Drawing Dead (3 page)

Everybody loves a whale. The casinos have a whole troupe of whale handlers. Guys paid to make the whales feel comfortable, wanted, loved, respected. Keep them coming back.

Evgeny embodied the role. He weighed maybe four hundred pounds. Had to extend his arms straight out over his belly to reach his chips. Drank vodka ostentatiously from a silver flask that never seemed to be empty. Loved to splash his chips around. Talked with a magnificent Yiddish-Russian accent.

Loveable, really. He was a loveable Yiddish-Russian fat rogue whale kind of guy.

So Brendan and I sit down. Brendan’s in the four seat, four to the left of the dealer, next to Anatoly and Andrei in two and three. I’m in seven. I like the seven seat. It’s right where the table curves back around to form the short side. You get a good view of all the players, but you’re not right in the center of things. You can lay low there, without missing any of the action.

First hand, Vinnie makes a huge raise preflop. Evgeny re-raises five times Vinnie’s bet. Vinnie laughs, tosses in three stacks of black chips. Six thousand dollars.

The flop comes Queen, Eight, Three rainbow—three different suits, widely spaced; no need to worry about flush draws. No open-ended straight draws out there either.

Evgeny instantly announces a pot-sized bet, gets up from his chair. Which is not as simple as it sounds. His arms barely reaching beyond his belly, he can only push his chair back a few inches. Then he executes a practiced wriggle or two to get back far enough to release the rest of his paunch from beneath the table. Once he’s up, he teeters there for a second or two. Like a lot of fat men, he has small feet. Or maybe they just looked small at the bottom of those tree stump legs. There’s that small dick thing, too, isn’t there? Fat man, small dick? But maybe it’s just a perceptual thing. A camel looks tiny next to a mastodon. I’m guessing. Never seen that.

All in, says Vinnie, without pausing a second. Evgeny leans over, braces himself against the table, says Call, and turns over Seven, Three off suit, with a big cheerful laugh. Nothing but a pair of Threes. Vinnie looks at him, mouth open, slowly turns over a Jack, Nine off suit for … nothing. No pair. Not even a draw. But a Jack hits the turn, and Vinnie suddenly has a better pair than Evgeny’s. Vinnie leaps, turns a circle, cackling. Evgeny smiles in his good-natured way, shrugs his massive shoulders. A Seven hits the river. Oops. Two pair for Evgeny. Vinnie stops, stares, looks at Evgeny, who’s laughing so hard we’re all worried he’s going to bust open like a split fish.

I can’t believe you did that, says Vinnie.

Me? You got to be kiddink, Veenie, says Evgeny as the dealer pushes the massive mound of chips his way. I know you, Evgeny says. You can so every time have nothink.

That’s it, says Vinnie, throwing up his arms. I’m giving up poker. I mean it. Forget it. That’s my last hand, ever.

The dealer starts shuffling for the next hand. Vinnie looks around. Sees nobody’s paying attention to him. He sits down, looks at the two cards he’s been dealt.

Chips! he yells out.

How much? calls Internet Mike from the kitchen.

Internet Mike ran chips for Vinnie. He was called Internet Mike because he used to have a job in the Internet, back before it became the Internet. He didn’t have a job anymore. The technology had outrun his cerebral capacity. He had a crack habit for a while. His hair fell out.
His teeth rotted. But he could still count to a thousand. Ten thousand. Fifty, in a pinch. So he ran chips for Vinnie.

There were worse lives.

Ten thousand, Vinnie calls back. Jesus Christ, he says, turning back to Evgeny, you are a sick bastard.

Sure, Vinnie, smiles Evgeny. But I know how to haff a good time.

Evgeny could afford to be a whale and laugh it off. Rumor was he was in the phony passport business, stuff like that. He never ran out of cash. Loved to take your money, but just as easily gave it away.

About two hours in, Brendan and I are limping along, not winning any big pots, not losing any. I’m second from the big blind. I still have about the amount I bought in for. I look down at Ace, Queen of diamonds. I just call. Unlike a lot of donkeys out there, I don’t think Ace, Queen is that good of a hand in early position. It’s a very vulnerable hand. Like Mike Tyson: looks strong, usually loses.

There are a couple of other callers, including Brendan and Evgeny, and the flop comes with a Queen and two rag diamonds. Nice for me. I have a pair of Queens, with the top kicker, the Ace.

