“Did you win?”
“I’m up three hundred.”
Aces nodded. “Come in.”
Tarquin unzipped his leather jacket, stepped through the threshold. Aces closed the door to his studio apartment, and together, they readied the table. Laid down the buy-in. Chips distributed, clay pigeons stacked like tiny silos. Aces poured himself another glass of water. Tarquin took a seat. He pulled a pack of Camels from his pocket, popped one in his mouth.
Aces stared him down through oval frames, “Tarquin.”
“Oh, come on…”
“I’m your elder.”
“You’re twenty-one.”
“It’s for the best.”
“Wait, these are bad for me?”
“When you bluff, you blow your smoke rings to the side.”
Tarquin adjusted his cap. “Liar.”
“Every time. Put it away.”
“Come bluff, or cold?”
“Put it away, Tarquin.”
Tarquin sheathed his cigarette. Aces popped the seal on a fresh deck of cards. Bicycle brand, blue backs. He extracted the jokers. Tossed out the rules. Shuffled the rest, each snap a deafening crack, terminal sounds of Port Authority receding, no longer invited to sit with them…
Aces dealt the first hand. Tarquin the second, and so went the minutes with no significant gain on either side. Aces managed a nice bluff on the turn. Two hands later, Tarquin took back his checks with an ace-high flush. Two hours, and they both took a break. Aces helped himself to sprouts on pita. Tarquin slithered into the stairwell, smoked a cigarette.
It was 3:25 a.m. in the city of Manhattan. The two sat back down to play.
Tarquin checked his pager.
The clock put in a good half hour. Tarquin managed to steal a fifty-dollar pot. Aces retaliated with another bluff, representing a straight with nothing but a suicide king. The cards practically dealt themselves. Aces let his ponytail out, his chestnut hair spilling past bony shoulders. Tarquin loosened his belt.
Aces popped some Beethoven into the CD player.
The duel continued.
It was Tarquin at the deal. “Do you know if Lucky’s been playing at all?”
“As far as I know, he’s still in hock from the Long Island game.”
“That was over a year ago.”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
“Fifteen. Maybe two grand, don’t remember.”
Tarquin shook his head. “Most I ever lost in that game was a couple hundred.”
“Not his best of nights.”
Tarquin bet, Aces folded.
New round.
“You think he’ll ever get back in the game?” Tarquin asked.
“Hard to say… Lucky will always be stuck ‘til he gets over that goddamn tragic streak.”
“Imagine he’ll take any streak over nothing.”
“That’s why it’s a streak.”
“That why you always beat him?”
“That’s why it’s tragic…”
Tarquin shrugged. “Have you been back to the Long Island game since?”
Aces checked his cards. “Hell, no.”
“Wow…” Tarquin checked his own. “I know the rake’s a little unreasonable, but all in all, it’s a pretty soft seat.”
“Guess you didn’t hear.”
“Hear what?”
“They caught a cheat.”
“Yeah?”
“Evidently, this chick sits down to play, and someone figures her for a mechanic.”
“Was she working with a partner?”
“No. Got to figure she was base dealing to herself.”
“How? That game’s got a shoe.”
“I wasn’t there.” Aces bet out, fifty in purple chips.
Tarquin folded.
New shuffle.
“So what happened?” Tarquin asked.
“Way I hear it is they beat the shit out of her, took her money, dragged her to the kitchen, and burned her hands at the stove…”
“Christ.”
“Yeah, Christ. Then they sent her off into the night without a dime. Without a dime and crippled hands…”
“Shit… so we’re not going back to that game.”
“No, we’re not.”
Tarquin thought about it before dealing. “Think that really happened?”
“Hard to say… sometimes these stories hit the grapevine just to keep the swindlers away.”
“Still, though…”
“Yeah, still.”
They kept playing. Aces gained an edge with Kings up against Tarquin’s Queens.
