Lorrie Moore - 100 Years of the Best American Short Stories

“That’s all right,” Ralph said. “I’ll just watch a few hands.”

“Suit yourself.”

He sat down in a chair against the wall, a few feet away from the table. No one spoke. The only sounds were the clat-clat of the chips as the men dropped them into the center of the table, and the shuffle and sharp flicking of the cards. The dealer was a large man, thirty or so; he wore a white shirt, open at the collar, and with the sleeves turned back once exposing the forearms covered with black, curling hair. But his small hands were white and delicate-looking, and there was a gold band on his ring finger. Around the table a tall, white-haired man with a cigar, the fat man, and a small dark man with a gray suit and a tie. An Italian, Ralph thought. He smoked one cigarette after another, and when he swallowed, the tie over his Adam’s apple moved up and down. The old man, Benny, was wiping with a cloth around the cash register near the door. It was warm and quiet. Now and then Ralph could hear a horn blare out in the street. He drew a long breath and closed his eyes, opened them when he heard steps.

“Want anything to drink?” Benny asked, carrying a chair to the table.

Ralph said he’d have something; bourbon and water. He gave him a dollar and pulled out of his coat. Benny took the coat and hung it up by the door as he went out. Two of the men moved their chairs and Ralph sat down across from the dealer.

“How’s it going?” he said to Ralph, not looking up.

For a minute Ralph wasn’t sure whether it was directed at him. “All right,” he said.

Then, as Ralph watched the other men play their cards, the dealer said gently, still not looking at him, “Low ball or five card. Table stakes, five dollar limit on raises.”

Ralph nodded, and when the hand was finished he bought fifteen dollars’ worth of blue chips.

He watched the cards as they flashed around the table, picked up his as he’d seen the tall, white-haired man do; sliding one card under the corner of another as each card fell face down in front of him. He raised his eyes once and looked at the expressionless faces of the others. He wondered if it’d ever happened to any of them. In half an hour he had won two hands and without counting the small pile of chips in front of him, he thought he must still have fifteen or even twenty dollars.

Benny brought a tray of drinks, and Ralph paid for his with a chip. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his face, aware how tired he was. But he felt better for some reason. He had come a long way since that evening. But it was only… a few hours ago. And had he really come so far? Was anything different, or anything resolved?

“You in or out?” the fat man asked. “Clyde, what’s the bet, for Christ’s sake?” he said to the dealer.

“Three dollars.”

“In,” Ralph said. “I’m in.” He put three chips into the pot. “I have to be going though… another hand or so.”

The dealer looked up and then back at his cards.

The Italian said: “Stick around. You really want some action we can go to my place when we finish here.”

“No, that’s all right. Enough action tonight… I just have to be going pretty soon.” He shifted in the chair, glanced at their faces, and then fixed upon a small green plaque on the wall behind the table. “You know,” he said, “I just found out tonight. My wife, my wife played around with another guy two years ago. Can you imagine?” He cleared his throat.

One of the men snickered; the Italian. The fat man said, “You can’t trust ’em, that’s all. Women are no damn good!”

No one else said anything; the tall, white-haired man laid down his cards and lit his cigar that had gone out. He stared at Ralph as he puffed, then shook out the match and picked up his cards.

The dealer looked up again, resting his open hands palms-up on the table. “You work here in town?” he said to Ralph. “I haven’t seen you around.”

“I live here. I, I just haven’t gotten around much.” He felt drained, oddly relaxed.

“We playing or not?” the fat man said. “Clyde?”

“Hold your shirt,” the dealer said.

“For Christ’s sake,” the white-haired man said quietly, holding onto each word, “I’ve never seen such cards.”

“I’m in three dollars,” the fat man said. “Who’s going to stay?”

Ralph couldn’t remember his hole card. His neck was stiff, and he fought against the desire to close his eyes. He’d never been so tired. All the joints and bones and muscles in his body seemed to radiate and call to his attention. He looked at his card; a seven of clubs. His next card, face-up, was an ace. He started to drop out. He edged in his chair, picked up his glass but it was empty.

“Benny!” the dealer said sharply.

His next card was a king. The betting went up to the five dollar limit. More royalty; the Queen of Diamonds. He looked once more at his hole card to see if he might somehow have been mistaken: the seven of clubs.

Benny came back with another tray of drinks and said, “They’re closing in ten minutes, Clyde.”

The next card, the Jack of Spades, fell on top of Ralph’s queen. Ralph stared. The white-haired man turned over his cards. For the first time the dealer gazed straight into Ralph’s eyes, and Ralph felt his toes pull back in his shoes as the man’s eyes pierced through to, what seemed to Ralph, his craven heart.

“I’ll bet two dollars to see it,” the fat man said.

A shiver traced up and down Ralph’s spine. He hesitated, and then, in a grand gesture, called, and recklessly raised five dollars, his last chips.

The tall, white-haired man edged his chair closer to the table.

The dealer had a pair of eights showing. Still looking at Ralph, he picked ten chips off one of the stacks in front of him. He spread them in two groups of five near the pile at the center of the table.

“Call.”

The Italian hesitated, and then swallowed and turned over his cards. He looked at the dealer’s cards, and then he looked at Ralph’s.

The fat man smacked his cards down and glared at Ralph.

All of them watched as Ralph turned over his card and lurched up from the table.

Outside, in the alley, he took out his wallet again, let his fingers number the bills he had left: two dollars, and some change in his pocket. Enough for something to eat. Ham and eggs, perhaps. But he wasn’t hungry. He leaned back against the damp brick wall of the building, trying to think. A car turned into the alley, stopped, and backed out again. He started walking. He went past the front of the Oyster House again, going back the way he’d come. He stayed close to the buildings, out of the way of the loud groups of men and women streaming up and down the sidewalk. He heard a woman in a long coat say to the man she was with, “It isn’t that way at all, Bruce. You don’t understand.”

He stopped when he came to the liquor store. Inside he moved up to the counter and stared at the long, orderly rows of bottles. He bought a half-pint of rum and some more cigarettes. The palm trees on the label of the bottle, the large drooping fronds with the lagoon in the background, had caught his eye. The clerk, a thin, bald man wearing suspenders, put the rum in a paper sack without a word and rang up the sale. Ralph could feel the man’s eyes on him as he stood in front of the magazine rack, swaying a little and looking at the covers. Once he glanced up in the mirror over his head and caught the man staring at him from behind the counter; his arms were folded over his chest and his bald head gleamed in the reflected light. Finally the man turned off one of the lights in the back of the store and said, “Closing it up, buddy.”

Outside again, Ralph turned around once and started down another street, toward the pier; he thought he’d like to see the water with the lights reflected on it. He wondered how far he would drop tonight before he began to level off. He opened the sack as he walked, broke the seal on the little bottle, and stopped in a doorway to take a long drink. He could hardly taste it. He crossed some old streetcar tracks and turned onto another, darker street. He could already hear the waves splashing under the pier.