Why had he said that, Alex wondered. The odds of two pairs at poker are not huge. Why even mention it? Was he perhaps challenging them? Or could it be that he was trying to divert their attention?
Suppose he had three of a kind . . .
“I’ll tell you what,” McCain went on with a fast check of his watch. “It’s the last game of the evening, so why don’t we have a bit of fun?”
McCain lifted his hands theatrically, touched the two thumb tips together, then laid his palms flat on the table. There was a stir from the audience as he used the wedge to slide all his chips forward, the piles collapsing on top of one another as at least fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of chips were spread across the table. One or two people clapped. Everyone knew what was happening here. It was all or nothing.
This was one of those games that any serious gambler would remember for the rest of his life.
“I’m going to make it easy for you,” McCain said. He ran a hand across his jaw as if he were trying to smooth it back into place. “I know the two of you don’t have enough money to match my bet, but I’m feeling charitable.” He smiled at his own joke. “Put all your money in and we’ll call it even.” The accountant drummed his fingers on the table. “Are you trying to pretend you’ve got the third jack, Desmond?” he asked. He had a clipped, nasal way of speaking. His eyes were small and almost colorless; Alex watched them dart from McCain to the cards on the table and somehow knew that he was about to make a mistake. “I think you’re bluffing,” he went on. “You’re just trying to scare us away. Well, it’s not going to work.” He slid his own pile into the center, the plastic chips mingling with McCain’s. He’d added about ten thousand dollars of his own.
Twenty-five thousand dollars! Any thought of charity had suddenly disappeared. It was a fantastic sum of money to be determined by the turn of two cards.
Alex glanced at his own pile of chips. It looked pathetic in comparison with the others, but he assumed McCain’s invitation extended to him. “I’m in,” he said.
“All right, Leo!” McCain nodded at the accountant. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” The accountant flicked over his two cards. There was a mutter of approval from the spectators. He did indeed have another ace—the ace of diamonds—plus a two of spades. Adding them to the faceup cards gave him two pairs— aces and jacks—a very good hand. McCain really would need three of a kind to do better.
It should have been Alex’s turn to show his cards next, yet McCain ignored him. “Too bad, Leo!” he crowed. “‘God hath delivered you into my hand’—as it says in the first book of Samuel, chapter twenty-three.” The silver crucifix glimmered briefly as he leaned forward and picked up his cards. He paused for a moment, then turned them over, one at a time. The first card was the jack of clubs. Three of a kind. It beat Leo easily. But then came the real triumph. He turned over the second card to reveal the other black jack—the jack of spades. The audience exploded. The odds of getting four of a kind in Texas Hold ’Em are 4,165 to 1. It was incredible luck. It was almost miraculous.
Now Alex understood why McCain had talked about two pairs. He had actually been underselling himself to draw the other players in. And the tactic, at least in part, had worked.
“I have the knaves and that makes it my evening,” McCain roared. His eyes were bright with pleasure.
He leaned forward and began to sweep all the chips toward him.
“What about my cards?” Alex said quietly.
“Your cards?” McCain blinked. He had forgotten Alex was even there. He glanced down at the table as if to reassure himself. Nothing could beat four jacks, not with only one ace showing on the table . . .
could it? He relaxed. “Do forgive me, Alex,” he said. “I should have let you show your cards first. But everyone here would love to see them. What have you got?”
Alex waited a moment. He was aware that everyone was watching him. But for some reason he wanted McCain to remember this. Maybe it was just that he didn’t like being taken for granted.
He turned over the eight of hearts. And then the ten of hearts.
There was a long silence as the truth sank in. Then the audience gasped. The seven of hearts, the nine of hearts, and the jack of hearts were already on the table, faceup. Put them together with Alex’s cards and he had a straight flush . . . seven, eight, nine, ten, and jack of hearts. And in the rules of poker, a straight flush beats four of a kind.
Alex had won.
McCain froze with his hands still cradling the chips, and in that moment Alex stared at all the chips spread out in front of him. They were all his! He had just won more money than he had owned in his whole life. But even so, he regretted what he had done. McCain was his host. This was meant to be his big night. Yet he had just been shown up in front of a large crowd of his friends by an unknown fourteen-year-old. How would he take it? Alex glanced up. McCain was staring across the table with raw anger in his eyes.
“I’m sorry . . . ,” Alex began.
McCain slammed his hands together as if to break the mood. At the same time, he leaned back and roared with laughter. “Well, there’s a lesson in pride,” he exclaimed loudly, for everyone to hear. “I jumped in too quickly. I was too sure of myself, and it seems I’ve been undone by a child I don’t even remember inviting. Never mind! Alex, you’ve beaten me fair and square.” He used his huge hands to push the chips away as if trying to distance himself from them. “You can cash in your chips with the croupier. I bet you must be the richest thirteen-year-old in Scotland right now.”
“Actually, I’m fourteen,” Alex said. “And I don’t want the money. You can give it all to First Aid.” That drew a round of applause from the audience. McCain stood up. “That’s very generous of you,” he said. “Donating my own money to my own charity!” He was joking, but there was an edge to his voice.
“I can promise you it will be well spent.” He moved away from the table, a few people patting him on the back as he left.
Alex glanced down one last time at McCain’s cards: the knaves, as he had called them. They were strangely ugly—almost like freaks, joined at the chest, with flowing hair and strange multicolored tunics.
Scowling knaves versus his own brave hearts. But of course, it didn’t mean anything. They were only cards, and even as he watched, they were swept away and shuffled back into the deck.
4
