“I was told by those in the know,” Mannheim said. “Only twenty minutes more.”
For a minute, they chatted politely about their respective states of hunger. Then, when no one had said anything for too long of a time, Chan reminded Mannheim: “I’m curious about this matter you wanted to tell me.”
“I have been following a couple of mentors, so to speak,” began Mannheim. His voice lowered to a whisper. “We discovered something important together. Let me pose the question: where is time at its most relative?”
“I can’t say, sir.”
“In a casino! Yes? That’s what we realized, Chan. The body wears itself thin from the tension and nerves of not knowing. But most powerfully, the mind, body, and soul are devastated by losing, Chan. Prolonged losing crushes the spirit. And I have spent more than half my adult life in casinos—despite being a mere observer, this continuous, terrible agony of losing has taken its toll. In my case, it is slowly destroying my mind.”
Chan was startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“In other cases, it’s the lungs. Or the legs. But there are those who seem unaffected by all this anguish. These are the real lucky ones. Some even seem to grow younger, while the rest of us speed to our graves.” He peered at Chan closely. “Are you one of these? You’ve worked in casinos for twelve years and yet you don’t look a day over twenty-eight.”
“That’s very flattering, sir. But what do you mean about your mind?”
Mannheim looked around, and then whispered very gravely: “This is my last Thanksgiving, Chan. I’m dying from dementia of the brain.”
Chan was dumbstruck. Haltingly, he began, “I’m sorry, sir—I really am. How—?”
“I’ve only got a few weeks left, according to the medical authorities. I’m telling you because I don’t want this secret between us. I know you won’t make a commotion out of it, like the others would, Chan—they would only pity me, and throw parties on my behalf. As much as we all like one another, they see me as their boss, outside of their experience in some way. But we can trust each other, Arturo.”
“Certainly, sir.” Chan was moved by the request. When Mannheim extended a hand, he quickly took it. “I promise to never throw you a party.”
Mannheim smiled and released Chan’s hand. When he spoke again, his tone was more measured. “Is there something in your locker? In the changing room at work?”
“What? No,” Chan said. “I usually dress at home.” Neither spoke for a moment. Then Chan said quietly, “You’re holding up commendably well, sir. All things considered.”
They were interrupted by a loud clamor from the dining room. “It’s almost time!” Leanne said with glee.
“I’m going to put in a good word for you, Chan, before my time is up. I know you’re interested in Faro.”
“I am.” Chan felt urged to reciprocate Mannheim’s openness toward him. “I would like to deal to the Countess.”
“The Countess!” Mannheim laughed. “She hasn’t aged the entire time I’ve known her.”
Chan’s reply was forestalled by the voice of Dumonde, exhorting the guests to gather around the banquet table.
“Oh, by the way,” Mannheim added before the two men rejoined the others, “who is this Dumonde fellow? I like him.”
After everyone had settled into their seats, Bao rolled a large silver platter into the room. The guests applauded as Bao and Dumonde lifted it and placed it in the center of the long table. Then Leanne rose and asked if anyone wanted to lead them in an interdenominational prayer of gratitude. Chan avoided eye contact in the silence that followed, and was hardly surprised when he heard Dumonde’s voice beside him: “I’ll say a few words if you’ll allow me.”
Chan bowed his head and hoped for the best.
“I am thankful to you, Chan, for introducing me to your friends, and I hope I am not being too presumptuous in calling you all my friends as well. I suspect we have been brought together today for a very important reason. Yesterday we were strangers, and now we are united, the oddest of families.
“We give thanks for this past year—an eventful one, hopefully, full of the unexpected turns that make life strange and delightful. We give thanks for the bounty laid upon this table, under whose hand no poor creature was hurt. Thank you, Leanne and Bao, for inviting us together on this worthy occasion and preparing this wonderful feast.” He raised a glass toward them, and Leanne beamed. “Finally, on behalf of us all, I would be remiss in not thanking you, Lord, for your most baffling creation—the world of risk. The bet, and the free will with which to exercise that option. Thank you, God, for coolers and heaters—the devastating loss and the miraculous win!”
“Hear, hear,” said the poker dealer, whose name Chan had learned was Rumi. The cashier, Max, began applauding, and everyone joined in. “To luck!” they cheered, and drank heartily, before descending upon the meal.
