"V" is for Vengeance (2 page)

“Actually, I played in Atlantic City and picked up enough change most weekends to cover my expenses.”

“You didn't work your way through school?”

“I didn't need to.”

“Lucky you,” Dante said, “though, just off the top of my head, poker parlors couldn't be the lifestyle your dad had in mind for you.”

“Well, no, sir. I expect to work. That's why I got my degree. At this point, I'm just not sure what I want to do.”

“But you'll decide soon.”

“I hope. I mean, that's certainly my intention.” Under his sport coat, Phillip felt his shirt dampen, sticking to his back. There was something fearsome about the man, almost as though there were two of him, the one benevolent, the other pitiless. On the surface he seemed affable, but underneath, a shadow personality was in play, prickly and sharp. Phillip was anxious, uncertain from moment to moment which of the two he was dealing with. Now Dante's smile faded and the alternate took over. Maybe it was in business matters that Dante became dangerous.

“And you've come to me for what?”

“Eric says you sometimes advance him cash if he's experiencing a shortfall situation. I was hoping you'd do the same for me.”

Dante's tone was pleasant, but the benevolence didn't reach his eyes. “A sideline of mine. I lend money to people the banks won't touch. For this I charge fees and administrative costs. How much are you looking for?”

“Ten?”

Dante stared at him. “Lot of money for a kid.”

Phillip cleared his throat. “Well, ten . . . you know, ten gives me breathing room. That's how I look at it, at any rate.”

“I take it Eric explained my terms.”

Phillip shook his head. “Not entirely. I thought I should hear it from you.”

“The charge is twenty-five dollars per hundred per week, payable along with the principal when the note comes due.”

Phillip's mouth was dry. “That seems steep.”

Dante opened his bottom drawer and pulled out a sheath of papers. “If you like, you can take your chances at the Bank of America two blocks down State. I've got the application forms right here.” He tossed a BofA loan application on the desk.

“Hey, no. I understand and I appreciate the position you're in. You have expenses like everybody else.”

Dante made no response.

Phillip leaned forward, trying for solid eye contact, two men of the world getting down to business. “I'm wondering if twenty-five per hundred is the best you can do?”

“‘The best I can
do
'? You want to
haggle
with me?”

“Oh, no, sir. Not at all. That's not what I meant. I just thought there might be some wiggle room.” He could feel the heat as a belated flush crept into his cheeks.

“Based on what? Our long and productive association? Your prowess at the table? Word has it, you got stuck for five grand at Caesars last week. You want my ten so you can recoup your losses and run up the rest. You think you'll pay me off, including the juice, and keep the balance for yourself. Is that about it?”

“Actually, that's how I've done it in the past.”

“‘Actually' you can kiss my ass. All I care about is getting my money back.”

“Absolutely. No problem. You have my word.”

Dante stared at him until he looked away. “How much time are we talking here?”

“A week?”

Dante reached over and flipped a page on his desk calendar. “Monday, August 11.”

“That'd be great.”

Dante made a note.

Phillip hesitated, unsure what came next. “Is there paperwork?”

“Paperwork?”

“An IOU or contract you want me to sign?”

Dante waved off the idea. “Don't worry about it. Gentlemen's agreement. We shake hands and it's done. Check with Nico on your way out and he'll give you the cash.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“I mean that.”

“You can thank your old man. I'm returning a kindness from way back,” Dante said. “Speaking of which, I have a friend in management at Binion's. You play there, he'll comp you a room. You can tell him I said so.”

“I'll do that, and thank you so much.”

Dante stood up and Phillip followed suit. As they shook hands, Phillip felt himself breathing a sigh of relief. In his fantasy, he'd played hardball with the vig, and Dante had come down two percentage points, impressed by his bargaining skills. Now he felt sheepish having broached the subject with a man of Dante's reputation. He was lucky he hadn't been thrown out on his ass. Or worse.

