William Kennedy - Billy Phelan's Greatest Game

The game was now five-card stud, quarter ante, no limit, and four flush beats a pair. The deal was walking and when it came to Bump, Billy gave him the full eyeball.

“Where you from, Bump?” he asked, just like a fellow who was looking for information.

“Troy,” Bump said. “Albia. You know it?”

“Sure, I know it. Who the hell don’t know Albia?”

“Well, I was asking. Lot of people know about Troy don’t know Albia.”

“I know Albia, for chrissake. I know Albia.”

“That’s terrific, really terrific. Congratulations.”

Bump looked at Billy; Billy looked at Bump. The others in the game looked at them both: dizzy-talking bastards. But Billy wanted the cheater thinking about something besides cheating, wanted him edgy. Billy smiled at Bump. Bump didn’t smile at Billy. Good.

Billy drew deuce, four, eight and folded. He was ahead $21, which was nice. He’d sat down with about $315 and change, which included his original $170, $20 from Peg, $40 from Tod, another $20 from Red Tom, and $67 from the Harvey Hess Benevolent Association. All he’d spent was carfare and the drinks at Becker’s. Roughly speaking he still needed about $455 to get straight with Martin, but he was winging it now, wasn’t he, getting where he had to go? And was there ever any doubt? Don’tcha know Billy can always get a buck?

Morrie Berman won the hand with three nines. He was a bigger winner than Billy.

“Your luck’s running,” Billy said to him.

“Yeah,” said Morrie. “Money coming in, name in the paper.”

Billy had told him as soon as they met in front of Nick’s that both their names were on the list. Morrie already knew. Max Rosen had called around supper to ask him to stay in town, keep himself on tap. Rosen was nice as pie, Morrie said. If you don’t mind, Mr. Berman. Naturally I don’t mind, Mr. Rosen, and if I can be of any help at all, just call me. What else do you tell a McCall flunky in a situation like this? Neither Billy nor Morrie mentioned the list to anybody else at Nick’s. Billy listened carefully to what Morrie said. He didn’t say a goddamn thing worth telling anybody.

“What’s that about name in the paper?” Nick Levine asked. Nick was his own house player, cutting the game. Nick would cut a deuce out of a $40 pot. Nick also had a nose for gossip when it moved into his cellar.

“Aw nothin’, just a thing,” Morrie said.

“What thing?”

“Forget it.”

“I’ll get the paper.”

“That’s it, get the paper.”

But Nick wasn’t satisfied. He was a persistent little man with double-thick glasses and he owned more suits of clothes personally than anybody Billy knew, except maybe George Quinn. But then Nick owned a suit store and George didn’t, and George looked a hell of a lot better in clothes than Nick. Some people don’t know how to wear clothes.

Nick looked across the table at Morrie and gave him a long stare while all play stopped. “They pull you in?”

“No, nothing like that,” Morrie said. “Look, play cards. I’ll tell you later.”

That satisfied Nick and he bet his kings.

Lemon Lewis was a pointy-headed bald man, which was how he got his nickname. Didn’t have a hair on his body. Not even a goddamn eyelash. When Lemon, who worked for Bindy McCall, didn’t say anything about Morrie’s name in the paper, Billy knew he hadn’t heard about the list. But Lemon wasn’t that close to Bindy anymore, not since he overdid it with kickbacks when he handled the gambling patronage. Bindy demoted Lemon for his greed and put him to work on the odds board in the Monte Carlo. Man with the chalk, just another mug.

Lemon was alongside Bump and when the deal reached Lemon, Billy asked for a new deck. If Bump, who would deal next, had been marking cards, beveling them, nicking edges, waiting for his time to handle them again, then the new deck would wipe out his work. Coming at Lemon’s deal, the request would also not point to Bump. But it did rattle Lemon, which was always nice.

“New deck, and you’re winning?” Lemon said.

“Double my luck,” Billy said.

“You think maybe Lemon knows something?” Footers O’Brien asked, and everybody laughed but Lemon. No mechanic, Lemon. Last man in town you’d accuse of cheating. A hound dog around the rackets all his life and he never learned how the game was played.

“Lemon shuffles like my mother when she deals Go Fish to my ten-year-old nephew,” Billy said.

Lemon dealt the new cards, delivering aces wired to Billy.

“Ace bets,” said Lemon, and when Billy bet five dollars, Bump, Morrie, and Nick all folded. Footers, a retired vaudevillian who sang Jolson tunes at local minstrel shows, stayed with a king. Lemon stayed with a queen.

On the third card nobody improved. Billy drew an eight and bet again with the ace. Lemon raised and so Billy read him for queens wired, because Lemon rarely bluffed. Footers called with king and jack showing, so probably he had a pair too. Footers wouldn’t chase a pair. Too good a player. But whatever either of them had, Billy had them beat.

On the fourth card, Billy paired the eights. Aces and eights now. Neither Lemon nor Footers looked like they improved. Very unlikely. Yet both called, even when Billy bet $20. We can beat your eights, Billy.

Footers’s last card was a seven, which didn’t help, and Lemon drew a spade, which gave him three spades up. The bet was still to Billy’s eights, but before he could bet them, Lemon turned over his hole card and showed the four flush.

“Can you beat it, boys?” he asked, smiling sunbeams.

“Only with a stick,” Footers said, and he folded his jacks.

“I bet forty dollars,” Billy said.

His hand, showing, was ace, seven and the pair of eights.

“Well that’s a hell of a how-do-you-do,” Lemon said. “I turn my hand over and show you I got a four flush.”

“Yes, you did that. And then I bet you forty dollars. You want to play five cards open, that’s okay by me. But, Lemon, my word to you is still four-oh.”

“You’re bluffing, Phelan.”

“You could find out.”

“What do you think of a guy like this, Nick?” Lemon said.

“It’s the game, Lemon. Who the hell ever told you to show your hole card before the bet?”

“He’s bluffing. I know the sevens were all played. He’s got a third eight? Aces,” Lemon said, now doing his private calculating out loud. “Nick folded an ace, I got an ace. So you got the case ace? That’s what you’re telling me?”

“Forty dollars, Lemon.”

Lemon went to the sandwich table, bit a bologna sandwich, and drew a glass of beer. He came back and studied Billy’s hand. Still ace, seven and the eights.

Billy sat with his arms folded. Keeping cool. But folks, he was really feeling the sweet pressure, and had been, all through the hand: rising, rising. And he keeps winning on top of that. It was so great he was almost ready to cream. Goddamn, life is fun, ain’t it Billy? Win or lose, you’re in the mix. He ran his fingers over the table’s green felt, fingered his pile of quarters, flipped through his stack of bills while he waited for the Lemon squash. Goddamn, it’s good.

Bump watched him with a squinty eye.

Footers was smiling as he chewed his cigar, his nickel Headline. The Great Footers. Nobody like him. Drinking pal of Billy’s for years, always good for a touch. Footers knew how to survive, too. Told Billy once how he came off a four-day drunk and woke up broke and dirty, needing a shave bad. Called in a neighbor’s kid and gave him a nickel, the only cash Footers had. Sent him down to the Turk’s grocery for a razor blade. The kid came back with it and Footers shaved. Then he washed and dried the blade and folded it back in its wrapper and called the kid again and told him, take this back to the Turk and tell him you didn’t get it straight. Tell him Mr. O’Brien didn’t want a razor blade, he wanted a cigar. And the kid came back with the cigar.