I made sure not to win all the time. Then no one would want me in the game. But I won pretty much whenever I wanted to, because here was what I was learning: the ultimate misdirection? It was me. Whenever it became my turn to deal, everyone looked away from my hands. Even convicts had that much decorum.
I won’t lie. I still woke up in a cold sweat. Still found myself reliving that excruciating night, especially those critical few seconds of Russell’s smack to my face followed by the cleaver’s invisible chop. In my waking hours I tried not to think about any of it and instead focused on getting the feeling and dexterity back in my hand. Some days the task felt monumental, but I couldn’t imagine better physical therapy than card handling. My Greek deal was becoming smooth and silent. Friction is the enemy of the card handler, and all those two fingers ever did, I was discovering, was provide too much of it.
Not anymore. My false deal was becoming something to behold because there was nothing to behold. My hands were steadier than ever. My mind was sharper than it had been in a long time.
For the next six and a half months I planned to play a lot of poker. And I needed to continue to woodshed. In my cell were two decks of cards and a dozen poker books. As Ellen used to do—or as she’d claimed to do (futile as it was to separate the truths from the half-truths from the lies)—I would get to fantasizing about my own cabin by the water, days of snorkeling and nights of separating rich tourists from their money. But those were only passing thoughts. In the real world, my plans remained stateside. Upon release I would move to Reno, city of gamblers, city of my mother. She had somehow come up with the bail, ten percent of the $50,000 the judge had set, driving herself even further into debt.
I would have refused her bail bond, but I’d needed to be out of custody at least long enough to investigate the Revere bell’s worth. And to rent a small safe-deposit box at my bank. No way would I be able to sell the bell anytime soon. Selling it seemed awfully complicated, and I would need help—but there was plenty of time to figure all that out, even if it took years. There was no rush. And I had to be sure to do it safely.
But I had the bell. That was the important part.
I hoped never to need the money, anyway. I was pretty sure I could earn a living as a poker cheat, enough for me and some extra for my mother. I knew I’d make more than I ever did as a magician. (Yes, Brock, so you were right all along.) And I knew what the upstanding citizens whose home games I planned to frequent would do when it was my turn to deal the cards. They would check their phones. Refill the chip bowl. They would look anywhere and everywhere other than at my hands.
When I was on the outside again, my two missing fingers would be my greatest asset. They would be my superpower.
Sasha, one of the game’s regulars, dealt me in. “Where’ve you been?” she asked.
“I had a visitor,” I said, and several of the women went, “Oooh,” as if I’d just returned from a hot date.
The women checked their hole cards. I checked mine. There was less than half an hour until dinnertime. Today, I decided, would be a winning day.
To false deal in prison, I knew, was to flirt with suicide. These were not people who forgave. Yet I’ll say this: never have I felt so alive as in those moments when the freshly cut deck was squared up and in my hand, and the playing cards began their soft skate across the metal dayroom table.
And so I played this game the best I could.
Acknowledgments
My sincere thanks to Jody Kahn at Brandt & Hochman Literary Agents for her wisdom and kindness. I’m very grateful to Otto Penzler for his remarkable editorial insight and generosity, as well as to Deb Seager, Kaitlin Astrella, Allison Malecha, Roberto de Vicq de Cumptich, Gretchen Mergenthaler, and everyone at Mysterious Press/Grove Atlantic. For their willingness to help me with the details, lexicon, and milieu of poker at various levels, I would like to thank Paul Fabel, Jaclynn Moskow, Michael Blinder, Craig Gibian, and Owen Laukkanen. Thanks to Andrew Rabinowitz for guiding me on the legal details. And I’m very lucky to have the astonishing Joshua Jay as my magic guru and friend. I’m grateful to Christopher Coake, Becky Hagenston, Michelle Herman, Julie Kardos, Stephen Kardos, Michael Piafsky, and Catherine Pierce for their valuable comments on the manuscript at various stages.
Huge and hearty thanks to my family, both born-into and married-into, for their steadfast support and good humor. Thanks to my mother, Felice Kardos, who without ever meaning to made me a writer. This is the first book of mine she hasn’t read. I like to think she would have enjoyed it.
One of the pleasures of working on this novel was returning to old hobbies and passions. The following books were especially helpful to me.
T. Nelson Downs, The Art of Magic (1921)
S. W. Erdnase, The Expert at the Card Table: The Classic Treatise on Card Manipulation (1995). Originally published as Artifice, Ruse, and Subterfuge at the Card Table: A Treatise on the Science and Art of Manipulating Cards (1905)
David Britland and Gazzo, Phantoms of the Card Table: Confessions of a Cardsharp (2003)
Karl Johnson, The Magician and the Cardsharp: The Search for America’s Greatest Sleight-of-Hand Artist (2005)
Finally, a shout-out to the kiddos and another heartfelt
