Lucky at Cards

by Lawrence Block

  He had brought in a deck of readers.

  I glanced up at him. He had a sick look on his face. I called the cards off one at a time, then turned them face up. I called ten cards right in a row. They were Bee brand, the diamond back design, and the markings were in the little diamonds near the corners.

  Marked cards are strictly for amateurs. A pro never uses anything phony—he gets by on his own abilities at sleight-of-hand and misdirection. Whenever you see daub or marked cards or luminous readers or hold-out machines, you know you are dealing with a wiseass amateur looking for the best of it.

  “These are your cards,” I said.

  “I—”

  “They came in at the beginning of this set,” I said. “I think we ought to forget this set and go back to the end of the eighth. I think we ought to play two more sets with straight cards.”

  He just nodded.

  From there on in I didn’t have to cheat. He was beaten all the way. Even when the cards ran his way he couldn’t do things right. He had tried to do some cheating on his own hook, and he had been caught at it, and he was through. On the tenth and final set I blitzed him three games straight. The bastard never won a hand.

  Murray sent the boys away. He gazed at me and his shoulders sagged. “You win,” he said. “It’s all yours. Fifty thousand dollars. And Joyce, if you want her.”

  I turned to her. As desirable as ever, unless you saw the death in her eyes.

  “I don’t want her,” I said.

  Murray was tremendously relieved. Then he said, “The money—”

  “I don’t want the money, either,” I said. I pushed back my chair and turned away from him. I didn’t want to look at either Murray Rogers or Joyce now.

  I got out of there and closed the door.

  I traveled as far as a drug store and called a cab from there. He travels fastest who travels alone, I thought. But I wasn’t in such a hurry now. There were more important things than traveling fast.

  The cabby found the high school and let me off in front of it. In the lobby a girl with straight hair and braces on her teeth told me how to find Mrs. Lambert’s classroom.

  Barb was standing at the blackboard with a piece of chalk in her hand. She looked as fresh and sweet as a mouthwash ad. I stood in the doorway for a few seconds and gazed at her. She didn’t see me.

  I thought, Jesus, go away, leave her alone.

  But I stepped into the room and she turned and stared.

  And I said, “Did you mean it? The whole whither-thou-goest routine?”

  “I meant it.”

  “All the way?”

  “All the way. Bill, I—”

  “Have you got a car outside?”

  “Yes,” Barb said.

  “Are you ready to go?”

  “I’ll have to pack. I—”

  “No time. You can buy things.”

  The kids in that class could never have understood. They sat there with their eyes bulging out of their heads while I took her by the elbow and steered her out of the room. We rushed past everybody and into her car and got going. We were on the road.

  “This is crazy,” Barb said.

  “I know.”

  “All my clothes and everything. And just rushing away like this. Maybe we ought to stop.”

  “We’ll stop.”

  “We will?”

  “Sure,” I said. “As soon as I find a motel.”

  So here we are. The town is Phoenix, although we’re never in one town long enough for it to matter too very much where we are. And Barb’s last name is Maynard, thanks to a Baptist Minister in Orchard Falls. But she uses her maiden name in the act.

  The act is nothing too very special. We’re playing a small club called the Desert Points now. I’m Maynard the Magnificent, deft and agile as always, and Barb is my assistant, the girl I saw in half, the girl who drags out the prop wagon and enchants the customers with her mammary development. We go on before the stripper and after the female impersonator. We’re not exactly the World’s Fair, but we like it.

  Sometimes I meet someone who knows me as Wizard. Once in a while somebody from the bad old days wants to know if I still like to take a crooked hand in a crooked game. I don’t. Some of them discourage easy and some of them try to push, but they all give up sooner or later.

  The money is nothing exciting and the life itself is chaotic and uncertain. But we like it. Barb doesn’t seem to care about heavy furniture or charge accounts. There will be a kid or two some day, but we figure they can get used to the life. They may miss out on some schooling, but they’ll learn their geography first-hand. And they’ll be pulling rabbits out of hats before they’re toilet-trained.

  It could be worse. Hell, it has been worse.

  It’s never been better.

  A New Afterword by the Author

  Sometime in late 1963 I had a falling-out with my agent. I’d been represented by the Scott Meredith Literary Agency ever since I took employment there as an editor in the summer of 1957. I had left the job and returned to Antioch College after nine or ten months but remained a client of the agency until I chafed at some crap assignment and wound up suddenly agentless. My primary market at the time was Bill Hamling’s soft-core operation, Nightstand Books, and it was a closed shop; Scott Meredith (under a deep corporate cover) filled all their editorial needs. I had a wife and a mortgage and two kids under three years old, and no college degree or marketable skills except the ability to make up stories and string words together.

  That sounds fairly dire, and I suppose it was, but it was decades later before I realized it didn’t have to be. I could have mended the fences. One phone call to Scott, a mumbled apology, and I’d have been back in the fold. In fact there was a phone call—from Scott—to clear up some unfinished business, and at its conclusion he suggested I return to the fold. And I declined. Does that sound like a principled stand? Or like wrongheaded obstinacy? I have to say it was neither, just an inability to perceive options. How could I go back to being a client? You know, I always did well on IQ tests and, when I put my mind to it, at schoolwork. But in certain basic respects, I really wasn’t terribly bright, was I?

