Rough Deal

The door clicks shut behind me. The players look up from their cards. Most look back to them after a brief glance, but Eddie's gaze lingers.

“Hey Rob,” Eddie says. “Pull up a seat.”

Eddie. There's history there. History I'm running from, but he's the first friendly face I see, so I yank out a chair and sit down.

“What's the buy in?” I say.

Eddie grins.

“It's a C. It's always been a C. You think it'd change in six months?”

I nod. Stupid.

“Right. Give me my stacks.”

“You want to wait for the big blind?” Eddie asks.

I look around the table. The dealer button sits in front of the player to my left. With eight people, I'd wait five hands before playing.

“No. Deal me in on the next,” I say.

Eddie gives me a look.

“Alright,” he says. He was right. It was a dumb move. I should have waited, it would give me time to watch the other players—figure out how they played, but instead I push in a $2 chip and wait for my cards.

I lose that hand, and I drop another $15 to pocket trips. I wouldn't have lost that if I had waited until the big blind. I would have seen that the guy with the mustache doesn't push his chips around lightly. I would have known that when he raised me $10, he had two pair or better.

After that, I chill for a while. I fold a lot and watch the play. Fatty bluffs—he bets a lot harder when he doesn't have anything. No one's called him yet, but I can see the relief on his face when the last player folds. He had squat. Four-eyes delays his raise most of the time. If he catches something on the flop, the first three cards, he waits until the fourth to make his move. Then there's mustache. He took the $15 off me. He doesn't push chips unless he feels he's safe. The other three are easy to read. Eddie and I keep out of each other's way.

Once I get my read on everyone, I start playing. In an hour, I'm up $50. I need $300 to cover bills, so I need to keep going. A year earlier, I might've taken all I needed off the table by now. I folded to a couple moves that were probably bluffs or people overvaluing their hands. I called a couple raises I shouldn't have.

“You're rusty,” Eddie said.

“Yeah,” I said. “It's been six months since I touched a deck.”

Eddie shuffled a pile of chips together.

“Rusty, and you're still ahead.”

“Like riding a bike, right?” I said.

Eddie grins. I know that grin. He has an idea.

My second card slides in front of me. Ten jack, both diamonds. I like ten jack suited.

“Four,” I say and drop two $2 chips in front of me. Eddie folds, followed by four others. That's about right. Fatty and Mustache pony up.

Eddie deals the flop: seven nine jack. The seven and nine are diamonds. The jack's a spade. I'm in good shape. Top pair, a long shot on a straight and nine outs for a flush.

“Eight,” I say. I drop another four $2 chips in the pot. Fatty folds. I raised too hard. I look at the flop cards and wait for mustache to drop as well. Then more chips clink into the pile.

“I call,” he says.

My face is stone, but I smile inside. Odds are good I have this one.

Eddie deals the turn, ten of clubs. Now I have twopair with a flush draw. Mustache was in before, so I raise harder.

“$20,” I say.

Mustache picks up two $10 chips and pauses. He taps them on his stacks, checks his cards, then picks up two more.

“I raise,” he says.

I toss my chips in and call. Eddie deals the river: five of hearts. That's not helping anyone.

I push my stacks at the pot.

“All in,” I say.

Mustache glances at his cards again. He jitters, and then pushes his in as well.

I flip my cards and a smug smile comes across my face, but it slips away when I see him grin. He turns his cards over, pocket nines.

“Trip nines,” he says.

My lips go dry.

“Tough break,” Eddie says. “Pay up.”

I stand and lick my lips. My mouth feels like cotton.

“About that,” I say. “I'm a little short. Could you cover me Eddie?”

“How short?” Eddie asks.

I swallow.

“All of it.”

Eddie's lips part in a snake's smile, teeth and dirty plans.

“Sure,” he says. He turns to Four-Eyes. “Cash me out. Leave $100 in. I'll be back for my part.”

Then he turns to me. “Let's talk about payment.”

“I can get it to you as soon as—”

“No,” he says. “Let's talk outside.”

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Atomic Visions

Even with the trench coat he dug out of a dumpster, Miles didn't look like he belonged in The Rusty Razor. He was too narrow, too skiddish, and not scarred enough, but he was there anyway, and he saw who he was looking for.

The guy Miles was looking for did look like he belong at The Rusty Razor. Frank Dillon, Big Steak to most, had half a dozen empty shot glasses and a burnt out cigarette in front of him. He was big and thick and mean with enough scars for a city block. Hell, looked like he lived there. With three empty stools on either side, he had a corner to himself.

Miles took the stool next to Big Steak. Dillon stopped his shot mid-sip and looked at Miles. Miles didn't notice, but the rest of the room eyed him as well.

“What do you want?” Big Steak asked. He finished the shot.

“Are you Mr. Big Steak?”

Dillon squinted at Miles, and cocked his head. He slammed a fist down on the bar. Miles jumped. The shot glasses rattled, and the rest of the room made an immediate attempt to get back to their conversations.

“Who's asking?”

Miles pushed his glasses back up his nose and looked around the room. For the first time he noticed everyone noticing him, so he leaned in close to Big Steak.

“My name is Miles. I need your help.”

Frank raised an eyebrow, shook his head, and ordered another shot of whiskey.

“I have money,” Miles said.

Frank turned back to him and snarled. Miles' eyes turned blue for a second, then back to brown. He only had enough time to utter the words “oh no.”

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