Drawing Dead (31 page)

Kjellgard dealt a hand of five-card draw. Joey was looking at trip cowboys, three beautiful kings. He sandbagged, checking, letting Spence open the pot, then raising it up. They folded like dominoes. Joey stacked his winnings, feeling the power that came with a big stack. Fuck Joe Crow from Minneapolis and all the rest of them. This was Joey C.'s game all the way. He shuffled the deck, spread a hand of Hold 'em, peeked at his down cards. Wired bullets. Yeah, this was his game, all right. He looked over his shoulder at Chrissy, giving her a look at his cards.

She was scratching her nose. “You got fleas or something?” he asked. She smiled and dropped her hand quickly to her lap.

Spence and Tony checked. Joe Crow examined his cards, puffing on his cigar, taking his time.

“You gonna bet or not?” Joey asked.

Crow raised his eyebrows and stubbed out the cigar—less than an inch of it smoked—breaking it right in half in the ashtray. “This smokes a litde harsh,” he said. “These Havanas aren't what they used to be. I think I'll just fold this hand.”

Joey's eyes and mouth bulged, then got very small. He stared at the wreck of the cigar, his wired aces momentarily forgotten, and thought about feeding Joe Crow to the Rottweilers.

Crow
wished that Chrissy would take it easy with the signals. Anybody looking at her would think she had some kind of nervous disorder. He could feel Debrowski, who was sitting obediently at his elbow, tensing up every time Chrissy went into her routine.

They had agreed on three simple signals, which was all Debrowski had thought Chrissy could handle. The blink signal, several quickly repeated blinks, meant that Joey was bluffing, that he had nothing. Since Joey loved to play in every hand, Chrissy had been doing a lot of blinking. The nose-scratch signal meant that he had a strong hand, a high pair or better, something he could win with. The lip bite, which she had not yet employed, meant that he had a come hand—a four flush or a four-card straight. Considering the energy with which she had conveyed the blink and the nose scratch, the lip bite would be something to see.

He asked Debrowski to mix him another rum and Coke. She took his glass into the kitchen. A moment later, she called to Chrissy for help. He hoped she could calm her down a bit, before one of the other players started to wonder what was going on. The two women returned to their posts. Crow sipped his freshened drink, willing the trace of alcohol to proceed directly to his brain.

The next quarter hour went by without any new contortions from Chrissy. Crow lost a small pot to Spence, then watched the other players battle it out over the next several hands. Finally, while holding a pair of sixes in five-card draw, he thought he saw the blink signal.

Or did he? It was hard to tell. Had Debrowski told her to tone down the signals? Had he seen a meaningless eyelid flutter, or was she telling him that Joey had shit for cards? He couldn't decide. Joey Cadillac opened with a one-thousand-dollar bet. Spence folded; Tony called. Crow considered his position. He wasn't sure he had seen the blink signal. On the other hand, she wasn't scratching her nose or biting her lip. He decided to play the hand. To knock out Wexler and the Swede, neither of whom looked all that interested in the hand, he raised it up to three thousand.

Joey sneered and called. Tony folded.

Both Joey and Crow drew three cards. Crow made sixes and treys, two pair. Not a great hand, but a hand. The odds were, Joey hadn't improved at all. Crow looked at Chrissy. She blinked a few times, raised a hand, touched herself lightly near her nose, let the hand fall back to her lap, shifted in her chair, bit her lip lightly. Each action appeared to be entirely natural, unlike the exaggerated signals he had seen before. She looked bored.

Crow thought, What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

He checked. Joey bet five thousand. Crow considered, and decided to play the hand as if Chrissy had done nothing. He called the bet.

Joey showed him jacks over deuces. Crow watched him gather in the chips, thinking that if he hadn't been paying so much attention to Chrissy's signals, or lack thereof, he would never have been in the hand. Another mistake like that and he would be out of the game.

Son, when you get dealt cards, you got to play 'em.

—Sam O'Gara

Chrissy was both
bored and frustrated. Joey wasn't getting any good cards, or any really bad cards. But he was winning.

