Rough Deal (1st revision)

The door clicks shut behind me. The players look up from their cards. Most look back to them after a brief glance, but Eddie's gaze lingers.

“Hey Rob,” Eddie says. “Pull up a seat.”

Eddie. There's history there. History I'm running from, but he's the first friendly face I see, so I yank out a chair and sit down.

“What's the buy in?” I say.

Eddie grins.

“It's a C. It's always been a C. You think it'd change in six months?”

I nod. Stupid.

“Right. Give me my stacks.”

“You want to wait for the big blind?” Eddie asks.

I look around the table. The dealer button sits in front of the player to my left. With eight people, I'd wait five hands before playing.

“No. Deal me in on the next,” I say.

Eddie gives me a look.

“Alright,” he says. He was right. It was a dumb move. I should have waited, it would give me time to watch the other players—figure out how they played, but instead I push in a $2 chip and wait for my cards.

I lose that hand, and I drop another $15 to pocket trips. I wouldn't have lost that if I had waited until the big blind. I would have seen that the guy with the mustache doesn't push his chips around lightly. I would have known that when he raised me $10, he had two pair or better.

After that, I chill for a while. I fold a lot and watch the play. Fatty bluffs—he bets a lot harder when he doesn't have anything. No one's called him yet, but I can see the relief on his face when the last player folds. He had squat. Four-eyes delays his raise most of the time. If he catches something on the flop, the first three cards, he waits until the fourth to make his move. Then there's mustache. He took the $15 off me. He doesn't push chips unless he feels he's safe. The other three are easy to read. Eddie and I keep out of each other's way.

Once I get my read on everyone, I start playing. In an hour, I'm up $50. I need $300 to cover bills, so I need to keep going. A year earlier, I might've taken all I needed off the table by now. I folded to a couple moves that were probably bluffs or people overvaluing their hands. I called a couple raises I shouldn't have.

“You're rusty,” Eddie said.

“Yeah,” I said. “It's been six months since I touched a deck.”

Eddie shuffled a pile of chips together.

“Rusty, and you're still ahead.”

“Like riding a bike, right?” I said.

Eddie grins. I know that grin. He has an idea.

My second card slides in front of me. Ten jack, both diamonds. I like ten jack suited.

“Four,” I say and drop two $2 chips in front of me. Eddie folds, followed by four others. That's about right. Fatty and Mustache pony up.

Eddie deals the flop: seven nine jack. The seven and nine are diamonds. The jack's a spade. I'm in good shape. Top pair, a long shot on a straight and nine outs for a flush.

“Eight,” I say. I drop another four $2 chips in the pot. Fatty folds. I raised too hard. I look at the flop cards and wait for mustache to drop as well. Then more chips clink into the pile.

“I call,” he says.

My face is stone, but I smile inside. Odds are good I have this one.

Eddie deals the turn, ten of clubs. Now I have twopair with a flush draw. Mustache was in before, so I raise harder.

“$20,” I say.

Mustache picks up two $10 chips and pauses. He taps them on his stacks, checks his cards, then picks up two more.

“I raise,” he says.

I toss my chips in and call. Eddie deals the river: five of hearts. That's not helping anyone.

I push my stacks at the pot.

“All in,” I say.

Mustache glances at his cards again. He jitters, and then pushes his in as well.

I flip my cards and a smug smile comes across my face, but it slips away when I see him grin. He turns his cards over, pocket nines.

“Trip nines,” he says.

My lips go dry.

“Tough break,” Eddie says. “Pay up.”

I stand and lick my lips. My mouth feels like cotton.

“About that,” I say. “I'm a little short. Could you cover me Eddie?”

“How short?” Eddie asks.

I swallow.

“All of it.”

Eddie's lips part in a snake's smile, teeth and dirty plans.

“Sure,” he says. He turns to Four-Eyes. “Cash me out. Leave $100 in. I'll be back for my part.”

Then he turns to me. “Let's talk about payment.”

“I can get it to you as soon as—”

“No,” he says. “Let's talk outside.”

***

We step out in front of the little bar and Eddie puts his hand on my back. It pushes me forward and we walk down the street. That's always a bad sign. It means he's about to screw you.

“So you're having money troubles, eh Robbie?”

“Well I—” I start, but he cuts me off. He's going to go on one of his rants with questions he doesn't expect answered. Doesn't matter. I don't have anything to say.

“Yeah, money troubles. That's what happens when you try to go straight. You've been out of the working world for five years. You've been a card shark, and you've been making your money that way. Employers don't really see that as job experience.”

