Jackson was forty-five but could generally talk his way into a senior citizen discount. He had thin gray hair, a face with the tanned texture of a well-worn baseball glove, and a close-cropped beard that sprouted half gray and half black. He pulled his rounded shoulders in tight, shielding his cards, as if the entire world might be part of a giant conspiracy designed to separate Bobby from his money.
Quinn ordered a soda and settled in next to a brawny man with cowboy boots who had accumulated a sizable pile of chips. He had a thick Southern drawl, and the other players called him Tex.
"Aren't you that boy I saw on TV defending his crazy sister after she knocked off her old man?" Tex asked loudly.
"Oh my gosh!" said a brunette standing behind one of the other players. She frantically fished into her purse and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. "Would you mind signing this?"
Feeling like an idiot, Quinn scribbled a signature across the top of the bill. He gave her a dismissive smile, but she had already pulled out a disposable camera. She handed it to the older gentleman sitting in front of her at the table. "Will you take our picture, honey?" she asked.
Quinn stood next to the woman, and she placed her arm around Quinn's waist to pull him close. Her scowling husband or boyfriend or whatever he was counted to three and snapped a shot.
"Thanks!" said the woman. "I knew I would meet somebody famous in Las Vegas!"
"We gonna play cards or we gonna play Hollywood celebrity?" Tex drawled.
"Sorry," Quinn muttered. He returned to his seat, and the dealer dealt a new hand. For nearly an hour, Quinn played the game methodically, trusting math rather than intuition or luck. He counted cards, studied the body language of opponents, and kept a mental list of hands worth betting on. Discipline and patience were the hallmarks of his success, along with a programmed set of bluffs that he would sometimes spend half an hour developing.
His first big opportunity came at a few minutes after eleven, when Quinn's two hole cards were the ace of clubs and the four of diamonds. Quinn was sitting on the small blind, meaning he had already put five hundred in the pot before the cards were even dealt. Tex, on Quinn's immediate left, was sitting on the big blind, meaning he had anted up a thousand. During the first round of betting, everyone had folded except Tex, Bobby Jackson, and Quinn, who promptly anted up another five hundred so he could see the flop.
The three cards in the flop were no help to Quinn-the ten and eight of clubs and the queen of hearts. He noticed that Tex had grown extraordinarily quiet as he stared at the three cards faceup in front of the dealer. He probably had two clubs in his hand and was hoping for a flush. Bobby Jackson stole a peek at his two hole cards and blinked three quick times.
Jackson nonchalantly pushed in a pile of chips so the pot grew to four thousand. The bid fell to Quinn, who stacked and restacked a few chips, letting them filter through his fingers as he stared at Tex.
The big man sitting to his left couldn't resist a slight grin. "You Vegas boys sure do fold quickly," Tex said. "I thought this was the high-stakes table."
Quinn shoved some chips to the middle. "I'll see your thousand," he said, then carefully counted out a neat new pile. "And raise it twelve."
"Well, well," said Tex. He quickly counted his own stack of chips. "I'll see your twelve, and bump it up another twelve." He grinned broadly; the only thing missing was a cigar.
"I'll call," Bobby said, pushing his own pile to the middle.
Quinn quickly shoved an additional twelve into the pot, and the table grew quiet with tension. "I'll call as well."
The dealer burned another card before she put the fourth card faceup on the table. The turn-the eight of spades-was another throwaway for Quinn's hand. But he could also see the disappointment register on Tex's beefy face, confirming Quinn's suspicion that the man was working on a flush and needed another club. Quinn bid the pot up another few thousand dollars. Both Tex and Bobby stayed in and the dealer burned another card then placed the fifth community card on the table.
The river was the jack of clubs. Tex immediately went into a lone-star scowl, but he wasn't fooling Quinn. The man now had his flush. Meanwhile, Bobby Jackson's blinking had gone on overdrive-three quick blinks followed by two more. Quinn had nothing-a pair of eights from the community cards and the ace high he had in the hole. He couldn't possibly win-unless he could bluff the others into folding.
"I'm good," said Bobby, tapping the table.
Quinn snuck a peek at his hole cards just for drama and allowed himself a big smile. He went for the blue chips and raised the pot nearly ten thousand.
"My, my," Tex said. "Either you're sittin' on a nine or a couple clubs or you've got more guts than a cat burglar." He pushed his own stack to the middle. "Let's find out."
Quinn noticed that Tex didn't go all in. The big man must have been at least a little worried.
"See your ten and raise it five," Bobby said.
Tex stiffened at the move. If he had a flush, as Quinn suspected, he probably wouldn't fold. His flush would beat a straight, but it wouldn't hold up against a full house. Quinn did some quick math. There was now a hundred and ten thousand in the pot. Tex was in for thirty-five.
Quinn took a deep breath, spread his palms, and decided he would test the man's ego. "All in," he said, shoving the rest of his chips into the middle of the table. Then he looked at Tex. "You might want to remember the Alamo."
The dealer counted the chips. The table grew quiet as the players stared at the huge pile in the center.
"Eighty to stay," the dealer told Tex.
Quinn watched the big man's face redden. Tex looked at his two hole cards again, as if checking to make sure they hadn't changed. He looked at Quinn. "If I recall my history correctly, Santa Anna eventually lost that little war." He shoved his chips to the middle of the table.
"I'll call," said Bobby Jackson. Expressionless, he counted his chips and pushed several piles into the middle. All eyes turned to Quinn.
When Quinn dramatically flipped his cards, Tex beamed. "Ace high!" Tex shouted. "You slimy rascal!" He gave Quinn a punch in the arm, a little too hard to be good-natured but not hard enough to risk starting a fistfight. "You almost bluffed me into folding with an ace high!"
Next, Tex flipped his cards with a show of gusto, standing as he did-the king and queen of clubs. He not only had a flush, it was a king-high flush. He grinned as the attention turned to Bobby Jackson.
"Full house," said Bobby calmly, flipping over a pair of tens. "Tens over eights."
Tex made a grunting noise, as if someone had punched him in the gut, and then cursed his luck as Bobby raked in the chips. "It's always the quiet ones that get ya." Tex reached into his pocket and pulled out a few more markers to replenish his depleted pile of chips. He took his seat, shaking his head.
Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn could have sworn he saw Bobby Jackson drooling.
A few minutes after midnight, sitting at the blackjack tables, Quinn felt somebody brush up against the back of his chair. Quinn mumbled some excuses, cashed in his chips, and followed Bobby Jackson to a corner table in the TAO Lounge.
Bobby and Quinn did some quick math on a napkin before Bobby peeled off forty-five thousand dollars in markers and handed them to Quinn. "I thought you overreached when you went all in," Bobby said. "I thought we should have bet him up in ten thousand increments."
"I knew he had a flush," Quinn said. "And when I saw the three blinks followed by two, I knew you were sitting on a full house. You had to have either pocket tens or queens. I figured there was no way Tex was going to fold with the hand he had."