By half past nine, the guests had made their way to the living room and were sprawled out on the sofas in various stages of fullness. Dumonde’s pie had been completely devoured. Rumi looked like she could hardly move, and Max was yawning. Mannheim was drinking with Dumonde, exchanging stories from their respective pit careers. Chan glanced at his watch, wondering if it was time to leave, when a knock came at the door. Bao answered it, and Chan heard him exclaim, “Why, hello there!” Looking up, he saw over Bao’s shoulder that Chimsky and someone else had arrived. They were ushered in, and Chimsky introduced her as Barbara, “the ex-love of my life.” Both seemed in excellent spirits. Bao and Leanne brought the newcomers plates of food, and they ate while chatting. Chimsky was going around the room with Rumi, polling the various parties on some idea he was proposing.
“Arturo,” Chimsky said. “Just the man I wanted to see. Rumi has been kind enough to agree to deal us a true Thanksgiving treat: a dealer’s choice poker game. I’m seeing who wants to participate. Max is out. He hates poker. Bao’s going to bed, but Leanne says she’s in. Mannheim says he’ll play, believe it or not. Barbara’s in, of course. Dumonde says he’s willing if you are. So how does a game of poker sound to you?”
“I don’t know,” Chan said. “What are the stakes?”
“We’re playing five-dollar antes. The rest is up to the dealer.”
Dumonde came up to them, holding a drink. “Come on, Chan,” he said, placing his arm around Chan’s shoulders. “It’s my last night in Snoqualmie.”
“It wouldn’t be much of a game with just four,” Chimsky said. “We need you two.”
“Exactly,” Dumonde said. “Let’s make the best of it.”
Chan looked over at Mannheim, who was now sitting alone by himself on the couch, lost in his thoughts. Then he considered his own wallet in his back pocket, still plushly lined with the winnings from Snoqualmie Downs. “All right,” he said finally, to their grins of approbation. “I guess we can play for a bit.”
Dealer’s Choice
A surface of blue felt was unrolled, pulled taut, and clothes-pinned to the legs of the dining room table. Rumi, the dealer, sat in the middle on one side. The players drew cards for the seating arrangement, and around Rumi, clockwise, sat Mannheim directly to her left, then Barbara, Dumonde, Chimsky, Leanne, and finally, to Rumi’s immediate right, sat Chan. A dealer button rotated in the same order around the table, with the person governing it calling the game. Rumi dealt the cards, in return for which she was toked from each pot by the winner—“the only person in the room guaranteed to walk out ahead,” as she happily described her situation.
During the first orbit, Leanne rolled a joint from materials she removed from a compact wooden box on the sideboard. Chan was surprised Leanne could be so open about smoking in front of their boss, but when the joint reached Mannheim, he took several puffs himself. “Why not?” Mannheim said. “We’re all friends here.” Chan decided to follow suit when the joint reached him. Several of the other players were already deep into their glasses—Mannheim and Chimsky, specifically—and he did not want to be the only sober p
layer in a game that would most assuredly be marked by reckless play. Chan had not gambled since Snoqualmie Downs, and he felt overdue.
The session began with a series of small uncontested pots. Chan did not receive a playable hand until the dealer button settled on its second orbit in front of Leanne. She called Deuce-to-Seven Lowball. Additionally, she established that the hand should be played Pot Limit—“to spice things up.” After tossing in his $5 ante, Chan squeezed out his hand and was delighted to find Rumi had dealt him a pat—though not great—hand: 9-8-6-5-3. He bet $20 into the pot and was raised to $50 by Chimsky. Everyone else dropped. Chan eyed Chimsky and immediately did not trust him. He watched Chimsky fiddling with his chips and made the call.
Chan told Rumi he was standing pat.
“In that case, I’d better draw,” Chimsky said. He elected to exchange one card with Rumi. Chan immediately bet $200. He was hoping Chimsky would fold, but instead, Chimsky reached for his chips and lined up the call—then, dishearteningly, he continued to add even more chips to the wager. Chimsky pushed a towering stack into the middle of the table, announcing a raise the size of the pot—$500.