“I know, Eddie, but—”

“Nah, hold on Robbie. You owe me a C. Now, I'm guessing you're broke, otherwise you wouldn't have come down here, and I'm sure you don't have a job. Now, you know the normal procedure in a situation like this, right?”

“Yeah, you'd start—”

“That's right, I'd start the juice at five, ten points a day. Fifteen or twenty if I thought I could squeeze it out of you, and before long you're trying to pay off a grand on the hundred you borrowed. If you didn't, I'd have someone break your legs. Maybe just a kneecap.”

Eddie stops talking long enough to let it sink in. Ten percent interest a day would ruin me—never mind fifteen or twenty. Yeah, I might be able to borrow the money from someone else to cover it, but that could take a couple days. I'd still be in debt, and someone else would know I'm flopping like a cut fish, and if I couldn't find the money... It'd probably be real hard to find a job with two busted legs.

I suck in a breath and get exhaust and brick dust. A newspaper rustles down the sidewalk, and I wonder how funny I would look rolling myself around in a wheelchair and saying “would you like fries with that?”

“Look, Eddie—”

“Hold it Robbie. I got another solution. You got some bills, right? Some of them are over due, pilling up late fees? I'm gonna pay them for you. In exchange, you're going to get back into the game for a little while. You come to my place during the day, we get you back into practice on trick deals and chip placement—basic mechanic stuff—and then we get you back into practice at some chump games. When you're ready, I got a game I want to take down.”

Light shines at the end of the tunnel, but it's dim. And dirty.

I think about Grant. He was one of my friends when I played for a living. He was Eddie's friend too. Then one day he went to a game and never came back. After a month, we all figured him for dead. Eddie took it hard. I took it harder. He's the reason I got out. “What game?” I ask.

“I'll tell you that when it's time,” Eddie says. Then he pats my back.

“Go home Robbie. Be at my place tomorrow. Two o'clock.”

“Alright,” I say.

“Good,” Eddie says. “This'd make Grant happy.”

***

When I get to Eddie's place, he yells “come in.” I open the door and I see four decks, a six-pack and two dozen stacks of chips waiting on table. Eddie shuffles a deck.

“Right on time,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say.

He cracks a beer and hands it to me. I take a swig, and then he hands me a deck.

“Show me your bottom dealing,” he says.

I deal into four piles. I deal three of them normal, and the last one I deal from the bottom. My hands feel rusty, and my deal is sloppy and clunky. I even drop a card. Eddie just grins.

“A week,” he says.

“Huh?”

“A week and you'll have that again,” he says. “Now show me your chip placement.”

He deals me a pair of cards. I glance at them: two of spades, ace of diamonds.

For a second I close my eyes and think. What was the old system again? Then I pick up two chips, a white and a blue and place them next to my cards. One's a little further ahead than the other.

“Ace two unsuited,” he says. “Spade and heart.”

I look at the backs of my cards again.

“Spade and diamond,” I say.

“Reds are diamonds,” he says.

He's right.

“You remember it, though. You just need to be smoother. A lot smoother.”

He takes two cards off the top of the deck and looks at them. He puts his hand on a pile of chips and starts playing with them, picking up the top of the stack and then dropping them one at a time. They click together cleanly.

“What do I have?” he asks.

“How should I know?” I say.

And then he plays with his chips again, and I hear it. Two clicks. Eight clicks. Tap tap. Three clicks. Five clicks.

“Eight five,” I say. “Club heart.”

“You got it.”

Eddie's right. It takes me about two weeks to get everything down again. On the last day, he has me practice my bottom dealing. He stops me half way through.

“Robbie, you going to work on your bottom dealing or what?”

I look at him and I'm confused.

“Eddie,” I say. “Those were all off the bottom of the deck.”

And Eddie grins.

***

We play a bunch of college games. We zip around the eastern half of the state and drop $5-20 per person for buy ins. Eddie always shows up first. I walk in 20 minutes later, so it doesn't look like we're together, and then we start working. We get kicked out of a couple games because I catch a hanger, or I get caught peeking. Sometimes I'm too slow putting the cards on the bottom of the deck.

It's different, you know? You can practice all you want in private, but when you have eight people watching you, it gets harder. Sweat moistens the back of your neck. You get clammy, and everything goes jerky. It's hard to stay cool, but by the end of the first week, I'm getting my feet under me again. By the end of the second, I'm getting cocky.

