More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

Piemonte won the cut and they began.

The hands were pretty even for the first hour, then Keller began pulling ahead slowly. Tony kept his head above water, the second winner — but only because, it seemed, the other players were getting bad hands; the boy was still hopeless when it came to calculating the odds of drawing. In a half-dozen instances he’d draw a single card and then fold — which meant he was trying for a straight or a flush, the odds of doing that were just 1 in 20. Either he should’ve discarded three cards, which gave him good odds of improving his hand, or gone with a heavy bluff after drawing a solo card, in which case he probably would’ve taken the pot a couple of times.

Confident that he’d nailed the boy’s technique, Keller now began to lose intentionally when Tony seemed to have good cards — to boost his confidence. Soon the kid had doubled his money and had close to $200,000 in front of him.

Larry Stanton didn’t seem happy with Keller’s plan to take the boy but he didn’t say anything and continued to play his cautious, old-man’s game, slowly losing to the other players.

The voice of conscience…

As the night wore on, Lasky finally dropped out, having lost close to eighty thousand bucks. “Fuck, gotta raise the price for ding-pulling,” he joked, heading for the door. He glanced at the duo from Chicago. “When you gentlemen leave, could you bang inta some parked cars on the way to the expressway?” A nod toward Keller. “An’ if you wanta fuck up the front end of his Merc, I wouldn’t mind one bit.”

Piemonte smiled at this; Rothstein glanced up as if the body shop man were speaking Japanese or Swahili and turned back to his cards to try to coax a winning hand out of them.

Grandpa too soon bailed. He still had stacks of chips left on the table — but another rule in poker was that a player can walk away at any time. He now cashed in and pushed his chair back glumly to sip coffee and to watch the remaining players.

Ten minutes later Rothstein lost his remaining stake to Tony in a tense, and long, round of betting.

“Damn,” he spat out. “Tapped out. Never lost to a boy before — not like this.”

Tony kept a straight face but there was a knowing look in his eye that said, And you didn’t lose to one now — I’m not a boy.

The game continued for a half hour, with big pots trading hands.

Most poker games don’t end with dramatic last hands. Usually players just run out of money or, like Grandpa, get cold feet and slip away with their tails between their legs.

But sometimes there are climactic moments.

And that’s what happened now.

Tony shuffled and then offered the cut to Keller, who divided the deck into thirds. The boy reassembled the cards and began dealing.

Piemonte gathered his and, like all good poker players, didn’t move them (rearranging cards can telegraph a lot of information about your hand).

Keller picked up his and was pleased to see that he’d received a good one: two pairs — queens and sixes. A very winnable one in a game this size.

Tony gathered his five cards and examined them, not revealing any reaction. “Bet?” he asked Piemonte, who passed.

To open the betting in draw poker a player needs a pair of jacks or better. Passing meant that either Piemonte didn’t have that good a hand or that he did but was sandbagging — choosing not to bet to make the other players believe he had weak cards.

Keller decided to take a chance. Even though he had the two pairs, and could open, he too passed, which would make Tony think his hand was poor.

A tense moment followed. If Tony didn’t bet, they’d surrender their cards and start over; Keller would swallow a solid hand.

But Tony glanced at his own cards and bet ten thousand.

Keller’s eyes flickered in concern, which a bluffer would do, but in his heart he was ecstatic. The hook was set.

“See you,” Piemonte said, pushing his chips in.

So, Keller reflected, the man from Chicago’d probably been sandbagging too.

Keller, his face blank, pushed out the ten thousand, then another stack of chips. “See your ten and raise you twenty-five.”

Tony saw the new bet and raised again. Piemonte hesitated but stayed with it and Keller matched Tony’s new bet. As dealer, he now “burned” the top card on the deck — set it facedown in front of him. Then he turned to Piemonte. “How many?”

“Two.”

Tony slipped him the two replacement cards from the top of the deck.

Keller’s mind automatically began to calculate the odds. The chances of getting three of a kind in the initial deal were very low so it was likely that Piemonte had a pair and a “kicker,” an unmatched card of a high rank, probably a face card. The odds of his two new cards giving him a powerful full house were only 1 in 119. And if, by chance, he had been dealt a rare three of a kind at first, the odds of his getting a pair, to make that full house, were still long: 1 in 15.

Filing this information away, Keller himself asked for one card, suggesting to the other players that he was going for either a full house or a straight or flush — or bluffing. He picked up the card and placed it in his deck. Keller’s mouth remained motionless but his heart slammed in his chest when he saw he’d got a full house — and a good one, three queens.

Tony himself took three cards.

Okay, Keller told himself, run the numbers. By taking three cards the boy signaled that he’d been dealt only one pair. So in order to beat Keller he’d have to end up with a straight flush, four of a kind or a full house of kings or aces. Like a computer, Keller’s mind went through the various odds of this happening.

Based on his calculations about the boy’s and Piemonte’s draws, Keller concluded that he probably had the winning hand at the table. Now his goal was to goose up the size of the pot.

The boy shoved his glasses up on his nose again and glanced at Piemonte. “Your bet.”

With a cautious sigh, the player from Chicago shoved some chips out. “Twenty thousand.”

Keller had sat in on some of the great games around the country — both as a player and an observer — and he’d spent hundreds of hours studying how bluffers behaved. The small things they did — mannerisms, looks, when they hesitated and when they blustered ahead, what they said, when they laughed. Now he summoned up all these memories and began to act in a way that’d make the other players believe that he had a bum hand and was going for a bluff. Which meant he began betting big.

After two rounds, Piemonte finally dropped out, reluctantly — he’d put in close to $60,000 — and he probably had a decent hand. But he was convinced that Keller or Tony had a great hand and he wasn’t going to throw good money after bad.

The bet came around to Keller once more. “See your twenty,” he said to Tony. “Raise you twenty.”

“Jesus,” Stanton muttered. Keller shot him a dark look and the old man fell silent.

Tony sighed and looked again at his cards, as if they could tell him what to do. But they never could, of course. The only answers to winning poker were in your own heart and your mind.

The boy had only fifteen thousand dollars left on the table. He reached into his pocket and took out an envelope. A hesitation. Then he extracted the rest of his money. He counted it out. Thirty-eight thousand. Another pause as he stared at the cash.

Go for it, Keller prayed silently. Please…

“Chips,” the boy finally said, eyes locked on Keller’s, who looked back both defiant and nervous — a bluffer about to be called.

Stanton hesitated.

“Chips,” the boy said firmly.

The old man reluctantly complied.

Tony took a deep breath and pushed the chips onto the table. “See your twenty. Raise you ten.”

Keller pushed $10,000 forward — a bit dramatically, he reflected — and said, “See the ten.” He glanced at all he had left. “Raise you fifteen.” Pushed the remaining chips into the center of the table.