Pokergeist (7 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
elly stood on a landing that led to the Mirage poker room. The tropical-themed carpeting swirled beneath his feet in a collage of green and peach. A short waitress came over to ask if he wanted a drink. At Clutch’s appreciative, guttural growl, Telly turned to tell him to be quiet. The girl observed his gesture to thin air and then skittered away from him, her black miniskirt fluttering above her thin legs.

Clutch poked him from behind. “Never mind the drinks. Go down and register.”

“Forget it. I don’t want to do this. I’m going home.” Telly spun to face the exit, but he couldn’t move. His feet were stuck fast to the floor.“Let go of me,” he whispered urgently. It was hot. It was summer. He didn’t know why he had taken his jacket, but he felt like it gave him an extra layer of protection. Without it, he felt exposed. He whipped off his jacket, but it got caught on his arm. Telly tried to peel it off, but it was adhered to him like a second skin. “Are you doing that?” he demanded. “Well, I don’t care, because…”

“Do you have a problem?” A man in a suit with the multicolored palm-tree logo on the lapel watched him intently. “Can I help you with something?” Steven Marks—or so his badge said—inquired.

“Tell him you’re hungry. Maybe we’ll get some steaks,” Clutch whispered with excitement.

“I’m not hungry!” Telly shouted.

“Great. Do you have a player’s card?” the casino employee asked.

Automatically Telly reached into his pocket to hand over his card.

“Telly Martin. I’ve seen you here before. Do you have a host?”

“Host?”

“Yes, a host. Someone to take care of you. You know what I’m going to do for you, Telly?” Steven Mark asked.

Telly shook his head, dumbfounded.

“Are you on vacation, or do you live here?” Steven asked. “Not that it matters—tonight we are running a special promotion for the poker room. I am going to comp your entrance to the Wednesday night tourney. It’s a hundred-dollar value, ” he added.

“You see.” Clutch prodded him from behind. “They’re practically throwing money at you.”

“Why?” Telly asked. He had played there for over a month and had never been noticed.

“Everybody needs somebody to take care of them sometimes. Here’s my card. If you need anything, give me a call,” the host told him with a smile.

He handed Telly a brightly printed glossy paper and pointed to the registration desk.

Then Telly heard both Steven and Clutch say, in unison, “What are you waiting for? Go play.”

Clutch’s voice was very close to his ear, blabbering away, as Telly signed in. “Now listen, we’re going to go cash in, and you do everything I tell you.”

Telly ignored him. He felt a hand press down on his shoulder. “You got that?”

Telly wouldn’t look in his direction. He whispered, “Yes.”

“I said, you got that?” Clutch roared.

Telly hissed back, “I said yes!”

The table in front of him paused. A few men looked up, and then they went back to their game.

All around him was a sea of tables filled with people playing. The room was not loud, but there was the babble of multiple games going on. There was no small talk; the occasional “I raise” or “Call” broke the constant hum. Smoke hung heavy on the air from the adjoining casino, and Telly’s eyes stung until they adjusted. He felt tired, his feet leaden.

“I really don’t want to do this,” he muttered forlornly.

“Ask if there are any seats open at the no-limit table,” Clutch told him.

“No limit—are you nuts? I can’t do no limit. Besides, five hundred dollars won’t last two hands there.”

“It’ll take us forever to make the ten grand you need otherwise,” Clutch hissed into his ear. “Just do what I tell you!”

Telly rolled his eyes. “I won’t even last fifteen minutes at a twenty-five-dollar table. The money will evaporate.”

“I’m going to evaporate and leave you here with your finger up your ass if you don’t listen to me,” Clutch argued back.

Robert Maxwell smoothed his shirt over his potbelly.
Another crazy talking to himself in the middle of the floor.
He approached Telly with a wide smile. Clamping his arm around Telly, he pulled the reluctant man toward the no-limit table.

“Did I hear you say
no limit
? Right this way, sir.”

“I’ve never played this high before, and I’m only playing for a short time. I don’t know…”

“You don’t know what?” Robert asked him. “You really have to find a seat. You are distracting the other players. Would you rather sit on the balcony and watch?”