Chimsky, of course, could be bluffing. He was chatting with Leanne about last night’s shift, but Chan thought he was trying to appear more casual than he was feeling.
After waffling ten seconds, Chan said he would call.
“Good call,” sighed Chimsky. He flashed an Ace sarcastically. “Thanks for the brick, Rumi.”
Courteously, Chan fanned his hand face up on the table and gathered in the sizable pot Rumi was pushing toward him. There was over $1,200 in it. Chan stacked the chips deftly with both hands, sharing twenty of it with Rumi. Chimsky, acting none the worse for wear, pulled out his wallet and rebought another $500.
Thereupon, the game grew wilder in complexion. Glasses were refilled, a fresh joint rolled, and dwindling stacks were replenished with ready cash. In this atmosphere, the button fell to Dumonde, and to Chan’s annoyance, he called Five-Card Stud, Deuces Wild, a game Chan had never known anyone else to enjoy.
He surrendered his hand—a Jack with a 7 in the hole—very early, then watched as the pot ballooned to $1,000 between Dumonde and Mannheim. On the last street, Dumonde bet $900 with four Hearts showing, and the action fell to Mannheim and his two Aces. Chan saw Mannheim was almost undoubtedly beaten, and he hoped to see his boss fold—quickly. But instead, Mannheim appeared to be preparing his remaining chips to call. “I’ve gone this far,” Chan heard him say.
No! Chan thought emphatically. Fold!
Mannheim was in the act of pushing his chips across the line. But just as he was about to, he paused, cocking his head slightly, as if he sensed Chan’s mental remonstrance. But then he sighed, and pushed his chips in anyway, all in a heap. “I’ll pay to see it,” he said.
Dumonde smiled, his white teeth gleaming. He turned over the Ace of Hearts in the hole. “I never bluff,” he said politely as he gathered in the rest of Mannheim’s chips.
To Chan’s dismay, beginning from this mistake, Mannheim’s self-control steadily eroded over the next hour. Chan watched his boss go on tilt, playing every hand to the end, splashing in pots when he should have long given up. Equally erratic was his behavior. When it was his turn, Mannheim repeatedly called Sandman, a nonsensical variant of Guts that Chan was sure his boss had made up on the spot. On another occasion, after losing a large pot to Barbara, Mannheim began to mutter a rhyme under his breath.
“Excuse me?” Barbara asked.
“I was just saying,” said Mannheim, “‘No one knows where the hobo goes when it snows.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Years ago, customers would say it after they lost a big hand.”
“It sounds unlucky to me,” Barbara said, and Chan silently agreed. But he could only bite his tongue as he saw—hand by hand—Mannheim losing and rebuying twice more, for $500 each time, now repeating whenever he lost the unpleasant incantation, which appeared to draw nothing but further misfortune to him.
Near three in the morning, Leanne was felted by a cruel river card in a Hold’em hand, losing all her chips to an apologetic Barbara. Because Leanne was the host and no doubt desired to see the game conclude now that she had busted, the remaining five players agreed they would play just one more hand. Leanne remained in her seat, consoling herself with a nightcap. The button sat in front of Chan.
“Well?” Rumi asked. “What shall it be?”
Chan thought back to his favorite game, playing penny ante with schoolmates. “How about Lowball?” he said. “We’ll each ante fifty and play for table stakes.”
Dumonde whistled. “Nice, Chan. Ending with a bang.”
“What about wild cards?” Chimsky said. “It’s the last hand.”
Chan turned over the possibilities: Deuces, one-eyed Jacks, suicide Kings. But none of them felt right. Then the image of a card occurred to him. “Rumi, please put the Joker back in the deck.”
Chimsky’s eyes lit up. “Perfect, Chan.”
Rumi dealt the cards, five to each player. Chan inspected his hand, and his spirit rose when he saw that it contained so many of the little cards he’d hoped for:
Chan looked up, and Dumonde, sitting directly across the table, winked at him, before opening for $200.
Chimsky immediately called.
It was now up to Chan. He threw in the $200, and so did Mannheim and Barbara. With the antes, the pot now contained over $1,200.
Starting with Mannheim and proceeding in turn, every player exchanged one card with Rumi except Mannheim, who drew two.
