Mickey Finn Volume 2, page 7
Then a pit boss who was sweet on Lola falsely accused Stacks of cheating, had him roughed up, and thrown out of the Black Pearl. In one night, he’d lost his bankroll and Lola. But the worst part was being put on the communal list of known cheats. To his dismay, he couldn’t even scare up a game in the backwoods casinos of Mississippi, much less Atlantic City or Vegas.
Deprived of his livelihood at twenty-five, with no education or money, Stacks became Floyd again. He ended up in Longview, Texas, when his car broke down on the way to a Dallas job fair. Through the mists of a blown head gasket, Floyd had spied a Help Wanted sign in a shop window. He’d walked in, and Billy Condon of Condon HVAC had hired him on the spot.
That was thirty years ago.
Floyd dealt two cards to five opponents, face up, so he could play the hands. He put out chips for the small and big blinds, the two positions on the dealer’s left who were forced to bet.
“Doc,” said Floyd to the imaginary opponent on the big blind’s left, “you’re under the gun, and you have pocket sevens. You call, not because you’re smart, but because you’re a wuss.”
Harold “Doc” Brannigan, the host of tonight’s game, was a retired psychiatrist. Liz Kent had been Doc’s patient once upon a happy marriage, and though Floyd couldn’t prove it, he thought his ex’s string of extra-marital affairs had started with Doc. The good doctor’s advice to Liz had been to “find herself.” Apparently, that was code for her to feel good about divorcing Floyd. A string of wrecked marriages and a few suicides could be traced back to Brannigan’s couch.
“Judge Rudy,” said Floyd to the next opponent, “you have something between jack and squat, an off-suit two and a seven. You’re an idiot, but even you know to fold that like origami.”
The judge was a self-important man who probably slept in his black robes. Before winning his first of many elections as a county judge, Rudy Gonzalez had chased ambulances and closed down bars as a down-and-out attorney. Now, he made his money by tossing out environmental lawsuits brought against Big Oil.
Play nice, Floyd. Maybe she’ll come back. That had been Rudy’s disastrous advice to Floyd during the divorce. In the fifty-fifty split, Liz got the gold mine and Floyd got the shaft, as the song went, and he found himself living in his truck, a brand-new Ford F-150 he’d managed to keep.
Next, Floyd looked at the pair of kings he’d dealt. “Chuck Wagon Tanner, you fat slob. You’re sitting on pocket cowboys. You’re sly, but you’re greedy.” Floyd moved a large stack of chips into the pot.
Soon after Floyd’s divorce, the portly banker, Charles “Chuck Wagon” Tanner, had sent his goons to repossess Floyd’s F-150. It had been the first and only late payment, a loss that hurt worse than the divorce.
It’s just business, Floyd. No hard feelings. As if “business” excused squeezing hard-pressed people down on their luck, raising interest rates, or foreclosing on generational family farms. In the lean times, men like Tanner grew fatter.
Floyd looked at his own cards: the jack and ten of diamonds. A suited connector, and a reasonably strong hand. He put in chips to see the flop, then proceeded to the small and big blinds.
The final two opponents were his boss, Billy Condon, and Billy’s shiftless son-in-law, Jack Crenshaw. Jack had taken the cushy desk job that Billy had always said would be Floyd’s when he turned fifty-five: a reward for his years of service. To add insult to injury, Jack relished giving Floyd the attic jobs, or sending his helpers to the wrong locations and blaming Floyd for the delays.
“Billy, you’ve the queen of clubs and the six of diamonds. You could defend the small blind, but Chuck Wagon’s over-bet has you scared. You fold.”
Next, Floyd addressed the big blind, the player forced to bet the most before even seeing his two cards. “Jack, it figures you’d have pocket aces. You’ve never worked a day in your miserable life, so why not have the best cards? You raise.”
Floyd folded Doc’s pair of sevens and called with the rest of the hands. It was time to deal the first of the community cards, the flop.
“Gentlemen, we have an interesting flop: nine of diamonds, eight of clubs, and the king of spades. Chuck Wagon is looking nice with three kings. I’ve a possible straight with eight-nine-ten-jack. No help for Jack’s pair of aces.”
Floyd went through another round of betting, then dealt another community card.