We play our last practice game in an apartment near Harvard University. It's us, some trust fund kids, and a couple older guys. This one's a $100 buy in. That's fine with me and Eddie. I haven't blown a deal in three games, and we could eat these guys alive without the tricks. Little by little we collect their cash, and one by one they leave. By the end of the night, it's down to me, Eddie, and two trust fund kids.

I deal out the hand. One of the trust fund kids peeks and sucks in a breath. I've seen him do that four or five times tonight. He has a pocket pair. Probably nines or tens. Eddie clicks his stacks and tells me he has the eight of clubs and ten of diamonds. I have pocket Jacks. I place my chips to tell Eddie.

While the second trust fund kid decides whether he's playing this hand or not, I peek at the top card of the deck. It's a jack. The other trust fund kid calls. I second deal the kill card and flip the jack as the first card on the flop. It's followed by a the king of diamonds and a ace of spades. The second trust fund kid raises. The kid with the pocket pair calls, weakly. Eddie folds and I peak at the top card. Nine of hearts.

Perfect.

I call, second deal the kill card and flip the nine as the turn. Trust fund one has aces or kings. Trust fund two has three nines. Both think they have the top hand.

Trust fund one bets $10. Trust fund two raises to $20. I call. Trust fund one calls as well, but the raise unsettled him. Trust fund two is so giddy that even trust fund one knows he has something.

I peak at the last card. Another ace. I don't want that to hit the table. I deal it as the kill card and a six of spades takes its place.

Trust fund one doesn't think he's top dog, and he's right, but he tries to buy the pot. He pushes his stacks at the middle and says all in. Trust fund two calls it, and then they both look at me.

“You,” I say to trust fund one. “Have aces or kings.”

Then I look at the other one and push my stacks in.

“And you have trip nines.”

I flip my cards over. Both trust fund kids turn to ash.

“But they both lose to my trip jacks,” I say. “Now cash me out. I'm done.”

***

We meet at Eddie's an hour later. We took down a grand between the two of us. He said he'd pay my bills, but, really I'm earning this money. We split it 60/40 in Eddie's favor, just like all the other games we cleaned up and crack a couple beers.

“I think you're ready,” Eddie says. I agree.

“So,” Eddie says. “You remember that factory you worked at?”

I spit out my beer. How could I forget.

“No,” I say.

But Eddie just grins and nods.

***

It's dark when I pull up in front of the factory, and my hands go clammy. Eddie's been in there twenty minutes, and it's time for me to walk in and take my spot. After this, I'm out. After this.

I pull the keys out of the ignition and jam them in my pocket and go to the door. It's locked. I knew it would be. I bang on the steel. Three hollow thumps, pause, then two more.

The sound disperses into the trees and crickets around me and I wait. I could leave. I could get in the car and go, but I already tried to tell Eddie I wouldn't do this game. It was too dangerous. And he told me that, the way a lot of people see it, he got me into those games we cleaned up in the last two weeks, so if he decides he wants a bigger cut, he can say I owe him and start the juice. That'd just lead to me with broken legs.

The image of me in a wheelchair serving fries floats into my head when I hear the door click open. I peak through the crack and see a crew cut and a mustache. Mr. Dalton looks back at me, and a smile creeps to his lips.

“Are you here to play, Rob?” he asks. There's something sick in his voice—bigotry and ignorance and malice.

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm here to play.”

Mr. Dalton chuckles and I hear ten-hour workdays and oppression.

“You're lucky. We only have one seat left.”

He opens the door the rest of the way and lets me in. I step through and we walk through stacks of finished material and giant rolls of foam on thick cardboard tubes capped at both ends. I recognize one. It's vomit green on an abnormally large tube—big enough to fit a man, and I'm don't think it's ever moved.

We head toward the glow from a pair of florescent tubes over the poker table. It's the only light in the room. Eddie sits there two men wearing the same tan short-sleeve button-down Mr. Dalton wears and five more in green—two women, three guys. Those five have two things in common: poor English and justified fear of the three in tan.

“Look who I found,” Mr. Dalton says.

The tan twins look up and smirk.

Mr. Dalton points to an empty chair three places away from Eddie.

“Sit,” he says. I follow his orders, and it feels too familiar.

He looks at his seat. Then he looks at the guy in green across from me.

“Feliciano,” Mr. Dalton says. It's a bark, not a word.

Feliciano jumps and yelps. A shiver runs down my spine.

“Ah, yes?” Feliciano says. Even in just the one word, you can hear the accent.

“Call me sir,” Mr. Dalton says.

“Yes? Sir?”

