The Big Blind, page 7
‘Oh, my! And the river comes, it’s a king!’
‘The Kid misses his straight draw, Kicker Sinclair improves to a pair of kings with an ace kicker, but Claire wins the hand with three of a kind, for a double knock-out!’
‘And with that hand, we have a new chip leader, Don! An Irish nun is now top of the leaderboard, proving the old saying—’
‘Please don’t say it, Mike—’
‘All you need, Don, is a chip and a prayer.’
‘I beg you.’
‘And now we have a Final Table.’
* * *
She sat there, basking in the warm glow of the victory. She saw “Kicker” Sinclair doing her exit interview for the cameras. The Kid had just got up, looking winded, and left the table without saying a word.
Chip leader, she thought.
Final Table, she thought.
There was a bathroom break. As she made her way she had to fend off newfound fans, asking for photographs. The nuns hugged her. The camera followed her for an interview.
‘I’m just grateful to have made it this far,’ she said, and touched her hair self-consciously. ‘Excuse me.’
Her mum, with a hug. ‘I’m watching. I met Sister Bertha! Your friends are nice.’
On her way to the bathroom she ran into Mikey.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’
‘That was a nice hand,’ he said, not really looking at her.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for, Claire?’ His tone wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t exactly friendly either.
‘I owe you an apology. I thought you told them about, you know. Me.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘I know. I was wrong to accuse you. I thought, I don’t know, I thought you wanted to put me on tilt, or… I was wrong.’
‘I want to beat you fair, Claire, or not beat you at all.’
‘You’ll never beat me at poker, Mikey.’
Finally he smiled. And when he looked at her his eyes were clear. He extended his hand for a shake.
‘May the best player win.’
They shook. His hand was warm and dry, his grip strong. When they let go his old grin was back. ‘See you at the Final Table, Sister.’
* * *
Finally, the bathrooms. In the quiet of the cubicle she said her thanks. It wasn’t a church but it was the only place she wasn’t disturbed.
Coming out of the stall she found the Mother Superior standing by the sinks.
‘Reverend Mother! I—’
‘I took a later flight,’ the Mother Superior said.
Claire felt tears threatening to form. ‘Reverend Mother, I never meant to—’
‘Hush, Sister. Here.’
The Mother Superior reached into a black bag and brought out a change of clothes. She smiled.
‘Do you have time?’ she said.
‘But I’m not—’
‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God,’ the Mother Superior said.
* * *
When she came out of the bathrooms again, she wore her old habit, and the stands went wild.
‘Well that’s not something you see every day, Mike!’
‘I…’
‘Mike?’
‘I’m sorry, Don, I think there’s something in my eye.’
She took her place at the Final Table. All the other tables have been cleared from the Grand Hall, and the table stood alone in the centre, surrounded by television cameras and, beyond the barriers, the spectators.
‘Claire! Claire!’
She saw Mephistopheles in his demon outfit waving at her frantically from the stands and had to smile. ‘Go, Sister!’ he shouted.
‘You have some curious fans,’ “Pocket Jacks” Jackson said.
Claire ignored her. She looked round, at this Final Table: Pocket Jacks, Danny Boy, Mikey, Vlad “The Impaler” Walewski, Le Phantom unrecognisable behind his scarf and glasses. The rest of the players she didn’t recognise.
The tournament director stepped up, microphone in hand. Short speech, Final Table, in the money, and so on – ninth place finish was worth £120,000 and fifth was £200,000, so no one wanted to get busted early from this table.
Then: ‘Shuffle up and… deal!’
* * *
Mikey, leading with a raise from early position. “Pocket Jacks” Jackson, countering with a re-raise. Claire looked down at pocket aces and just called. Mikey called the raise and they went to the flop.
The flop came five, four, jack, with two clubs on board. Mikey checked. Jennifer Jackson raised. Claire, stuck in the middle, felt her aces must be good, mustn’t they? She flat-called again.
