I told him I already assumed as much.
“Good,” he said. “How much are you getting paid to write this? Because I want half.”
Are you nuts? I wanted to say. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“And yet that’s the price of admission,” he said.
The server came over and set a plate of pancakes in front of me. I used the time it took to unwrap my silverware from the paper napkin to make a fast decision. “I can give you twenty-five percent of what I make on the article.”
But he, too, had been using my napkin-unfolding time for his own calculation. “Let’s call it a thousand dollars, and that’s the end of the negotiation.”
I felt like delivering a clever exit line followed by a clever exit. But I wanted the interview more. The money, of course, mattered but there was more to it, I was beginning to realize. I was so damn tired of myself. One day I would die, and my gravestone would read, She did some magic tricks. It wasn’t enough. I wanted to know more, do more, jump-start something.
“You’re good, right?” I said. “The real deal? Brock McKnight vouched for you.”
He watched me a moment. “I took my classmates’ money in grade school,” he said. “By the time I was fifteen I was into a dozen regular games in A.C., in Trenton. I always looked older. My hands were always adept. That part came easy, you know? But to make it great, to make it undetectable from every angle …” He kept his gaze on me. “A grade-school kid gets caught cheating other kids, maybe he gets a black eye. But to cheat grown men, to take their money … do you see what I’m saying?”
I did. And yet I didn’t know the way I wanted to know, didn’t know it in my blood. That was precisely what drew me to writing this article. When your performance went beyond dollars and into the realm of life and limb, how do you prepare? How do you protect yourself? How do you conquer the fear? How flawless, exactly, must your technique be?
“You’re telling me your moves are undetectable,” I said.
“I’m telling you,” he said, “there are maybe a dozen people in the world who can do what I do.”
If he was right, look where it had gotten him—the City Diner on a Wednesday morning, talking to me. I studied his hands again. Stubby fingers, yellowed fingernails … ah, but those fingernails were beautifully filed. It was almost December and his fingers showed no signs of cracking or dryness. The man moisturized. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was all I had.
“All right,” I said. I never claimed to be a shrewd negotiator. “A thousand.”
“Up front,” he said.
“Impossible,” I said. “I don’t have it.”
“Not my problem, love.”
“I can give you maybe three hundred. The rest—I really don’t have it.”
“Then I’ll take the three hundred, but know that I’m not pleased. And I want the rest soon.”
So this was how it would be with my cardsharp. “You’ll make this worth my while, right?” I told him. “You’ll give me what I need for this interview?”
“Interview?” He shook his head. “No, I’m gonna take you to play some poker. How are you at Texas Hold’em?”
“I’m okay,” I said, “but no expert.”
“Perfect,” he said. “Then you’ll lose fast and get to watch the rest of the game without any distractions.”
I ate some pancake to stall. “What’s the buy-in?” I asked.
“The one on Sunday night is four hundred.”
“Can I just watch?”
“Afraid not. These are intimate games at people’s homes. Actually, the game on Sunday’s at a bakery. But there won’t be spectators.” I was running through a list of pawnable items—old books I rarely used? My TV?—when he smiled. “Lighten up, will you?” He had smoker’s teeth but his fingers weren’t remotely fidgety. Meaning, he’d quit. Meaning, he probably had iron willpower and maybe fortitude. “You’ll play, you’ll lose, but you’ll have your article and be privy to things most people never get to see. Okay? Isn’t that what you want?” I didn’t answer right away because the accountant in my head was still lecturing me. “The game on Sunday is in A.C., by the way.”
Atlantic City was more than a two-hour drive, and my car was pushing two hundred thousand miles and had never once earned the moniker Old Reliable.
“Who do the other players think you are?” I asked.
“They think I’m me. I’m Ace, the grinder from North Jersey. Guys like them love playing grinders, because if they lose, they can console themselves with the fact that they were up against a pro anyway, and if they win or break even they feel like they just won the World Series of Poker. Of course, against me they don’t win.”
A.C. was a trek, but it wasn’t as if I had another gig lined up for Sunday night.
“I still want to talk to you, though,” I said. “I want to ask you questions, not just watch you play.”
“Then aren’t you lucky there’s an ATM across the street where you can get me my money.”
We ate our pancakes, Ace and I, like an elderly couple so used to each other’s company that talk wasn’t necessary. When the bill came, he pushed it toward me.
7
Once Ace’s wallet was bulging with three hundred of my dollars, we walked down the street to a small pedestrian square. People were beginning to emerge from the surrounding buildings, squinting in the sun, to eat their sandwiches. Pigeons, cousins to my doves, bobbed along the sidewalk.
My cheat and I sat together on a metal bench. The morning’s chill was evaporating. I removed a notepad and pen from my purse and asked Ace about his training, his experience, his life that had led him to become a professional card cheater.
His answers:
Why would you possibly want to know that?
Why does that matter?
Not your business. (Said while massaging his temples.)
You’re not really asking me that,