Clutch materialized in a vaporous form for the first time since they had entered the casino. He had a drink in one hand and was gazing distractedly at the crowd. Crooning a Sinatra tune, he looked at Telly and winked. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.

Telly looked wildly around to see if anyone else saw the spirit. People were engaged in their play, seemingly unaware of Clutch standing in their midst.

“Do you see an old white-haired guy?” Telly asked the host.

“I see a lot of old white-haired guys. Are you looking for someone in particular?” Maxwell responded.

Telly opened his mouth, and Clutch shook his head and waved a finger at him. “You’re flirting with being locked up—watch.”

Clutch unzipped his pants, bent over, and did a complete full moon in the middle of the casino. His slacks around his ankles, he did a shuffling polka around the tables in front of Telly. The games continued; his antics interrupted nothing. “I told you, Telly, nobody can see me but you.”

“I think I’ve seen enough,” Telly said out loud.

“Don’t you want to play?” the host asked. “You just got here. Why don’t you take a seat?” Robert insisted, worried about the demented look in the younger man’s eyes. “Are you OK, sir?”

Clutch pointed to an empty chair. “Sit. Down.”

The room narrowed to the green chair, and all noise became muted. “This is crazy,” Telly muttered.

Clutch held up his skeletal fingers, wiggling his pointer. “If you don’t try, you’ll never know.”

Robert gestured to the empty chair. “Someone is going to fill this seat. We can’t hold it for you.”

Telly slid into the chair, tentatively putting his forearms on the edge of the table.

“Evening.” He nodded to the players. He turned to the player next to him, an older woman with three chins and frizzled gray hair. “You from Vegas?”

“Don’t talk to them!” Clutch shouted. “Listen to me.”

Telly placed his bankroll on the table; his hands were clammy, and he had broken out into a sweat.

Meaty paws grabbed the cash, counted it out, and replaced it with three stacks of twenty-five-dollar green chips. Telly pulled the chips close to him with shaky fingers.

The cards flew across the table, and Telly reached out to look at them.

“Pick ’em up by curling them upward. Not so high, stupid!” Clutch looked at Telly’s cards. “Not bad,” he said, eyeing the two nines. “You’re in a good position.”

“I know,” Telly agreed.

“You know what?” a scruffy, heavyset man wearing a jet-colored toupee demanded. Telly stared at the matted mess on his head. The man’s natural gray hair curled under the very black and flattened wig he wore. He was older, with a huge nose dominating the fleshy folds of his face. He wore a heavy, flat, linked gold chain with an ornate medallion that Telly couldn’t make out.

“What?” Telly asked.

“What do you know?” he spat out belligerently.

Telly shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You said, ‘I know.’” He placed his cards down to stare at Telly’s face, his small eyes narrowing.

“I know when to hold ’em,” Telly sang sheepishly.

“Raise!” Clutch yelled. “You’re holding up the game. Say, ‘I raise.’ Say it now.”

“I raise,” Telly blurted.

“Very well. How much?” the dealer questioned.

“I raise one dollar.”

Two players cursed loudly. The old lady clicked her tongue at Telly. “There is a minimum bet, young man,” she told him.

“The minimum bet is fifty dollars,” the dealer said impatiently.

Telly’s mind was blank—a big, dark abyss filled with nothing. “I can’t…fifty dollars…I…”

“Telly, fold this hand and meet me in the bathroom. Now.”

“I don’t have to go to the bathroom,” Telly said to the table.

“Who you talking to, boy?” The heavy man with the toupee half rose from his seat.

“Do you raise?” the dealer interrupted. “Anyone have a problem letting this guy fold until he figures out where he wants to be?”

Telly looked at the hostile faces observing him, the dealer’s impassive expression, and Clutch standing impatiently by the restroom door. Toupee man shrugged and said, “Go ahead, fold already.”

“You coming?” Clutch waved him over.

Telly gently placed his cards on the green baize. “I fold,” he said softly, and then he rose to follow Clutch. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“This is bullshit; they let anybody play now,” the heavy player complained. “I play at the higher limits to avoid the creeps.”

“Creeps have money too,” the gray-haired woman added. “Well, I raise; let me see your cards.” She smiled.

“Why you made me fold pocket nines, I’ll never understand,” Telly complained as he followed Clutch into the men’s room.

