“And what about shuffling and controlling the cards?”
“My hand is still kind of numb right now.” Her voice sounded flat from exhaustion and disappointment. “I think I can probably do it.” Not the reassurance I had hoped for. “I have to see how it is tomorrow. I’ll let you know.”
K
Our decision to switch roles—for her to become the shuffler and me the dealer—happened gradually, over a series of phone calls during the next two days. There was plenty of incentive. Neither of us was ready to give up on the plan.
Ellen would still get the winning hand. Instead of her dealing it to herself, I’d be dealing it to her. But I wouldn’t be throwing either one of us the occasional high card to rush the two worst players, Jason and Ian, out of the game prior to our prearranged hand. Ellen had planned to speed their loss along, same as she did every day as a cardsharp: pull an ace or king from the muck to improve her odds. But she didn’t trust me to improvise, and I didn’t trust myself. If Jason and Ian happened to lose quickly, so much the better. If not, that was okay. Maybe they’d get caught up in the excitement and go all in anyway. Maybe they’d fold. If they folded, Ellen would bleed them after the hand was over, once Victor and Danny were out of the game. She would have almost all the chips then and was the superior player. It wouldn’t be hard.
But Victor and Danny, they could really play.
We focused on what we had total control over: the cards. Ellen didn’t trust her deal, because the thumb was so important in holding the deck, but she promised that her shuffling and card controlling were relatively unaffected. I chose to believe her. And as for me, I’d been working on the Greek deal anyway, but now I worked on it as if nothing else mattered. My Charlie Miller pass was coming along, too, but I decided to shelve it. My classic pass was among the best in the business. If Victor didn’t complete the cut, I would simply complete it for him, and then, locating the corner that Ellen would have bent at the end of her shuffle, I’d execute the classic pass.
We talked on the phone several times a day, and every conversation ended with one of us asking, “Are you sure you’re going to be ready?” We always said we were. And with each call, our assurances became more assertive, more believable, and more true. Still. My Greek deal was performance ready, but performance ready, to my mind, wasn’t gambling ready. It wasn’t million-dollar ready. Or maybe it was. Maybe fear was clouding my judgment. I’d never done this before, and total perfection was perhaps an unreasonable goal. In the mirror, I fooled myself more often than not. But occasionally that second-from-the-bottom card seemed to drop at a different speed. Or it made a sound, a rustle, that to my ears was different from the other cards. Slightly louder. Slightly lower in pitch. I barely left my apartment. I barely did anything but deal cards. When the cards became too worn, I unsealed a new deck. I checked and rechecked finger positions, I slowed down the deal and went through the motions again and again.
From my teenage years I knew the benefits of repetitive practice—improved technique and, yes, avoidance. You could lock yourself in a room, shut everything and everyone out, and call it useful. But what I did in these last days of December was of a whole other magnitude. When I remembered to, I ate. When I remembered to, I slept. I always thought I knew what it meant to woodshed, but I was only learning it now. And yes, I was aware of the irony—how I was becoming the best magician I had ever been just as I had ceased to be one.
And on the afternoon of December 31, though I hesitated to put down the deck, I nevertheless drove to Edison, to Hār Salon, a business I’d driven past many times but never entered, where a chatty young woman named Celeste chopped off most of my hair—my hār—and bleached what remained.
New Jersey was a little more than an hour into the new year. Still punctuating the transition were random bottle rockets and M-80s and whatever other minor explosives teenage boys and former teenage boys preferred to ignite on their porches and in the street. Pop. Pop-pop-pop. Then quiet. Then more pops. The irregular rhythm sounded like gunfire, a minor massacre.
When the quiet returned and stuck around awhile, I knew I ought to sleep, but sleep felt as remote as another galaxy, so I slung a coat over my pajamas and left the apartment. For the first time ever, I wished I had a dog to walk.
The lights of most of the apartments across the way were off. The storefronts up and down the street were closed. There were no stars overhead and the air smelled of smoke. The cold felt good on my face. As I stood on the silent street a few flurries fell. It almost felt like winter. It almost felt like someplace else. Then the flurries stopped, and I returned to my apartment and removed my coat. I sat on the loveseat and picked up the deck of cards from the coffee table.
My parents loved your music, I said as I dealt. They owned both your albums.
Card, card, card, card.
My father worked for you.
Card, card, card, card.
But when he wouldn’t break the law, you broke his ribs and then you broke him.
Card, card, card, card.
You broke my family.
Card, card, card, card.
The outer doorknob rattled, and I heard Harley enter the building. She shut the door louder than usual, humming a tune. She trudged up the stairs, and when she entered her apartment she
