Pokergeist (13 page)

“I’m working on it. If you are being minimized, then it’s up to you to maximize yourself and make them take notice.”

“You play craps?”

“I like poker,” Telly told him and then added hastily, “but I don’t play anymore.” He ignored Clutch’s loud snort.

“Too slow for me. Hey, come on in with me, and we’ll play a game or two.”

Telly shook his head. “Sorry, I—”

“I’ll pay for your time.” Stan insisted.

“I just can’t,” Telly said. “I’m on duty.”

“I’m on duty! What are you, a cop?” Clutch climbed over the front seat through the protective shield. “Are you nuts? This guy’s a high roller. This is our chance, Telly.”

“I also promised someone I wouldn’t play poker,” Telly retored to both Clutch and Stan.

“Look, I’m calling your boss. If he says it’s OK, you’re coming in with me. I like you. You make sense, Tony.”

“Telly,” he corrected him.

“Like Kojak?”

“Yes, but I can’t…”

The passenger took off his hat, revealing his hairless pate. “We’re bald brothers, you know—like blood, only sexier. This is amazing. Now, you have to come in with me. It’s a sign from my Irma that things are going to change.”

“I don’t have any money!” Telly’s face broke out into a sweat. “And I’m not bald.” He turned furiously to Clutch, whispering, “Are you doing this? Because if you are, it’s not working.”

“Hello, this is Stan Jarvis. I’m in one of your cabs, and I want the driver, Telly, to go into Binions with me while I play a game of craps. What’s your last name, Tel?”

“Martin…but I can’t go in. I’ll lose my—”

Stan wasn’t listening. “Look, I’m putting five C-notes in an envelope for Telly to bring to you if you let him go in with me. Yeah…yeah, OK, a grand. Yes…hold on.” He handed the phone to Telly. “I put it on speaker; he wants to talk to you.”

“Telly, you do whatever Mr. Jarvis tells you to,” the dispatcher was adamant.

“But my shift is almost over.”

“Don’t matter—just bring the car and my grand back when you finish. Stay with Mr. Jarvis,” his boss said.

“Binions! I am in heaven.” Clutch was ecstatic. “Do you know, Telly, that’s where the poker tournaments started.” He ruffled Telly’s hair. “I hope the dice are hot. Never mind that,” Clutch said, watching a pair of women in short, sequined dresses enter the building. “I know the women are hot! Woo hoo!”

“Stay close to me, Telly,” Stan told him as they walked through the smoke-filled casino.

A smarmy man in an ill-fitting suit approached them with his hand outstretched. “Stanley! I was afraid you left us for the fancy bright lights of the Strip.”

“Left you?” Stan laughed. “How could I leave you when the good steaks and bad women are all here?”

Telly’s eyes stung from the pall of smoke. The subtle chink of chips was muted in the thick air. The place was filled with an older crowd. Looking around, he realized that nobody but him had their real hair color. The waitstaff was ancient but spry, as they walked the floor with trays filled with drinks. There were no umbrellas in any of the drinks here.

“This way—stay close to me.” Stan stepped lively toward the center of the casino.

“Who’s that with you, Stanley?”

“This is Telly. I was feeling a bit poorly, and he snapped me right out of it. Do you know what that calls for?”

“What, Stan?” the host asked.

“A crap game always makes me feel better!” He slapped him on the back. Telly hung behind them. “Belly up to the table, son. Get me a marker, Clay,” he called out to the pit boss.

“How much, sir?”

“Start with a hundred, and then we’ll see how it goes.”

“He’s getting a marker for a hundred dollars? That’s crazy,” Telly muttered.

“It’s a hundred thousand, Tel. You landed us in a great pile of manure. This guy’s filthy with it!” Clutch told him, his eyes alight with excitement.

The whole rack was filled with chips. Stan placed a stack of black on the tray in front of Telly. Telly looked at him, his eyebrows raised.

“You can’t shoot if you’re not on the pass line,” Stan explained.

“I can’t shoot at all,” Telly told him.

“Everybody can shoot.” The dealer moved a row of six sets of bright red dice toward them.

“Pick the pair that speaks to you,” Stan told him. “Make sure you hit the back wall, and don’t overthink it. Oh, and put a hundred on the hard eight,” Stan advised him. “We’re about to reinvent you.”

“I really can’t.” Telly was miserable.

