The only thing keeping me in the game was the extraordinarily good cards I kept getting. Every poker player hears stories of nights when every hand you play turns out perfectly – opponents drop out, the right card turns up to complete your hand and you keep getting better hands than the other players when it comes to a showdown and they call you. Even Jacoby had mentioned this phenomenon in his book. Now it was happening to me.
Every time they came after me in a combination of two or three I had the hand I needed. I lost a few hands, smaller ones when Grover played and the game normalised, but the big hands where Grover couldn’t afford to be involved kept on falling my way. Three kings would beat their three nines, my straight would beat their three of a kind and the biggest hand of the night to that point was when I held four tens and I beat Cigarillo’s full house of three aces and a pair of eights. It was the first time the cigarillo, which had been unlit throughout the game, jumped in the corner of his mouth. There was an angel sitting on my shoulder; the cards just kept falling my way.
After two hours or so Fred, Grover’s fireman, appeared. Oh, how I pitied the poor girl he’d been visiting. Reggie invited him to sit in and he glanced at Grover, who shook his head. ‘Thanks, but nah, I’ll just sit in an’ watch for a while,’ Fred said, then jerked a thumb as big as a medium-sized cucumber at the whisky table. ‘Mind if I help meself?’
Grover’s wordless sign to stay out of the game was unusual. In the previous games we’d played together, Fred was a pretty competent poker player and Grover, playing within his original fifty-dollar stake, was up at least a hundred and fifty, whereas I was up nearly two grand.
Two thousand dollars! Holy mackerel! Jabber had shut the hell up, but was drinking heavily, and the second bottle of rye was all but gone. Mr Manicure continued to give me the evil eye, not that I cared, and except for the jumping cigarillo, Cigarillo kept his cool.
After a few more hands where nothing much happened and Grover increased his takings another eighty bucks, Reggie Blunt called a break. ‘I need to get more whisky, gentlemen. Time to stretch your legs.’ But it wasn’t said with the usual Reggie ebullience. Looking into his weepy eyes I could see he was mad as hell or panicking; something was definitely different. The usually urbane pontifical Reggie Blunt was falling to pieces.
Grover stood up, nodded to Fred and then turned to me. ‘Let’s take a break, kid,’ he said, indicating the door. As we made our way out onto River Street, Girls Etcetera had almost ground to a halt, with no sign of any girls, nor as far as I could make out, any Etcetera, beyond half-adozen drunks in a circle with their arms around each other’s shoulders singing ‘Rosemary’. Out on the street it was a beautiful clear mid-summer night with a near full moon, perfect prairie weather.
Grover touched me lightly on the shoulder. ‘Say, kid, have you seen these guys before?’
‘No, first time; Reggie Blunt set things up. Old friends in town looking for a game, he said.’
‘Yeah, thought as much. You’ve had an amazin’ run, Jack. Never seen the likes, but you’ve played your hands damn well.’
Grover looked over at Fred standing silent, big as a tree stump. ‘Tell him, buddy.’
‘Nah, no good them dudes . . . them lot. We played them a while back over in Calgary. Reggie was with them.’
‘It was a set-up, kid,’ Grover said, taking over from Fred again. ‘Some poor small-time sodbuster just sold his wheat crop, took him for near four thousand.’
‘But . . . but I don’t understand. Why? I’ve done nothing to Reggie.’
‘Hey! Whoa, kid, you took his job. He worked half his brothel clients from his piano seat at the Brunswick.’
‘Eh?’
‘You mean you didn’t know? He owns a share in Madam Rose.’
‘You for real?’ I asked, flabbergasted. Like I mentioned before, I thought they might have something going between them, but I never suspected the brothel, that Reggie, for all his bluff and bluster and stories of innocent Olga, was a shareholder in a bordello!
‘Had to let four girls go when you nabbed his job,’ Grover said. ‘You’ve cost him a lot of bread, kid.’
‘Hates your guts, Jack,’ Fred said, cackling. ‘Tonight’s supposed to teach you a lesson. Only the goddamned furnace fired up and the Jack engine is comin’ full speed down the tracks and they’re in a truck stalled at a crossing.’