Mikey raised. She looked at him but he wasn’t giving anything away. He could have a flush draw, she thought. He could have had a low pair and hit three of a kind on the river. Jackson called.
The turn came a six of clubs. Mikey checked. Jackson raised. Claire folded her aces. Mikey re-raised Jackson.
Jackson raised all-in, and Mikey called.
‘Disciplined fold there from Claire, it’s hard to give up pocket aces.’
‘Mikey has the king of clubs, for a flush, and Jackson, let’s see – Jackson has three of a kind, fives – she needs to pair the board on the river to beat Irish Mike.’
‘Here comes the river now – it’s a three of diamonds, changing nothing.’
Jennifer Jackson stood up. Mikey followed, shook her hand. She went round the table until she came to Claire. They shook hands.
‘Good luck,’ Jennifer Jackson said.
* * *
‘What do you look like without your disguise, Phantom?’ Danny Boy said.
‘Like everybody else,’ Le Phantom said in a quiet voice. They were in a hand together. Danny Boy liked to talk when he was playing. He made the whole thing seem like a game between friends, like just a bit of fun. But then, he’d already won and lost twenty times the first prize money. To him, this probably was just a day on the job.
The best players always came up tops. Poker wasn’t a game of chance as much as skill, and this was evident when the same players appeared consistently in the top rankings, consistently finished in the money, consistently made final tables and won tournaments. Tournaments weren’t as predictable as cash games – the large field meant that, sooner or later, you needed luck to survive – but the real players didn’t rely on luck, they factored it into the odds and used it. A good player might lose a dozen tournaments, but the odds were such that they’d still win overall.
‘I have to say, playing a nun in full habit is pretty much guaranteed to put anyone on tilt,’ Danny Boy had said earlier, when he was in a hand against her. She just smiled.
‘How come you are playing here?’ he’d asked, and so she’d explained about needing the money for the convent, and about the shelter she helped run, and about the people back home.
‘That’s making me feel even worse,’ Danny Boy had said, as he’d folded the hand. But he was smiling as he said it.
Two of the players she didn’t know got knocked out, one after the other. Short stacks, they had to double up or go and they both made a stand, one with an ace-king that failed to catch against a pair of fours, and one with an unfortunate pair of kings against Danny Boy’s suited connectors, which made their straight on the turn. Danny Boy’s stack was the biggest on the table, but Claire’s was third in size and she could afford to sit out the blinds, and she could afford to pick on the shorter stacks, using her chips to intimidate them.
It felt good to wear the habit again. It felt good to be accepted again, and to have the other nuns on her side, standing just beyond the barrier, cheering her on. Though she noticed Sister Bertha had wandered off, and when she’d asked, the nun was discovered in one of the side games in the other room, playing pot-limit Omaha…
She was winning, too.
It occurred to her that she didn’t need to win. Would that be vanity, to think that she could? Would it be greed, or pride, to want to win?
She wrestled with the question without coming to an answer. And, of course, she wasn’t there, yet. She figured she’d be glad to be out in any of the places left. She’d gone farther than anyone would have expected of her: a novice player, in her first big tournament. A novice player, a novice nun. The thought made her smile. On the next hand she raised aggressively with nothing from an early position, and stole the blinds.
* * *
‘One time,’ Le Phantom said softly. He was all-in with jacks against Danny Boy’s ace-queen and an ace had just come on the flop. ‘One time.’
But no miracle came on the river, and Le Phantom got up, and shook everyone’s hands, and then he was gone, as though he’d never been.
And then there were four.
* * *
She played tight, picking her moments, going with real hands and pushing when she did. Mikey was getting short-stacked. He kept trying to nip at Danny Boy’s large stack and running into opposition. Either Danny Boy folded against Mikey’s strong hands, or he called his bluff and scooped up pots Mikey couldn’t afford to lose. It was coming down to an all-in but, when it came, it wasn’t Danny Boy in the pot, it was the Impaler.
