Pokergeist (2 page)

“Clutch…” Kevin’s insistent voice interrupted his wandering mind, pulling him back. “Clutch, you were saying?”

“Oh, we gonna teach that lil’ doggy how to make pee pee on a wee-wee pad.” The screen faded to black.

Kevin’s shoulders shook with laughter. He turned to Stu. “That Clutch—he is something else.”

“I’ll say. I think he has his metaphors confused. He may need a can of Raid instead of a wee-wee pad. Oh, the Ant is back from his break. Let’s see how the game is going.”

Clutch and the Ant sat opposite each other, the room tense and silent. The older man pressed his cards into the table, bending just the tip to glance at the letters or numbers in the corner.
Kings, a good solid hand
. He kept his face impassive, stifling a yawn. The Ant simply ignored him, a bored expression on his face. Between them, a colorful cascade of chips littered the table. The room crackled with excitement. Clutch looked up at the dealer, who stonily stared into space. He smiled, and the dealer turned and nodded respectfully, revealing perfect teeth against his dark skin. They both looked to the Ant, who bristled with hostility.

Clutch narrowed his eyes, and a trickle of sweat began to make its way down from his temple. He stared hard at the Ant, whose dark glasses made him an enigma. The Ant was looking everywhere except at him. Why wasn’t the kid studying him, looking for tells, the signs that hint at what he is holding? He watched his opponent intently. The Ant glanced upward before he made a move, as if asking permission from the atmosphere. While he couldn’t see the kid’s eyes because of the dark glasses, Clutch knew he was looking toward the ceiling from the tilt of his head. A few times, Clutch caught his own eyes gazing in the same direction, wondering what the punk was up to. The room became hot. He was willing to take this to the mats. Based on the kid’s whitened fingertips, Clutch’s gut told him the younger man had nothing. Clutch had a decent hand. He peered at the Ant’s cards on the table, as if he could see through the design to the faces hidden underneath. The kid liked to bluff; he had watched him do it all through the tourney. Clutch was willing to bet his last chip that the Ant had a junk hand. “Check,” Clutch said quietly.

“No check, old man. I bet three million.” The Ant pushed five stacks into the middle of the table. The crowd hummed with excitement. The Ant pulled off his glasses to glare hard at Clutch, his mouth pulled tight with intensity. Clutch looked into the younger man’s eyes and saw nothing. Nothing.

Clutch shrugged. “You wannabes sure think you know how this game is played. Lemme tell you something, partner…” He placed his Stetson on his head as if to make a point.

“Spare me the sage advice, Cowpoke. You’re done. I’m waiting to stick a fork in you.”

“Eight million,” Clutch said, his voice serious. The crowd applauded loudly as he pushed in a huge pile of chips.

“I just started, Pops, and you want to go down in flames already. Raise! All in,” the Ant sneered.

Clutch waited. He had patience. A murmur echoed through the room. He could swear he heard the ticking of a clock. He wanted to draw out the moment. His heart started to pound in his chest, pulsing so hard he felt it all the way to his toes. “Call,” he said so quietly that the dealer leaned forward to confirm.

The Ant dramatically turned over his cards, revealing an ace and a seven, both of them hearts. The red cards reflected back at Clutch until they filled his vision.

A slow smile spread across Clutch’s impassive face. He watched the younger man, savoring the glory as he slowly flipped his cards, revealing pocket kings. He had two kings—a good hand. Not unbeatable, but the kid had nothing but an overcard.

“Here comes the flop,” Clutch said aloud as he watched the dealer place the ace of spades and Clutch’s own heart sank in his chest. Now the Ant had a higher hand: two aces. The crowd’s gasp turned into a roar as the dealer spread the next two cards on the baize, revealing a king of hearts and deuce of hearts. He’d dodged a bullet; his three kings would beat the Ant’s two aces. Clutch took off his cowboy hat; the sweatband was soaked. His silver hair lay plastered against his head, the imprint of his hat looking like he had worn a vise. “Trip cowboys, pissant.” Clutch drew out the last word into a hiss.