As though on cue, the door opened and the brunette appeared.

“One word of advice . . .” Dante added.

“Yes, sir?”

“Don't mess up. You dick with me, you'll be sorry.”

“Got it. I'm good for it. I guarantee.”

“That's what I like to hear.”

 

 

Binion's had seen better days, but Phillip's room was nice enough. Looked clean at any rate. He dropped his duffel, put seven of his ten-grand stake in his pocket, and went down to the floor, where he traded the cash for chips. He spent a few minutes circling the poker room, getting a feel for the place. He was in no particular hurry. He was looking for a loose table, one where a lot of money was being tossed out on each hand. He bypassed a table where the player with all the chips in front of him wore a Rolex watch. Forget that. The guy was either too wealthy or too good, and Phillip didn't want to go up against him.

He paused at a table filled with seniors who'd been bussed in from a retirement home. They wore matching T-shirts, red with the silhouette of a setting sun in white. Play was passive, the betting haphazard, and one elderly woman had trouble remembering how hands were ranked. The guy next to her kept saying, “Alice, for god's sake. How many times I gotta tell you, flush beats a straight and a full house beats a flush.” Small chip stacks at a table like that would probably take him weeks to get unstuck.

Once he'd made the rounds, he had the board person put his name on the list for the no-limit game on table number 4 or 8. This was No-Limit Texas Hold'em with a five-grand buy-in, rich stakes for his blood, but it was the only way he could think of to recoup his losses and put himself back on top. He preferred to play at the even-numbered tables, four being his lucky number. The first opening was seat 8 at table number 8, which he decided to view as a good omen, both being multiples of four. Phillip placed his chips to his right and ordered a vodka tonic. There were six guys already in the game and he entered in late position, which gave him a nice preview of the action. He let a couple of hands go by, showing discipline by folding on a jack-queen and then a pair of 5's. Small pocket pairs, which rarely hit the flop, were tempting to bet and therefore dangerous.

Playing with borrowed money, he felt a certain burden to perform. Ordinarily, he liked the pressure of play because it sharpened his wits. Now he found himself tossing in hands that on other occasions he might have pushed. He picked up a small pot on two pair, and six hands later won fifteen hundred dollars on a wheel. He hadn't lost anything to speak of, four hundred dollars max, and he felt himself grow calmer as the vodka flowed into his system. While the long, dull stretch was unproductive, it gave him the chance to watch how the others at the table operated.

The fat fellow in the blue shirt too small for him affected boredom when he had a strong hand, implying it was a bust and he could hardly wait to get it over with. There was a pinch-faced older man in a gray sport coat, whose every gesture was contained. When he looked at his cards, he barely lifted the corners, glanced at them once, and then stared off in the opposite direction. Phillip kept an eye on him, watching for involuntary tells. There was a fellow in a green flannel shirt, built like a lumberjack, who called anytime he thought he was behind in the hand, hoping to hit some good board cards. Phillip wasn't worried about the remaining three, who were either too tight or too timid to constitute a threat.

He played for an hour, pulling in five more small pots. He hadn't hit his rhythm, but he knew patience would pay off. The older man left his seat and a woman sat down, a pale blonde in her forties with a scar across her chin. She was either drunk, an amateur, or the worst poker player he'd ever seen. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, puzzled by her erratic play. He lost an eight-hundred-dollar pot to her when he misread a bluff. Then he overestimated her by folding when he should have hung in. It occurred to him she might fall into another category altogether, that of a seasoned pro and superb actress, far tougher than she first appeared. The signals were mixed. He red-flagged her in his mind and focused on his cards, letting his awareness of her fade into the background. There was a particular kind of quiet he experienced when the game started working for him. It was like being in a sound booth. He picked up table talk, but only from a distance and with no impact.

