Sporty handed the cooler to Barney. Leaning back in his chair, he scooped up the cards in his lap, and hid them in his pocket. Rico was impressed. He had seen some gutsy plays in his life, but nothing like this.
Barney put a thousand in chips on the table.
Moon anted up. “What are we playing?”
“Five-card draw poker.”
“Anything wild?”
“Just the dealer.”
It was for guys like Barney Swing that the expression
“Your bet,” Barney said.
Moon tossed a grand into the pot.
Barney called, and raised him a grand.
Moon saw his raise and asked for two cards. Barney dealt them off the deck without taking the cards off the table. Moon peeked at his cards. Then his face turned to stone.
The drunk Englishman was holding the eight through queen of hearts, a straight flush. You could play poker your whole life and never get a straight flush. Earlier that evening in the hotel bar, Rico had asked Sporty what the odds were of drawing one.
“Sixty-five thousand to one,” Sporty said.
Sporty was practicing as he spoke. The bar was empty, and Sporty was dealing cards into his lap. Only the cards weren’t coming off the top. Some came second from the top, others off the bottom, and some from the deck’s center. Most card mechanics saw sleight of hand as a means to an end. For Sporty, it was a lifetime passion.
“He gambles a lot,” Rico said. “He’ll know he’s being set up.”
“You said he plays BJ,” Sporty said, using the pro’s term for 21.
“That’s right.”
“BJ isn’t poker. BJ is about playing basic strategy, knowing how to count. Poker is about money. The more a guy wins, the more predatory he gets. And when the cards start to fall his way, he starts believing he’s Superman. Get it?”
Rico hadn’t believed him until he saw Moon raise Barney two grand. Barney called him, then watched Moon turn over his hand and reveal his straight flush.
“Jesus,” Barney whispered, turning over his four kings.
Moon counted the pot. “You owe me five thousand.”
Barney dug into his pocket. “Will you take a check?”
Moon hesitated. He wasn’t as drunk as he acted, Rico realized.
“Everyone in the room will vouch for me,” Barney said defensively.
“All right,” Nigel said.
Barney wrote him a check and started to hand it over. Reaching over Barney’s shoulder, Rico snatched the check from his hand.
“Barney, this is a
Moon’s mouth dropped open. He looked royally pissed. Rico dropped his hand to his side and opened his fingers, letting Moon see Barney’s finger-palmed check. Sporty lit up a cigarette and tossed the match into the ashtray. The fake pieces caught fire.
Moon blinked, slowly understanding.
“Don’t you, Nigel?” Rico said.
Rico smiled. Victor called moments like these turning points. It was the thing about being a con man that Rico liked. You got to peel suckers one layer at a time and see how much they could be taken for.
“And a friendly game it will remain,” the Englishman said.
Splinters drove Rico and Sporty to Miami International Airport in Rico’s limo. The moon was out, a big silver coin waiting for someone to pluck it from the sky, and Rico started to retract the roof. Sporty, who wore his hair in an architecturally complex comb-over, objected. Rico pushed the button in the opposite direction.
“You were great back there. That switch was awesome.”
Sporty took the switched deck out of his pocket. “Thanks.”
“How long you been handling cards?”
Sporty hesitated. “What’s today, Friday?”
“Very funny. Twenty, thirty years?”
“My father gave me a deck when I was five,” Sporty said.
The airport was a tomb. Splinters pulled in front of the Delta terminal and threw the limo into park. He had his Walkman on and was clicking his fingers and swaying his head like Stevie Wonder. He was a definite embarrassment, Rico decided.
Rico reached into his jacket to pay the mechanic. A gun appeared in Sporty’s left hand. Rico felt his nuts tighten. It was one of those plastic jobs the Israeli secret police had invented to sneak through airport security systems. He looked toward the front at Splinters. His driver was in la-la land.
“Take your hand out of your jacket,” Sporty said.
“With or without your money?”
“Slo-owly.”
Rico brought his hand out. Then, carefully, he grabbed his lapel and pulled it back, letting Sporty see the white envelope sticking out of his inside pocket.
Sporty wiggled the gun’s barrel. Rico reached in with his left hand and carefully removed the envelope. Sporty took it from his grasp, and said, “Sorry, but your reputation precedes you.”
Rico was shocked. What reputation? He’d killed two people in his entire life, which hardly qualified him as some major menace. One to get into John Gotti’s gang, one as a favor. Two people and the double-crossing Indian the other night. Make that three people. Among the guys he used to associate with, three scalps didn’t qualify for bragging rights. Judging by the way Sporty was clutching the gun, Rico didn’t think he’d killed anyone.
Sporty visually counted his money. Satisfied, he said, “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“What kind of scam you got going here? I’ve never been hired to make a sucker win. You setting this chump up for a killing?”
Rico nearly told Sporty the score. He wanted to tell
“None of your fucking business,” Rico said.
Sporty got out of the limo. The departure area was eerily quiet, the sliding doors to the Delta terminal wide open. He tossed the piece into a receptacle by the door, then glanced over his shoulder as he went inside.
Rico winced. He’d been suckered by a toy gun.
“Hey,” Rico yelled at his driver.
Splinters was singing along to his Walkman, his voice better than Rico would have expected, like he’d had lessons or sang in a choir once. An angel’s voice trapped inside a lunatic’s body. Rico stuck his arm through the window that separated them and tapped his shoulder. Splinters stopped singing and stared at him in the mirror, offended. Finally he disconnected himself and turned around.
Rico punched him in the face.
8
It was Running Bear who finally came to Valentine’s rescue.