“Yes, you can. You can do anything,” Stan told him. “You are doing this for me, and I appreciate it. You pulled me out of a place so dark, Telly. You have to finish what we started.” He pulled him close. “I was going to blow my brains out tonight. You gave me purpose. You made me want to—”

“Bet the hard eight, Telly!” Clutch spoke in a rush, interrupting them, lost to everything but the game. “I never bet the sucker bets, but this might be our lucky day.”

Telly put one hundred on the pass line, his hand shaking. He’d saved Stan’s life; he felt responsible for him. Just one game, for Stan. He felt like his old self, comfortable with doing for others. Stan put five black chips on his. He picked up another hundred, looking at the squares in the center showing the hard ways. “Do it, Telly!” Clutch yelled.

Telly threw the black chip toward the middle. “One hundred on the hard eight.”

“Pair of squares. I love it.” Stan threw two black chips and one green one next to Telly’s. “Two hundred for me, twenty-five for the boys,” he said, placing a bet for the dealers at the table, who all smiled with approval. “Now go get us that hard eight, Telly.”

Telly chose the center dice and rubbed them together in his sweaty hands.

“One hand!” the pit boss yelled. “Only one hand.”

“Shake the bones, then let ’em fly!” Clutch yelled in his other ear.

Telly dropped his other hand, shook his right hand, then threw the dice to the other end of the table. Everybody craned their necks. Stan and Clutch whooped and then Clutch screamed, “Ozzie and Harriet! Pair of squares!” Stan hit Telly’s arm while he howled with joy.

Telly bent forward to see the dice at the other end, each one with four dots. “Oh, those are the squares,” he said softly.

The dealer made three piles in the center of the table. Telly counted a stack of two hundred, eight hundred, and sixteen hundred. They pushed the largest pile to Stan, who informed them to press the eight another hundred, and put a black chip on all the other hard ways. Telly’s eyes widened as they pushed the middle pile toward him.

“That’s for me?”

“You bet. Press it, Telly. Put another hundred on the hard eight,” Stan advised him.

The dealers thanked Stan for his bet.

“I made that.” Telly was incredulous.

“Yessir. Do it again. If you get another eight, we make our point. Put five hundred dollars behind the line.”

“Five hundred?” Telly questioned.

“Always bet full odds!” Clutch shouted.

Telly shrugged. It wasn’t his money; he planned to give it all back to Stan anyway. He placed five black chips behind the pass line.

Stan placed chips all over the table, covering every number on the green baize. Telly gulped; there had to be six thousand dollars lying on the table.

“Just get me numbers, Telly. Lots of numbers, except the bad one.”

“Do you mean the—”

“Don’t! Don’t say that number! Ever! Don’t even think that number! We need fours, fives, sixes, eights, nines, and tens! Bring me those numbers, Telly!”

Telly shrugged and reached forward for the dice. If he tried, he couldn’t remember what happened except that the smoke got denser and a crowd formed around them, growing in both size and noise, as he mechanically threw the dice, hitting the same numbers over and over again. Stan kept reaching over and throwing Telly’s chips onto more squares on the table and then loading them into the tray in front of him every time he hit the number. Soon, it was a rainbow of multicolored chips. He thought Clutch was going to die all over again when they paid him with a yellow thousand-dollar chip. Truth was, Telly didn’t know what was going on; it was a blur and seemed to go on forever. By the time he heard the crowd roar with disappointment, his arm ached and he was covered with sweat. Looking at his watch, he realized the entire episode had taken barely forty-five minutes, and he had made his new friend a shitload of money. It took another half hour for the pit boss to cash out Stan at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He paid his marker and tipped the crew.

“That was incredible,” Telly told Stan, who was trying to light a congratulatory cigar. “I have to learn how to play this game.”

“No, son. You just have to shoot and shoot well. Nice hand.”

“Thanks, Mr. Jarvis. I have to head back and return the cab.”

“Whoa, whoa, where you goin’, Tel? Take your chips.” Stan gestured to the loaded rack of chips.

“No, that’s all yours. Thanks for a great evening.”

“No, sir. Those are yours. You earned them.”

“Take the money, Tel,” Clutch danced around them. “We have enough to enter the Series.”

“I can’t.” Telly started to walk away.

“Listen here, Telly. I couldn’t have won without your fine shooting. So, if you want, take off my vig, the thousand I staked you with. The rest is yours. Give me your number.”

“Nineteen thousand forty-five dollars,” the dealer told him.

Telly opened his mouth. “I can’t—”

Stan was busy talking on his phone. He sounded playful, and he distinctly heard him flirting. Maybe he was trying that new strategy with his lady friend. He sounded happy enough.

Telly shrugged and told the dealer to take off five hundred for the dealers.