She hadn’t seen much of Vlad’s play until then. He played tighter than Mikey, and when he called Mikey’s all-in, it was clear he had the advantage. Playing four-handed, you had to be looser with your starting hands. Mikey’s queen-jack suited came up against Vlad’s tens. It was a coin-toss gamble, the sort you had to take – she couldn’t blame either of them for calling.
The flop came, then the turn, then the river. There was no jack, and there was no queen, and there was no flush. Mikey’s stack was just slightly smaller than Vlad’s, so when he lost, he lost everything.
‘Well, I guess this is it,’ he said, standing. He looked a little shaken.
Claire couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. He looked so dejected, standing there, staring at the table as if he couldn’t believe this was really happening to him. He’d come so close.
‘You just made three hundred grand, dude,’ Vlad said.
‘Yeah,’ Mikey said. He seemed unable to say anything more.
Danny Boy got up and shook Mikey’s hand. ‘It was a pleasure playing with you,’ he said. He patted Mikey on the shoulder. ‘I’m going to see you around, aren’t I?’
‘Yes,’ Mikey said. ‘I think so.’
‘I think so too,’ Danny Boy said.
Mikey shook hands with Vlad. ‘You did what you had to do,’ Vlad said.
‘Yeah.’
Finally, it was Claire’s turn.
‘Good luck,’ Mikey said. ‘I hope you win it.’
‘What will you do now?’ Claire said.
‘Have a drink, I think,’ Mikey said, and at last he smiled. He was easy to like, she thought. She smiled too.
…and then there were three.
* * *
From fourth to third place the prize money went up one hundred grand.
She was guaranteed at least four hundred thousand pounds now.
It was hard to even imagine that kind of money.
The difference it could make to people’s lives.
But she couldn’t think about the money.
Relax, her father said. It’s just a game.
She smiled. For just a moment, he was there, his hand on her shoulder. The game went on. She liked playing three-handed. You didn’t wait around for cards as much. You had to play loose, a weak hand in a nine-handed game was strong against just two other players. Danny Boy seemed to like seeing flops. He was an active player. Vlad had doubled up against Mikey but his stack still didn’t measure up to hers or Danny Boy’s. He played tighter, but they kept chipping away at his stack and he twice tried to go all-in without getting any callers, and ended up just stealing the blinds. The third time, he re-raised all-in against Danny Boy, and when he did it was one of those TV hands, as they called them, kings versus aces, and that was the end of Vlad “the Impaler” Walewski.
* * *
When Vlad was gone, they announced a short break. The stands erupted in cheers. Danny Boy smiled and shook her hand.
‘Heads-up,’ he said.
‘My favourite,’ she said.
‘I’ll see you in a bit, then,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ she said.
It was only a short break.
When it was finished, they wheeled in the money.
A million pounds in cash, just sitting on the table.
She thought it was gaudy, to be honest. She didn’t want it. It was just paper, cotton paper and ink. It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t food, or shelter, or love. It was just a fiction, no different to poker chips.
‘For the last time… Shuffle up and deal!’
28
Jack-seven. She called from the small blind. Danny Boy checked. The flop came ace-ten-deuce. She checked, Danny Boy checked. The turn was a jack. Danny Boy raised. Claire called. The river was a four. Looked like a missed flush. Danny Boy raised. Claire called.
Danny Boy showed an eight-six. Claire won the pot.
* * *
Queen-six. Danny Boy raised. She called. Flop came four-three-ten, with two diamonds on board. She raised, Danny Boy folded.
* * *
Two-three off on the big blind. Danny Boy raised from the small blind. Claire folded.
* * *
Jack-four off. Danny Boy raised, she called. The flop came three-jack-three. She raised, Danny Boy called. The turn came a five. Check, check. An ace on the river. She raised, Danny Boy folded.
* * *
Ace-eight. She raised, Danny Boy called. Nine-three-queen on the flop. Danny boy checked. She raised. Danny Boy folded.