After two hours, he was up two grand and just beginning to sail into the zone. He was dealt the ace of hearts and the 4 of clubs. Ordinarily, he'd have dumped his hand at that point, but he could feel a whisper of intuition, an uncanny feeling something might be coming up for him. The blonde, sitting in early position, was operating largely in the dark, with no hint of what lay ahead. With a weak hand, she could always steal a pot by betting, but in the long run she'd lose money. In this case, she glanced at her hole cards and made a big bet pre-flop, which suggested pocket rockets—two aces, affectionately known as “bullets.” Chances of getting a pair of aces in the hole were approximately 1 in 220 hands.

The fat guy called. The guy in the green flannel shirt pondered his options while he aligned the stacks of chips in front of him. He called, but without conviction. Phillip had an urge to look at his hole cards again, but he knew exactly what they were. He tested his gut-level instincts and decided he'd call for one round and fold the next if nothing developed. The button seat, the small blind, and the big blind folded without putting up a fight.

The dealer burned the top card and the flop came down 3 of diamonds, 5 of spades, and the 2 of spades, and Phillip felt his heart skip. He was suddenly looking at a wheel. Ace-2-3-4-5. He watched the betting as it went around the table, gauging the strength of the other players' hands. The woman checked that round, as did the fat guy and the guy in the green flannel shirt. Phillip bet, taking control of the hand. The betting went around again and everybody called him. The dealer burned a card. The turn was the ace of spades. The blonde bet, suggesting three of a kind or a flush. A set he could beat. He revised his original assessment. With one ace in his hand, one ace on the board, and seven players sitting at the start of the deal, the odds were she wasn't holding the remaining pair of aces. He flicked a look at her, but couldn't get a reading. She tended to play with a slight smile on her face, as though reacting to a private joke. He had a stepsister like her, superior, competitive, taunting. He never could get the best of her and it galled him. Phillip set the thought aside and concentrated on the play. The fat guy and the guy in the green flannel shirt folded. Phillip called.

When the river came down, it was the 8 of spades, making a flush for her a distinct possibility, in which case his straight wouldn't mean shit. Essentially his hand hadn't improved since the flop came down, but what did that mean? He could still be high man at the table. The question was whether to push, and if so, how hard. There were only two of them left in the hand. The blonde bet. He raised and the blonde re-raised. What kind of monster hand did she have? He tried to keep his mind blank, but he knew a fine sheen of sweat had appeared on his face and there was no way to disguise the tell. He counted eight grand in the pot. If he called, it was going to cost him two grand, which meant the pot odds were four to one. Not bad. If he won, he'd pick up four times what the call had cost him. All eyes were on him. His hand was good, but not that good. She had to have a flush or a set. He'd been on a winning tear, but he knew it couldn't last. He probably shouldn't have gone this far, but he hated to back away from her. For all he knew, she was laying a trap for him and this was his last chance to dodge. Agonizingly, he pushed his hole cards toward the center, mucking his hand. The dealer pushed the pot to the blonde and she pulled it in, smiling her enigmatic smile.

He tried telling himself it was a poker hand, not a pissing contest between him and the woman across the table. It was the smirk that got to him. He stared at her. “Was that a bluff?”

“I don't have to tell you,” she said.

“I know. I'm curious. Were you holding a flush or a set?”

She raised two fingers, as though making a peace sign. “Two cards, a jack and a six.”

He felt the blood drain from his face. She'd outfoxed him and his rage was keen. Mentally, he shook himself off. No point in chiding himself. What was done was done. Though it had cost him, he'd learned a valuable lesson and he'd use it next time he went up against her.

He took a break, leaving his chips on the table while he went up to his room. Once there, he took a piss, washed his hands and face, and picked up the rest of his stake, which he then turned into chips when he returned to the poker room.

After six additional hours of play, there was serious money on the table—maybe fifteen grand. He hadn't seen the blonde leave the table for so much as a bathroom break or a breath of fresh air. Her betting was aggressive and unpredictable. He didn't like her at all and her recklessness was getting on his nerves.