Remembering That Night. Stephanie Doyle
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The old man had to be nearing seventy if he hadn’t already gotten there. His face was weathered. His teeth a hard yellow from years of smoking. Yeah, Greg was fairly certain this wasn’t his opponent’s first time in Atlantic City. It probably wasn’t even his first time putting what amounted to over ten thousand dollars up for gamble.
If Greg folded his cards, he would still leave the table up several thousand dollars. If he called and lost, he would lose both his stake and his day’s earnings. How many hours of play time was it? Ten? Twelve? He’d lost track at some point, but it sure would be a shame to have wasted all that time for nothing.
If he called and won then the world was his. At least for a moment.
Greg reached for his glass and took a shot of the subpar Scotch the casino provided. At one time in his degenerate life he would have insisted on only the best. Given his faithful patronage, the managers would have seen to it immediately. Plus they would have comped him a room and a meal, as well. Back in his Vegas days.
Before they’d figured out who he was. Before they’d ejected him.
Now AC was his last remaining haunting ground. The Grande was the last casino he could still play in. Once it ended for him here—and it would end because it always did—he would have to find Native American reservations nearby or private high-stake games.
Pathetic.
“Well? Are we doing this?”
His opponent was getting impatient. The man had asked the question with a laconic ease. Not a tremor in his voice. Not a measure of fidgeting in his body to give away his thoughts. No, he’d done a good job controlling his body language.
It was a shame he’d never really had a chance. Not against Greg.
Because Greg didn’t fold and walk away. Greg didn’t call and lose ever. Greg only ever called and won because Greg knew the outcome of the game before he placed the bet.
The man was bluffing.
“Call.”
Then it happened. The man’s lip twitched, his nostrils flared. He turned over one ace, which paired the turn, giving him a pair. His other card was a valueless ten.
Greg turned over his pocket jacks which wouldn’t have won had there not been another jack on the board. Trips beat a pair every time.
The dealer acknowledged the cards, pushed the chips toward Greg and there it was. That feeling of satisfaction.
It didn’t come from winning. Or from the money. It came from knowing that he’d been right. Again. That was his only thrill. That was what kept him coming back, day after day.
Tired of sitting and playing, Greg figured he’d had enough for one day. He piled his chips into a plastic holder. “Nice hand,” he offered his opponent, but the man only sneered at him.
He cashed in his chips and bundled the large bills into a roll he shoved into an inside pocket in his leather coat. He left the poker room, found the elevator to the parking garage and as he traveled up to the second level he wondered what time of day it was.
What time had he started? In the morning but not so early. It had to be night. Not that it mattered. He’d go home, shower, maybe sleep for a few hours and then do it all over again. Whether he did that during the day or at night wasn’t a concern.
It was quite a ritual he’d carved out. He’d make the drive from Philadelphia to AC. Find a table of players. Then read them until he could tell when each one was lying. In poker once you knew someone was bluffing—really knew it—all you had to do was wait for the cards to fall your way and then take them.
He wouldn’t call it cheating. Poker was a game of skill after all. If a person could defeat Greg’s particular lie-detecting skills, then Greg would lose. So far that hadn’t happened.
What a freaking awesome life he had.
Greg put his head down and hunched his shoulders slightly to diminish his height as he made his way to his car. AC wasn’t a safe city but the casinos prided themselves on keeping the criminal element out of their rooms and garages. As long as you didn’t venture out onto the streets or to the dodgy end of the boardwalk you were as safe as you would be in any major city.
Still, a man with over ten thousand dollars in cash in his pocket couldn’t be too careful and anything he could do to keep from standing out was smart. Despite keeping his head down, though, he kept his ears open. It’s why he heard the clicking sound of shoes hitting cement and felt the hair on the back of his neck rise before someone called his name.
“Mr. Chalmers? A word with you please.”
Greg pulled out his keys and hit the lock button. Two rows up he could see his car lights flash on. He drove a black Porsche 911 because a man had to do something with all his winnings. Sadly he knew he wasn’t going to make it to the car. Two rows away was probably one row too far.
The clicking shoes sped up and in an instant two men were standing between him and his escape. Two very large men with thick necks and beefy hands. He’d met their type before. At the Bellagio and the Wynn in Vegas.
At the Borgata in AC and the Golden Nugget just last week.
“Guys, it’s been a long day. I just want to go home.”
Thick Neck number one stepped forward. He had a short forehead, buzzed hair and a nose that had been previously broken. He wore a black suit and a tie that looked as if it struggled to maintain its hold on his bulging neck.
“Sir, my name is Victor Lario, I run the security for this establishment. It’s come to my attention you had a pretty good night tonight.”
“Yep. Great night. Great service. Love the buffet. I’ll be back.” Greg tried to step around him, but both men repositioned themselves to block his path.
“Sir, it’s our understanding that you have a good night every night you are here. Never down. Always up.”
Greg sighed, falling back on a familiar answer to explain his success. “It’s poker, not blackjack. I play the people and I win.”
“Yeah. It’s poker. That’s what I thought, too. I thought maybe you were one of those World Tour guys, you know. So I looked you up.”
Ah yes, Greg thought. ’Twas the price of needing a casino complimentary card for the extra perks, like free access to the all-you-can-eat buffet. He’d been required to provide identification. When he’d handed over his ID he’d felt that moment of panic, but the girl issuing him the card hadn’t been inspired to do any kind of background check. Probably because Greg looked more like a psychologist in his sweater and jeans and less like a professional gambler.
When she’d handed him back his license a few days ago with the card and a wish for good luck, he told himself this time would be different. He’d promised himself this time he would keep his head low. This time he would spread out his visits to not attract attention.
He’d failed. Just like he had the last time. And the time before that.
“Seems Vegas kicked you out of every casino on the strip not even a year ago. Then I checked with a buddy of mine at the Borgata and you’re not wanted there, either.”
“I know. You can’t imagine the complex it’s giving me being so unwanted.”
The two men stepped forward in the ominous way thugs have of silently delivering the message that they didn’t appreciate sarcasm.
Greg held up his hands. “If I agree to go peacefully and never come back, can we end this now?”
Victor cracked his knuckles. So cliché, Greg wanted to tell him.
“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible, Mr. Chalmers. It’s important you understand how seriously we deal with the matter of cheating at our establishment.”
“It’s not cheating.”
It was the