The guy to my right is Won Ton John, a middle-aged guy who reportedly owns a Chinese restaurant. If he does, he must have a cousin running it for him, Sesame Noodle Sam or somebody, because nobody ever sees Won Ton do anything but play poker. He has the shades and a wispy Fu Manchu, and he’ll bet Nine, Four off suit from any position, if he’s in the mood. You have to watch out for him.

Won Ton puts his chin in his hands and thinks a bit. I’m not fooled. The last time Won Ton John thought about an action before committing it was in the Nixon administration. Anyway, after a little of the Hollywood he bets out $120, and I flat call. Everyone else folds to Evgeny, who calls. So there are three guys in the hand, $485 in the pot. The turn comes a lovely diamond Ten. I have the nut flush, and the board isn’t scary at all. Not only that, I’m in a hand with two maniacs. So I check, figuring one of them to bet for sure. But Won Ton checks, and Evgeny checks behind him. Shit. But hey, that’s poker. You can’t be right all the time.

The dealer lays out the last card, the river. A blank. A nothing card. A card that can only have helped them improve to a good-enough hand to put some more money in the pot for me. Not one that can beat me. I know I’m good. I bet $400. Nonchalantly. I want it to look like I’m trying to steal the pot.

Won Ton John raises it to $1,200. Oh Lord in heaven, I say to myself. Does it get any better than this? Please, Evgeny, do your Evgeny thing. Go all in.

Which is exactly what he does. It takes him a long time. He thinks. He ponders. He riffles his chips. He looks at Won Ton John. He looks at me. He has a mammoth pile of chips. Slowly, ever so slowly, he slides them two inches forward. Which is about as far as his stubby arms will allow.

Call, I say immediately.

Won Ton John folds.

Evgeny doesn’t look happy.

As the last aggressor, Evgeny has to show his cards first. He turns over two small pair, laughing. He knows he’s beat.

That’s when I make a mistake. An elementary mistake. But a big fucking mistake. The worst kind of mistake. Way worse than bluffing a fool. Or calling a Shark on the river with top pair and a medium kicker. Far worse than that.

No, I make the mistake of disrespecting Evgeny.

You lose! I call out in my excitement, turning over my flush and slamming the cards to the table.

Right away I knew I’d blown it. A guy who’s just lost a huge pot is not a happy guy, good loser or not. He can see the goddamn cards. Evgeny didn’t even need to see the damn cards. He knew he was beat as soon as I called his all in. He didn’t need me telling him the result. And he certainly didn’t need me doing it with a slam and a bang.

His laugh froze. It was replaced by a Look. Narrowed eyes. Cheeks deflated. He tucked his chin into his chins. It was a Look I hadn’t seen from him before. He pushed his chips ever so slowly an inch to the left, towards me, with his pudgy pink hands.

I noticed the French manicure.

Hey, Evgeny, I said, trying to salvage the moment. Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.

Is okay, he said quietly. Is okay.

He didn’t mean that, either.

I couldn’t stay in the game after that. The table got cold. No more crazy betting with mediocre hands. No more joking and banter. I’d chilled out the whole joint. I felt like a total jerk. I took Brendan aside. Talked him into leaving early.

It wasn’t easy. At the poker table, Brendan was in his element. His insecurity didn’t count. The game had rules. There was always something to anticipate: your next two cards. There was always banter of some sort. Even if you weren’t included, you could listen, laugh, make a remark from time to time. It didn’t strain your social abilities. And like I said, he could play the game. There wasn’t anything else in life he could do as well.

So I waited awhile, until Brendan got his jones fixed. He got up a few grand. I talked to the waitress. Tara said she was a refugee from Vietnam. She looked too young for that. Hell, she was too good-looking. You’re a refugee, you’re supposed to look, I don’t know, lost or something. Tara looked like she was rented from some modeling agency. So I wasn’t sure I believed her.

But it didn’t matter.

W
E FLAGGED A CAB AROUND MIDNIGHT
.

It smelled of cabbages and mold.

Hey, I said to the cabbie, Ukraine?

Yeah, he said. How you know?

I don’t know, I said. Just a vibe I got.

I was about to get into the proper pronunciation of ‘pierogies’—I had a Ukrainian girlfriend once who told me it was ‘pair-eh-heh,’ but nobody ever believed me—when Brendan interrupted.

They invited me to the Brighton Beach game, he said.