On the table were two hearts. Two cards were yet to be revealed: the Turn, and then the River. Sixty-forty in Clutch’s favor, he estimated. Clutch felt his heart quiver with uncertainty.

The kid had a draw, two cards to go, and all Clutch needed to do was avoid a heart that did not match the table to claim his prize. The crowd exploded. The Ant stared at the card on the table, his expression hostile.

“We don’t need a commentary, old man. I got eyes. I can see,” the Ant snapped. The Ant’s dark eyes glazed over for a minute; he looked away and then turned back, his attention restored.

Clutch sat back in his chair, suddenly tired. His shoulders ached, and he longed to be back home in bed watching television. But the bracelet. He was so close. He glanced at the Ant’s cards and then studied his own. The patterns swam before his tired eyes as though they were alive. He was there, almost there. He could feel the heavy weight of the bracelet on his skinny wrist…the cash in his empty pocket. Sweat dotted the Ant’s upper lip, and his eye twitched. There were so many chips spread across the table that the pot seemed obscene.

The Ant half rose from his seat, his face eager. His dark eyes glowed hotly, with red pinpoints in the pupils. He looked demented. His fingers pressed whitely against the green baize of the table. All he needed was another heart, and there were two cards left to go.

The Ant stood completely; Clutch was surprised at how short he was. He would barely reach Clutch’s shoulder. “Great hand, Pops,” the Ant nodded sarcastically. “But you need
heart
to play this game.”

The dealer barely breathed as he waited for the right moment to deal the next card, the Turn.

The crowd stood together as if on cue, the babble of thousands of voices drowning out the pulse in Clutch’s head. His body thrummed, and his face grew as red as the cards, sweat drenching his shirt so that it was plastered against his tense body. Feeling his collar choke him, Clutch undid the top button of his shirt. Suddently it occurred to him that he might come in second. It would be a nice purse, four million at least. But after taxes and the funds to pay off the loan sharks, he’d barely have enough for his kid or Ginny’s teeth. Truth was, he didn’t give a shit about the dough—he wanted the bracelet. He needed that trophy to wear on his wrist for the rest of his miserable life. Too bad Buster wasn’t alive to see it. He wanted to shove it in his face and gloat. It sparkled from its spot on the table. Clutch swallowed convulsively, his neck feeling tight. He looked at the creep across the table. The Ant didn’t deserve it; Clutch did. This was the closest he’d ever come. He stared at the bracelet, the gold at the end of the rainbow. He could hear his grandfather’s voice, dead these last forty-five years, saying, “It’s about the game, stupid. Not the gold. You play like crap. You never listen to me, boy.”
Yeah,
Clutch sneered,
easy for you to say. You won a bracelet in 1954.
Clutch glanced down at his two cards, his kings. With the third on the table, he had three kings, a good hand. He had to piss…really bad.

The dealer turned over a six of clubs. The audience moaned. A black card, not a heart. Without the fifth heart, the kid would bust. Clutch’s breath stilled in his chest. He was almost there. His heart pounded in his chest as if it were a kettledrum. One last card to go. He looked at the insect’s hand. The kid’s hands were trembling, his knuckles bony white like a skeleton. He had nothing. This was it. He had this. The dealer paused, his hand hovering over the deck. His manicured fingers caressed the top card, and then he flipped it onto the green table. An eight of hearts lay on the baize, earning the Ant a winning flush. The crowd buzzed, a thousand voices washing over Clutch’s numb face. His breath left him in a slow deflation until he felt flat. He wanted to disappear.

The Ant yelled like a little girl, his hands high up in the air. He pranced in front of the bleachers to the screaming fans and then mugged the camera. Kevin raced from his spot, mike in hand, to the older man. “Clutch! Clutch! What happened? That was so fast.”