Chan discarded the Deuce of Diamonds, all the time watching the other players’ reactions. Mannheim appeared annoyed as he checked. Barbara’s check, on the other hand, looked determined, like she held some sort of middling calling hand.
When it came to Dumonde, though, he did not hesitate. “I’m all in,” he announced, moving at least $2,000 into the pot.
Chimsky had over $1,300 in front of him. Quickly, he counted everything up and pushed his chips in next to Dumonde’s. “You can’t have it every time,” he said as he called.
The action fell to Chan. He placed his left hand over his new card, and, very slightly, he lifted the edge off the felt with his thumb, revealing the corner a millimeter at a time. The first thing he detected was the color of it. Red. Then, that it was a small card. Chan’s heart leaped. It was the Six of Diamonds! He’d made the second-best possible hand!
Chan was now confident the pot was his. Surreptitiously, he eyed his stacks—in three neat rows, Chan estimated he had nearly $1,700 in front of him. He looked at the huge pot in the middle of the table and was about to join his money with the other players’ when his gaze passed over Dumonde. His old boss was carefully inspecting the fingernails of his left hand, something Chan had never seen him do before.
Dumonde caught Chan’s gaze and quickly lowered his hand. “So Chan, you look like you’re at least thinking about calling. But remember: I never bluff.”
This statement gave Chan further pause. It began occurring to him that despite making a hand—the second-best possible hand—it still was not good. Dumonde was either warning him or trying to goad him into calling. Either way, Chan knew he should fold. For a brief moment, he shut his eyes and focused on Dumonde’s thin, white set of teeth. They felt sharp to Chan.
Chimsky cleared his throat. “Chan, please—I hate to be impolite, but sometime tonight.”
Chan apologized. After another moment, he silently folded.
“I’ll join you,” Mannheim said, pushing his cards into the muck.
Barbara passed as well. “I don’t think my hand’s good anymore.”
At showdown, Chimsky promptly turned over his cards, revealing the 6-5-4-3-Ace. “I hope that’s good.”
Chan did not think so. Dumonde was grinning, showing his new set of teeth.
“Good hand, Chimsky—but you’re not going to believe this.” Dumonde fanned his cards elegantly on
the table. “I’m holding the nuts.”
Chan was elated—he had been right to fold!
Dumonde began collecting the massive pot Rumi was pushing toward him. Even as the others were rising and stretching, Chimsky fumed in his chair—“It’s the story of my life!” he exclaimed.
“Come on, Chim, we’re all adults here,” Barbara said. “Let these poor people go to sleep.”
Chan was still buzzing. He could hardly believe he had so narrowly avoided Chimsky’s fate—by all rights, he should have lost all his chips. As they drove back to the apartment in an exhausted, post-haze glow, he could not conceal his glee from Dumonde, and they chatted amiably about the last hand. “You’re getting sharper, Chan,” Dumonde told him. “Still,” he added, smiling, “I wouldn’t have minded if you’d called.”
The next morning, Chan awoke past noon, bleary of eye and slightly nauseous, to find, to his immeasurable relief, his apartment vacated as promised. The events of the previous night—his talk with Mannheim, the poker game—were already fading in his memory, like a dream. On the coffee table was a note, written in Dumonde’s fine hand. It thanked Chan for his graciousness, and promised a “significant” mention in his book, My Life in the Pit, in a chapter about Daily Doubles. Sitting on the couch in the living room, which felt larger now without Dumonde’s presence, Chan carefully folded the note and placed it in the flyleaf inside the Goodman book, which had been Dumonde’s favorite, as a kind of souvenir of his stay.
That night at the Royal, Chan dealt freely and easily for the first time in two months, and throughout his shift, his tables stayed full and lively, many of the players leaving substantial winners.
The following afternoon, Faye Handoko told Chan it was the peculiarity of their first meeting that had drawn her interest. “My father was an investigative reporter when he was younger,” she said. They were sitting at a small table in the back of a bar called Rudy’s, underneath the shadow of a mounted moose head. “He met with informants fairly regularly. He called them work friends.” She paused to sip her drink. “But nowadays, the paper prints mostly wire copy. You’re the first person who’s ever asked me about one of his stories.”
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