  Never mind. I had a living to make, and only one way to make it, and I went to work. I was living in a Buffalo, New York, suburb at the time, out of touch with the world of publishing. We probably should have moved back to New York City, but we stayed put and I worked to develop new markets for myself. I’d written a number of books for Harry Shorten at Midwood Tower, and that was not a Scott Meredith closed shop, but did I give Harry a ring and try to set something up? No, never thought of it. Instead I established a new identity as Jill Emerson, wrote a sensitive lesbian novel, and sent it to Midwood as an over-the-transom submission. (They bought it and launched Jill Emerson’s checkered career, but that’s another story; you’ll find it in the afterwords to Warm & Willing and Enough of Sorrow.)

  I’d written some psychosexual nonfiction (made up case histories) for Lancer Books, and I knew Larry T. Shaw well enough to call him up and propose a book. So that was a market. I knew something about coins, and knocked out a book on coin investment that Frederick Fell published. I sold articles to a batch of numismatic (currency) magazines: Coins, Numismatic Scrapbook, and The Whitman Numismatic Journal.

  And then there was Beacon.

  Before there was Midwood or Nightstand, Beacon Books had essentially created the genre of widely distributed soft-core paperback fiction, with Orrie Hitt their leading writer. I believe A Diet of Treacle was my first book for Beacon, although it didn’t set out to be; I had more ambitious aims for the book, set in the beat/hip demimonde of Greenwich Village. But when other publishers passed, my agent sent the manuscript to Beacon, where it was published as Pads Are for Passion by Sheldon Lord. That was the pen name I’d put on my Midwood titles, and I decided to use it at Beacon as well.

  I wrote two more books specifically for Beacon, April North and Community of Women. The latter was a Beacon editor’s idea; he m
ust have been a commuter, given to fantasies about daytime life in his suburb after all the men had caught the 8:02 a.m. train to Grand Central Station.

  When the books came out, I made the mistake of having a look at them; when some sentences struck me as unwieldy, I checked my carbon copies. Beacon was a strange publishing house indeed. The publisher, a fellow named Arnold Abramson, came out of the world of pulp magazines and took it as an article of faith that anything he bought from a writer had to be rewritten by an editor. And so he had a whole roomful of editors whose job it was to change the manuscripts they bought, whether they needed it or not. If the editors didn’t make abundant changes, they’d be out of a job. So they changed my compound sentences to simple sentences and hooked my simple sentences together as compound sentences and so on, all the way through to the end. They certainly didn’t make the stuff better, and I don’t suppose they made it a great deal worse, but the whole business annoyed the hell out of me. The pay wasn’t all that good, so I figured I’d write for somebody else.

  But Beacon wanted more from Sheldon Lord, and Scott Meredith’s merry men figured out how to handle that. They enlisted ghostwriters to furnish Sheldon Lord manuscripts, and in return for the use of my name, I got a slice of the advance. Two hundred dollars a book, if I remember correctly.

  And how many of these ghostwritten manuscripts were there over a two or three year period? Beats me. Eight or ten, something like that? I didn’t know anything about the ghosts and never saw their books or knew what they were writing. One guy was named Milo and one guy wasn’t, and my old college buddy Peter Hochstein wrote at least one of the books, with results that were interesting enough to discuss in the afterword to April North. But the whole ghosting operation had pretty much stopped by the time Scott Meredith and I parted company.

  I don’t think I had Beacon in mind when I wrote Lucky at Cards. It’s a straight suspense novel, not a soft-core sex opus, and I probably intended it for Gold Medal, where I’d already published Grifter’s Game and Coward’s Kiss—albeit under other titles. But I needed a quick sale, and that’s probably what made me send the manuscript to Bernie Williams at Beacon.

  Well, he loved it. I had lunch with him in New York, and we had this wacky conversation in which he told me how much of an improvement the book was on my recent work for them. It required hardly any editing, he said, and showed me some pages of a recent Sheldon Lord manuscript that had been edited to death. It was comforting to know I was better than the guys who’d been ghosting for me, but it made for a weird moment or two.

  Bernie called the book The Sex Shuffle, perhaps thinking that the promise of sex might help offset the book’s lack of much sexual content. And he did something Beacon has never done before or since, so far as I know: He put a quote on the cover enthusing about the book. The source of the quote was given as one otherwise unidentified “William Bernard,” and my keen analytical mind leads me to suspect that it was in fact Bernie Williams.

  There was a wonderful moment at that lunch. Bernie had an idea for a book I might write next, one that examined the relationship of an older husband with a much younger wife. “It’s almost a cliché in fiction,” he said, “but the thing is it’s always portrayed negatively. I’d like to see a book in which a marriage like that works out. Because sometimes it does work out. Sometimes a marriage like that can be a huge success.”

