EQMM, September-October 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "And in the morning?"

  "You wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to do battle."

  Taggert raised an eyebrow. “You've made a study of this,” he said.

  "Personal observation,” he said, “along with an exhaustive study of the available literature.” He raised his glass, and Taggert, after a moment, raised his.

  * * * *

  You had to expect the occasional setback. You couldn't sit there and win every hand. But this one hurt.

  He'd started with nines rolled up, two down and one up, trip nines, gorgeous cards. And he'd nursed them along, played them just right, while Taggert got enough of a diamond flush to keep him in the hand. And on sixth street Krale stopped caring about Taggert's diamonds, because he caught a pair for the five he had showing, which gave him a full house, so who cared if Taggert had his flush?

  With the river cards dealt, he bet and Taggert raised, which made him very happy, and he raised back and so did Taggert, and now he wasn't all that happy. Taggert had four diamonds showing, and there was no way he could have a straight flush, not with the five and nine of diamonds in Krale's hand, but neither was there any way Taggert could make that second raise with nothing better than a flush.

  So Krale called, and Taggert turned over a pair of tens that matched one of his diamonds and an eight that matched another, giving him tens full, which, alas, beat Krale's nines full.

  He sat there, trying to catch his breath, watching Taggert pull in the pot, and that was when Tina came in with the coffee.

  "And I made sandwiches,” she said. “I figured you boys must have worked up an appetite by now."

  * * * *

  Appetite? If there was one thing Krale didn't have, besides the fourth nine, it was an appetite. He felt a hollowness in his middle, but had no urge whatsoever to try to fill it. He didn't want the coffee, either, and as for the brandy, well, he'd already swallowed it, and all he could hope was that it would stay down.

  He excused himself, and as he left the room he heard Tina asking Taggert if something was wrong. He didn't catch Taggert's reply.

  Nines full, carefully nursed along, with every bet calculated to get the maximum amount of money in the pot. Everything was perfect about that hand except the outcome.

  He tried to look at the bright side, but there didn't seem to be one. At least he hadn't raised one more time. He could have been stubborn enough to throw another twenty dollars in the pot, in which case Taggert would certainly have bumped him again. So, yes, he'd managed to save forty dollars, but was that a bright side? Glimpsing it, would one be well advised to pop on a pair of sunglasses?

  Krale didn't think so.

  He went to the bathroom, the one at the back of the house off the master bedroom, so that they wouldn't hear him gagging. He decided he might feel better if he threw up, but as it turned out he couldn't throw up, nor did he feel better.

  On the way back, he stopped in the den and opened the upper left-hand drawer of his desk. It was the one with the lock, although the key had been misplaced years ago. So it was never locked, but still it was the natural place to keep a gun, and that's where Krale kept his .38-caliber revolver. He took it out, held it in one hand and then the other, swung out the cylinder to make sure that all its chambers were loaded, closed the cylinder again, and held the gun to his temple, then put the barrel in his mouth.

  And how would it play?

  They'd hear the shot. They'd run in, see him. And then?

  It'd almost be worth it if he could see the expressions on their faces. Tina, who typically looked as if she was trying not to look disappointed, would show some other, more forceful emotion on her beautiful face. And Taggert's habitual poker face would almost certainly lose its composure, if only for a moment.

  But he wouldn't get to see it. He'd be dead, with his brains spattered on one wall or another, depending which way he faced when he pulled the trigger. And he wouldn't know whether they laughed or cried.

  So what was the point? Well, he'd be out of it. There was that. The pain, which might be quite bad for a moment there, would stop, once and for all. But was that reason enough to do it?

  You can kill yourself, he thought. Or you can go back to the table and take that sonofabitch for everything he's got.

  He returned the gun to the drawer. On his way to the table, he found himself wondering if he'd made the right choice.

  * * * *

  He began winning.

  It wasn't terribly dramatic. Most of the pots were small ones, and he couldn't get any real momentum, but he was gaining ground, inching along, taking two steps forward and one back.

  "Slow going,” he said, when Taggert folded after receiving his second up card. “Maybe we should raise the stakes."