“Go to the last stall,” Clutch ordered.

“Can’t we just leave?” Telly implored.

Two guys eyed Telly warily. He seemed oblivious to their stares as he unhappily entered the last unoccupied stall.

“Keep your voice down; you’re spooking the people in here,” Clutch warned him.

Telly laughed. “Me spooking people! You’re funny.”

“Let’s get out of here. He’s probably been drinking,” he heard someone say.

“Now listen to me, partner. You want to win? I want to win too. We just started our little marathon, and you’re screwing around.”

“Me?
I’m
screwing around?” Telly shouted.


“Hey. Get a room.” He heard the door slam.

“You’re stuck with me,” Clutch continued, despite the interruption.

“I know. I know I’m stuck with you,” Telly said forelornly.

“Dude,” a voice called from the next stall.

“You have to listen to what I’m telling you, Telly. You have to pay attention to me.”

“Well it’s hard,” Telly complained.

“Dude!” the voice implored. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“I know, Telly, but the only way we can do this is if we do it together. As my grandpappy used to say, ‘You have to put your trust in the cards.’”

“I’m getting mighty sick and tired of this,” Telly ground out.

“Oh man, they let everybody in here,” came the agonized reply from the next stall.

“It’s hard to trust you when I don’t even know if you’re real.” Telly continued, not aware of the other patrons in the rest room. He was miserable.

“Oh, dude. You poor guy.” It was the guy in the next stall again.

“My glasses are steaming up!” Telly said forlornly.

“Just take a deep breath, Telly, and relax,” Clutch urged, taking the glasses and cleaning them with his shirttail.

“I am relaxed,” Telly responded.

“There you go,” the guy in the next stall said.

“This isn’t rocket science, Tel. It’s not hard at all,” Clutch said reasonably.

“I know it’s not hard,” Telly agreed.

“OK.” He heard the door in the next stall slam. “TMI. My turn to exit.”

Clutch and Telly were oblivious to the empty bathroom. “Poker,” Clutch informed him, “is a lot like sex. Everyone thinks they’re the best at it, but most don’t have a clue what they’re doing…”

“Did Grandpa Buster say that?”

“No, I did,” Clutch said confidently.

“In the end, it’s still cheating,” Telly told him softly. “None of this counts.”

“It’s a means to an end.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Telly replied, exasperated.

“Everybody uses something to win. Some people count cards; others watch for your tells,” Clutch explained.

“Oh, I know all about tells,” Telly said. “You watch for patterns to see how the players react, and then you can get a fair idea of what their cards are. That’s not cheating.”

“Well, lookie what we got here. A real expert in the game of poker. I got news for ya, partner. Everybody cheats! Half the population is here without their better half knowing what they are doing. They smudge the numbers on their taxes. You want to tell me if a dealer makes a mistake and gives them extra chips, they’re going to say something? All I’m doing is hedging your bets. You can walk out of here right now, and it’s over…like we never met. Go back to that shithole you came from. Take that crappy job. Continue waiting for your luck to change. But don’t you see? There
is no
luck. You have to make your own luck. You need to win.
I
need to win.
Gretchen
needs you to win. I’m telling you, kid. You’re going to lose her.”

Telly sighed heavily. Gretchen. He couldn’t lose Gretchen. She was the best part of his life.

“Now what are you going to do?” Clutch asked.

“Listen to you.”

“Right. Don’t make conversation with the players. Look at them, Telly. Really look at them. Their goal is to take your money. They are watching you, reading your reactions. Everything you say or do is a clue to what you’re holding. Poker isn’t gambling.”

Telly looked up at him skeptically.

“No, really. Poker is an intense psychological evaluation based on reading your opponent. Poker is not about the cards or even luck as much as it’s about making decisions based on experience and instinct.”

“Did Buster teach you that?”

“No, Buster just spoke a whole lot of horseshit. I learned that from experience.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have much of that.”

“But I do.” Clutch rested his hand on Telly’s shoulder. “This is not about the money. This is not about winning. You learn how to play poker, Tel, and you will get anything you want, anywhere. Now let’s go out and kick some ass.”

* * *

“Look who’s back—the chatterbox,” the man with the toupee announced.