* * *
At the end of an hour they were still almost evenly matched up. Danny Boy wasn’t chatting as much and Claire was in that focus point where nothing else existed but odds and cards, statistics and raises. How much to raise was almost as important as the cards you tried to represent, or what you could put your opponent on. Danny Boy liked to see flops. They played a lot of small pots, stealing blinds when they could, seeing flops, sometimes turns, sometimes rivers. It would take both of them having a big hand to make both commit all their chips into the pot. So far they only tried to chip at each other’s stacks, and when one or the other went all in, the other backed off.
There was a break and she went to see everyone. Mephistopheles materialised out of nowhere, and laughed his booming laugh when she jumped. ‘Finish it, Sister,’ he said. Next to him was a nice looking guy who smiled at her shyly.
‘It is a good game,’ he said. He had a French accent. She stared at him. ‘Are you the Phantom?’ she said.
He shrugged, and she laughed. He just looked like anyone else.
‘We’re going to hit the Seven Card Stud game,’ Mephistopheles said.
‘Good luck, guys.’
‘Luck,’ Mephistopheles said, and snorted. Then they were gone.
When she got back to the table she just sat there for a long moment. What was she trying to do? she thought. She no longer needed to win. Second place paid out six hundred thousand pounds. It was more than enough to save the convent, more money than she could have imagined. So what was she doing? Did she try to prove herself? Was she, despite it all, trying to win out of pride?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, and laughed, surprising herself. ‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’
The camera stayed on her face, but she didn’t notice it. She was in the small blind. She was now supposed to look at her cards.
But what was the point?
At the end of the day, she thought, you had to have faith.
She never looked at her cards. The camera hovered on her face, her hands. Claire pushed her chips across the table and said, ‘All-in.’
‘Call.’
The call surprised her. It was so quick. Then Danny Boy turned over his cards, and she saw why: he had pocket aces.
‘She hasn’t even looked at her cards, Mike!’
‘Can we see what they are yet?’
‘After an hour of intense heads-up poker, it looks like we’re about to see the end of this Irish nun’s impressive run at the EPC – oh, my!’
Claire turned over her cards. She stared at them, and had to laugh.
Seven-deuce off-suit.
It was the worst starting hand in poker.
‘We’re all-in for what will be the last hand of this tournament, Don, and what a heads-up this is! The best starting hand versus the worst starting hand in poker!’
‘I can’t believe she just… pushed there, Mike.’
‘What was she thinking?’
‘Who can tell, Mike?’
She looked across at Danny Boy. He smiled, with just a touch of anxiety. The nod he gave her was almost imperceptible. She thought he understood.
It was such a relief, to end it at last. She felt serene, surrounded by silence. The eruption of noise in the stands, the shouts and the excitement, didn’t even register for her.
It was just a game, and it had been fun, but it was time, she thought, to go back to what really mattered. She hoped they’d let her back. Suddenly she missed her room, and waking up for Lauds. Missed the silence at night, and that feeling, so rare and precious, that everything was as it should be.
The dealer extracted the cards. Laid them, face down, on the felt. Flipped them up and spread them.
The flop came seven-seven-ace.
Gasps from the stands, a rueful smile from Danny Boy.
Claire had hit three of a kind.
But so had Danny Boy, and his were aces.
Her chances of winning stood at just over 4 per cent.
‘This is a hand to defy the odds, Mike—’
‘To everyone watching at home, this is not how you usually play poker—’
The dealer dealt the next card. Face down. Flipped it up.
‘Holy—!’
The turn was a two. It gave Claire a full house, sevens over deuces – but it gave Danny Boy a bigger full house, aces over sevens.
There was just no way she could win. Her odds were just over 2 per cent at that point. She stood up from the table. She didn’t even say, ‘One time.’
She wasn’t even looking as the dealer dealt the final card. The river sat there, face down on the felt. She was turning away from the table when she heard the screams, felt how the whole of the Grand Hall erupted in loud noise, into which her name was woven like a refrain, ‘Claire! Claire! Claire! Claire! Claire!’
