Stone Junction

‘It’d be nice to tip Stan ten grand or so for holding the stakes and letting us use his facilities – unless, of course, you don’t mind being known as a no-class tight-ass.’ Daniel started to defend his tipping – generous by most standards, though hardly equal to Bobby’s extravagance – but Bobby rolled right over him. ‘’Course, you’re long odds to win. You’ve got to beat seven other players, and they include Guido, Rupert, and me. My advice is to start early and bring extra grub.’

Daniel had known Bad Bobby long enough to sense a proposition. ‘What are you laying now?’

‘Even money you don’t make the final four. Your eight to my one that you’re exactly the third player eliminated. And twenty to one you don’t win it.’

‘You’re hurting my confidence.’

‘Can’t help it. Real is real, and I call ’em like I see ’em. And what I see is that you’re a damn good player, but not good enough yet.’

They were sitting in Daniel’s room at the Eureka Inn. Daniel pointed at the phone on the desk. ‘Call this Stan guy and reserve two seats. And I’ll take a grand on the first two propositions, and five on the twenty to one that I win it all. So then you’d be out two hundred thousand plus change, and I’d be on my own.’

Bad Bobby gave a number to the operator. He grinned at Daniel. ‘You’ll love Guido. He’s a character-builder all by himself.’

The next morning, they left for San Francisco. As Daniel drove, Bad Bobby analyzed the players and discussed the strategy of no-limit Lo-Ball freeze-out. It would be a full game, eight players. There were only two Bobby hadn’t gambled with before.

‘Clay Hormel is a movie producer, lots of bucks, and Hollywood all the way. You’ve seen the type in Vegas – silk shirt unbuttoned to his navel, six pounds of gold chain, sunlamp tan. He may know how to cut a movie deal, but he don’t cut shit as a card player. His ego’s as big as his bank account, and I figure they’ll both get flattened some in this game.

‘Charley Li is an old Chinese guy, over seventy now I’d guess. Knows Lo-Ball as well as anyone and can be double-tough if he catches a heater. I think he may be a little too conservative for this action, a tad too predictable. But he’s solid, and he’s a real gentleman.

‘There’s two guys I don’t know, but Stan gave me a line on their play. First guy’s named Paul Schubert, known as “Rainbow.” Gather he’s something of a hippie, one of these new-age types with the ponytail and turquoise. Stan says he’s about thirty years old, and he’s either pretty high up in some drug dealing or there’s bread in the family,’ cause he doesn’t play well enough for the roll he packs. He’s probably an action freak, a good example of what I warned you about. Can’t pass up a big pot and makes terrible calls. Which means he’s hard to bluff.

‘The other guy is Johnny “The Rake” Russo. I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard a lot about him. East Coast guy. Got his first stake together lagging quarters in the Bronx when he was twelve – that’s the line anyway. He’s not much older than you – twenty-one, around there – and seemingly deserves his rep for being double tough. He’s not afraid to put chips in the pot. Stan says he plays a lot like me when I was his age. That means he’ll be too aggressive on marginal hands, bluff in the wrong situations, and not pay enough attention to position.

‘Rupert Mildow is a middle-aged English gent down to his tweeds and walking stick. Everybody calls him ‘Limey,’ which he thinks is vulgar, which is why everybody calls him that. If he has a weakness, it might be he doesn’t trust his instincts, especially the killer one. But if you beat him, you’ve beat somebody. He’s good.

‘Guido, though, is probably the best. He’s tougher than a junkyard dog, and since he came up from the bottom, he loves the top. He’s part Mexican and part Italian. He comes on like he’s got stones the size of boulders – and he does – but he’s also got fire and finesse. He likes to give you this exaggerated Mexican bandito accent to annoy you and twang any latent racism. Likes to make you want to beat him. An uncanny ability to find your weakness and show it to you for lots of money. Probably the best psychological player I’ve ever seen. Pay attention to his play and don’t listen to his mouth.’

‘So, how does he play?’ Daniel said.

‘Real good.’

‘You’re overwhelming me with helpfulness.’

‘It’d be foolish to say more. Guido plays the players, the chemistry, the mood, the rush, and the moment as well as he plays his cards. I’ve beat him a few times, but if this ol’ Caddy was full of the money I’ve lost to him playing Lo-Ball, the axles would snap with the load.’

‘Does he play Stud or Hold-’Em? I mean, you’re supposedly the best around at those.’

‘Well,’ Bad Bobby said, ‘I got enough of it back that I still have the car.’ He gave the horn a long echoing blast as they passed through a grove of redwoods, then smiled contentedly as he watched the road unwind.

The players met Friday night in the lounge of Stan Wurlitzer’s cardroom to discuss rules and format. Except for Guido, everyone was there promptly at nine. He arrived twenty minutes late, accompanied by an entourage of four lovely young Chicanas, each in a white silk dress of alarming decolletage, and a thin choker of opals and pearls. The jewels were a proper complement to their skin, which had the sheen of melting caramel.

Daniel stared, remembered he was going to play Guido, not them, and shifted his attention with difficulty.

Guido was greeting the other players with gusto. He was a large man, well-bellied to the point of corpulence. His face was broad and swarthy, the cheeks slipping into jowls. It would have appeared frankly corrupt if not for Guido’s eyes, eyes the color and same hard gleam of obsidian. He was wearing a tuxedo and silk top hat. His cuff links were twenty-dollar gold pieces. Large diamonds sparkled from his wristwatch and rings.

When Stan Wurlitzer introduced him to Daniel, Guido frowned. ‘Mr Wurlitzer,’ he said playfully, ‘there ess a leetle boy in the lounge who has loss hees momma. You find her queek to lead thees young one to safety.’

Daniel, assuming that somehow Guido had heard about his mother’s death, said calmly, ‘Fuck you.’

‘So bold!’ Guido shouted, stumbling backward as if overwhelmed.

‘Really Guido,’ Rupert said dryly, ‘save it for the game.’

‘Ahhhh, but I can’t help it,’ Guido apologized. ‘I feel so wonderful thees evening. I jus feenish loving all my girlfriends and it makes me so happy to be there with them I am late being here weeth you. And you, young Daniel, I was only keeding, for I hear all over you are an hombre at the