Clutch stared at the cards, his face impassive, the pain of his broken heart heavy in his chest. “I…I…” Words failed him. He couldn’t breathe. The room was stifling, closing in on him. His vision narrowed to the cluster of cards on the table and the bracelet winking at him. They shimmered before him; the noise of the spectators was muffled. His ears rang. He still had to pee. In fact, he was drowning. He heard laughter. It was familiar. He looked around frantically to see who was laughing at him. The pain started in his chest and radiated to his shoulders, clamping around his jawline. His eyes dimmed.

He felt Kevin’s chubby hand grip his shoulder. It hurt. The announcer’s voice came from far away. “Clutch…Clutch, are you OK?”

No,
he wanted to scream, but his own voice seemed foreign, the words coming out jumbled and thick.
No, my dream died.
He watched the room recede, the world strangely quiet, as the floor came up to meet his chin.

The Ant turned to see the older man fall.
Oh,
he thought as he heard Clutch’s head connect with the floor.
That’s gotta hurt.
He turned to his adoring fans and pumped his fist into the air, the bracelet gripped in his clenched hand.

Kevin struggled to get down on his knees. “Clutch…Clutch.” He shook the old man’s shoulder. His face drained of color. “Get an ambulance,” he screamed. He looked closely at Clutch. “Help…” he said sadly, knowing it was too late for an ambulance. They needed a hearse.

CHAPTER ONE

One Year Later

A
gray haze hung over the Bellagio poker room, the thick air muffled with the sound of murmuring voices. Telly Martin leaned his face glumly into his palm, trying hard to control his expression. His dark hair needed a haircut, but that cost money, so he was going for a shaggy look, he told Gretchen. The longer hair complemented his high cheekbones and indigo eyes. He was trim—just a bit on the thinner side, he knew. He was watching, he’d told his mother a week ago. Watching his small change, he added to himself. There just wasn’t enough right now—the money only went so far. He’d bought into this game an hour ago. It was a cheap game, low limit, but that was about all he had left in his budget this week. He refused to take any more money from Gretchen, that was for sure. If this one didn’t pan out, he’d rethink the cab driver job Gretchen had suggested again last week. He didn’t want to do that, though. It would interfere with his games. Cab drivers put in long hours, had to be available for the events that went on all the time in Vegas, and he’d miss his chance to play in the International Series. All he had to do was come up with the ten grand.
Ten grand.
Telly sighed.
Not much three years ago, and today an impossible dream.
He had a good job in IT at one of the casinos. Worked the computers in the communications department. It was boring but steady. He’d bought a nice house, Gretchen had moved in, and he had planned to marry her that spring. Then the casino had been bought. The purchaser had an existing IT department. Telly was redundant, they’d told him. He didn’t feel redundant—
irrelevant, maybe; redundant, definitely not,
he thought hotly. He was one of a kind, he knew. He was the only one in the department who always brought in doughnuts on Tuesday. How could that be viewed as redundant? Didn’t he organize the yearly softball game that raised money for the Children’s Cancer Society? Who was doing that now? he wanted to know. He had created the Seniors Glee Club, arranging for a local nursing home to have entertainers from the casino’s show come and sing with the residents. That program was laying an egg, he’d heard. They didn’t have anyone on staff to keep up with it. But Telly was redundant, unnecessary, and currently unemployed.

“Today, Telly,” Hamdi, the dealer, formerly from Cairo (or so his nametag informed them), pointed to the cards in the middle of the baize. “It’s your bet,
sur
.” His hometown accent drew out the vowels, confirming his Egyptian heritage.

Telly looked up at Hamdi, smiling. “Like it here, Hamdi?” Playing at the casino was nothing like a home game. There was no repartee, and socializing was frowned upon. He thought being a professional poker player would be…well…more fun. It wasn’t. The tables were tense, with a distinctly unfriendly feel. While Telly was a reasonable player with his weekend buddies, he was mortified at how little he really knew. One fumble and everybody lost respect for you at the table. The trouble was, nobody had patience.

