Chris Offutt - Kentucky Straight - Stories

Duke’s hands lay across his eyes.

“You win,” he said. “I fold.”

“You never looked.” Connor’s face turned red as he quickly stuffed and zipped his pants. “I don’t know what to say about a man who makes a bet and don’t look at the cards.”

Duke uncovered his eyes and gazed steadily at Connor.

“Now I know how you play.”

Wind rushed beneath the old smokehouse, carrying the smell of char up from cracks in the floor. Cigarette smoke rose to the high side of the slanted ceiling.

“My dead uncle’s was bigger,” W. said.

Connor spun his chair to straddle it backwards, legs splayed around the ladder back. His eyes were grim. Catfish dealt, naming the cards in a loud voice.

“Hook to the Duke. Connor gets a nine. A queen for Fenton.” He flipped an ace to himself. “The doctor, always good to see.” He bet without looking at his hole cards. “Five in the dark.”

Everyone called and Catfish moved the cards smoothly across the table.

“Ten to the nine, straightening. Two diamonds for the Duke. Fenton gets a six.” Catfish gave himself a second ace. “Another doctor, got to bet ten on the clinic.”

Fenton’s up cards matched his hole to give him two pair early. He raised the limit. Everyone called but W. “I got a hand like a foot,” he said, and turned his cards over.

After the next round, Catfish bet twenty and Connor called. Fenton raised sixty-four dollars, knowing that unusual bets threw Connor out of kilter; he wasn’t so sure about Duke. Both men called and Catfish dropped out. The last up card didn’t help Fenton. Connor got an eight to give him four to a straight showing. Duke’s card was a fourth diamond. He passed the bet to Connor, who grinned as he counted a hundred into the pot. Fenton studied the cards. He’d need a full house to beat the straight and the flush. The pot was worth the bet, but his cards weren’t. Fenton sighed and pushed money to the center of the table. He was tired and ready to quit, and hoped it wasn’t because of age. Duke silently called the bet.

“River card,” Catfish said. “Read them and sleep.”

Duke refused to look at his final card. He stared at Connor for a long time and asked how much money he had in front of him.

“Hundred and eighty,” Connor said.

“Then the bet is three eighty.” Duke counted money, slow and careful for all to see.

Connor rubbed his face with both hands. He lit a cigarette and examined his hole cards, chewing his lower lip. The cigarette burned unsmoked between his fingers. A couple of minutes passed in which Duke still did not look at his last card. Connor cracked his knuckles, a sound like green wood in a fire.

“Call, raise, or fold,” Catfish said.

“Are you in this?” Connor said.

“It’s your bet’s all.”

“I don’t need no tips on how to play.”

“Then do it and keep your mouth off me.”

Connor tipped his chair on its back legs and slipped his hands behind his head.

“Boys,” he said. “I’m trying to give the man a chance to look at his hand. I was raised right, not like some.”

Duke pressed his forefinger on his final card and slowly pushed it into the center of the table beneath the pile of cash. He pulled his hand back empty.

“Maybe I don’t need it,” he said. “Maybe all I need is your bet.”

“I’m shy two hundred,” Connor said.

“You could raise me your truck.”

The skin of Connor’s face paled as he glanced at the door, on the other side of which sat his pickup. He studied Duke’s four diamonds and fingered his money. With shaking hands Connor turned a hole card to show his straight. His voice was sharp and disgusted.

“I’m out,” he said. “First good hand all night and goddam if I don’t run into a diamond flush.”

“Girl’s best friend,” W. said.

“Shut up, old man. What you know on girls won’t fit up a gnat’s ass.”

“I been married fifty-one years, to a woman.”

Fenton’s last card was worthless, leaving him with the two pair. He began counting diamonds. He’d seen seven and Duke was showing four more, which left two for the flush. Duke hadn’t bet early. He’d been fishing then, and Fenton realized it was a bluff. Duke had nothing. If Fenton won, he’d be even for the night.

“I call,” Fenton said. He was fifteen dollars short. “And raise.”

He reached in his pants for a pocketknife. It was old and not worth much, but still his favorite. He snapped the blade open. Duke shook his head, refusing the property bet.

“This ain’t it,” Fenton said.

He slowly lifted the knife and slid the blade into his open mouth, below the bridge. He squinted, blinking when the tiny strut pulled from his gum. He pried the entire bridgework loose and tossed the shiny wet gold on the table. The knife’s tip held a drop of blood that he wiped on his pants.

“Jesus God,” Duke said. “If I raised back, I guess you’d bet a finger.”

He turned his cards face down and pushed the money across the table. Connor stood, clattering his chair to the floor. His pupils were barely rimmed by iris. He swayed for a moment, trying to speak.

“The house?” he finally said. “You got a full house?”

“You don’t want to know,” Fenton said.

Connor flipped Fenton’s cards to show his hand.

“Two pair,” Connor said. His upper lip rose, showing teeth the size of soup beans. “That’s my pot,” he said.

Duke’s voice came hard and mean.

“Stay off that money.”

Connor jerked his head wildly, settling on W.

“Old man,” he said. “You going to set and let them railroad me? You against me, too?”

“It’s only a game,” W. said. “Folding a winner’s good poker. Makes up for all the losers a man stays in on.”

Connor pivoted and kicked his chair. A rung broke and he continued to kick until the dry maple lay in pieces. The floor shook and rafter dust sifted down. When Connor was finished he snatched a chair leg, turned and snarled. No one moved. He stepped to the door and pushed it open. Cold air rushed into the smokehouse, causing the hole in Fenton’s gum to ache.

“I ain’t forgetting this,” Connor said. “I ain’t forgetting how you run me out. Every damn one of you.”

He walked into the glittering darkness of the snow. Wind smacked the door, pinning it to the outside wall. Cards and money blew off the table to mix with the wreckage of the chair. Fenton watched the edges of a five-dollar bill blacken against the stove. Catfish closed the door. No one looked at each other.

Fenton walked around the room collecting money from corners like hunting mushrooms. Three kicks made the door rattle. Duke picked up a thin log and moved to a corner. Connor stood outside, refusing to enter. A stripe of snow clung to the right side of his body.

“Won’t start,” he said. “Who’s got cables?”

“I walked,” Fenton said.

“Me and W. came with Duke,” Catfish said.

Duke turned from the stove. “In the trunk.” He pushed a hand in his pocket for keys.

“Keep them,” Connor said. “I ain’t owing you nothing.”

“It’s hardly owing,” Duke said. “Winter’s winter.”

Connor spoke to Catfish. “I’ll borrow some kindling, if you ain’t caring.”

Catfish loaded Connor’s outstretched arms and closed the door. The room was cold again.

“Somebody better help him,” Fenton said.

No one moved, and Fenton put on his coat. Outside, snow hit him at a hard slant. He raised a shoulder and tipped his head, walking at an angle to the wind. Snow blew like vapor across the ground, squeaking beneath his boots.

Connor was jacking the front of his truck, cursing steadily. He spun with a pistol in his hand.