Jeffrey picked up the deck and looked expectantly at Bash.
“Three,” said Bash. Jeffrey dealt him three, again studying the face, not the cards.
“One,” said Young.
“Three.” Koesler.
Jeffrey: “And the dealer takes three.”
Each player having discarded, picked up, and studied the newly dealt cards.
Koesler’s hand had not improved. He’d started with two tens; that was still the best he could do. It was a hopeless hand. One had to have at least a pair of jacks to open and Bash had done that. Thus Koesler was defeated without leaving the gate.
Jeffrey waited, looking at Bash, who had opened so it was his move.
“Check,” Bash said.
“Well, I guess I’ll open with five.” Young carefully deposited five blue chips in the pot.
Koesler, his hand already defeated, had studied Young as the monsignor had picked up his one card. Both eyebrows had reacted. It was a safe guess that he had gotten his card. Koesler threw in his hand, as did Jeffrey. Had Jeffrey also spotted the reaction?
“I’ll call you, Del,” Bash said as he dropped five blue chips in the pot.
Nothing happened. Something should have.
“Del,” Jeffrey said, “what have you got? Clete called you.”
“Oh!” Young exclaimed. “Yes, of course.” He spread his five cards on the table as he declared, “Full house. Kings over eights.”
“Damn!” Bash muttered, and pitched his cards face down on the table.
“Well,” Young said happily, “looks like my night.”
All things are possible, thought Koesler. But the likelihood of Del Young’s having a “night” of luck was so remote as to be ludicrous. There was his tendency to bet impetuously, which was definitely not the mark of a winner. Then there were the dramatis personae of the evening. On his best day, Del Young could not gamble successfully against Clete Bash. And Quent Jeffrey was way out of both their leagues.
As for himself, the difference between Del Young and Koesler was that Koesler knew his limits-and they were very narrow. Indeed, it had been at Koesler’s insistence that the stakes were reduced for the evening. White chips were worth twenty-five cents. Red chips were worth fifty cents. And blue chips were valued at a dollar. Usually the stakes were much higher.
But, as always, Koesler’s highest hope was to break even. While he did not mind contributing to charity, his favorite charity was neither Bash nor Jeffrey.
Clete Bash gathered the scattered cards and began to shuffle them.
“Anything new on the murders?” Young asked, making conversation. And then clarified, “I mean poor Larry Hoffer and the Donovan woman.”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Koesler said. “I’ve tried to keep up with the news but it seems the police investigation is proceeding without any breaks in the case.”
“I wish they’d hurry up,” Young said. “I’m getting nervous. There’s somebody out there who seems to be hunting down officials of the diocese.”
“And you’re one of them,” Bash said as he shuffled. He was poking fun at the monsignor.
“All well and good for you to feel secure-at least tonight,” Young retorted. “After all, we’re playing on your turf. You don’t have to get home after this is over.”
They were gathered in the common room on the Chancery Building’s seventh floor. Bash’s living quarters were on the ninth floor. In former times the priests’ residence rooms on the building’s ninth and tenth floors would have been almost all occupied, and the common room well populated at this hour. However, these were lean times. Having a chancery full of resident priests at the expense of help in parishes would have been a senseless luxury.
“Five card stud,” Bash announced. “First and last card down. Ante two.”
Each pitched two white chips in.
Bash dealt the first card to each player face down, the second face up. Each glanced at his secret first card. Only the player himself knew what he held, while everyone knew what the second card was.
“King bets,” Bash said, referring to Young’s face-up card.
“Well, it does seem to be my night,” Young said. “King bets one.” He pitched in a red chip. Everyone else followed in kind. Bush dealt the next card to each face up.
“Well, well; a pair of kings.” Bash referred to that portion of Young’s hand everyone could see. “Kings bet;”
Young was so pleased he almost, twitched. “My goodness! Did I say this would be my night? Well, kings will bet five.” And he slid five blue chips onto the table center.
In three cards, Koesler had nothing. With only two cards remaining to be dealt, he would have to come up with at least a pair of aces to beat what Young had showing, let alone what might be the monsignor’s hole cards. Wisely, he folded.
“I guess I’ll see you, Del,” Jeffrey said, “and raise you five.” He pushed ten blue chips into the pot. Young answered his raise.
Bash, whose hand resembled Koesler’s, folded. It was between Jeffrey and Young. Bash dealt another card, face up, to each of the remaining two players. In addition to his two kings, Young now had a ten of hearts showing.
“Kings still high,” Bash, as dealer, announced.
“So they are,” Young agreed. He peeked again at the hole card, as if it might have changed spots since his previous look. “Well, then, kings will just chance another five.”
Jeffrey regarded Young with quiet amusement. He pushed ten blue chips into the pot. “And five,” he said.
Everyone looked more closely at that portion of Jeffrey’s hand showing. Two, seven, and eight of hearts. A flush? With one card yet to be dealt, it seemed the only possible hand that could beat Young’s. Interesting, even for Koesler.
Silently, with some temerity, Young pushed another five chips into the pot.
“All right, gentlemen, the last card. Down and dirty,” Bash dealt Young, then Jeffrey, each the final card, face down.
Young slipped both hole cards to the table’s edge in proximity to his ample stomach, lifted the corners, and contemplated the completed hand that only he could see. He continued to contemplate until Bash said, “Del, what’ll it be?”
“Eh?” Young realized a decision must be made.
Amazingly, as far as Koesler was concerned, Jeffrey only now turned up the corner of his final card to see what it was. Cool. He paused only seconds before pushing twenty blue chips forward, and said, “Your ten and ten more.”
Everyone looked at Young, who betrayed surprise. He had been certain his ten-dollar bet would clinch his winning hand. Now this. He picked up his hole cards and studied them again. Whatever they had been they still were. No one pressed him. This was a fairly steep pot, worth thinking about.
Finally, Young exclaimed, “You’re bluffing!”
Jeffrey smiled and shrugged.
“There’s one way to find out, Del,” Bash said.
That was true. Young had three choices: He could raise the bet again, hoping to call Jeffrey’s bluff. He could call Jeffrey and end this hand one way or another. Or he could fold, in which case Jeffrey would not have to reveal his hand. He would take the pot.
Young, hand trembling slightly, added ten more blue chips to the pot. “Let’s just see what you’ve got there, Quent.”
Gazing steadfastly at Young and again not looking at his cards, simply aware of where they lay, Jeffrey turned