“Two of clubs. No help to anyone.”
Jack put in a token bet, and everyone else called.
“It’s time for the river,” said Floyd. He dealt the fifth community card, a seven of hearts that completed his straight.
Floyd finished the hand, meeting every raise from his opponents, and raked the pot toward himself. He dealt more hands to pass the time, playing them as his opponents would—for Floyd knew their foibles better than their own wives, in ways beyond just living in the same small town for decades.
It began five years ago, during a particularly scorching summer, when Floyd was sent on an urgent call to fix the A/C in Doc’s lake house.
“You gotta go tonight, Floyd,” Billy had said one Thursday evening.
“What’s the rush, boss?” Floyd had argued. “It’s a long drive to Lake O’ the Pines.”
“You think I give a damn? Fix it before tomorrow night. I can’t concentrate on the game if I’m sweaty.”
“What game?”
“Never mind, Floyd. Just do it.”
So Floyd made the drive, found the key under the mat as he’d been told, and ventured into the sweltering attic. After fixing a sticky capacitor and sweating buckets, Floyd went looking for a cold beer.
On the way to the kitchen, a flash of something emerald caught his eye. There, in the living room, was a green felt tabletop, smooth as the surface of a cool lake.
A poker table!
Floyd couldn’t believe it. So this was where his boss and his boss’s cronies had their annual high-stakes game. It was no problem to return the next morning and set up a WiFi camera in the attic. The camera, mounted in a ceiling vent, caught every lifted eyebrow, sigh, and twitch, as the men folded, checked, called, raised, bluffed, or bet everything by going all-in.
Floyd watched for five years as greedy amateurs played poker, all the time racking his brains for a way to break into the game. He needed a stake, and he needed a story. After saving every penny and selling everything, he had the stake. The story of rich, childless Aunt Matilda gave him cover by removing the reek of desperation. He was supposedly a man of means now, though still not quite an equal.
“All in,” said Floyd, as he called an imaginary bet from Judge Rudy. “Sorry, Judge. My flush beats your three of a kind. Lady luck is with me tonight.”
And if luck goes against you, son?
“That’s what backup plans are for, Dad,” said Floyd. He pulled his Ruger GP100 out of his jacket and laid it next to the cards, money, and chips. The gun was a six-shot .357 Magnum revolver with double/single action, and the sights were filed for close quarters.
But it wouldn’t come to killing, Floyd was sure. If he lost, duct tape and handcuffs would do the trick as he made his getaway.
Floyd flipped open the Ruger’s cylinder, spun it in his deft fingers to check the loads, and snapped it home. He returned the gun to the jacket’s right interior pocket, opposite the family Bible.
The drive from Longview to Doc’s lake house took Floyd through the piney woods of Texas, down narrow two-lane country roads and through one-stoplight towns. His phone’s signal played out south of Warlock, as if the towering trees could not abide technology.
Floyd found the house on a remote bluff overlooking the Lake O’ the Pines, just as he remembered it. Six vehicles were parked outside, five of them easily worth ten times his Tacoma. The sixth was a battered Kia Soul with balding tires and a dozen bumper stickers.
Floyd parked beside it, grabbed his satchel of money, and exited his truck. One bumper sticker showed Wonder Woman delivering a right cross to an orange-faced politician, and two others blared Insured by Smith & Wesson and Real Girls Play With Guns.
Floyd was still chuckling over the stickers when a familiar face answered the lake house’s doorbell.
“Josie?” said Floyd.
The carhop gave a small cry of surprise. “I know your order, but not your name. You’re breakfast burrito and black coffee, right?”
“That’s me,” said Floyd with a grin. “Name’s Floyd Kent.”
“Josie Weathers.”
“Hey, Josie,” called a baritone voice. It sounded like Chuck Wagon Tanner. “Another beer over here. And some more sandwiches, huh?”
“Just a second, Mister Tanner,” said Josie as she rolled her blue eyes. She turned to Floyd and his satchel. “If you have a delivery, just leave it on the step.”
Josie was about to close the door, but Floyd put a hand on her arm. Despite the heat of the day, goosebumps prickled beneath his hand. She looked at him from beneath long eyelashes, the corners of her lips curving into a grin. Her red mouth reminded him of Lola.
