Fleckmann said brightly, "If you feel like risking a hundred, you might sign up for the game. You might get lucky."
I nodded absently. That's what Sammy would have said. My luck. Where was it now? There was a ship's brochure on the bar, and I fingered through it.
Wait until you venture out shopping. Whether it's for straw baskets in Nassau, or for Spanish crafts in San Juan, for French haute couture in St. Maarten or just about anything in St. Thomas, you're sure to get a good price. So pack an empty fold-away bag for all the gifts, and don't forget your suntan oil.
Right. No straw baskets for Ben Slade, and no suntan oil, either. With my edge gone, my only chance was to latch onto Calvin and stay as close to him as I could. I was going to have to be his shadow. I was going to have to be his… friend. It was not a pleasant thought, but it had to be done. The only question was how to do it.
I watched as Calvin completed his circuit of the room, and left to repeat the performance in one of the other lounges. "Quite a guy," I said to Fleckmann. "Aside from chasing women, what does he do with his spare time?"
"He doesn't have all that much of it. You can say what you will about our Calvin, but he's a hard worker. He's on the go all day in the lounges and at poolside, and at night he emcees the two shows in the Steamboat Club."
"And after that? He has to do something to relax."
"You mentioned the ladies."
"All night?"
"No, not even Calvin. At about two every morning you'll find him in the casino, but the way he gambles, I'd hardly call it relaxation. He can be rather intense."
"What's his game?"
"He fancies himself as a poker player."
I managed not to smile. "Is he any good?"
"He thinks he is."
"But?"
Fleckmann shook his head. "A born loser, a hustler's delight. They stand up and salute when Calvin walks into the casino. There are men who have put their children through college on what they've won from Calvin. There are women who have supported a lover on what they take from him."
"And he keeps coming back for more?"
"I told you. He thinks he's good."
This time I didn't try to hide the smile. My luck had just kicked in again.
Seven hours later I sat across the poker table from Calvin Weiss and watched him squint at his hole cards. I had been sitting there for three hours, watching him get his head beat in. I figured he was down about three thousand, which wasn't a fortune by casino standards, but which was much too much if you made your living in a clown suit. Fleckmann was right, the man was a loser. Everything about him screamed loser, from the sweat on his face when he studied his cards to the way that he nervously riffled his chips. He played a fast, aggressive game. He rarely folded a hand, he rarely failed to call, and his raises were often silly. He played as if he wanted to lose, and he did a good job of it. I have seen this at tables all over the world, and it is always a sad sight to see, but never so sad that I don't take the money. In the past three hours I had taken my share, but I wasn't the only one. Everyone at the table was eating him up.
It was five in the morning, but the casino was running full blast. Once outside the U.S. territorial waters it was never closed, and it was never empty. It was filled with the people who weren't along for the straw hats in Nassau or the Spanish crafts in San Juan. They weren't along for the sun, or the pools, or the saunas, either. They were there for the action, and they kept the casino rolling around the clock.
The casino was a good-sized room on the Restaurant Deck, but like any other casino, very little space was set aside for poker tables. The people who run casinos want the gamblers going up against the slots and the blackjack, the craps tables and the roulette wheels. Those are the games that the house has to win. But poker players don't go up against the house, they bang heads with each other, and there isn't much in it for the management. Not that the house loses money on poker. For a few sticks of furniture and a couple of decks of cards, a table that charges ten dollars an hour for each seat should show an annual income of half a million dollars in any well-run casino. But that's small change by the standards of the times, and so they put the poker tables off in the low-rent section of the room where they won't interfere with the steady flow of money to the slots and the wheels.
Calvin squeezed his hole cards again, and took another peek at them. If he had asked me, I could have told him what was there. Two kings. I could have told him every card that had been dealt. The game was seven-card stud, and he and I were the only ones left; the other players had folded. There was about three grand on the table, enough to pull Calvin even for the night, and he was sweating it out. This was the way our hands looked with the last card still to come.
Calvin: (Kh Kd) 10s 2c 9h 7d
Me: (Ah 6c) 6s 5d Jc 6d
Looking at the cards tells you the kind of game that he played. He was in love with those kings wired, and he was riding all the way with them. When I pulled the third six, he should have figured me for trips, and he should have dropped. In his spot, I would have. Of course, you could also ask what I was doing chasing along with a pitiful pair of sixes, but I wasn't trying to win. Just the opposite. Some people have to beat you in order to love you. Others have to be beaten. Calvin fell into the first category. Unless he could beat you, dominate and win, he didn't want to know you. If he could beat you, then you could get close to him, and that was what I had in mind.
I was high, and I bet five hundred, praying that he wouldn't fold. No fear. He was riding those kings all the way, and he called.
On the seventh card, I caught a useless seven of clubs. Before I tapped Calvin's head to see what he had drawn, I said another prayer that he had pulled his third king. I tapped, and he hadn't. It was the ten of hearts, and all he had was what he had started with, two kings. He waited for me to make my move. I checked. His eyes widened with surprise. He was expecting a heavy bet to force him out or make him pay, but I didn't want him out. I wanted him in, and I was the one who was going to pay.
"Those sixes not so strong," he muttered to himelf. "This guy Benny, he's been pulling my posey."
"The name is Ben," I said. I had said it before.
"Yeah, sure." He was still muttering to himself. "He's just rubbing my rhubarb with that shitty little pair. He raises and he raises, and now he checks. Horseshit poker, but maybe not. Maybe cute." He looked at me. "Which is it, Benny?"
"Ben."
"Yeah, sure."
He rubbed his chin. He scratched behind his ear. He was fighting greed. A pair of kings in seven-card is not a great hand, and he knew that he should check along and get a free ride, but if he did he might be costing himself money. If he bet instead of checking there was the chance that I'd call, and he wanted every dollar of my money he could get. On the other hand, if he bet, I might raise. He made up his mind, and pushed in a pile.
"One thousand," he said.
Something inside of me screamed raise, but that wasn't my job. This time I was supposed to lose. I could have simply folded, but I wanted him to win big. Besides, it was the company's money, not mine.
"Call," I said, and pushed chips.
He nodded. "What have you got?"
"I called you."
"Yeah." He flipped over his two hole cards. "You're looking at it."
"Kings wired." I tried to sound surprised. "That's all?"
"Look who's talking. It isn't much, Benny, but it's a hell of a lot stronger than your sixes."
It was a good deal stronger than two of my sixes, not three of them. I said, "You're a hard man to hustle, Calvin. A hard man." I folded my hand, and flipped the cards into the deadwood before anyone could see them.