Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

“I’ve got to practice more on the guys at the gym. People more in my class. Right? We should organize a little poker night. Sip whiskey, puff cigars.”

“Not a bad idea, but a lotta guys are gonna pass on the booze. Too many dangerous calories.”

“Yeah, but what the fuck am I supposed to do? I don’t have a pissing chance against these guys.”

“Just the heavy hitters here tonight?”

“You can say that again.”

“You seen Ratko?”

“No, not yet. Didn’t see him at the gym today, either. You guys have a date?”

“He better have a good excuse. We were supposed to meet twenty minutes ago.”

“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re up there and you’re steaming. I’ve gotta head home, or this might get ugly for real.”

Mrado resumed his upward climb. The guy in the stairwell was obviously on the verge of becoming a gambling junkie. Mrado wondered what was worse, gambling addiction or steroid addiction.

He pushed through the doors to the upper level. Green carpeting. The same color as the felt on the poker tables. Black ceiling with discreetly angled spotlights. No mirrored walls here-cheaters thrived anyway. Mrado made the rounds. Stockholm’s legendary professional players were there: Berra K., the Joker, Piotr B., the Major, and others. Men who’d flipped the day just like Mrado. Worked from 10:00 p.m. until the casino closed at 5:00 a.m. Players who never had less than fifty grand in rubber-banded wads. Maladjusted mathematical masterminds.

Half the room was filled exclusively by one-armed bandits.

The other half housed the poker tables. Thick velvet ropes kept curious bystanders and Peeping Toms at bay. Poker was popular. At the middle of each table’s long end stood the state-employed dealer, dressed in a white shirt, red silk vest, and pressed black slacks. The mood was solemn, tense, deeply concentrated.

Two of the tables were reserved for high-stakes play. Someone looked desperate-maybe the family’s savings were all blown. Someone beamed-maybe they’d just pulled in twenty, thirty grand in one pot. The rest just looked incredibly immersed in the game.

There were free spots by one of the expensive tables. No limit: no restrictions on the stakes, possible to do all in. About twenty deals an hour. The state took 5 percent of the pot. Expensive hobby-excluding losses.

Mrado’s idea was based on the fact that you were provided with receipts for all wins of over twenty grand at the state poker tables-the money was white as fleece. Mrado wasn’t the world’s best player, but it happened that he got lucky. In that case, play high stakes. The odds were bad tonight-a lot of good players at the table. On the other hand, that’d make it a higher-stakes game, more money that could be laundered. With luck, he might be able to clean a hundred grand. His plan: play tight. Only bid if he had a good opening hand. Cautious low-risk tactic.

He sat down.

The game: Texas hold ’em. Supertrendy since Channel 5 started airing American competitions. Lured lots of greenhorns to the poker tables, even though it was the toughest type of poker. Fast, most deals per hour meant greatest chances of winning. Bigger pot than in Omaha or seven-card stud, with more players at the table. No open cards except for the five community cards. The game for fast, fat wins.

From the look of it, there were only staples around the table tonight.

Bernhard Kaitkinen, better known as Berra K. Even more famous as the man with Stockholm’s longest schlong, which he never passed up an opportunity to point out-Berra with the Boa. Always dressed in a light suit, as though he were in a casino in Monte Carlo. Been paired off with most of the city’s society dames: Susanna Roos, editor in chief of Svensk Damtidning, the royal gossip rag, was just one in a long line of Botoxed bellas. Berra K.: a loudmouth, a romance scammer, a gentleman. Most of all: a fantastic poker player. Mrado knew his tricks. The dude always buzzed about other stuff, distracted, created a poker face by letting his mouth run nonstop.

Piotr Biekowski: pale Polack. Won the World Championship in backgammon a few years back. Switched over to poker-more money in it. Dressed in a dark blazer and black pants. Wrinkly white shirt with the two top buttons undone. Rocked a nervous, insecure style. Sighed, oy’ ed, eyes flitted. That might fool the casino rookies. Not Mrado. He knew: Never play too high against Piotr-best way to empty your wallet.

Across from Mrado: a young guy with sunglasses that Mrado didn’t recognize. Mrado stared. Did the kid think he was in Las Vegas, or what?

Mrado started with the big blind: one thousand that someone-in this particular round, Mrado-had to chip in to incite play. No one could stay in the game without betting at least the same sum.

Piotr sat with the small blind -five hundred kronor.

The dealer dealt the cards.

Mrado’s hand: five of hearts and six of hearts.

The flop hadn’t happened yet.

Berra K. was the first to act. Said, “These cards remind me of a game I played on a boat in the archipelago last summer. We had to stop because a huge fuckin’ thunderstorm blew in.” Mrado tuned out the nitwit nonsense.

Berra K. folded.

The Sunglass Kid posted a grand.

Piotr bet five hundred, up at the same level as the big blind.

Mrado looked at his cards again. It was a pretty shitty hand, but still- suited connectors were consecutive cards of the same suit, and it didn’t cost him anything to stick out the round. He checked, kept pace.

Flop: the first three cards on the table. Seven of hearts, six of clubs, and ace of spades. Nothing perfect for his hand. Small chance of suit remained. Piotr starting whining-his style.

Mrado had to really think things through. The game was high. Piotr could bluff, try to get the rest of the players to raise the stakes by grumbling and moaning. In that case, Mrado should fold, even though he had a chance at suit or flush. Had promised himself to show tableside restraint.

He folded; the betting went on without him.

The Sunglass Kid called. Put in four grand. Not bad. Maybe he was one of the newbies who’d learned everything from online gaming. But it was different in real life. With hard cards.

Turn: the fourth card on the table. A seven of diamonds.

Piotr first out. Added fifteen big ones.

The Sunglass Kid put in thirty grand. Doubled the bet fast as hell.

All eyes on Piotr. Mrado knew: The Polack could have three of a kind, even a full house. Also possible: The guy could be blowing smoke.

Piotr went for it-put all in, 100,000 kronor. A murmur of disbelief swept over the table.

The Sunglass Kid cleared his throat. Fingered his chips.

Mrado eyed Piotr. Was convinced the Polack was bluffing-a brief glitter in his gaze gave him away. Their eyes met. Piotr saw that Mrado knew.

The Sunglass Kid didn’t see. The strong offense turned him yellow.

He folded.

River: the final card-was never dealt.

Mrado thought, The Polack is shooting high tonight. Playing tough with nothing.

Time for the next round.

The game continued.

Deal after deal.

Mrado stayed afloat.

Piotr played aggressively. Berra K. babbled about broads. Distracted. The Sunglass Kid tried to win back what he’d just blown.

After twenty-four deals: Mrado’s hand-the big slick of hearts. A classic in the poker world: an ace and a king. You’ve got a chance to get the best-possible hand, royal straight, and you’ve got the highest cards. And still, you’ve got nothing. Binary: If it flies, you soar; if it crashes, you’re done for.

A single drop of sweat on Mrado’s forehead. Could be his chance. So far, he’d played tight. Piotr, Berra K., and the Sunglass Kid didn’t think he’d put all his chips in without having something. But it could be a trick, too. You play steady, trick everyone into thinking that you never take risks. Then you bluff like Abagnale.