Tarquin dealt a fresh hand. Early signs of dawn crept through the blinds. Less than a month ago, Aces would have been getting up to go to work.
“How’s it feel to be unemployed?” Tarquin asked.
“I am employed.”
“Bold statement.”
“I don’t have my mother staking me…”
“Screw you,” Tarquin spat. “Every penny I’ve won is my own, don’t even give me that bullshit.”
“Just trying to put you on tilt.”
“Well, don’t.”
“All right, relax…” Aces studied his friend, those angry eyes. “You want to take a break?”
“Fuck your break.” Tarquin’s pager went off. He checked it, set it on the table. Took the opportunity to peek at his hole cards, set them down. “You in for the Mayflower?”
“Yeah….” Aces checked his hand, waited for Tarquin to bet, then called. “Looks to be a pretty good game.”
Tarquin dealt the next three cards. “Hell of a pretty good game. Level up. I’m so fucking bored of five-ten, I could vomit.”
Aces checked the hand. Tarquin checked along, dealt the next card.
“Do you know who else is playing?” Aces asked.
“Jerry, probably.” Aces contemplated his hand, bet out. “Couple of squares from Queens. I’m guessing IQ is gonna take his shot.”
“Messner?”
“Maybe.”
“Bagels?”
“He’s on vacation.”
“We lucked out.”
“Yeah. Luck.”
Tarquin took his time, calculated his odds, called the bet. Dealt the last card. Ace of spades.
“Do you think Sally will be in the game?” Tarquin asked.
“The cancer woman?”
“Cancer, nothing. Fucking pisses me off.”
“I don’t think anyone isn’t pissed off by cancer.”
“Exactly. She just fakes to gain sympathy bets.”
“You sure about that?”
“That’s what I hear…”
“Well, you and I have lied to each other a thousand times since we sat down tonight. Winners and losers. Nature of the beast…” Aces put two stacks of fifty in the middle of the table.
“We really do have a shot at that tournament, Aces.”
“Do we?”
“Don’t we?”
“Last I checked, there’s no silver medal for second. You going to call, or are we going to call?”
Tarquin took a minute to think. Aces took a sip of water, quiet behind his glasses. Chips and cards stared up at them; kings, queens, and insignificant numbers. Tarquin pushed his chips to the center of the table.
Aces laid down his hand: “Trip fives…”
“Shit…” Tarquin tossed his cards into the muck.
The cards were collected, redistributed.
The tournament was less than twelve hours away.
***
Aces had never cared for sleep. At the least, nothing past sunset hours. Didn’t much enjoy the city’s waking hours, either. Mindless drones, the constant moan of activity. Still, this time he indulged in a few winks. He wanted to win. Wanted to grab that tournament by the throat and squeeze. With no job and his bankroll raided for rent and expenses, all he had left was riding on a first place finish.
A little rest wasn’t entirely uncalled for.
He ripped
the electric clock from the wall. Killed the noise. Stared at his own eyelids for a while. The heater clicked its tongue. Aces rolled out of bed, fully clothed. Had a glass of water. He wandered into the bathroom, thought about shaving. Stared into the mirror, picturing those picturing him. Decided against it. Sat at the table. Chips just as he had left them, cards face up from their final hand.
Lot of paint laid out.
The match had ended with Aces up ten dollars. No better than breaking even, but it kept the gears oiled. Kept his merciless instincts primed for what was in store.
Aces was smarter. Better.
And he knew it. Had always known it.
A realization that was quite possibly his earliest memory.
Aces set his glass down, right next to Tarquin’s pager.
Shook his head and slipped it into his pocket.
Wandered to one of his bookshelves. He reached behind, felt around. Fingers brushing against the edges of duct tape. Reached further. His fist closed around the envelope. Tore it from the back of the case and came back with a stack of twenties, bound in a red rubber band.
Ran his fingers along his books, past the cornerstones of his education.
Skylanskies’ Poker Theory, Mike Carow’s Pro Poker Tells, Doyle Brunson’s Super System.