There were a few times when she could have let Laura and Joe Crow know that all he had was, like, a pair of jacks, but she didn't know how to do that. What was really bugging her was that her nose itched like crazy, and the cigar smoke was bothering her eyes. She was waiting for the big hand, waiting for Joey to make the big play, and hope it was when Joe Crow was in there with something good.

It seemed, a few times, like it was going to happen, but every time Joey tried to buy a pot, it seemed, one of the other players was in there too, or Joe Crow had already dropped, or something else went wrong. There were too many things that had to come together. She knew it would take a while, maybe all night, but that didn't mean she had to like it.

The game had been going on for almost six hours. Joe Crow was winning, but so was Joey.

Thor Kjellgard dealt a hand of seven stud. Joey caught an ace of hearts. She peeked at his hole cards. He bet two hundred. Everybody but Tony stayed in to see his next card. Chrissy yawned.

Crow
liked his wired black aces, and he liked the ten of spades he had showing. He liked his fourth card too: the queen of spades. A pair of aces and three cards to a straight flush. Very nice cards. When Joey bet five hundred, Crow raised five hundred. Wexler and Kjellgard both called. Joey had an ace, eight showing, both hearts. He took another look at his hole cards and said, “Raise again.” He pushed two thousand dollars into the pot.

Wexler groaned.

Chrissy was blinking, staring right at Crow. Well, Crow thought, there's no mistaking that.

“And four,” he said.

Wexler couldn't throw his hand away fast enough. Kjellgard pretended to consider it, faked a reach for his chips, then shrugged and folded. Joey turned his cigar in his mouth, as if he was screwing it into a socket, and smooth-called.

Crow felt his stomach start a slow roll. If it was a bluff, as Chrissy was signaling, Joey Cadillac should have either raised or folded. What could he have? The other pair of aces? Then why would Chrissy be giving the blink signal? Had she misread his cards? Even worse, was it possible that she was working with Joey?

Kjellgard dealt the fifth card, a ten of hearts to Joey and a three of spades to Crow, giving him a four flush to go with his pair of bullets. Chrissy was blinking and biting her lower lip, not a flattering look.

Joey checked.

Crow sorted through the possibilities. The lip bite signaled a come hand—four cards to a straight or flush—and Joey had three hearts showing. If he had a fourth heart in the hole—with two cards yet to come—that made it about a one-in-three chance he would fill his flush. Crow had the same chance at his own flush. But then why would Chrissy be blinking, signaling the bluff? Maybe she had gotten scared and decided to double back, working for Joey now, or maybe she had been working for him all along. But if that was true,

he would have lost his money hours ago. And why would she be bothering with the lip-bite signal? The blink would be enough to suck him in.

Another possibility—maybe she was trying to tell him something. Like that Joey had a come hand, which she would signal with a lip bite, but that he was also bluffing. If he was drawing to a flush, or trying to improve a high pair, she wouldn't be blinking, trying to tell him Joey was bluffing. The only hand that made sense would be a gut-shot straight. Bluffing but hoping to get lucky and catch that perfect card. With two cards to come, that gave him about a one-in- six chance. A semi-bluff. Did Chrissy know enough about the game to call it that way?

It was also possible that Chrissy was a complete airhead—so out of it that nothing she did could have any useful meaning. She was giving him the mixed signal again. Crow could feel Debrowski's breath on his shoulder. Joey was waiting, playing with his chips. He looked to Crow like a man who would play a gut shot.

He also looked like a man who could get lucky.

Crow decided to go for it now, buy the pot before the cards could betray him. He pushed out five tall stacks of black chips, almost everything he had. He could hear Debrowski breathe in and hold it.

“Ten thousand.”

Again, Joey smooth-called, adding his gray chips to the pot as if they were nickels.

Crow did not like that at all.

Kjellgard gave Joey a nine of diamonds. Joey's cigar perked up. Crow didn't like that, either. He especially did not like the way Chrissy was scratching her nose. It looked like she was going to hurt herself. It looked like Joey had made his inside draw. The thing about gut shots was, if you play them you sometimes make them. Bad beats can happen to the nicest guys.

Crow stared down at his lousy four of hearts, a rag if ever there was one. He looked at his remaining chips—less than a thousand dollars. He waited for Joey to bet, feeling sick, knowing that the odds had failed him once again.