Who invited you?

Anatoly and Andrei.

You’re not going, are you?

Of course, man. That’s a great game.

That’s a great place to get your kneecaps busted. Come on. The stakes are too high for you. And those guys are ruthless bastards. Didn’t you hear about MIT Dave?

I’m not MIT Dave.

Well, that much was true. MIT Dave was an arrogant little prick who hung out at the big games in town. He got the moniker because he was reputed to once have audited a class at MIT. If he had, it wasn’t in hygiene. He was a weedy little guy with thick glasses and a smell of desperation.
Wore an ancient Red Sox cap. Said he got it from his father, that he used to have a father, and didn’t any more. The cap reminding him of the days at Fenway. Popcorn and hot dogs and Carl Yastrzemski. Okay, maybe Carl was before his time. Anyway, he always had the cap.

MIT Dave only had enough money to play once in a while. He’d hang around the games, run errands for guys. A few months before, he’d gone on a little rush in the smaller games, built up a bankroll. Got himself invited to the Brighton Beach game. And, they said, his rush continued. He took a couple, ten grand, maybe more, off the Russkies. And then, little shit that he was, got arrogant with them about it. Started trash-talking. Not the usual funny trash we all talked. This was bitter, you-guys-can-suck-my-balls kind of trash.

Or so the story went.

Nobody’d seen him since.

And anyway, said Brendan, he started it, right?

Come on, Brendan. Maybe he did, but all you have to do to start something with those guys is take too much of their money. Look at somebody the wrong way. Say no to a shot of vodka when you’re ahead.

I saw the driver’s unibrow in the rearview. Oops. Generally, Ukrainians not of Russian descent aren’t too fond of Russians. But there lots of Russian Ukranians. I hadn’t confirmed our chauffeur’s patrimony. I told Brendan to tone it down. Just in case.

You’re the one getting loud, he said.

Okay, okay, I said in a whisper, nodding towards the front seat.
Mea culpa
. But let’s keep it quiet.

You and Butch come, too, Brendan whispered back. They’re not going to do shit with Butch there.

Thanks for the vote of confidence. But they didn’t invite us. They invited you. Something tells me they won’t exactly welcome Butch. I think his occupation is a matter of public knowledge.

I’ll ask Tolya. I’m sure it’ll be okay.

Tolya?

Anatoly.

My, I said. Tolya. On the diminutives already. You guys move fast.

Can’t you ever give me a little respect?

All right. You ask Tolya. But if you go there by yourself, you’re on your own.

So, what you’re trying to say is, if I’m alone I’m on my own?

Something like that.

Anyway, could be we could get some business.

I looked out the window. There was a large brown dog taking a very big shit on the sidewalk. There was nobody with the dog. The shit was going to stay there.

What do you mean, business? I said.

I told them we did investigations and shit. Tolya seemed really interested.

I’ll bet he did. Jesus, man, you need to be a little more circumspect.

What’s wrong with doing a little advertising?

Nothing, I guess. It’s just that I can’t imagine anything good coming out of getting involved with those guys.

Oh, man. You’re really paranoid. They’re good guys.

Oh, man. You’re really naïve.

Tolya said he would keep an eye out, Brendan said, ignoring me. Might have a job for us.

You can’t be serious. What, dump a body in the Meadowlands?

He didn’t say anything specific. Said we could talk about it at the game.

Jesus. All right. Talk to Anatoly at the game. But Butch and I better be there. I’m not letting you go alone.

You just said if I’m alone I’m alone.

But I’m not going to let you go alone.

Change your mind?

Something like that.

Damn it, Rick, when did you get elected to be my father?

I appointed myself. And you should be very happy about it.

Sure, he said.

He looked at his knees. Like a sheepish child.

What’s wrong?

Nothing.

Oh, the father thing. Sorry.

I looked out the window. There was a guy on the corner with an orange cap. The cap said
Burt’s Bait & Tackle, Garrison, Mich
. The guy appeared to be urinating.

Don’t be sorry, Brendan said.

Okay, I’m not sorry. So what else did you talk about, you and the Russkies?

I don’t know, he mumbled, not lifting his head. Talked some poker. The World Series. Everybody wants to go. I asked him what they did.

What they did?

For a living. You know.

Really? I’m curious to hear the answer.

They said they take care of people.

You serious? I laughed. They said they take care of people? Wow. Take care of them real good, I hear.