Skipped them all, and settled on a weathered copy of the Holy Bible.
Pages hollowed out, right down the middle.
Starting at Leviticus.
He slipped his bankroll into the carved alcove, snapped the good book shut.
Not a mugger, thug, punk or prick on this planet who would ever bother to lift a piece of literature off their victims.
Let alone this particular pack of lies.
Aces took one last look at the apartment.
With the tournament purse well within reach, it would be well over a week before he returned.
If ever.
Aces walked out the door. Locked it, headed for the stairs.
Halfway down, he saw a quarter lying on the concrete steps.
He picked it up.
Continued his decent, through the exit and into the January chill.
***
Aces was a vegan.
No meat, dairy, not even chocolate; too much of it was riddled with clandestine ingredients or rendered with animal fat.
One memorable game at the Mayflower, Aces had been called out. One of those nights where the cards ran a cold solstice. Nothing but rags. Wired aces crushed by runner-runner straights and phantom boats.
Some Jersey day trader had offered Aces two grand to eat an entire steak.
Aces had counted his chips, several hundred in the hole, then politely declined.
Tarquin had once posited the desert island scenario.
If you and I were stranded along with an animal, any animal, and no food… which one would you kill and eat first?
Aces had never answered the question, and to tell the story brought nervous laughter to lips of anyone listening. This ambivalence made the game a natural fit. A world of cutthroats, false prophets, and anyone who stepped into the ring and what was coming to them. Free from the irredeemable evils of a constricting world. Taking a seat at that table was the closest thing to a choice anyone would ever have the chance to make.
Aces strolled along the featureless buildings of Hell’s Kitchen.
Bible clutched in his left hand.
Stopped to pick up a copy of the Times.
Popped into his favorite restaurant, two blocks east of the bus station.
Entirely vegan menu, Midtown oasis.
Shiny wooden tables, lunch specials scrawled in chalk.
He ordered a bean-curd sandwich on pita. With sprouts. Lettuce and tomato.
Carrot-ginger dressing.
The good stuff.
Aces took a seat by the window.
He moved in on his sandwich.
Took an enormous bite. Breathed in, out.
Mandibles working.
Chewing his way towards nirvana, reveling in the purity of now.
“Hey.”
Aces looked up from his feed.
It was Sally.
Cancer woman.
She stood above him, clutching a salad bowl. Shaved head wrapped in a lavender scarf. Her lips were dry. Eyes blue and dying. Nothing about her to suggest a player, but Aces had always suspected that was her angle. Innocence. Pity. Kept the bets away, let the mice play.
“Hello,” Aces said.
“Mayflower, right?”
“Yeah. Also, the Diamond Club.”
“I’ve seen you there.”
“I’ve seen you, too.”
“I actually think you busted me out on a house sometime last year…”
“Sixes full over fives full?”
“Yeah that was the one…” She smiled. “It’s always the medium pairs, am I right?”
“Plenty of times on this end, yes.”
“How big was that pot?”
Aces took a moment, wondering what kind of player didn’t remember every last detail of every bad beat they had ever been handed. “Hundred, hundred-fifty,” he said, rounding in either direction.
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Go ahead.”
Sally took a seat at the table. Aces left the sandwich to rest by his elbow. He examined her salad. One of those Greek ones. No feta.
Then he focused on her hands.
Wrapped in gauze. Thumbs free, fingers still capable of minor movement.
But not much.
They sat in silence for a while.
An armored truck roared past the window.
She finally took a bite. “So, Aces…” she began.
“You know my name.”
“Do you know mine?”
Aces sipped his water. “You’re Sally.”
“Yeah.”
They sat, vegan meals mirroring each other.
The rest of the regulars shoveled tofu, tempeh, shaved radishes down their throats.
Lunch hour.
Normal jobs.
Nine to five.
Living the basest of lives to fulfill the basest of all needs.