“You don’t understand,” said Floyd. “I’m here to play.” He hefted his satchel, as if she could see the money inside.
Josie’s smile faded. “You shouldn’t play with these jerks, Floyd,” she whispered. “Take your money and run.”
“If it isn’t Floyd Kent, nouveau riche,” said Doc Brannigan as he elbowed his way past Josie. He was ten years older than Floyd, with a wrinkled but still handsome face, and twin shocks of gray at his temples. “Come in, I’ll give you the tour.”
The lake house’s living room had a commanding view of the lake below the bluffs and was dominated by a green felt poker table and a gun safe. Western décor was scattered throughout, with paintings of half-nude cowgirls riding horses or señoritas bathing in streams.
After showing Floyd around, Doc added Floyd’s fifty thousand dollars to the gun safe. The safe’s door closed with a heavy clang, and the image of three-hundred grand lingered in Floyd’s mind. Beside him, Josie was holding her breath, her gaze boring into the safe.
“May I take your jacket?” asked Doc.
Lost in his reverie, Floyd almost said yes. His backup plan—the Ruger .357 Magnum—was secreted in an interior pocket, opposite the family Bible.
“This is my lucky jacket,” said Floyd.
“Hot as blazes, but suit yourself,” said Doc.
“Hiya, Floyd.” Billy Condon stepped up and shoved a beer into Floyd’s hands. Jack Crenshaw was standing behind Billy—he always seemed to be lurking in his father-in-law’s shadow. While Billy’s face was fleshy and pale, Jack’s was lean and brown, like a pork chop that had been left on the grill too long.
“Hiya, Floyd,” repeated Billy with breath that reeked of alcohol. He wrapped an arm around Floyd’s neck and walked him to the poker table. “Fellas! This is my oldest and best employee. How long have you worked for Condon HVAC? Twenty-five years?”
“Thirty.”
Billy whistled. “Damnation. Well, you’re no worse for wear. Look at how things worked out for you. Your Aunt Martha leaving you all that money. Now you’re on Easy Street, eh?”
Floyd corrected the lie. “Aunt Matilda.”
“Matilda.” Billy raised a beer to her and drained it.
“Are we gonna play some cards, or gab like a bunch of old ladies?” asked Jack.
“I’m with the young buck,” said Judge Rudy. He wore a black silk shirt with gold buttons, stretched too tightly over a paunchy stomach. With his jeans and snakeskin boots, he looked like an extra from Urban Cowboy who’d outgrown his old costume.
“Let’s play!” said Chuck Wagon. The robust, balding banker had already secured a spot at the table, complete with a beer and plate stacked with sandwiches.
Josie stood beside him, her face as red as the queen of diamonds. Floyd didn’t need to see the fat hand resting on her posterior to know it was there.
Doc Brannigan held up his hands for quiet. “Gents, I’ll keep this short. This is no limit Texas hold ’em, winner-takes-all. The buy-in is fifty thousand, for a grand total of three-hundred thousand. The small blind starts at five hundred, the big blind at one thousand, and the minimum raise is twice the big blind. For table etiquette, no subject is taboo here, as long as you don’t reveal your hole cards.”
Floyd swallowed hard. He was finally here! He glanced at the vent above the poker table. He’d removed the WiFi camera in the attic the previous weekend, as a precaution, using the key under the mat. It wouldn’t do to have the police find the device, if worse came to worst.
“If you lose early, I’m looking at you, Judge,” continued Doc, “you can watch satellite TV, go fishin’, or find something else to occupy your time.” He gave a lecherous wink at Josie. “This weekend’s soiree is catered by Josie’s Fine Foods, by the way. Now, turn off your cell phones and hand them to the little lady. It’s time to play the game of kings.”
It wasn’t the Judge who exited early, but Chuck Wagon. The banker had been slamming beers as fast as Josie could bring them, and he was rip-roaring drunk by the tenth hand. His over-betting through the pre-flop, flop (a rainbow of two, six, ten), and turn (three) had scared off all opponents, save for Floyd and Jack.