  "Oh?"

  "Make it twenty-five and fifty,” he suggested.

  Taggert frowned. “Let me think about it,” he said, and reached for the cards. “I'm not sure how much longer I want to play."

  "Come on,” Krale said. “The night is young."

  "Well, I'm not, and it's past my bedtime. And the trouble with a two-handed game is you're always either dealing or shuffling. It's a pain in the ass, passing the cards back and forth all night long."

  He opened his mouth to protest, but knew that Taggert was right. “What we need,” he said, “is a house dealer."

  "Yeah, right,” Taggert said. “Why not wish for a full range of casino perks while you're at it?"

  "I'm serious,” Krale said. He got to his feet, called out, “Tina!"

  * * * *

  "We'll stick to seven-card stud,” he said. “That's what we've been playing anyway, nine hands out of ten. Tina, you know how to deal stud, don't you? Two down cards, four up cards, one down card."

  "What about the ante? We've been playing dealer ante, and if we don't take turns dealing—"

  "What do we need with an ante?” Krale said. “Remember, the high hand's compelled to bet the first round, and that's enough to get the pot started. Tina deals the blue cards, and while we play the hand she shuffles the red cards. You don't mind, do you?"

  "It might even be fun,” she said.

  "And while we're at it,” Krale said, “we can up the stakes to twenty-five and fifty."

  Taggert shook his head.

  "Twenty-forty? If you insist, although I'd just as soon boost it a little bit higher."

  "I was thinking we could make the first bet five dollars,” Taggert said.

  "Five dollars!"

  "And make the betting pot limit. That way you don't bleed away too much on hands that fizzle out on fourth street, and the big hands are really big."

  "Pot limit,” Krale said. “Well, hell, why not?"

  * * * *

  He found out the answer to that question when his three jacks ran headlong into a small straight. He'd been moving up nicely, banking a string of small pots, and the straight killed him.

  He sat there, working to maintain his composure while Taggert pulled in the pot. Midway through the task of stacking them, he picked up a blue chip and tossed it to Tina.

  "One thing I learned in Atlantic City,” he said. “A pot like that, you damn well tip the dealer."

  She picked up the chip, looked at it.

  "It's a joke,” Krale said. “Give it back."

  "It's not a joke,” Taggert said. “You keep it, Teen."

  Teen?

  "Well, thanks,” she said, and grinned, and tucked the chip into her cleavage.

  And all at once Krale didn't mind losing.

  * * * *

  The cards didn't favor either of them, not really. The hands tended to average out. Krale sat there and played what Tina dealt him, and he won his share of hands, pulled in his share of pots.

  But two hands killed him. Two moves, really. In one hand, he limped along with four small spades, filled his flush on sixth street, and called a big bet because Taggert needed the case nine for a full house, that was his only out, and Krale just didn't believe he had
it.

  Wrong.

  A little while later, he just flat knew Taggert had a busted flush, and no backup pair for his pair of aces. The aces were enough to beat Krale's jacks, but how could Taggert call a big bet if all he had was aces?

  Wrong again. Right about the unsupported aces, but the sonofabitch called all the same, and aces beat jacks, the way they always do.

  Beaten, Krale didn't curse his luck, or the cards, or Taggert. What he did do was note the expression on Taggert's face, and the one on Tina's, and the look that passed between them.

  "Kills me,” he announced. “How you made that call ... well, I guess that's poker."

  "Maybe it's time to call it a night."

  "Maybe,” Krale said, and found that he could read Taggert now as if the man had subtitles etched on his forehead. Because Taggert didn't want to quit. He'd wanted to earlier, but not now.

  Nice.

  "All I want,” Krale said, “is a chance to get even."

  "Seems reasonable."

  "But I'm running out of money to play with. If I had to write you a check for what I owe you right this minute, I'd have to do some fancy footwork to keep it from bouncing."

  "I hate to take a marker,” Taggert said, “but in this case—"

  "I hate to give one. Here's my thought. I'm going to stake myself to a thousand dollars’ worth of chips. If I win, I win. And if I lose the lot..."

  He had their attention.

