The Hard Deck

Fred sits at a four-deck shoe, $10 minimum. He has broken his one hundred-dollar chip into tens. His lips move: he's counting. The cards slide out of the plastic shoe like a tax bill. A DEALER with a face like a closed door deals.

He has lost the count. The Dealer turns a ten. Fred's sixteen dies. His chips shrink.

Hand after hand, sixty dollars bleeds away in ten-dollar bites. Four decks bury the count faster than he can dig it out.

Fred bets twenty. The Dealer shows a five. Fred has six-five. Eleven.

He slides out another twenty. The Dealer flicks him a seven: eighteen. The Dealer turns the hole card: a ten. Fifteen. The Dealer hits.

A six.

The rake sweeps Fred's last chips. His rack is empty. Nothing on his face moves. In his jacket pocket, ten hundred-dollar chips he hasn't touched.

A hand-lettered sign: $100 MINIMUM. An OLD DEALER, MORRIS (60s, sleeve garters), shuffles by hand, quick as a card sharp. Fred stops behind an empty stool. His hand goes into his jacket and comes out with the marker chips. He sets the tray on the felt. His fingers stall on the top chip.

Fred sits. One hundred-dollar chip in the circle. The cards come down. Fred looks at his hand a long moment. Then he taps the felt.

HIT.

Hours in. MORRIS deals by hand. Half the deck is out. Fred's stack has grown, and his thumb ticks the felt once per low card. Nothing else on him moves.

The deck goes rich. Fred slides out four hundred-dollar chips. He wins. Next hand the deck goes cold, and he's back to one chip.

Across the pit, a PIT BOSS (50s, cigar) marks a card. A SECOND PIT BOSS joins him.

CHARLENE (30s, red gown, a smile she's had fitted) arrives at Fred's shoulder. She is very good at this.

She settles onto the rail between him and the discard tray.

He answers politely. He loses the count.

Three chips into a cold deck. He loses. Fred looks at her, calm as a range officer.

She steps back one inch and stays. The Pit Boss lifts two fingers.

Morris hesitates, then squares the deck early. The count dies. Over the next two hours, Fred's stack shrinks.

4:10 A.M. Charlene has moved on to a table of Texans. Fred has two hundred-dollar chips left. He hasn't bet. Morris waits with the deck in his hand.

Morris squares the deck and taps its edges, slowly, stalling. It's a kindness.

Fred's eyes go to the discards, and the count comes back. The deck is thick with tens. He pushes one chip into the circle. A six and a five: eleven. The dealer shows a five. He slides his last chip in beside the first, doubling.

Morris flicks a card. A ten. Twenty-one. Morris turns his hole card: fifteen. He hits. A king.

Across the pit, the Pit Boss watches. He lifts a hand to stop the Second Pit Boss, and puts the cigar back in his mouth. Morris pays four hundred and slides it over.

No windows and no clocks. Smoke hangs at eye level. MORRIS riffles a fresh shuffle, squares the deck, and offers the cut. Fred cuts. His lips move once: zero.

At the table: SONNY DUPREE (50s, Stetson, wide lapels, Fresno Chevrolet pin), TOMMY BRANNIGAN (20s, buzz cut, civilian clothes that don't fit yet) and RAYNA PULCHER (40s, ivory silk, diamonds worn like a dare). She has a stack of black chips and a gaze that prices men. Fred checks his watch the way a pilot does: wrist turned in, two seconds, done.

Tommy's head comes up. He knows that clock.

The Dealer shows an ace. Sonny waves.

Rayna's eyes stay on Fred a half-second too long.

INSERTS, half a second each: A, 7, K, 10, 5, 3, 8, J, 9, 9.

One chip.

INSERTS: 6, 4, 2, 5, K, 7, 3, 6, 4, 8.

Three chips. Tommy hears it.

INSERTS: 3, 9, 10, 2, 8, K, 5, 7, 7, 6.

Five chips. Tommy stacks five, a half-beat behind him. Rayna sets down a single thousand-dollar chip and slides it out as easily as a coaster.

Fred's lips stop.

She wins a hand and doesn't look at it.

Fred doesn't turn his head. Across the pit, a PIT BOSS lifts two fingers.

A COCKTAIL WAITRESS (20s, red uniform, a smile that survives fourteen-hour shifts) arrives with a tray and a memory for orders.

Rayna watches him order. She understands exactly what it means.

Fred turns his wrist: 10:41. Two hours ahead in Memphis. Linda's asleep. His lips do the arithmetic. Rayna sees that too.

Rounds have piled up. Fred's bets have reached the table limit. Tommy copies him. INSERTS, half a second each: 5, 2, K, 6, 4, 3, 7, 5, 6, 9.

The table has gone quiet. The Cocktail Waitress lingers with an empty tray, in no hurry. Morris slows his hands.

Sonny lifts his rye and says nothing.

Fred's face doesn't change. Morris squares the deck.

The count sits at plus twelve. Fred's bets have reached the limit. Tommy copies him. SONNY stopped pretending to read his cards two rounds ago. RAYNA hasn't looked at her own hand in three. She's looking at Fred's wrist.

INSERTS, half a second each: 4, K, 6, 2, 9, 5, 7, 10, 9, 8.

He pushes out the limit. Sonny watches the chips go.

She turns to Fred without hurry.

Fred's eyes don't leave the felt.

A beat. Fred understands: she isn't the pit, and she isn't a bystander. He sets his jaw and says nothing.

The Cocktail Waitress arrives with Rayna's second round: a French 75 in a flute, Grand Cru Champagne over a dark, aged-vinegar syrup.

Rayna turns her ring, a single pearl in a gold setting. She works it loose. It slips into the glass with a small, expensive plink.

She drinks. The table stares at her. Fred is the only one who doesn't look at the glass.

Fred slides out the limit. Rayna plays two hands at the limit, without looking at either. Fred wins. The pit's eyes narrow.

The riffle cuts through the room like a zipper. Fred's lips move once.

He stacks his winnings and stands. Rayna is already rising, as if it had been arranged.

Fred checks his wrist: 11:52. Two hours ahead in Memphis. Linda's asleep.

Tommy half-rises. Fred doesn't turn.

Sonny watches them go, then studies Tommy's jaw.

The same CAGE CASHIER. Fred sets a rack of chips on the counter. The stacks say it: $27,000.

The Cashier stamps it PAID and slides Fred twenty-six thousand.

Fred peels off five hundred and sets it aside.

The Cashier counts what's left. Twenty-five thousand. Fred looks at it a long moment, then heads for the phone booth. He stacks dimes on the shelf.