It was a nice compliment but I was smart enough to know I’d been dead lucky and that luck doesn’t hold forever, in fact it can turn on a single card. I was still trying to make sense of the Madam Rose connection. Why hadn’t Juicy Fruit mentioned it? Now I thought about it, it made sense. But this was no time to speculate, I had to turn my attention to the problem at hand. ‘So what next, Grover?’ I asked, genuinely confused and in need of some advice. Then a nasty thought struck me. Why were the two of them in the game? Maybe he and Fred were a part of the scam!
Grover looked at me steadily. ‘Jack, Reggie isn’t your problem right at this moment. He’s set this up but he was simply relying on the three of them being good enough to take you to the cleaners, suck you dry. The guy with the slicked down hair, the quiet one, he’s the real pro. He pretends to be a commercial traveller, sells lubricants and fancy condoms in whorehouses, probably does it for a cover, but he’s really a professional player. So is the guy with the big mouth.’
‘And the big brute, the farmer?’ I asked.
‘Ah, the farmer . . . ha ha. Only thing he’d ever do with a pitchfork is stick it up your ass. He’s the muscle, although he’s not a bad player. He’s little league hockey compared to the other two.’
‘But how . . . I mean you and Fred . . . ?’
‘How do we happen to be in the game?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, it has its advantages. When we get into town it’s an evening spent free with one of Reggie’s girls.’ He glanced over at Fred and chuckled. ‘Though tonight Fred made a deal with a special girl he’s been after for three years, that’s why he come in late. She had another client or something till ten o’clock. Couldn’t see him until after ten-thirty.’
‘Great tits,’ Fred added by way of explanation. ‘I’ve wanted her real bad. Got her tonight.’
‘First a poke, then a game of poker,’ Grover continued, smiling at his play on words. ‘It’s a good way to spend the evening before we stoke up and pull out for other parts. We’re the first train out in the mornin’.’
‘But you just said this game is rigged.’
‘Not for us, Jack. The game is straight for Fred and me. We carry our own muscle and we give the game a wholesome look, so people like you can be . . . enticed . . . is that the word? Yeah, brought in so the game doesn’t look like a set-up. You would have seen for yourself, there’s no screwing around when I’m in the game and generally I can get out without losing my pot. Tonight’s been good, I’m well up.’ He glanced at Fred. ‘Kid’s brought me luck.’
‘So why are you taking the trouble to warn me?’
‘Madam Rose. She usually doesn’t interfere. But she told us to look after you. She must have a soft spot somewhere after all, though you could have fooled me. Said to never mind Reggie, she didn’t want you harmed or cheated.’
‘Thanks, Grover, Fred. I’m obliged. But what now? Head on home?’
Grover shook his head. ‘No, cain’t do that, Jack. Not smart. If you hadn’t been gettin’ them great hands we’d have taken you aside before you got cleaned out and told you to get the hell outa the game. But with what you’ve won you cain’t cut and run now. They’ll sure as hell come and get you. Mess you up some and take your winnings. The tall lummox playing Farmer Joe is a bad case. Don’t got no conscience like other folk. There’s a fancy name for it.’
‘Psychopath?’
‘Yeah, maybe. Tough
hombre
, got no conscience,’ he repeated, ‘kill yer and then eat a big breakfast. Fred here could handle him, but I don’t know anyone else who could.’
‘So I stay in the game?’ I said fearfully.
‘Got no choice. Reggie’s got his ass in a crack. He’s got them over here specially. Give them the full free whorehouse treatment and a chance to clean up. But between us we’ve taken them for the better part of three grand. They don’t mind me getting a small share. Matter of fact, it makes it look like a straight game. Which, like I said, it is, when Fred and me are sitting in. But tonight you’ve took the birthday cake and all the candles so there’s no party.’ He grinned. ‘By the way, you play real smart poker, Jack. But all I can say is you must be fucking Lady Luck or something. Never seen anything like it. You’re the problem, kid.’
‘But if my luck holds, then it gets even worse?’
‘Dead right, deep shit,’ Fred allowed.
Grover then asked, ‘Do you know what a cold deck is, Jack?’
‘Yeah, sure, the dealer swaps the deck for a stacked one, dealing the players the hands he wants them to get.’ I’d read about it in Jacoby’s book.
‘That’s correct, he’ll give you something crazy, a routine or a running flush, something you think can’t miss, then he’ll give one of them a higher routine that will beat yours.’
‘So I’ll just keep on betting until it’s all in the centre?’