  "...then you can take Tina in the bedroom,” he said, “and play dealer's choice for as long as you want."

  "You know, if I thought you were serious—"

  "Oh, he's serious,” Tina said.

  "Really? Dick, don't you figure Tina has some say in the matter?"

  "Tina wouldn't mind."

  "Is that true, Teen?"

  Teen.

  "You sonofabitch,” she said to Krale. “No,” she said to Taggert. “No, Mark, I wouldn't mind."

  * * * *

  At first they took turns picking up small pots. The cards were uninteresting, and the hands generally ended with the second up card, but Krale could feel the game's level of intensity rise in spite of the cards.

  Fifteen or twenty minutes in, Tina dealt Krale a pair of tens in the hole and a seven on board. Taggert's face card was a queen; he bet and Krale called.

  On the next round, Krale paired his seven while Taggert picked up a king. Krale bet, Taggert called.

  Krale caught a ten on fifth street, filling his hand, while Taggert paired his king and made a medium-size bet. He had kings and queens, Krale decided, and didn't want to chase Krale out of the pot. Krale thought it over and called.

  Taggert's next card was a queen. Two pair on board, and Krale read him for a boat.

  His own card was a ten, giving him two pair showing.

  "Maybe you're not full yet,” Taggert said, and bet into him.

  Maybe you're not full yet. Like it mattered to Taggert, who clearly was full himself, with a boat that would swamp tens full or sevens full or anything Krale might have.

  Krale just called.

  And Tina dealt the river cards. Krale looked at his, for form's sake, and it was a queen, which meant that Taggert couldn't have four of them. He could still have four kings, though.

  Taggert made a show of looking at his river card, squeezing it out between his other two down cards. Nothing showed on his face. He sat there considering, and pushed chips into the pot.

  "Here's your chance to double up,” he said. “My bet's whatever you've got in front of you."

  "Oh, what the hell,” Krale said. “Let's get this over with.” And he shoved his chips to the middle of the table. “I call, Mark. What have you got?"

  Big surprise—Taggert showed a king and a queen, giving him the full house Krale had read him for all along.

  "Kings full,” Krale said. He felt the blood in his veins, felt energy pulsing through his body. He noted the way Taggert was trying not to look at Tina, and the way Tina was allowing herself to look at Taggert. And then he turned over one of the two tens he had in the hole.

  "Tens full,” he announced. “I just didn't believe you had it, Mark.” He dropped his other two hole cards facedown on the table, mixed them in with the pack Tina had been dealing from.

  He stood up. “That's it,” he said. “Enjoy yourselves, kids. You deserve it."

  * * * *

  He poured himself a brandy and held the glass to the light while he listened to their footsteps on the staircase.

  Now they're at the top of the stairs, he thought. Now they're in the bedroom, our bedroom. Now he's kissing her, now he's got his hand on her ass, now she's pressing herself into him the way she does.

  He sipped the brandy.

  Suppose Taggert had caught a fourth king. Then he could have shown the fourth ten, and he'd still be sipping brandy and they'd still be up in the bedroom.

  He thought about them up there, and he took another small sip of brandy.

  Better this way, he decided. Better that he'd had the winning hand and refrained from showing it. This way he had a secret, and he liked that.

  Noble of him. Self-sacrificing.

  He finished the brandy, went to his desk, opened the upper left-hand drawer, took out the gun. Assured himself once again that all the chambers were loaded.

  Another brandy?

  No, he didn't need it.

  He was quiet on the stairs, avoiding the one that creaked. Not that they'd be likely to hear him, not that they'd be paying attention to anything but each other.

  He walked the length of the hall. They hadn't bothered to close the door. He saw their clothes, scattered here and there, and then he saw them, looking for all the world like Internet porn.

  He approached to within ten feet of the bed. He was within Tina's peripheral vision, and he could tell when she registered his presence. She froze, and then so did Taggert.

  "Nice,” Krale said.

  They looked at him, and saw his face, his poker face, and then they saw the gun.

  God, the look on their faces!

  "I had four tens,” Krale said. “So you both lose."

  (c)2007 by Lawrence Block

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