“What do we need with an ante?” Krale said. “Remember, the high hand’s compelled to bet the first round, and that’s enough to get the pot started. Tina deals the blue cards, and while we play the hand she shuffles the red cards. You don’t mind, do you?”
“It might even be fun,” she said.
“And while we’re at it,” Krale said, “we can up the stakes to twenty-five and fifty.”
Taggert shook his head.
“Twenty-forty? If you insist, although I’d just as soon boost it a little bit higher.”
“I was thinking we could make the first bet five dollars,” Taggert said.
“Five dollars!”
“And make the betting pot limit. That way you don’t bleed away too much on hands that fizzle out on fourth street, and the big hands are really big.”
“Pot limit,” Krale said. “Well, hell, why not?”
He found out the answer to that question when his three jacks ran headlong into a small straight. He’d been moving up nicely, banking a string of small pots, and the straight killed him.
He sat there, working to maintain his composure while Taggert pulled in the pot. Midway through the task of stacking them, he picked up a blue chip and tossed it to Tina.
“One thing I learned in Atlantic City,” he said. “A pot like that, you damn well tip the dealer.”
She picked up the chip, looked at it.
“It’s a joke,” Krale said. “Give it back.”
“It’s not a joke,” Taggert said. “You keep it, Teen.”
Teen?
“Well, thanks,” she said, and grinned, and tucked the chip into her cleavage.
And all at once Krale didn’t mind losing.
The cards didn’t favor either of them, not really. The hands tended to average out. Krale sat there and played what Tina dealt him, and he won his share of hands, pulled in his share of pots.
But two hands killed him. Two moves, really. In one hand, he limped along with four small spades, filled his flush on sixth street, and called a big bet because Taggert needed the case nine for a full house, that was his only out, and Krale just didn’t believe he had it.
Wrong.
A little while later, he just flat knew Taggert had a busted flush, and no backup pair for his pair of aces. The aces were enough to beat Krale’s jacks, but how could Taggert call a big bet if all he had was aces?
Wrong again. Right about the unsupported aces, but the sonofabitch called all the same, and aces beat jacks, the way they always do.
Beaten, Krale didn’t curse his luck, or the cards, or Taggert. What he did do was note the expression on Taggert’s face, and the one on Tina’s, and the look that passed between them.
“Kills me,” he announced. “How you made that call... Well, I guess that’s poker.”
“Maybe it’s time to call it a night.”
“Maybe,” Krale said, and found that he could read Taggert now as if the man had subtitles etched on his forehead. Because Taggert didn’t want to quit. He’d wanted to earlier, but not now.
Nice.
“All I want,” Krale said, “is a chance to get even.”
“Seems reasonable.”
“But I’m running out of money to play with. If I had to write you a check for what I owe you right this minute, I’d have to do some fancy footwork to keep it from bouncing.”
“I hate to take a marker,” Taggert said, “but in this case—”
“I hate to give one. Here’s my thought. I’m going to stake myself to a thousand dollars worth of chips. If I win, I win. And if I lose the lot...”
He had their attention.
“...then you can take Tina in the bedroom,” he said, “and play dealer’s choice for as long as you want.”
“You know, if I thought you were serious—”
“Oh, he’s serious,” Tina said.
“Really? Dick, don’t you figure Tina has some say in the matter?”
“Tina wouldn’t mind.”
“Is that true, Teen?”
Teen.
“You sonofabitch,” she said to Krale. “No,” she said to Taggert. “No, Mark, I wouldn’t mind.”
At first they took turns picking up small pots. The cards were uninteresting, and the hands generally ended with the second up card, but Krale could feel the game’s level of intensity rise in spite of the cards.
Fifteen or twenty minutes in, Tina dealt Krale a pair of tens in the hole and a seven on board. Taggert’s face card was a queen; he bet and Krale called.
On the next round, Krale paired his seven while Taggert picked up a king. Krale bet, Taggert called.
Krale caught a ten on fifth street, filling his hand, while Taggert paired his king and made a medium-size bet. He had kings and queens, Krale decided, and didn’t want to chase Krale out of the pot. Krale thought it over and called.
Taggert’s next card was a queen. Two pair on board, and Krale read him for a boat.
His own card was a ten, giving him two pair showing.
“Maybe you’re not full yet,” Taggert said, and bet into him.
Maybe you’re not full yet. Like it mattered to Taggert, who clearly was full himself, with a boat that would swamp tens full or sevens full or anything Krale might have.
Krale just called.
And Tina dealt the river cards. Krale looked at his, for form’s sake, and it was a queen, which meant that Taggert couldn’t have four of them. He could still have four kings, though.
Taggert made a show of looking at his river card, squeezing it out between his other two down cards. Nothing showed on his face. He sat there considering, and pushed chips into the pot.
“Here’s your chance to double up,” he said. “My bet’s whatever you’ve got in front of you.”
“Oh, what the hell,” Krale said. “Let’s get this over with.” And he shoved his chips to the middle of the table. “I call, Mark. What have you got?”
Big surprise — Taggert showed a king and a queen, giving him the full house Krale had read him for all along.
“Kings full,” Krale said. He felt the blood in his veins, felt energy pulsing through his body. He noted the way Taggert was trying not to look at Tina, and the way Tina was allowing herself to look at Taggert. And then he turned over one of the two tens he had in the hole.
“Tens full,” he announced. “I just didn’t believe you had it, Mark.” He dropped his other two hole cards face-down on the table, mixed them in with the pack Tina had been dealing from.
He stood up. “That’s it,” he said. “Enjoy yourself, kids. You deserve it.”
He poured himself a brandy, and held the glass to the light while he listened to their footsteps on the staircase.
Now they’re at the top of the stairs, he thought. Now they’re in the bedroom, our bedroom. Now he’s kissing her, now he’s got his hand on her ass, now she’s pressing herself into him the way she does.
He sipped the brandy.
Suppose Taggert had caught a fourth king. Then he could have shown the fourth ten, and he’d still be sipping brandy and they’d still be up in the bedroom.
He thought about them up there, and he took another small sip of brandy.
Better this way, he decided. Better that he’d had the winning hand and refrained from showing it. This way he had a secret, and he liked that.
Noble of him. Self-sacrificing.
He finished the brandy, went to his desk, opened the upper lefthand drawer, took out the gun. Assured himself once again that all the chambers were loaded.
Another brandy?
No, he didn’t need it.
He was quiet on the stairs, avoiding the one that creaked. Not that they’d be likely to hear him, not that they’d be paying attention to anything but each other.
He walked the length of the hall. They hadn’t bother to close the door. He saw their clothes, scattered here and there, and then he saw them, looking for all the world like internet porn.