Дэвид Гейтс - Set 'em Up, Joe

St. Louis checked. If it was a signal, his partner paid it no attention and bet five hundred. Elyria called. I thought it funny he didn’t raise. Chicago was looking at low hand, I figured, but Elyria might be paired up with his ace, and it was uncharacteristic of him to be sandbagging. I called. Baton Rouge folded his sixes. St. Louis raised a thousand. It was an obvious signal, now, but Chicago ignored it again, called, and raised fifteen hundred. Elyria called, and raised it all the way, seventy-five hundred, the amount of the pot. There was now fifteen thousand dollars on the table. I pretended to think about it, and then simply called. St. Louis looked at the cards on the board, his thoughtfulness no pretense. If he had a set of kings, and Chicago had a lock on low, and they could keep me and Elyria betting up the stakes, they’d split a thirty-grand pot. He called. Chicago made the same calculation, but quicker than his partner, and called.

“Pot’s right,” the dealer said.

St. Louis drew a queen, off-suit, Chicago the five of hearts, pairing up low. Elyria pulled the five of diamonds, for a possible flush, and I drew the ten of spades.

St. Louis was still high, with kings. He checked. Chicago checked. Elyria checked as well.

I was surprised. It was the smartest poker move he’d made all night. He was looking at a flush draw, or a solid low. I had a full house, but tens over, not aces. I’d figured St. Louis for a set of kings already. If he paired a kicker, I was dead meat. I bet ten thousand dollars.

The hand was going to be all in now.

St. Louis called, a sign he had the three kings but not the full boat. Or he was trying to sucker me.

Chicago hesitated and then called, pushing in the rest of his chips. Maybe he had doubts, but he remembered he’d get half of whatever St. Louis won, under the table.

Elyria called and raised ten thousand. It was the second smartest bet he’d made in almost twenty-four hours. He was either going to lose his shirt — and his pants, and maybe his livelihood — or he was going to bust the game. I looked over at Thin Jim O’Donnell, who was smiling behind his hand.

I called the bet. I had a hundred dollars left in front of me, and I didn’t know whether Dunnigan would front me more.

St. Louis and Chicago stared at each other, their poker faces gone. You could see it in their eyes. In for a penny, in for a pound. They had to call or Elyria would have bought the pot. They both called, but they had to go light, the chips half in, half out. The pot was at sixty-five thousand dollars.

Fourth face card. St. Louis got the nine of hearts, and Chicago the three of clubs. Elyria caught another diamond, the five. I drew the fourth ace, which put me high, meaning I’d bet first.

I turned and glanced back at Dunnigan. He nodded, but he wasn’t happy. Full house, aces up? I bet twenty-five thousand.

St. Louis folded his kings. It was too rich to chase.

Chicago smiled confidently and called the bet.

Elyria thought about it, taking his time.

I asked for a whiskey from the bar, Tullamore Dew, no water and no ice.

“All in,” Elyria said. “And raise it fifty thousand.”

Everything stopped momentarily.

I looked at Dunnigan again. He nodded again, as unhappy as the last time. I called.

Now it was Chicago’s turn to look at Dunnigan. Was his marker good? the look asked. Dunnigan nodded. Chicago sat back in his chair and flipped up the edges of his hole cards, as if he hadn’t already made up his mind, and then he called. The pot was now close to two hundred thousand dollars.

Arnold Rothstein, in this same hotel, had walked away from the game that cost him his life owing three hundred thousand, on the turn of a card.

The last card was dealt facedown.

I was high, showing. I checked.

Chicago bet out fifty thousand dollars.

Elyria smiled ruefully. He hadn’t even looked at his card. He called.

So did I. It was called limping in.

The pot stood at three hundred and fifty thousand.

Now, here’s the thing in high-low. There’s a last round of betting, after you declare which way you’re going. An empty hand for low, one chip for high, two chips for both ways.

We each shuffled a handful of chips below the table. I had a chip in my hand for high. We brought our hands up and opened them. Chicago and Elyria each showed two chips. Both of them were going both ways. What it means is, out of seven cards, you can show high hand, and low, and win each way.

I had high hand, with the full house, aces over. The other two were showing flush, and the possible low.

It’s a courtesy that you don’t raise into a lock, and I didn’t. I checked. Elyria bet a hundred thousand dollars. The pot was shy just half a million when Chicago called.

He turned over a flush in clubs, his high card the six. If you switched in his five of hearts, he had a six-five low.

Elyria almost apologetically turned over a straight flush in diamonds to the five, his off-suit card a six, for a six-four low. He’d beaten Chicago both ways, and my full house.

At least it wasn’t my money.

Play for more than you can afford to lose, and you’ll learn the game, the guy from Bangor had said.

I ran into Thin Jim O’Donnell at Jack Sharkey’s a week after.

He shook my hand as if genuinely glad to see me. I believe he was.

“How’d you know to stay out of that last hand?” I asked.

“I didn’t have the cards,” he said.

I smiled. “You folded too early,” I said.

He shrugged. “The fix was in,” he said.

“You knew?”

“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t have sat in the game, else.”

“But once the game started.”

“Once the game started, how not?”

“You had every opportunity to leave,” I said.

“I don’t go to a card game to lose,” he said.

“Who does?”

O’Donnell laughed. “You had aces up,” he said.

“You saw it coming. I didn’t.”

He nodded. “On the declaration,” he said.

“Because the guy’s betting was so erratic, and so reckless, it looked like a stone bluff, or impossible odds.”

“No, you made a good bet. I’d have played it the same way, but I wouldn’t have bet the club flush.” Chicago’s hand.

“He didn’t read me for the full house, three aces up on the table,” I said. I didn’t mention I’d had the tens.

“Well, his attention was fixed elsewhere. He’d led himself to believe he’d been handed a pigeon, ripe for the plucking.”

“Poetic justice. Plucked by the mark from Ohio.”

“Ohio?” O’Donnell shook his head, smiling. “Mickey, the marks were those two guys running the con, the high-rollers from Missouri and Chicago.”

“Dunnigan set them up?” I’d fallen behind there.

“Certain sure.”

“Why did he ask us into the game, then?”

“Window dressing. We were beards.”

“I don’t see it,” I said.

“Dunnigan brought you into the game so it wouldn’t look like a shakedown,” he said. “What did he tell you, that he was afraid the guy wouldn’t meet his markers?”

“Something to that effect, more or less,” I admitted. “And what did he tell you?”

“I was local color. Some visiting firemen wanted to play a pro. Why wouldn’t I jump at it?”

“Who was the ringer, then? The hayseed from Elyria.”

“I never saw him before. I’m thinking Reno, or Lake Tahoe. Side games, hotel rooms. Not the casinos.”

“Why not Vegas?”

“Too much of a known quantity. You might recognize him, or his style of play.”

“The guy didn’t have a style of play.”

“I’ll know him the next time,” O’Donnell said, smiling.