More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

stakes games? Afraid you’ll get a queen mixed up with a jack?”

“As a matter of fact,” Keller said, “yeah.”

The cop sipped the coffee and said in a low voice, “Listen up, assholes. You especially, junior.” He pointed a finger at Tony and continued to pace. “This happened at a… let’s say a difficult time for me. We’re concerned about some serious crimes that happen to be going down in another part of town.”

Serious crimes, Keller was thinking. Cops don’t talk that way. What the hell’s he getting at?

A smile. “So here’s the deal. I don’t want to spend time booking you right now. It’d take me away from those other cases, you know. Now, you’ve lost the money one way or the other. If I take you in and book you the cash goes into evidence and when you’re convicted, which you will be, every penny goes to the state. But if… let’s just say if there was no evidence, well, I’d have to let you off with a warning. But that’d work out okay for me because I could get on to the other cases. The important cases.”

“That’re being corroborated right now?” Tony asked.

“Shut up, punk,” the detective muttered, echoing Keller’s thought.

“So what do you say?”

The men looked at each other.

“Up to you,” the cop said. “Now what’s it going to be?”

Keller surveyed the faces of the others around him. He glanced at Tony, who grimaced and nodded in disgust. Keller said to the detective, “We’d be happy to help you out here, Fanelli. Do our part to help you clean up some — what’d you call it? Serious crimes?”

Stanton muttered, “We have to keep Ellridge the showplace that it is.”

“And the citizens thank you for your efforts,” Detective Fanelli said, stuffing the money into his suit pockets.

The detective unhooked the handcuffs, stuffed them in his pockets too and walked back out into the alley without another word.

The players exchanged looks of relief — all except Tony, of course, on whose face the expression was one of pure dismay. After all, he was the big loser in all this.

Keller shook his hand. “You played good tonight, kid. Sorry about that.”

The boy nodded and, with an anemic wave to everyone, wandered out the back door.

The Chicago players chattered nervously for a few minutes then nodded farewells and left the smoky room. Stanton asked Keller if he wanted another beer but the gambler shook his head and the old man walked into the bar. Keller sat down at the table, absently picked up a deck of cards, shuffled them and began to play solitaire. The shock of the bust was virtually gone now; what bothered him was losing to the boy, an okay player but not a great one.

But after a few minutes of playing, his spirits improved and he reminded himself of another one of the Rules According to Keller: Smart always beats out luck in the end.

Well, the kid’d been lucky this once. But there’d be other games, other chances to make the odds work and to relieve Tony, or others like him, of their bankrolls.

There was an endless supply of cocky youngster to bleed dry, Keller reckoned, and placed the black ten on the red jack.

* * *

Standing on the overpass, watching a train disappear into the night, Tony Stigler tried not to think about the money he’d just won — and then had stolen away from him.

Nearly a half million.

Papers and dust swirled along the roadbed behind the train. Tony watched it absently and replayed something that Keller had said to him.

It’s knowing everything about the game — even the little shit — that separates the men from the boys in poker.

But that wasn’t right, Tony reflected. You only had to know one thing. That no matter how good you are, poker’s always a game of chance.

And that’s not as good as a sure thing.

He looked around, making sure he was alone, then reached into his pocket and extracted the Starbucks cup lid. He lifted off the false plastic disk on the bottom and shut off a tiny switch. He then wrapped it carefully in a bubble-wrap envelope and replaced it in his pocket. The device was his own invention. A miniature camera in the sipping hole of the lid had scanned each card whenever Tony’d been dealing and the tiny processor had sent the suit and rank to the computer in Tony’s car. All he had to do was tap the lid in a certain place to tell the computer how many people were in the game, so the program he’d written would know everyone’s hand. It determined how many cards he should draw and whether to bet or fold on each round. The computer then broadcast its instructions to the earpiece of his glasses, which vibrated according to a code, and Tony acted accordingly.

“Cheating for Dummies,” he called the program.

A perfect plan, perfectly executed — the only flaw being that he hadn’t thought about the goddamn police stealing his winnings.

Tony looked at his watch. Nearly one a.m. No hurry to get back; his uncle was out of town on another one of his business trips. What to do? he wondered. Marconi Pizza was still open and he decided he’d stop by and see his buddy, the one who’d tipped him to Keller’s game. Have a slice and a Coke.

Gritting footsteps sounded behind him and he turned, seeing Larry Stanton walking stiffly down the alley, heading for the bus stop.

“Hey,” the old guy called, noticing him and walking over. “Licking your wounds? Or thinking of jumping?” He nodded toward the train tracks.

Tony gave a sour laugh. “Can you believe that? Fucking bad luck.”

“Ah, raids’re a part of the game, if you’re playing illegal,” Stanton said. “You got to build ’em into the equation.”

“A half-million-dollar part of the equation?” Tony muttered.

“That part’s gotta sting, true,” Stanton said, nodding. “But it’s better than a year in jail.”

“I suppose.”

The old man yawned. “Better get on home and pack. I’m going back to Florida tomorrow. Who’d spend the winter in Ellridge if they didn’t have to?”

“You have anything left?” Tony asked.

“Money?… A little.” A scowl. “But a hell of a lot less than I did, thanks to you and Keller.”

“Hold on.” The boy took out his wallet and handed the man a hundred dollars.

“I don’t take charity.”

“Call it a loan.”

Stanton debated for a moment. Then, embarrassed, he took the bill and pocketed it.

“Thanks…. “He shoved the cash away fast. “Better get going. Buses stop running soon. Well, good playing with you, son. You’ve got potential. You’ll go places.”

Yeah, the boy thought, I sure as hell will go places. The smart ones, the innovators, the young… we’ll always beat people like you and Keller in the end. It’s the way of the world. He watched Grandpa limp away, old and broke. Pathetic, the boy thought. Shoot me before I become him.

Tony pulled his stocking cap on, stepped away from the railing and walked toward his car, his mind already thinking of who the next mark should be.

* * *

Twenty minutes later the gassy municipal bus vehicle eased to the curb and Larry Stanton climbed off.

He walked down the street until he came to a dark intersection, the yellow caution light blinking for traffic on the main street, the red blinking for that on the cross. He turned the corner and stopped. In front of him was a navy-blue Crown Victoria. On the trunk were the words: Police Interceptor.

And leaning against that trunk was the lean figure of Detective George Fanelli.

The cop pushed away from the car and walked up to Stanton. The two other officers from the bust early that night were standing nearby. Both Fanelli and Stanton looked around and then shook hands. The detective took an