“If ever there was a shithead who needed to be separated from his money,” Ace was telling me while fidgeting with my radio dial, “it’s Carlo Desoto.” Desoto was a middle manager at Atlantic Insurance. “He’s the swell guy who denies your grandmother’s cancer treatment.” Ace settled on a Rolling Stones song and began drumming on his knees. “That’s why we’re driving all this way. Because he’s in it for real money. The other guys are run-of-the-mill suckers who think they’re better than they are, but for them it’s a pastime. They have money to lose.”
“What kind of money? A bakery owner?”
“His wife is an orthopedic surgeon.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah, ah. Listen, I do my homework. This is their golf. Their whatever. It’s something they enjoy doing. All except for this guy Desoto. He’s in deep. I met him at the Tropicana couple of months ago, watched him win and then give it all back. He had on this terrific Gucci suit, and it was so obvious that his wife thought he was working late at the office, or maybe having an affair. Such a beautiful thing to see. Desperation has a glimmer to it, like diamonds. Took me all of ten minutes to talk my way into one of his regular home games. I’ve seen it before. These guys, these family men, they get to losing more than they ever imagined they could lose. And when it gets bad enough, it’s like a switch gets flipped, and they realize they’re in so deep they’ll never get out except for a miracle, and then that becomes the goal: the miracle. But they know miracles don’t happen, so then it’s almost like losing becomes the goal. Losing big. Losing so big you can’t even believe it.”
But of course I could believe it.
Red or black?
I could hear my father’s voice as clearly now as when I was twelve.
“Because when you’re desperate enough,” Ace was saying, “the feeling of losing big isn’t so different from the feeling of winning big. And someone who can’t tell the difference anymore? Who’s in so deep he needs that feeling at whatever the cost? That’s who you want at your table.” He slapped his leg. “That’s Carlo Desoto.”
The others at the table would be typical of the men into whose card games Ace found his way: utterly forgettable, and with just enough success to believe they were smart and clever.
“So can we talk about your tactics a little?” I asked. I wanted to understand the details of Ace’s technique, his mechanics, his grip, but he kept insisting I see—or, more precisely, fail to see—all that in action. But I also wanted to know how he worked as a solo player. How often did he false deal? What kind of deal was it? And what about the cut? Someone else would be cutting the cards, which makes it useless to stack the deck beforehand. An accomplice could false-cut for him, or cut the deck at exactly the right place … but Ace worked alone.
“First you watch,” he answered. “Then on the drive home, we talk. I don’t want to bias your eyes.”
I drove on, letting prime interviewing time go to waste but unsure what to do about it. At least my car was cooperating, deciding to wait a while longer before coughing out its last breath.
When we got close to Atlantic City, my phone navigated us to the bakery, and I parked across the street. We were several blocks in from the ocean, on an inadequately lit street lined with darkened storefronts. The air was gustier than it was up north, and I wrapped my arms around myself as Ace and I crossed the road. You couldn’t see inside the bakery because of the shelves of bread blocking the windows. The sign on the door said CLOSED, but the door was unlocked.
Ace gently touched my arm. “If you win a hand, don’t lay your cards down extra slow to rub it in. It’s bad etiquette.”
“Slow rolling. I know.”
“And protect your cards. Not everyone’s as honest as you and me.”
I smiled.
“Let’s go get ’em, tiger,” he said, and we went in.
I was hit by a blast of warm air and a smell that was yeasty and sweet. Shelves behind the counter were partially stocked with what I supposed were the day’s leftovers. In the center of the room was a cheap metal poker table, the fold-up kind, and on a long table near it was a spread of bread, cheeses, and olives. Beside the food were several bottles of wine and liquor.
Three other people were in the room. A skinny, older man came right over, all smiles. “Welcome, welcome.” He reached out to shake Ace’s hand. He was maybe early sixties, with a long, kind face and a day’s gray stubble. Bakers woke up early. His day must have already been sixteen, seventeen hours old.
“This is my friend Natalie,” Ace said. We saw no reason for me to use a fake first name. “Natalie, meet Ethan Garret.”
“It smells wonderful in here,” I told Ethan, who beamed and pumped my hand.
“Thanks for coming all this way. You’ll make five.”
“Five?” Ace frowned.
A younger man came over. Well built. Black cashmere sweater, brown corduroys, polished black shoes. His hair was as dark as his sweater, and his eyes were as dark as his hair. I’d have singled him out at a casino, too, but not for his betting style.
“Good to see you again, Ace,” he said.
“Likewise.”
“I’m Natalie,” I said.
I felt myself being assessed. His smile seemed real, if guarded. “Carlo Desoto.” We shook hands.
“And this is my niece, Ellen,” Ethan said.
I felt embarrassed, having assumed that the woman standing by the food table was an employee, here to serve drinks or pick up after us. Had she been a man,