“Indeed.” Hamdi smiled, a mouthful of white teeth, and added, “You are holding up the game. Your bet.”

“Um…” Telly looked at the sea of faces around him. They were in varying degrees of openly hostile to bored out of their minds. “Four dollars?”

“Are you asking,
sur
?”

The man to Telly’s right smirked. “I reraised. Weren’t you watching?”

“So,” Telly stared at the sparse pile of chips in the center, “I’m supposed to…” He looked at his cards again. His mind had gone blank; he didn’t remember exactly where he was in the game. He dragged a hand through his dark hair.
That’s what you get for daydreaming.
He hated this feeling.

Hamdi leaned closer. “If you want to see his hand, you have to bet another four dollars—bring it to a total of eight.”

Telly looked at his meager stack of chips. He’d double his money if he won. He stared at the ceiling. Then he considered the revolving plastic image of Marilyn Monroe, her dress fluttering around her, spinning at a kiosk of slot machines across the floor.
Gretchen would look pretty in that dress,
he thought absently. His ears picked out a chorus of cries celebrating a slot win. He failed to see his neighbor observing his every move, the unlit cigar frozen in the other man’s mouth, the smell of wet tobacco offensive. Telly gingerly picked up eight dollar chips, sliding them into the pile. “Call.” He liked the way he sounded. Like he was a professional. Really. He’d tell Gretch all about it tonight when she got off from work. They turned over the rest of their cards.

“Two pair, fives and tens,” Hamdi informed the table, sweeping Telly’s coins away toward the gruff older man next to him.

“Well, I had two pair too,” Telly flushed, explaining his error as he watched his chips join the other man’s stacks.

“Sugar,” the woman next to him said, “he had two tens showing since Third Street. You had sixes and fours.” She had long turquoise fingernails with rings on every finger. She stroked her stack of dollar coins suggestively. Telly turned to face her, noticing that she wore thick fake lashes that sort of resembled the roach he’d killed this morning in the apartment. She sported an artificial beauty mark above her top lip. Her hair was long and black, with odd bangs cut straight across her forehead. It was a hairstyle for a young person, Telly thought, observing her. It was like playing with a wrinkled Angelina Jolie. The woman looked hard at him, the sequins on her cowboy jacket sparkling under the muted light. Tiny lines radiated from her thin lips, and the dark red lipstick bled into them. She looked like a zombie spokesperson for Revlon.

“How could I have missed that?” He looked back at the older man, still sucking on his cigar.

“You a virgin or something, sugar?”

“I beg your pardon?” Telly was aghast.

The players at the table laughed. There were a few snorts mixed with chuckles.

“You’re new at this game is all I’m saying.” She fluttered the roach eyelashes. Telly was fascinated. She had a line of rhinestones pasted to each eyelid.

“I’ve played my share of games,” Telly said defensively.

“A regular Clutch Henderson. Listen, buddy, if you’re playing in the International Series next week, let me know. I want to sit right next to you,” an older player wearing a hearing aid said from across the table.

“Me too.” This from a retired African American postman who now played nightly at the casino.

Telly gathered up the remainder of his chips, his face flush with embarrassment. “I’m glad I provided you all with an evening’s entertainment,” he mumbled. He looked around the table at their wizened faces. Most had skin so tough it looked like his old baseball mitt buried in the closet at home. Half of them smoked, the other half drank, and who knew what the hell the zombie woman did in her spare time.
Did he really want to do this?

“Sorry if I interrupted the flow of the game,” he apologized.

“A word of advice,” Cigar Chomper called out in a grizzled voice.

“Yes?” Telly paused expectantly, touched that the man would help him out.

The old guy cleared his throat, the table stilled, and he sang, “You got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em…” The table erupted in glee at his rendition of the Kenny Rogers classic, and even Telly chuckled, laughing at both them and himself.

