was miserable.

  “Yes, you can. You can do anything,” Stan told him. “You are doing this for me, and I appreciate it. You pulled me out of a place so dark, Telly. You have to finish what we started.” He pulled him close. “I was going to blow my brains out tonight. You gave me purpose. You made me want to—”

  “Bet the hard eight, Telly!” Clutch spoke in a rush, interrupting them, lost to everything but the game. “I never bet the sucker bets, but this might be our lucky day.”

  Telly put one hundred on the pass line, his hand shaking. He’d saved Stan’s life; he felt responsible for him. Just one game, for Stan. He felt like his old self, comfortable with doing for others. Stan put five black chips on his. He picked up another hundred, looking at the squares in the center showing the hard ways. “Do it, Telly!” Clutch yelled.

  Telly threw the black chip toward the middle. “One hundred on the hard eight.”

  “Pair of squares. I love it.” Stan threw two black chips and one green one next to Telly’s. “Two hundred for me, twenty-five for the boys,” he said, placing a bet for the dealers at the table, who all smiled with approval. “Now go get us that hard eight, Telly.”

  Telly chose the center dice and rubbed them together in his sweaty hands.

  “One hand!” the pit boss yelled. “Only one hand.”

  “Shake the bones, then let ’em fly!” Clutch yelled in his other ear.

  Telly dropped his other hand, shook his right hand, then threw the dice to the other end of the table. Everybody craned their necks. Stan and Clutch whooped and then Clutch screamed, “Ozzie and Harriet! Pair of squares!” Stan hit Telly’s arm while he howled with joy.

  Telly bent forward to see the dice at the other end, each one with four dots. “Oh, those are the squares,” he said softly.

  The dealer made three piles in the center of the table. Telly counted a stack of two hundred, eight hundred, and sixteen hundred. They pushed the largest pile to Stan, who informed them to press the eight another hundred, and put a black chip on all the other hard ways. Telly’s eyes widened as they pushed the middle pile toward him.

  “That’s for me?”

  “You bet. Press it, Telly. Put another hundred on the hard eight,” Stan advised him.

  The dealers thanked Stan for his bet.

  “I made that.” Telly was incredulous.

  “Yessir. Do it again. If you get another eight, we make our point. Put five hundred dollars behind the line.”

  “Five hundred?” Telly questioned.

  “Always bet full odds!” Clutch shouted.

  Telly shrugged. It wasn’t his money; he planned to give it all back to Stan anyway. He placed five black chips behind the pass line.

  Stan placed chips all over the table, covering every number on the green baize. Telly gulped; there had to be six thousand dollars lying on the table.

  “Just get me numbers, Telly. Lots of numbers, except the bad one.”

  “Do you mean the—”

  “Don’t! Don’t say that number! Ever! Don’t even think that number! We need fours, fives, sixes, eights, nines, and tens! Bring me those numbers, Telly!”

  Telly shrugged and reached forward for the dice. If he tried, he couldn’t remember what happened except that the smoke got denser and a crowd formed around them, growing in both size and noise, as he mechanically threw the dice, hitting the same numbers over and over again. Stan kept reaching over and throwing Telly’s chips onto more squares on the table and then loading them into the tray in front of him every time he hit the number. Soon, it was a rainbow of multicolored chips. He thought Clutch was going to die all over again when they paid him with a yellow thousand-dollar chip. Truth was, Telly didn’t know what was going on; it was a blur and seemed to go on forever. By the time he heard the crowd roar with disappointment, his arm ached and he was covered with sweat. Looking at his watch, he realized the entire episode had taken barely forty-five minutes, and he had made his new friend a shitload of money. It took another half hour for the pit boss to cash out Stan at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He paid his marker and tipped the crew.

  “That was incredible,” Telly told Stan, who was trying to light a congratulatory cigar. “I have to learn how to play this game.”

  “No, son. You just have to shoot and shoot well. Nice hand.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Jarvis. I have
to head back and return the cab.”

  “Whoa, whoa, where you goin’, Tel? Take your chips.” Stan gestured to the loaded rack of chips.

  “No, that’s all yours. Thanks for a great evening.”

  “No, sir. Those are yours. You earned them.”

  “Take the money, Tel,” Clutch danced around them. “We have enough to enter the Series.”

  “I can’t.” Telly started to walk away.

  “Listen here, Telly. I couldn’t have won without your fine shooting. So, if you want, take off my vig, the thousand I staked you with. The rest is yours. Give me your number.”

  “Nineteen thousand forty-five dollars,” the dealer told him.

  Telly opened his mouth. “I can’t—”

  Stan was busy talking on his phone. He sounded playful, and he distinctly heard him flirting. Maybe he was trying that new strategy with his lady friend. He sounded happy enough.

  Telly shrugged and told the dealer to take off five hundred for the dealers.

  “Nicely done, Telly—give big, get big,” Clutch said.

  Stan turned. “Tel, don’t leave without giving me your number.”

  Telly dutifully wrote his phone number on a card. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. Good luck in the Series.”

  “Oh, I can’t—” he started to say, but Stan turned to talk to his host.

  Clutch poked him in the shoulder. “Ow, that hurt.” Telly started walking toward the cashier. “I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to Gretchen.”

  “You were working, baby.” Clutch walked alongside him.

  He entered the valet, gave his ticket, and waited for his cab. Clutch slid into the front seat next to him.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Telly asked him as he shifted into drive.

  “Head to Mandalay.”

  “Mandalay? I’m bringing the car back and heading home. Gretchen should be waking up soon.”

  Clutch reached out to grab the steering wheel. The car swerved to the right. “Stop that!”