Deadman's Bluff

tobacco, looked like pieces of antique furniture.

“Maybe not, but I bet it will be soon,” Rufus said.

Valentine’s cheeks burned some more. “So what can I do for you?”

“The Greek is taking me up on my Ping-Pong bet,” Rufus said. “He paid the hotel to put a Ping-Pong table in the poker room, then talked some sucker into playing me during the break. They’re waiting downstairs. I was hoping you’d act as my second.”

“Sure,” Valentine said.

Rufus removed a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, banged one out, and tossed it into the air. The cigarette did a complete revolution, then landed on his outstretched tongue. He fired it up with a lighter.

“Who’s the sucker?” Valentine asked.

“Some Japanese guy named Takarama.”

Valentine had wanted to warn Rufus about Takarama the night before, but in all the excitement it had slipped his mind. “I hate to tell you this, but Takarama was the world table tennis champion a few years ago.”

Rufus took off his Stetson and scratched his skull. “Is he still in the tournament? The deal was, I’d only play someone still in the tournament.”

“Afraid so. Takarama’s a helluva poker player, too.”

Rufus smoothed the remains of his hair, covered it with his hat. “Let me ask you something, Tony. Would you bet against me? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“I’d have to say yes,” Valentine said.

“What kind of odds would you give me against Takarama?”

Valentine thought it over. He’d seen Takarama walking around the poker room the day before. The guy looked to be in tremendous shape.

“Twenty to one.”

“Think I can get that downstairs with any of the hairy legs?”

Hairy legs were the money men who backed poker players, and often could be spotted in the audience during tournaments, gnashing their teeth like berserk fathers at a Little League game. Takarama could always fall down and break his ankle, and he said, “Maybe ten to one.”

Rufus exhaled two purple plumes of smoke through his nostrils. It made him look like a fire-breathing dragon, and his eyes sparkled mischievously.

“Good,” Rufus said. “Let’s go downstairs and reel in some suckers.”

18

Suckers made the gambling world go round.

They came from all walks of life. Some were smart, while others had not graduated high school. Some were wealthy, some poor. What they shared in common was a complete misunderstanding of the law of averages, and an unflappable belief in the laws of chance. Chance, suckers believed, was the god of gambling, and if they were in the right place at the right time, Chance would smile down on them, and they’d win.

Suckers made up 99 percent of the people who gambled. Each year, they invested billions of dollars in the lottery and at casinos, and had nothing to show for it. They also kept dog and horse tracks alive, and paid for thousands of bookies to run their businesses. They were the bottom line of every gambling operation’s financial success.

And suckers were dependable. Even though they rarely won, they never stopped gambling, spurned on by the manufactured thrill that came from placing a wager. When they did win, they poured their winnings back into the game, convinced they’d finally hit a lucky streak, only to see their money and their dreams vanish like a puff of smoke.

Valentine followed Rufus into Celebrity’s poker room to find the suckers crowded around the Ping-Pong table, eagerly awaiting the match. Nearly a hundred strong, they wore the disheveled look of men who weren’t sleeping regularly. Rufus doffed his Stetson and gave them a big Texas wave.

“Good morning! How’s everyone doing this fine morning?”

“Is it morning?” someone yelled back.

“Last time I checked,” Rufus said. “Ready to see me play Ping-Pong?”

Several in the crowd guffawed. Rufus pulled off his running jacket to reveal his trademark Skivvies T-shirt. He began doing windmills while hacking violently.

“You okay?” Valentine asked.

“Never better.” Rufus pounded his chest. “My lungs could use some help, though.”

“Want me to get you something?”

“Shot of whiskey would hit the spot.”

“That’s going to help your lungs?”

“Who said it was going to help my lungs? I just like whiskey.”

They were talking loud enough for the suckers to overhear. A handful had their wallets out, and were debating whether to get in on the action.

“Make that a double,” Rufus said.

Valentine lowered his voice. “You want me to make that apple juice instead?”

“Apple juice is for old folks,” Rufus said.

“A double it is.”

Valentine crossed the poker room in search of alcohol. There was a cash bar beside the registration table, and he caught the eye of the female bartender. She was young enough to be his granddaughter, and shot him a disapproving look when he ordered Rufus’s drink.

“It’s a little early in the morning, don’t you think?” she asked.

“And a Coke for me,” he added.

She handed him the drinks with a grin on her face.

“You’re not in the tournament, are you?” she asked.

“No. How could you tell?”

“You look normal,” she said.

He crossed the room with the drinks. A mob was gathered around Rufus, who continued to flail his arms like Indian clubs while giving his snake oil salesman spiel.

“Come on, boys, I’m about to play some Japanese world champion at Ping-Pong for a half million bucks, winner take all. If that ain’t a safe bet, I don’t know what is. Place your wagers now, or forever hold your peace.”

“What kind of odds you offering?” one of the suckers asked.

“Ten to one,” Rufus said.

“I’ll bet you even money,” the sucker said.

Rufus shot the sucker a murderous look. “You want even money, son? I’ve got one foot in the grave, and my opponent’s a former champ. Ten to one, take it or leave it.”

“Which foot?” the sucker asked.

“The one I’m not standing on,” Rufus said.

The sucker took his money out. “You’re on.”

The doors to the poker room banged open, and the Greek and Takarama came in. A shade over six feet, Takarama wore black gym shorts and a matching polo shirt. He did not have an ounce of fat on his perfectly proportioned body. His shoulder-length hair was tied in a ponytail, giving his face a hawkish quality. His eyes scanned the room in search of his prey.

“Sure you want to go through with this?” Valentine asked.

“That pipsqueak can’t lick me,” Rufus said loudly.

The Greek sauntered over. He hadn’t changed his clothes since the night before and looked like a bum’s unmade bed. He fancied himself a professional gambler, but with every loss to Rufus, his true colors were increasingly clear. He was a sucker. What still made him special was his huge bankroll.

“Thanks for dressing up,” Rufus said.

The Greek scowled. Curly black hair popped out of every part of his head. “You ready to play Takarama?” he