More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

“Lord,” Piemonte said.

Even gruff Rothstein was subdued, gazing hypnotically at the massive pot, which was about $450,000.

For a moment Keller did feel a slight pang of guilt. He’d set up his opponent psychologically, calculated the odds down to the last decimal point — in short, he’d done everything that the youngster was incapable of. Still, the boy claimed he wanted to be treated like a man. He’d brought this on himself.

“Call,” Tony said in a whisper, easing most of his chips into the pot.

Stanton looked away, as if avoiding the sight of a roadside accident.

“Queens full,” Keller said, flipping them over.

“Lookit that,” Piemonte whispered.

Stanton sighed in disgust.

“Sorry, kid,” Keller said, reaching forward for the pot. “Looks like you—”

Tony flipped over his cards, revealing a full house — three kings and a pair of sixes. “Looks like I win,” he said calmly and raked the chips in.

Piemonte whispered, “Whoa. What a hand…. Glad I got out when I did.”

Stanton barked a fast laugh and Rothstein offered to Tony, “That was some fine playing.”

“Just luck,” the boy said.

How the hell had that happened? Keller wondered, frantically replaying every moment of the hand. Of course, sometimes, no matter how you calculated the percentages, fate blindsided you completely. Still, he’d planned everything so perfectly.

“Time to call it a night,” Piemonte said, handing his remaining chips to Stanton to cash out and added humorously, “Since I just gave most of my fucking money to a teenager.” He turned to Rothstein. “From now on, we stick to that rule about kids, okay?”

Keller sat back and watched Tony start organizing the chips in the pile. But the odds, he kept thinking…. He’d calculated the odds so carefully. At least a hundred to one. Poker is mathematics and instinct — how had both of them failed him so completely?

Tony eased the chips toward Stanton for cashing out.

The sound of a train whistle filled the room again. Keller sighed, reflecting that this time it signified a loss — just the opposite of what the urgent howl had meant at the game with the Frenchmen.

The wail grew louder. Only… focusing on the sound, Keller realized that there was something different about it this time. He glanced up at the old man and the two players from Chicago. They were frowning, staring at each other.

Why? Was something wrong?

Tony froze, his hands on the piles of his chips.

Shit, Keller thought. The sound wasn’t a train whistle; it was a siren.

Keller pushed back from the table just as the front and back doors crashed open simultaneously, strewing splinters of wood around the back room. Two uniformed police officers, their guns drawn, pushed inside. “On the floor, now, now, now!”

“No,” Tony muttered, standing and turning to face the cop nearest him.

“Kid,” Keller whispered sternly, raising his hands. “Nothing stupid. Do what they say.”

The boy hesitated, looked at the black guns and lay down on the floor.

Stanton slowly got down on his knees.

“Move it, old man,” one of the cops muttered.

“Doing the best I can here.”

Finally on their bellies and cuffed, the gamblers were eased into sitting positions by the cops.

“So what’d we catch?” asked a voice from the alley as a balding man in his late fifties, wearing a gray suit, walked inside.

Detective Fanelli, Keller noted. Hell, not him. The cop had been Jesus Mary and Joseph enthusiastic to purify the sinful burgh of Ellridge for years. He scared a lot of the small players into not even opening games and managed to bust about one or two big ones a year. Looked like Keller was the flavor of the week this time.

Stanton sighed with resignation, his expression matching the faces of the pro players from Chicago. The boy, though, looked horrified. Keller knew it wasn’t the arrest; it was that the state confiscated gambling proceeds.

Fanelli squinted as he looked at Rothstein’s and Piemonte’s driver’s licenses. “All the way from Chicago to get arrested. That’s a pain in the ass, huh, boys?”

“I was just watching,” Rothstein protested. He nodded at the table, where he’d been sitting. “No chips, no money.”

“That just means you’re a loser.” The detective then glanced at Piemonte.

The man said a meek “I want to see a lawyer.”

“And I’m sure a lawyer’s gonna wanta see you. Considering how big his fee’s gonna be to try and save your ass. Which he ain’t gonna do, by the way…. Ah, Keller.” He shook his head. “This’s pretty sweet. I been after you for a long time. You really oughta move to Vegas. I don’t know if you follow the news much but I hear gambling’s actually legal there…. And who’s this?” He glanced at Stanton. He took Stanton’s wallet from one of the uniformed cops and looked at his license. “What the hell’re you doing in Ellridge when you could be playing mahjong in Tampa with the ladies?”

“Can’t afford the stakes down there.”

“The old guy’s a wise ass,” the skinny detective muttered to the other cops. He then looked over Tony. “And who’re you?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Yeah, you do. This ain’t the army. That name rank and serial number crap doesn’t cut it with me. How old’re you?”

“Eighteen. And I want a lawyer too.”

“Well, Mr. I-Want-a-Lawyer-Too,” Fanelli mocked, “you only get one after you’ve been charged. And I haven’t charged you yet.”

“Who dimed me out?” Keller asked.

Fanelli said, “Wouldn’t be polite to give you his name but let’s just say you took the wrong guy to the cleaners last year. He wasn’t too happy about it and gave me a call.”

Keller grimaced. Took the wrong guy to the cleaners last year…. Well, that short list’d have about a hundred people on it.

Looking down at the stacks of chips in front of where Tony’d been sitting, Fanelli asked, “Pretty colors, red, blue, green. What’re they worth?”

“The whites’re worth ten matchsticks,” Rothstein said. “The blues’re—”

“Shut up.” He looked around the room. “Where’s the bank?”

Nobody said anything.

“Well, we will find it, you know. And I’m not going to start in here. I’m going to start out front and tear Sal’s bar to fucking pieces. Then we’ll do the same to his office. Break up every piece of furniture. Toss every drawer…. Now, come on, boys, Saldoesn’t deserve that, does he?”

Keller sighed and nodded to Stanton, who nodded toward the cupboard above the coffee machine. One cop took out two cigar boxes.

“Jesus our Lord,” Fanelli said, flipping through them. “There’s gotta be close to a half million here.”

He glanced at the table. “Those’re your chips, huh?” he said to Tony. The boy didn’t answer but Fanelli didn’t seem to expect him to. He laughed and looked over the players. “And you call yourselves men — letting a boy whip your asses at poker.”

“I’m not a boy.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The detective turned back to the boxes one more time. He walked over to the officers. They held a brief, whispered conference then they nodded and stepped out of the room.

“My boys need to check on a few things,” Fanelli said. “They’ve got to go corroborate some testimony or something. That’s a great word, isn’t it? ‘Corroborate.’” He laughed. “I love to say that.” He paced through the room, stopped at the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. “Why the hell doesn’t anybody ever drink booze at high-