Floyd had started the hand with an ace and six. In the face of Chuck Wagon’s wild bets, he’d briefly considered folding. After all, Floyd was ahead in the chips, and it was early in the game. But the banker’s betting pattern told Floyd one thing: the man had started with a nice pocket pair, possibly even pocket rockets: two aces. The uninteresting flop of middling cards, from which no one might form a straight or flush, had not deterred Chuck Wagon, who kept on betting through the turn and river.
“Raise,” said Floyd. He met Chuck Wagon’s raise of five thousand with an additional fifteen thousand. Jack, the last remaining player, cursed and folded. It was now just Floyd and Chuck Wagon.
“You’re one cool customer,” said Doc to Floyd. “You deal cards like Liberace tickling the ivories.”
Jack scowled. “Who the hell’s Liberace?”
“He was a pansy who played the piano,” said the Judge. “Call his bluff, Charles.”
Josie appeared with a fresh beer for the banker. She leaned into the fat man, who was beginning to sweat. “You ain’t scared, are you?” she whispered in his ear.
“Scared?” sneered Chuck Wagon. “Of this nobody? I’ll do better than call. All in.” He pushed out his chips with a look of confidence only the supremely drunk can achieve.
Floyd feigned hesitation and appeared to study the five community cards. From the corner of his eye, he watched Chuck Wagon’s Adam’s apple bob through his thick neck. His three sixes would be enough.
“Call,” said Floyd, pushing out his chips to match the all-in bet. “Now, show me your pocket pair. Is it aces or kings? Queens?”
The banker was silent.
“Or was it jacks, for such a jackass?” Floyd scoffed.
Josie smiled at Floyd, picked up some empty beer bottles, and headed for the kitchen.
“Floyd, this is a friendly game,” said Billy. “You’re my guest, remember?”
“Show your cards first,” said Chuck Wagon. “Then I’ll show mine.”
Doc shook his head. “Floyd paid for the privilege of seeing your cards. You must show yours first, by rule.”
Chuck Wagon turned over his pair of jacks. “Two pair,” he said weakly. “Jacks and sixes.”
“Three sixes,” said Floyd as he turned over his own cards.
“Nice hand,” said the Judge.
Floyd nodded and organized his chips. He was now far and away the chip leader, with roughly twice as many chips as the next man. That opened him up to new tactics. He could bully smaller stacks with large bets and more or less control the pace of the game.
The banker stood up from the table and stretched. “I tip my cap to you, Mister Kent.”
“Go fishing,” said Doc. “There are rods and tackle down by the dock.”
“There’s something else I’d like to reel in.” Chuck Wagon made a lascivious show of adjusting his belt, then ambled toward the kitchen after Josie.
Floyd was about to go after him but was reluctant to leave his chips unattended. An old habit from his days as Stacks. He sat back down. Josie was a grown woman and looked like she could handle herself if the banker got fresh.
Billy shuffled the cards and dealt another hand. From the kitchen came a clanging sound, as if someone had dropped a metal pan. None of the players said a word.
Chuck Wagon stumbled back in, rubbing a red welt on his head. “She’s playing hard to get. But I’ll wear her down.” He flopped on a sofa and was quickly snoring. Josie emerged a minute after with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, her mouth set in a hard line.
Acrid cigar smoke hung thickly in the air as the remaining gamblers traded chips, told bawdy stories, ate from Josie’s platters, and drank. While the others boozed, Floyd paced himself with Scotch and soda that was mostly soda. Jack Crenshaw alone refused any alcohol.
The younger man played with a ferocious intensity that Floyd recognized as the hallmark of a gambling addict. He hung on every card, every raise, and every victory, as if his life depended on it. Floyd guessed Jack was playing with Billy’s money and resented it.
Night fell. Judge Rudy was the next man out, followed by Doc. The Judge had fallen, trying to fill a gut-shot straight on the river to Jack’s full house, while Doc’s pocket rockets were blown up on the launch pad by Billy’s three sevens. The Judge, Doc, and Chuck Wagon watched TV and told ribald jokes while Floyd, Billy, and Jack continued to play. Josie ran herself ragged trying to serve both groups.
Shortly after two o’clock, Billy Condon lost all his chips trying to go all-in with a king-high flush to Floyd’s ace-high flush. When the last card fell, Billy called out to the other losers, “I’m out, fellas. It’s just Jack and Floyd.”
