Edward Whittemore - Jerusalem Poker

Right, said the African.

Figures, muttered Joe.

All three men nodded vaguely at each other and went back to their diversions, garlic cloves and poteen and the breasts of the former Austrian empress. While the cards were being shuffled, Joe recited some lines in Gaelic.

Know that one, Munk? Cairo? It's a pome I used to be telling myself back when I was doing my jig around the Black and Tans. Roughly speaking, it says a man should never sit still when he has a dose of the slows. Change the view, that's the article. If you're down on the coast, bugger it up to the mountains.

If you're up in the mountains, bugger it down to the coast. Do you follow me? You have to get yourself to where you were or might have been, then there's a chance of something happening. And that, gents, is the meaning of the pome in all its brevity.

Both Munk and Cairo nodded sleepily, although it was only eleven o'clock. Munk yawned and pushed back his chair, gathering up his few remaining chits of orange and olive-oil futures. As he did so the chimes attached to the sundial in the front room began to strike, rolling twelve times in all.

An early midnight and bedtime for me, said Munk. I trust no one cares if a loser leaves the table?

No one did. Munk drifted out the door as the new hand was being dealt. The Libyan went high and won, the Frenchman went low and won. Cairo folded on the next hand and pocketed the only two breasts of Maria Theresa still in his possession.

That it, sport? mumbled the British brigadier. Not your night either?

Cairo shrugged and swayed out the door in his stately robes, trailing the sweetish smoke from his final puff on the hookah. The chimes in the front room creaked and inexplicably tolled midnight for the second time, although it was only eleven-fifteen. The Russians took a hand, then the Egyptian and the brigadier.

The French pederast and the limp Libyan shared another pot, the rug thief going low and the ikon thief high.

Joe had only three Polish zlotys left when the Druse warrior on duty in the alley entered the room and stood at attention behind Joe's chair.

I believe your batman wants you, mumbled the British brigadier.

Joe looked up and the Druse warrior handed him a calling card engraved in gold. Joe looked at it and his eyes widened. He sat up very straight, whistling softly.

What is it? someone asked.

Jaysus.

A new player? asked one of the Russians.

Jaysus Joseph and Mary.

Three new players? asked the other Russian.

Rather late, mumbled the brigadier, but of course there's still room if they have money to lose.

Joe whistled very softly and tapped the calling card. He leaned back and licked his lips hungrily.

Now it's just too bad, he murmured, that Munk and Cairo had packed it in and left when they did. I'd just like to see their faces now.

Well? asked someone.

Well you can't blame me for being shocked, said Joe. I mean who'd ever have believed that item would dare show up here again after the bundle he dropped in '24? Not me, I couldn't have imagined such a thing was possible. Sat right where you're sitting, Mr. Brigadier, and just as coolly as you please gambled away three villas in Budapest and two in Vienna with all their treasures included, paintings and statues you could hardly count, regular palaces they were, and if that wasn't enough he threw in a Czech hunting estate and a piece of Bohemian forest and a whole Croatian lake jammed with fish, all over two acres can you imagine. Two acres? That's right, mad arrogant he is. You'd have thought he was the former owner of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire, which isn't far from the truth as it happens. And another thing he was big on betting that night was musical instruments.

What? mumbled the brigadier.

That's right, violins and cellos and so forth. You could have equipped a dozen string quartets with the instruments he lost here. Now I wouldn't venture a miserable zloty on two acres in a game like this, but there was just no holding him back. He goes off the deep end, you see, when he spies an ace. By God and he must have collapsed between the ears to be coming back here looking for more of the same.

Joe shook his head in disbelief. Everyone at the table was watching him. He opened a tin of imported Irish butter and snapped his fingers. The Druse warrior on mess duty dragged a heavy lumpy sack out of a corner and over to the table. Joe rummaged through the sack of cold boiled potatoes, looking for one to his liking.

Who is this mad rich man? someone asked.

Joe split a potato down the middle, tested the pulp with his finger and smeared it with butter. He took a bite, decided on more butter and chewed thoughtfully. When he leaned forward at last his voice was conspiratorial, little more than a whisper.

Who is he, you say? Well I don't want to alarm anyone, God knows we see all manner of rogues and cutthroats sitting down at this table. But this great skin is simply something else, and if the cards weren't running against me tonight I'd bet everything I own against the fool. Know what I mean? This item sees an ace and just loses control. Always bets on aces and won't bet on anything else. Discards three kings, he does, in hopes of getting an ace in return, it's that kind of madness. Of course it's criminal to throw money away like that, but he's so bloody rich he doesn't care. Just showers money down on the table like next year's olive crop. I tell you, if this were only my night.

No one moved. There was utter silence in the room. Joe noisily blew his nose and examined his handkerchief. He ripped off another hunk of cold potato and chewed.

What a chance, he muttered, his mouth full of potato. A man who'll put money like that on two lonely aces? I told my friend the baking priest about it and he straightaway hustled me off to mass. That's dangerous, he said, your soul's in mortal danger. Anyone who throws money away like that can only be in league with the devil. Tempting poor souls to leap into the abyss by dumping filthy money all over them, that's what he's doing, now off to a special mass with you to clean things up. So said the baking priest, word for word.

Joe nodded vehemently. The eyes of the other six players never left him. He scooped out the rest of the butter in the tin, loaded it on his stump of potato and closed his eyes to chew.

Delicious, he murmured. Beats all.

But who is he? someone whispered.

Sorry?

My God, the man outside, Who is he?

Ah, that one. The worst villain ever to come out of central Europe, that's who. Not that he was a central European to begin with, there's too much perversity in his black heart for anything as simple as that. No, his people came from farther east, around the Volga they say. Or perhaps as far out as Transcaucasia who knows.

The two Russians narrowed their eyes imperceptibly.

Anyway, he first surfaces in Budapest before the war, and then on to Vienna, where with stealing his way with lies and more lies he somehow manages to get in with the royal family. How? Faith-healing at first, that kind of thing. Then advising on financial investments. And he uses his powers while he's scheming in the shadows don't you see, hinting here and coaxing there, probably a potion or two secretly administered in what looks like a nice harmless cup of tea to ease things along, until finally the royal dukes and duchesses won't make a move without him. I mean if you've ever heard anything about vampires and werewolves lurking in the mists of central Europe, forget it. This fiendish monster was in a class by himself. So he got his teeth in all right and that's when they say he got in touch with Trotsky. Broadening his horizons so to speak, an eye out for every eventuality. Well that's the general picture.

The two Russians seemed to have stopped breathing. Sweat ran down their shaved heads. Joe rummaged in his potato sack and came up with another potato to his liking.