“Nicely done, Telly—give big, get big,” Clutch said.

Stan turned. “Tel, don’t leave without giving me your number.”

Telly dutifully wrote his phone number on a card. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you. Good luck in the Series.”

“Oh, I can’t—” he started to say, but Stan turned to talk to his host.

Clutch poked him in the shoulder. “Ow, that hurt.” Telly started walking toward the cashier. “I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to Gretchen.”

“You were working, baby.” Clutch walked alongside him.

He entered the valet, gave his ticket, and waited for his cab. Clutch slid into the front seat next to him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Telly asked him as he shifted into drive.

“Head to Mandalay.”

“Mandalay? I’m bringing the car back and heading home. Gretchen should be waking up soon.”

Clutch reached out to grab the steering wheel. The car swerved to the right. “Stop that!”

“Registration is today. You have the money. We’re in.”

“In your dreams. I told you, I’m not playing poker. I have to return the car.”

“No way!” Clutch sneered. “You made a promise to me.”

“I made a more important one to Gretchen. Count me out.”

The car started to fill with a gray fog. Telly waved his hands, having difficulty seeing. He opened the side window, sticking his head out to try to navigate the road.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet. As my old grandpappy used to say, ‘When you got ’em by the nuts, squeeze!’ I’m gonna squeeze yours until you sing soprano.”

“I don’t care. I made a promise to Gretchen that I won’t break.” Telly felt the car accelerate until he was going ninety in a fifty-mile-per-hour zone. Sirens screamed behind him, but Clutch wouldn’t let go of the gas pedal. “You’re going to get me arrested,” Telly said through gritted teeth.

“So?” Clutch struggled with the wheel. It was as though they were in a tug-of-war. Cars were honking; he was a menace on the road. The siren was louder, closer, right behind him. Telly pulled over, slammed the car in park, and took the keys out of the ignition. He opened the door to fall out on the hard-packed dirt.

“What do you think you were doing back there?” the highway patrolman demanded.

“The gas pedal got stuck. I tried to stop.” Telly held up his hands.

“License and registration,” the cop said.

“By the time I get through with you, your license will be suspended,” Clutch threatened. “Nobody will hire you.”

“I could—”

“You could what, Mr. Martin?” the officer asked without looking up. “You’ve been drinking?”

“No, sir.” Telly felt Clutch’s hot breath on his neck.

“Still, maybe you should come in with me.” The patrolman observed him steadily.

“Aw, come on. I’m fine. It was the cab. Gas pedal was stuck.”

The cop lifted his sunglasses to look at Telly and handed him three tickets while issuing a stern warning.

“That’s all going on your record. By tomorrow, you’ll be fired from the cab service. Remember they have a no-tolerance policy,” Clutch taunted.

“I’ll tell them it was the gas pedal. The cop believed it.”

“Go ahead. I can’t wait to see Bob the mechanic throw you out of there.”

Telly walked back to the cab, knowing it was true. Looking at the three citations, he knew the job was finished. He was going to have to find something else. At least he had the winnings to live on for now.

“Oh no you don’t,” Clutch told him as he slid into the car. “You have to use at least ten Gs to buy into the Series.”

“I told you, I’m finished with poker.”

“Telly,” Clutch said earnestly. “The way I see it, you don’t have much of a choice. I’m gonna haunt your ass for the rest of your miserable life. Mine will be the first face you see when you open your eyes and the last when you go to sleep at night. I’m not leaving without that bracelet, and you’re the only person who can get it for me. Let me tell you something, partner. You’re gonna see my face when you turn on the television. I will be in the air you breathe. Admittedly, I’ve been pretty tame.”

Telly snorted.

“Oh, I’ve been behaving, believe me. I can get real nasty. In fact, I think I can get real nasty around Gretchen. I plan to make a believer—”

Telly slammed his foot on the brake, reaching over to swing at Clutch. His fist went through cold air.

“Telly, Telly, Telly. You can’t hurt me—I’m dead. But I can hurt you.” Clutch was now in the backseat. Telly felt his head being grabbed. “Let’s play a little game I’ve learned.” The car moved into drive; the steering wheel jerked to life; and the car headed toward an overpass. “This would be so easy for me, Telly. I can smash this car against the concrete, and then we’ll be together for eternity.” The car accelerated, heading for the concrete barricade. Clutch hummed a song. Telly punched the brake with his foot, but the car kept moving. Grabbing the wheel, he spun it, but the course never changed. “End it, Telly, or I’ll end it. Tell me you’ll play or die, Telly. The choice is yours.”