hard-luck hands. The thing about strings, though, for good or bad, is that they’re destined to end. The MIT math wonks who claim that sort of thinking is nothing but a gambling fallacy are full of S-H-I-T, if you ask me. I can feel when a win streak is coming on. It starts in my toes and buzzes up my legs like electricity; I had that feeling now. The first two cards of my next hand were the six of clubs and four of spades. Naturally, I doubled down, intending to cut my current losses in half with a win. My next card was the jack of clubs. The dealer bust hitting on thirteen, and just like that, I heard that bad-luck streak snap like the string of an overplayed guitar.
That was when I met Grover.
He sat down on the empty stool to my left and placed a hundred dollar initial bet, which he proceeded to lose in seven seconds. His follow-up was an even two hundred smackers.
“Looks like you’ve soaked up all the good luck this table’s dishing out tonight,” he said to me.
I’d won my fifth straight hand and he’d dropped his third.
“There’s more luck to be had,” I replied.
Now Grover was the sort of fellow you didn’t easily forget and I knew that I’d seen him earlier in the day at the symposium registration booth. He had a grizzly-bear frame, a thick Santa Claus head of snow-white hair, and a matching snowy goatee. I was pretty confident he didn’t recognize me.
“So what sort of doc are you?” he asked.
“GP,” I said. “You?”
“Orthopedist. Name’s Grover Theodore Marshall. Friends just call me Grove.”
Grove had a vise for a handshake and a deep Southern accent. I never bothered asking where he was from, or what hospital he worked at, and he never bothered to tell me.
“Look at that,” Grove said.
“What?”
“That woman over there.”
My eyes followed his finger until I spotted an attractive thirtysome-thing brunette at the craps table.
“What about her?” I asked.
“She keeps touching her hair with her left hand. Hundred bucks says the next time she does it, it’ll be with her right.”
“You serious?”
I let my attention wander and the dealer had to ask if I wanted to set down a bet. I hated passing on a deal when I was so hot, but there was something compelling about Grove. We left the table together.
On closer inspection, the woman was well into her forties, and wore too much makeup.
I reasoned that either Grove was lying to me and she had been touching her hair with her right hand all along, which made it a sucker bet, or he was thinking that I was thinking he was lying, in which case he’d expect me to double the stakes, but only if I got to bet the right hand-a wager he’d politely decline. Trusting my gut, I went with the left-hand touch. Three seconds later I was a hundred richer.
“Goddamit!” Grove said, slapping my back hard enough to rattle my lungs. “I was so sure she was going to go right.”
He slid a hundred from a thick wad and pressed the crisp bill into my palm.
“Just dumb luck,” I said.
“No way,” he said. “Hell, I got you pegged. You’re a player. I’ve gotta hang with you, man. You think you can teach this old dog a few Vegas tricks so I don’t get my clock cleaned all week?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Grove said.
“It’s Bobby,” I said. “Bobby Tomlinson.”
Grove and I spent the rest of the conference as inseparable gambling buddies. It helped that he shared my conferencing habits, which involved attending a morning session or two, skipping the afternoon sessions entirely to hit the tables, and breaking briefly for dinner, with more gambling until well past the witching hour. I shared all my trade secrets for blackjack (best odds for the player) and craps (a game I’ve affectionately renamed, “Lose All Your Money Fast”). By the week’s end, I was up over fifteen-hundred and Grove, good God, had socked away almost four grand thanks to his willingness to place bets that doubled mine.
We were drinking vodka tonics, lounging on a couple of cushy chairs, and watching an array of forty television sets broadcasting what seemed to be every sporting event taking place in the world at that moment. Of course, we could bet on all of them, which we did for some. Grove won five-hundred bucks when Baltimore returned a punt for a touchdown.
“Hey, G.P.,” he said, jabbing at my specialty, “didn’t your mama ever tell you that the real money’s in surgery?”
I guess I invited that taunt. All week long I had complained about not having deep pockets-the kind that would let me make the sort of bets Grove made without batting an eye.
“My wife is scared to death of the tables,” I said. “I thought it might be a good idea to stay married and see my two kids through college.” Each time I said something even half-funny, Grove laughed roundly and pounded my back.
“I like you, Bobby,” he said. “I wish we could keep playing.”
“Got to get back to reality.”
“You know,” Grove said. “You’re a really great player. A gamer’s gamer. You’re like a craftsman on those tables.”
“Hardly. I just helped educate you about some commonly held beliefs.”
I took an extra long sip of my vodka because I wanted Grove to think I was that casual about my skill.
“If you’re as good a doc as you are a gambler, you could make a killing in our club.”
He voiced the thought almost as an aside, but he got my attention.
“What club?”
“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry, I was thinking out loud.”
“Yeah? What club?”
Grove shifted his weight in his chair, glancing about as if the security cameras were as interested in his mysterious club as they were in the blackjack card counters.
“It’s sort of a private club for doctors,” Grove said, in a conspiratorial whisper. Then he added, “Doctors who like to gamble.”
“I’m a doctor and I like to gamble.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t bet on cards.”
“Yeah? What do you bet on, death?”
I laughed. Grove didn’t even break a smile.
“Holy shit,” I said. “Is that what you really do?”
Grove shifted his gaze down to his feet and spoke even softer.
“It’s not exactly what you think. It’s not even really illegal or anything. But ethically, well, it would be a bit awkward if word ever got out.”
“I think I want to know more.”
“Look, I’ll tell you,” Grove said, “but I need you to swear, Bobby, I mean swear to me, that you’ll never breathe a word of this to anybody. Heck, I might even be able to sponsor you if you want in. That’s how much I like you. We haven’t admitted a new member in over five years.”
“So what’s the club?”
“It’s called ‘The Dead Club.’ ”
“Sounds sinister. Tell me more.”
“Okay, here’s how it works. Each month you get an email with a link. The link is to a password protected website. You’ll have to download an application first before you can use the site. That way we can erase any record of the club on your computer in case of emergency.”
“By emergency I assume you mean detection. What’s on the site?”
“Each month there’s a new medical file for a terminally ill patient in some hospital somewhere in the world.”
“The world?”