‘Yeah, down to your last cent. They’ll suggest we make it a no-limit game.’
Fred nodded. ‘That’s when you know the fix is in. That Reggie’s gonna top-swap the deck.’
‘Too right, that and the crazy good hand he deals for you. They’ll believe that with the great hands you’ve been getting all night, you’ll think it’s your luck holding.’
‘What if I throw in my hand?’ I asked.
Fred looked at Grover. ‘The kid ain’t no idjit.’
‘That’s it. They won’t know what to do. Nobody in his right mind would throw in a hand like the one you’ll’ve just been dealt.’
Fred chuckled. ‘They’ll think Reggie Blunt stuffed up and you didn’t get the hand they’d planned.’
‘I’ll throw in as well. Be nice to see the bastards squirm,’ Grover added.
‘Okay, thanks. I owe you both. Thanks for keeping me out of trouble.’
Grover smiled. ‘We’ve been in three games together, kid. We’ve been watching you. You’re not some punk kid acting like some young smart-ass. You play it straight down the line. We respect that.’
Fred grinned. ‘Besides, Madam Rose runs the best whorehouse in town.’
‘But why would you agree to help me? You just said you get a free run at Madam Rose?’
Grover looked at Fred. ‘Well, now you ask, we got a favour in return. Tell him, Fred.’
Fred chuckled. ‘There’s this girl, she doesn’t do free. I’ve had me eyes on her for three years, like I said. Great tits, great everything, but she won’t be in it and Reggie can’t make her.’ He shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘So we made a deal, I get her and Madam Rose gets her wish.’
I knew at once he was talking about Juicy Fruit.
‘Wicked world, Jack,’ Grover said as a throwaway line. ‘Okay, time we went back in?’
Reggie Blunt and the other three were seated, waiting, replenished whisky tumblers on the table in front of them. ‘Where you bin?’ Jabber yelled as we entered. He was clearly somewhat the worse for wear or otherwise was putting on a damn good act.
‘Takin’ a
real
long piss,’ Grover answered, settling down in the chair beside the whisky table then reaching over and pouring himself a stiff drink.
Reggie didn’t look at all happy. He was shuffling the cards and looking down, ignoring our entrance.
Jabber then said, ‘Hey, man, what say we make it a no-limit game? Give us dudes a chance to get our money back, eh?’
Cigarillo simply gazed into his whisky glass and Mr Manicure stared venomously at me. Expecting this, I simply shrugged my shoulders and turned to Grover beside me, who nodded. ‘Okay,’ I said quietly, taking my seat.
‘Attaboy!’ Jabber exclaimed. Cigarillo looked up at me quickly, making sure Jabber hadn’t overplayed his hand. But then, almost instantly, his eyes returned to his whisky glass. I watched as their cigarette smoke rose towards the high window. Cigarillo had a fresh unlit cigarillo in the left-hand corner of his mouth. Funny that. The last one had been stuck in the right-hand corner. No point in reading anything into it, though, this guy was ‘Mr Cool’ and the fix was in anyhow.
Reggie turned and plucked a large red silk bandana from the top pocket of his jacket which was hanging from the back of his chair. Dapper Reggie always sported one of these spotted bandanas spilling from his top pocket. ‘Touch of Oscar Wilde’, he called it. It went with his ‘whisky and a splash’ affectation. Now he used it to dab his lips, a curious use to say the least, except that the large square of silk fell to the table and just happened to cover the deck he’d placed there prior to reaching for it. Quite how he made this one-handed swap, I can’t say. Grover said he wasn’t a mechanic, a dishonest dealer, but it was nevertheless well done, so that when he turned to stuff the bandana carelessly back into his top pocket, a deck of cards, presumably the doctored pack, rested on the table in front of him slightly to the left of where the original one had been placed. If I hadn’t been alerted I’d have had no cause to notice. ‘Right then, gentlemen, let’s play,’ he said in a serious voice with none of his customary bluff manner.
I turned my first five cards. Holy smoke! I had a straight flush, eight, nine, ten, jack, queen of spades. Virtually unbeatable! I’d never seen one before. Normally I would have happily bet all my night’s winnings on it. The only thing that could top a straight flush is a higher routine, with a king or an ace instead of the queen I now held. The probability of someone holding such a hand was unthinkable, in fact, you could say, impossible. Even Jacoby would have turned in his grave in astonishment.