Sitting across from Sally, Aces could think of little else.
“What happened to your hands?” he asked.
“Burned.”
Aces kept a straight face. “How did that happen?”
“I’m kind of cursed.”
“Know a player named Lucky who says things like that. Screws with his game something fierce.”
“I can imagine.”
“He thinks he’s a writer.”
“He any good?”
“No…” Aces reached for his napkin. “What’s your excuse?”
“Nobody believes me.”
“In general?”
“When I tell the truth…” Sally took another stab at her salad. Awkward bite, hands unaccustomed to their gauze cocoons.“When I need someone to believe me, nobody does. Makes for more conflict than I would prefer. A strange sort of life.”
Aces took a sip of his water.
“You must know about me,” she said.
Aces made his move. “The cancer or the cheating?”
“You heard about that?” Sally asked.
“The cancer or the cheating?”
“I’m not a cheat.” Her shoulders straightened. Gave something away. “I’m not a cheat.”
“That’s fine.”
“As for the cancer…” She shrugged. “Well, whatever.”
She stood up, took her salad.
Aces didn’t budge. Didn’t try anything.
“I’ll see you at the tournament, Aces,” she said.
“Let’s not look too hard.”
Sally relocated to another table.
Aces had been there first, and stayed where he was.
His thoughts traveled back and forth between Sally and the tournament.
He finished his sandwich. Pushed his chair back.
Sized the room.
Didn’t see cancer woman anywhere.
Aces stepped out into the streets.
Grey monoliths set against a flat sky
Found a payphone.
Dug into his pocket for change. Felt around.
Got hold of the quarter he’d found on the steps.
Dialed Tarquin’s number.
Tarquin picked up on the second ring: “Yeah?”
“It’s Aces.”
“What’s going on?”
“You get some rest?”
“Yeah. You?”
“I got enough.”
“I think I left my pager at your place.”
Aces figured it couldn’t hurt to have a little something extra gnawing at Tarquin’s mind. “If you did, I certainly didn’t see it.”
“Looks like I’m calling the cabbies, then.”
“That’s what I’d recommend.” Aces looked up and down the street. Then: “Were you bullshitting me? About Sally?”
“Sally?”
“The cancer woman. You sure it’s a front?”
“Sure I’m sure. Rumor like that’s too true to not be true.”
“All right.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like being lied to… see you tonight.”
Aces hung up.
The plunk of the receiver was coupled with melodic news from the coin return.
Aces stuck a lengthy finger into the slot.
Felt around.
Pulled out what was fast becoming his lucky quarter.
Stuck it right back in his pocket and headed for the ACE.
***
Daylight was done, and Aces walked into the lobby of Mayflower Apartments.
Made his way left, pushed against a door reading EMPLOYEES ONLY.
Went down two flights’ worth of aging concrete stairs.
He took them one by one. Taking his time.
Breathing in, breathing out with each foot forward.
Aces arrived at a door of reinforced steel.
Pressed the button. The security camera whirred. A muted buzz signaled his cue, and Aces walked into harsh fluorescent lights.
There was nothing aesthetically romantic about a real-life card room.
Devoid of nuance and none of the noir.
Half the players had been up for over twenty-four hours and nobody was looking for soft light, contrast or deep shadows. Sharp wits and a thousand cups of coffee each, they were all there to bust out anyone with money and a pulse. If it took a ceiling lined with tubes of mercury vapor to keep concentration in their corner, then so be it.
Aces strolled up to the counter.
The sound of chips and fast snaps soaked into his skin.
Eddie poked his head from around the outdated monitor. Forged an ironic smile, rodent features topped by a razed flat top of curly hair. “Aces… so you’re actually making a run.”
“Eddie. Can I get my chips, please?”
“Really think you’re going to win this one? Maybe pull out another set of sevens on fifth street against wired cowboys?”
“Eddie… Can I get my chips?”
“Sure thing.”
Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs Page 25