  That was the only time I met Bernie, and I never did meet his wife, whom I’m certain must have been a good twenty years his junior. I can only hope they went on being happy together. He was a nice man, and he bought a book from me when I sorely needed a sale. I never did take a shot at his May-December novel because a fellow named Ken Bressett, who’d bought articles from me for the Whitman Numismatic Journal, showed up in Buffalo and offered me a job. We sold the house and moved to Racine, Wisconsin.

  Years later, Charles Ardai snapped up The Sex Shuffle, restored its original title, Lucky at Cards, and published it at Hard Case Crime. Here’s a review from Publishers Weekly: “The Hard Case Crime imprint has found a perfect partner in Block, as this gritty Grifter’s tale, in print for the first time in forty years, goes to show … The plot twists here, then there, then back again, rooted in Block’s strong characters and no-nonsense prose style.”

  And here’s another from Bill Tot in Booklist:

  Before Matt Scudder, before Bernie Rhodenbarr, before being named a Mystery Writers of America Grand Master, Lawrence Block turned out paperback originals. This one—unavailable for more than 40 years—now receives a timely reissue from Hard Case Crime. It’s a doozy… Block unwinds his plot superbly, pointing toward a classic noir finale but then seeming to pull away—or maybe not. And, along the way, there is all the teasing sexuality and tongue-in-cheek noir style that a pulp devotee craves.

  The book probably owes a little to The Tooth and the Nail, by Bill S. Ballinger, a fine writer who’s pretty much forgotten these days. Let’s hope he’s rediscovered. If Lucky at Cards can have a new life as an ebook after all these years, well, anything’s possible, isn’t it?

  —Lawrence Block

  Greenwich Village

  Lawrence Block (lawbloc@gmail.com) welcomes your email responses; he reads them all, and replies when he can.

  A Biography of Lawrence Block

  Lawrence Block (b. 1938) is the recipient of a Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America and an internationally renowned bestselling author. His prolific career spans over one hundred books, including four bestselling series as well as dozens of short stories, articles, and books on writing. He has won four Edgar and Shamus Awards, two Falcon Awards from the Maltese Falcon Society of Japan, the Nero and Philip Marlowe Awards, a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Private Eye Writers of America, and the Cartier Diamond Dagger from the Crime Writers Association of the United Kingdom. In France, he has been awarded the title Grand Maitre du Roman Noir and has twice received the Societe 813 trophy.

  Born in Buffalo, New York, Block attended Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio. Leaving school before graduation, he moved to New York City, a locale that features prominently in most of his works. His earliest published writing appeared in the 1950s, frequently under pseudonyms, and many of these novels are now considered classics of the pulp fiction genre. During his early writing years, Block also worked in the mailroom of a publishing house and reviewed the submission slush pile for a literary agency. He has cited the latter experience as a valuable lesson for a beginning writer.

  Block’s first short story, “You Can’t Lose,” was published in 1957 in Manhunt, the first of dozens of short stories and articles that he would publish over the years in publications including American Heritage, Redbook, Playboy, Cosmopolitan, GQ, and the New York Times. His short fiction has been featured and reprinted in over eleven collections including Enough Rope (2002), which is comprised of eighty-four of his short stories.

  In 1966, Block introduced the insomniac protagonist Evan Tanner in the novel The Thief Who Couldn’t Sleep. Block’s diverse heroes also include the urbane and witty bookseller—and thief-on-the-side—Bernie Rhodenbarr; the gritty recovering alcoholic and private investigator Matthew Scudder; and Chip Harrison, the comical assistant to a private investigator with a Nero Wolfe fixation who appears in No Score, Chip Harrison Scores Again, Make Out with Murder, and The Topless Tulip Caper. Block has also written several short stories and novels featuring Keller, a professional hit man. Block’s work is praised for his richly imagined and varied characters and frequent use of humor.

  A father of three daughters, Block lives in New York City with his second wife, Lynne. When he isn’t touring or attending mystery conventions, he and Lynne are frequent travelers, as members of the Travelers’ Century Club for nearly a decade now, and have visited about 150 countries.

  A four-year-old Block in 1942.

  Block during the summer of 1944, with his baby sister, Betsy.

  Block’s 1955 yearbook picture from Bennett High School in Buffalo,
New York.

  Block in 1983, in a cap and leather jacket. Block says that he “later lost the cap, and some son of a bitch stole the jacket. Don’t even ask about the hair.”

  Block with his eldest daughter, Amy, at her wedding in October 1984.

  Seen here around 1990, Block works in his office on New York’s West 13th Street with, he says, “a bad haircut, an ugly shirt, and a few extra pounds.”

  Block at a bookstore appearance in support of A Walk Among the Tombstones, his tenth Matthew Scudder novel, on Veterans Day, 1992.

  Block and his wife, Lynne.

  Block and Lynne on vacation “someplace exotic.”

  Block race walking in an international marathon in Niagara Falls in 2005. He got the John Deere cap at the John Deere Museum in Grand Detour, Illinois, and still has it today.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright © 1964 by Lawrence Block

  cover design by Elizabeth Connor

  ISBN: 978-1-4532-0842-7

  This edition published in 2010 by Open Road Integrated Media