Mr. Lucky

gas. Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me. That was the name of a funny book she’d given Ricky for his birthday once, and he’d laughed when she’d threatened to have it framed and hung over the mantel. They’d had their share of good times; they’d just been overshadowed by the bad.

She drove around Slippery Rock High School and spotted Max Bookbinder shooting hoops with a gang of men twenty years his junior. Max dribbled with mercurial ease, the ball flying from hand to hand, through his feet and behind his back, feats she didn’t know he was capable of. He feinted his way to an easy two points, then dropped a line on his younger teammates. A howl of laughter ensued.

She parked in the lot, found an opening in the fence, and walked toward the courts. Her right heel sunk in the mushy field, her ankle twisting painfully. The native ground had the consistency of quicksand, and she slipped off her pumps, shoved them into her purse, and finished the walk in her stockings.

Max Bookbinder, Slippery Rock High’s ex-principal reincarnated as a gym teacher, shuffled over. Polly had enjoyed her fling with him, enjoyed their friendship even more. At his retirement party he’d told everyone that he was looking forward to teaching gym, for now when he told the kids what to do, they’d listen to him. Out of politeness he tugged off his Red Sox cap. A few wispy strands of hair stuck straight up. Kissing her on the cheek, he said, “How’s life treating you?”

“I’ve been better. Yourself?”

“Terrific. Started hitting the pavement again. Two miles every morning.” He pounded his chest, apelike. “Feel like a kid.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Sure. What’s wrong?”

Polly sensed he hadn’t heard the news. In a soft voice she said, “There was a robbery at Republic National Bank this afternoon. My ex was there. The robbers shot Hi Moss, then someone shot them.”

Bookbinder looked at her incredulously.

“Hi was killed,” Polly said.

Bookbinder hid his face in his baseball cap. He had put in thirty years as a teacher and administrator and had seen half the town pass through his school. Putting his cap back on, he turned to the gang shooting hoops and let out a primal yell.

“Hey, guys, I’m outta here.”

Bookbinder walked Polly to her car. At the fence he offered his hand as Polly wiped her feet and slipped her pumps on.

“When I heard the news, I cried,” she said.

“For Hi?”

“No. I mean, yes, I cried for Hi. But I also cried for Ricky. I imagined him being shot and it broke my heart. I can’t explain it.”

“Can’t explain what?”

“I hate him.”

“You were married and you loved him once,” he said. “You shared things; you had a history and your own language. All married couples do. You missed those things.”

“How did you know that? I never told you—”

“You didn’t have to. I was married once myself.”

“Does this mean I still love him?”

“You make it sound like a curse.”

“Oh my God, you have no idea what it was like.”

A Mustang convertible filled with teenagers sped by. Bookbinder stuck his face against the fence and barked out one of the boys’ names. Instantly the car slowed to a snail’s pace. At his retirement party he had given a speech and summed it up pretty well. Kids were the affirmation of life; being around them, he found that hope was not easily extinguished and dreams impossible to dismiss. Turning to her, he said, “What are you going to do?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“That’s not like you, Polly.”

“I don’t,” she insisted.

Bookbinder stuck his hands in the pockets of his sweats and looked at the ground. “You know, Polly, I’ve known Ricky a long time, and he isn’t as bad as you make him out to be.”

“Ricky isn’t bad?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, Max,” she shrieked. “Come on!”

18

Gerry Valentine returned to Tex Snyder’s suite at the Holiday Inn at four o’clock that afternoon. He’d showered and shaved, and in the pocket of his sports jacket was the money Tex had staked him to play in his friendly little game.

Tex had the whole thing worked out. He’d bribed the hotel into bringing an authentic felt card table to his room, then stocked the place with top-shelf liquor and bowls of nuts and chips and a humidor filled with Cuban cigars. He’d turned it into a guy’s hangout, and all for the purpose of fleecing Kingman, the trailer park magnate.

Kingman was already into the Scotch when Gerry arrived. A native of Chicago, Kingman was a short, thick, disagreeable guy worth a cool hundred million bucks. He lay on the couch in such a way that no one could share it with him. He grunted when Gerry introduced himself.

Three other players drifted into the suite and introduced themselves. Bill, Bob, and Phil. No last names. Gerry guessed they were also “friends” of Tex.

They sat down at the card table, and Tex suggested they play Texas Hold ’Em. It was the most popular poker game in the world. It was also played on television in tournaments where players “exposed” their cards to the camera. As a result of these shows, millions of people thought they knew how to play. Professionals had a name for these new players. They called them suckers.

Kingman was definitely a sucker. He quoted the odds after each hand was played, and told other players when he thought they were bluffing. Bill, Bob, and Phil told him he was right every time, further convincing Gerry they were stooges. Kingman also continued to drink as he played. He was as raw as they came.

Gerry played conservatively for the first hour. Tex had told him to fold most of his hands and had explained that he wanted Gerry “in the game” later on, when Kingman was led to the slaughter and the two men scammed him.

Tex’s scam was as easy as they came. During a hand, he would give Gerry a prearranged signal. He would take a cigar out of the humidor, but he wouldn’t light it up. He’d just chew on it for a while.

That was the cue for Gerry to start raising the bet. It meant that Tex had a cinch hand and was convinced he was going to beat Kingman. But Tex didn’t want to scare Kingman away, so it was Gerry’s job to lure him in. After a few rounds of betting, Gerry would drop out of the hand and let Tex take over.

Card hustlers called this playing top hand. His father had told him that it was used by many of the world’s top players to fleece suckers. What made it so deceiving was that the person doing the raising never knew what his partner was holding. He simply did as told.

But Gerry also knew something else. Playing top hand wasn’t infallible. Texas Hold ’Em had three rounds—the flop, the turn, and the river. The sucker might draw a miracle card on the river and win all the money. It happened all the time.

Somehow, Gerry didn’t think Tex was going to let this happen.

An hour later, room service brought hamburgers and milk shakes to the suite. It wasn’t the kind of grub that Gerry would have used to feed a millionaire, but Kingman dived into the food like it was his last meal. Tex had obviously done his homework.

The suite had two bathrooms. While Bill, Bob, and Phil took turns using one, Gerry went into Tex’s bedroom