“What have you got there, fella?” Joey asked. “Can you cover a little two-thousand-dollar bet?”

There was thirty-five thousand dollars on the table. He still had one chance in five to make his flush. The pot odds were good. He counted out his chips. Nine hundred twenty dollars. He pushed them forward.

“I'm a thousand eighty light.”

Kjellgard looked at Joey—who nodded, accepting the marker—and dealt the final card facedown.

Joey didn't even bother to look.

Crow lifted the corner of his own card. It was black, a jack, a jack of spades. His heart went wild, doing a tarantella inside his rib cage. He had the son-of-a-bitch. It would take a higher flush or a concealed full house to beat him, and he didn't think Joey Cadillac was going to come up with either.

His face remained utterly placid. He looked at Joey.

Joey took the cigar out of his mouth and said, “What the hell. I check.”

“Ten,” Crow said.

Joey said, “What?” Like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“I bet another ten thousand,” Crow said.

Joey looked at Crow's cards, then picked up his own last card, checked it, and looked again at Crow's three spades showing.

“That's bullshit. You've got no money on the table. The betting is over, Crow. Table stakes, remember?”

“It wasn't table stakes a minute ago when you overbet my stack,” Crow said.

Joey screwed his cigar into his mouth. His eyes, nose, and chin all seemed to crowd around the fuming Havana.

“He's right, Joey,” Tony said. “You took his marker.”

A new shade of red, starting low on his neck and rising, stained Joey's constricted features.

“That was for a lousy grand,” he said. “I don't know this guy good enough that I want to take his marker for ten K.”

Spence said to Crow, “He's right about that, fella. That's a lot of money, since none of us knows you.”

“I don't got to take any bet like that without you got something to back it up,” Joey said, relaxing slightly. “You got to show me some cash.”

Crow said, “You want to grab my briefcase there, Laur?”

Debrowski went to retrieve Crow's battered Samsonite from where he'd left it by the front door.

Joey said, “Spence!”

Spence got up and took the case from Debrowski. “Never know what you might come up with here, honey.” He opened the case, frowned, shrugged, and handed it to Crow.

Crow removed three flat plastic packages. He dropped them on the table in front of Joey. “These are worth three to four thousand each. There's a signed and notarized appraisal dated last May attached to the backs.”

Joey
looked down at the Stasis Shields. The one on top showed the same
Batman
cover he had tried to open for Chrissy two months ago.
Batman #3
. He savored the moment for about ten seconds.

“Where did you get these?” he asked.

“I bought them,” Crow said.

“From
who
?”

“What difference does that make? They're worth a lot of money. The appraisals are right there. You want to take my bet or not?”

“From who?” Joey was up out of his chair, waving a Stasis Shield under Crow's nose. He was grinning, his face aflame.

Crow pushed back and crossed his arms. “The Franklin Jefferson Investment Group, if you must know. They specialize in rare ephemera.”

Joey slammed the Stasis Shield back down on the table. “You dumb shit,” he said. “These aren't worth a fucking nickel.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Crow.

Joey pulled out his miniature pocket stiletto; the three-inch blade flicked out. He turned the knife in his hand and stabbed it through one of the shields.

“Hey!” Crow said, starting around the table. He was blocked by one of Spence's arms, like running into a steel pipe. Joey ripped the knife across the face of the Mylar shield, tore it open the rest of the way, and pulled out the comic book, which had been sliced along with the shield. Joey shook the comic open; pages fell loose, fluttering to the table and floor.

“See!” he shouted at Crow. “You stupid fuck, you got burned. There's nothing there! It's a fake!” Joey looked at the shredded remains of the comic book and experienced a very bad rush in his belly region. The torn pages were not blank, as they had been with his copy of
Batman #3
. In fact, the comic book seemed to be quite genuine.

Crow said, “I guess you're right. There's nothing there anymore, that's for sure.” He picked up the white card that had been sealed in with the comic. “This one was appraised at thirty-eight hundred dollars. You want to take it as is, or do you want it gift-wrapped? How do you want to handle it, Cadillac man?”