“Oh, right, thanks a lot.” He stuffed the chips into his pocket and waved farewell, smiling sheepishly. “I’ll keep that in mind. Good night.” He heard the raucous laughter even after he left the poker room to walk through the enormous casino to cash out at the cashier. The floor’s busy pattern danced before his tired eyes, and he continued, head down, feeling just on the edge of stupid. Maybe he should look into driving a cab, until he landed a better job, instead of pursuing this pipe dream. It was just that the videos made it seem so easy…anybody could do it. He was tired of working in an office for the same paycheck every week. While he had invested only a couple of weeks in this enterprise, he had won at the Station Casino last Tuesday. They had dined out on his winnings for at least a week, as well as paid the rent, bought shoes, and wired money for the electric. The problem was, the money didn’t last long enough. He had to leave enough of a stake for the next game, and when he lost, the one after that.
I could make it work if I hit a streak,
Telly thought. After being let go from his job, he’d held onto the house as long as he could, but without a steady income, he missed a few of the mortgage payments. The bank had put it on the market last week. He and Gretchen had moved into a weekly rental in a part of town that had more pawn shops than grocery stores.

Telly felt his arm being pulled. He turned to find his friend Misty gripping him. “Telly, I called and called you. You didn’t answer. Is everything OK?” She was just past twenty-five, slender and tall, with a perky blond ponytail. A tray of cigars and cigarettes hung from a strap over her capable shoulders. He banged into it gently, but they both grunted.

“Sorry, Misty,” Telly said.

“No worries, Tel. How’d you do?”

He shook his head. “Nah. The cards were against me.”

Misty looked at him sympathetically, her eyes soft. “Don’t you worry, Telly. You’re going to hit it big. I know it.”

Telly shrugged, his face turned downward.

“Anyways, I wanted to thank you for the signed Pete Rose baseball card. Gregory loved it.”

“Did the surgery go well?”

Misty swallowed, her gray eyes filling. She lifted her shoulder. “We’re hoping they got it all. He starts treatment Thursday.”

“I’m glad he liked it. It was one of my favorites. My grandma bought it for me.”

“Aww, Telly. You’re so generous. How about you and Gretchen come by for a barbeque next week.”

Telly thought for a minute. “I’d love to, but the Series starts and I’m hoping to make the entry fee.”

Misty rested her hand on his shoulder. She leaned forward, kissing his smooth cheek. “Then I’m planning on watching you on the television when you finish in first place. Don’t give up!” Misty was momentarily diverted by someone asking for a package of smokes. Telly waved and walked toward the valet. He considered spending the last of his stash on a ten-dollar ice-cream cone. He stared at the dripping fountains of chocolate, his mouth watering. Telly saw the line and then decided to keep his change for something both he and Gretchen could enjoy. Moving on, he passed the atrium, the fragrance of hundreds of flowers heavy on the air. He heard waterfalls, birds chirping. Even though he was inside a giant casino, he felt like he was strolling in a park. His feet slowed at the window of the jeweler just before the lobby of the hotel. In the center of the display, a radiant-cut yellow diamond rotated on a circular bed of white velvet. Set in platinum, with two dazzling baguettes on either side, the buttery-colored stone glowed warmly. Telly stood transfixed by its beauty. His eyes focused on the rainbow depths of the diamond, and he pictured it on Gretchen’s hand. She had hocked the ring he bought her last year when he needed dental work done.

“Like it?” the clerk asked. She was so thin that you could almost see through her. Slicked-back red hair that could not have been produced by nature was scraped into a painful bun. She minced outside in dagger black heels. “I asked if you like yellow diamond,” she said in a thick Russian accent.

“It’s really nice.”

“Nice!” she laughed. “‘Nice,’ he says.” Telly stared at her enormous teeth. “You buy for your girl. I make you good deal.”

“How much is it?” Telly asked boldly.

“Eighty thousand dollars, if you pay cash.” She said thousand pronouncing the
th
with a
t
sound.

“When I win the Series, I’ll be back for it,” he told her.

“When you win the Series? Ya, I wait for you.” She threw back her head, laughing lustily.