Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

The dealer, like most professional card handlers, played a calm, conservative game, relying on the odds, an unlimited bankroll of chips, and the other players’ mistakes to keep him ahead. He dealt the cards with a slow, steady rhythm and appeared slightly bored by the whole proceedings.

A half dozen other men and women, evidently tourists, watched the game in respectful silence. Oddly enough, the males eyed the bimbos clustered around Tex while the females tracked the chips. Different fantasies, he concluded, for different folks.

Finally, Jack decided there was no postponing the inevitable. Signaling to Cassandra, he stepped over to the table and seated himself in the empty chair on the dealer’s right. On his shoulder, Hugo murmured in his ear, “Mongo’s set in position. Let’s take these suckers for a ride.”

“Deal me in,” said Jack. He pulled out a thick billfold from his suit pocket. “How much are chips?”

“Five hundred on the red,” said the dealer, “a thousand for the blue. Red for the ante. Jacks to open, otherwise no deal. No limit on bets.”

Nodding his agreement to the rules. Jack reached into his wallet and counted out fifteen one-thousand-dollar bills.

“Kinda young to be playing a man’s game, sonny,” said Wilson as each player put a red chip in the center of the table. “Sure it ain’t past your bedtime?”

Jack gave no indication he heard the big man’s words. Several years before, he audited a mathematics course that he was grading for another professor in the department. None of the students in the class realized that Jack was the person actually marking their homework and tests, not the teacher. Listening to their constant complaints after class about the professor’s harsh scoring, Jack developed a remarkably impassive expression. His was the perfect poker face.

Calmly, he picked up his cards. He held a pair of sixes. “Three tens for the dealer,” whispered Hugo. The ravens communicated by a complex series of prearranged wing signals. “Lady’s holding a pair of queens. Possible flush for big mouth.”

Playing cautiously, Jack dropped out of the first three hands. Knowing the other hands meant nothing without the right cards.

The fourth hand he pulled a pair of aces, best on the table. After the blonde and Tex both passed, Jack raised a red chip. Everyone matched his bet.

Fate handed him a third ace while filling in Tex’s queen high with two more ladies. The other two players dropped out immediately, but Wilson stayed with Jack for two raises. Jack dared not play too aggressive. Not yet. Still, he took Tex for three thousand dollars.

“Junior finally won a hand,” Tex declared loudly, taking a swig of his drink. “Beginner’s luck.”

“What makes you think I’m a beginner?” said Jack calmly, reaching for the next hand. “Only a fool insults a man he knows nothing about.”

“Where’d you hear that, sonny?” snarled Wilson. Jack felt sure the man’s anger was mostly show. Tex bluffed on the table and off, “Watching the Ninja Turtles?”

Jack merely smiled and studied his cards. The hand was garbage, as were the next three. Tex Wilson crowed as he won back most of the money he lost to Jack without a fight.

“Cards are running pretty poor,” muttered Hugo as they paused for drinks. Jack asked for a Coke. Chortling, Tex ordered scotch and soda. Watching the red-faced man closely. Jack saw him slip the waitress a twenty. There might be soda in Wilson’s glass, but there would be hardly any scotch. Despite his rude behavior and insults, the gambler was stone-cold sober.

Hugo’s shocked whistle almost caused Jack to drop the next hand. Staring at the cards, he felt a little shaken himself. He held two pair—aces and eights. It was the infamous “dead man’s hand” dealt to Wild Bill Hickok shortly before he was shot in the back.

“Cassandra’s right behind you,” said Hugo, as if reading Jack’s mind. “You’re high. Big Mouth’s holding jacks and fives. Beauty queen’s sitting with a possible straight, either end. The dealer has a possible flush.”

Jack opened boldly with a blue chip. Two pair always looked great but rarely paid off. The odds of drawing a full house were eleven to one. The chances of his opponents filling their hands were much better than his. But many gamblers refused to risk money on straights or flushes. Tonight both of his opponents and the dealer matched his bet.

No one said a word as they each discarded one card.

“Blondie’s drawn her straight,” declared Hugo. The young woman’s hand tightened on her cards and a small smile flashed across her face. She was not very good at concealing her pleasure, which might suit her other activities but not her card playing.

“Big Tex picked up a third jack,” croaked Hugo. “That gives him a full house, knave high.”

Praying to Pierre Cardan, the father of probability theory and a notorious gambler, Jack lifted his card. Hugo collapsed on his shoulder, nearly dropping into his lap. Carefully, Jack inserted the ace of hearts into his hand.

“Dealer sucked up his flush,” said Hugo, returning to position. Bucking odds of several thousand to one, all four players had pulled the card necessary to make their hand. And Jack was sitting with the winning combination.

Betting proceeded at a rapid clip. The dealer, knowing the relative shortcomings of his flush compared to what the others might have drawn, dropped out first. The blonde, not as smart, finally quit when she ran out of chips to continue. Only Jack and Tex remained. Finally, with more than thirty thousand dollars in the pot and Wilson out of chips, Jack called.

“Full house, jacks high,” declared the red-faced man, reaching for the chips. Wilson was sweating profusely. He knew that if Jack had continued to bet, he would have been forced to cover to remain in the game.

“Sorry,” said Jack, calmly, laying down his hand. “Full house, aces high.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Wilson, shaking his head in astonishment, “Son of a bitch.”

Strangely enough, it wasn’t Wilson who was the most disturbed. A professional gambler, the big man knew poker was risky business. Instead, it was the blonde sitting next to him who exploded.

“Two full houses and a straight in the same hand,” she screamed, her voice shrill. “Bullshit. It can’t happen. This game’s fixed.”

“What’d you want us to do, Mona?” asked one of the woman’s two bodyguards. A .45 automatic loomed large in one of his hands. His companion, gaze fixed directly on Jack, was likewise armed.

“They cheated me,” said the blonde. “Find out how.”

“Lady,” said the dealer, his voice trembling, “we run an honest game here. It’s the law.”

Behind him, Jack sensed Cassandra tense. He assumed she was preparing to cope with the two thugs. It wasn’t until he noticed the man in the plaid suit that he understood the real reason for her concern.

“Is there a problem here?” asked the newcomer. Though man-sized and dressed in blue plaid, there was no hiding the Afreet’s neon red features. Reaching out with blurring speed, he plucked the revolvers out of the hoodlums’ hands.

“Sorry, but firearms are not permitted in the casino,” the genie declared. Politely, he handed each of the gunsels a lump of solid metal that a second before had been their weapon.

“I was robbed,” said the blonde, no longer shrill.

“Ronald?” asked a second newcomer. Dressed in a white suit, with white shirt and white tie, he was so thin he resembled a skeleton. His gaze swept around the table, lingering for a second on Cassandra before continuing on. His thin, bloodless lips barely moved as he spoke.

“Strictly legit, Mr. Hasan, sir,” said the dealer. “There was an unusual run of cards, that’s all. Neither gentleman complained. It was the lady who made a ruckus.”