“Sit hear,” Mr. Dalton says.

He points at his chair. Feliciano fumbles with his stack of chips and hustles over. Mr. Dalton picks up his stacks and sits across from me.

“Post,” he says to me.

I glance around the table.

“What's the buy in?” I say.

“Five hundred.”

I dig out my wallet and look in the bill-fold.

“I got four,” I say.

“Fine,” Mr. Dalton says. He looks at another one of the tan shirts. “Give the man his chips,”

***

20 hands in, Eddie's playing strange. I bottom deal him a full house, a nut hand, and he plays it too fast. He knows I'm going to toss him a winner on the river, and he still raises $100 at the turn. Everyone folds. What could have been a $2-300 pot turns into $50.

“Must have had something good,” I say.

He tosses his cards face down into the pile.

“Yeah, whatever,” he says.

***

A couple hands later Mr. Dalton goes all in and glares at Feliciano.

“You had better call this,” Mr. Dalton says.

Feliciano calls. So does Eddie. I stare at my hands to keep from glaring at Eddie. He has a pair of aces. That wasn't worth a call like that.

Mr. Dalton flips over his cards and shows his ten through ace nutbuster. Eddie slams his fist on the table, and stacks tumble.

“God damnit!” Eddie yells.

Mr. Dalton counts his chips. Eddie still has $200 or so.

“Afraid we're going to clean you out again?” Mr. Dalton says.

“Again?” I say. Stupid.

Mr. Dalton stops. Suddenly the room feels silent.

“Yes. Again,” Mr. Dalton says.

He looks at me quizzically. He wants to know why I'm so surprised by that. I let the look linger a little longer. No matter what I do, he's going to be suspicious for the rest of the game. He'll watch me and Eddie a little more closely, but I have to make sure it's not too much.

“I just figure if you get cleaned out at a game, you wouldn't go back,” I say.

Then Mr. Dalton grins. It's that same grin I saw when he had harder work waiting for us. Work where you might get hurt.

“Well, Eddie here likes a beating, I guess.”

Feliciano looks at Mr. Dalton stacking up his new piles. Mr. Dalton catches his look.

“Go home,” Mr. Dalton tells Felicaino.

***

We're down to one green shirt, and Eddie's back to his starting stacks when he plays another hand too fast. Everyone folds again, and he misses out on a possible $100. He gets $40 instead.

Eddie's piling up these new chips when I stand up.

“Where are you going?” Mr. Dalton asks.

“I'm going to have a cigarette,” I say. I want Eddie to follow my lead so that I can find out what's wrong with him.

“Then cash out,” he says.

“Huh?”

“If you leave this table, you cash out,” he says.

I don't know if that's their normal rule or not, but I know Mr. Dalton's not so fond of me at the table. He tries to suck every factory newcomer into a game where he'll take their paycheck. I was no different, but I said “no” and got a tougher work load for it. Now I've got $1500 in front of me. I'm cutting into his profits.

“Nah,” I say. “I can wait for a cigarette.”

I sit back down.

***

Half an hour later, things go bad. We're down to me, Eddie, and the supervisors when it's my deal. I've lined Eddie up with a flush on the bottom of the deck, but it's late. I'm getting tired, and I botch the first card off the bottom. It flops awkwardly in front of Eddie. Mr. Dalton and the tan shirts notice. I see them cocking their heads to listen for the difference, but I deal him the second card anyway. He needs this pot.

Mr. Dalton clears his throat.

“Stop dealing,” he says.

My hands go cold and shaky. I stop.

“Give me the deck,” Mr. Dalton says.

I freeze.

“Give it to me.”

I can't. I can't even move.

Mr. Dalton rips the deck away from me and looks at the bottom. He fans out the three diamonds I collected after the last deal. His lip pulls up on one side of his face. I only saw that once when I worked at the factory. Shortly after that, he hit a Brazilian immigrant in the face with a hammer. He told his bosses it fell off a shelf.

He reaches in front of Eddie and flips his cards over. Two more diamonds. Mr. Dalton's snarl gets worse.

Eddie meets my stare, then Dalton's, and then he's out of his chair with a gun in his hand.

“Nobody move,” he says.

Dalton and the tan shirts freeze. My jaw drops open.

“You brought a gun!?”

“Last resort, Rob,” Eddie says.

“What, what...” I say. Whatever was supposed to come next doesn't. I shake my head.

“Why?” I say.

“You know what game Grant came to the night he disappeared?” Eddie says.

I think for a second, and then I know. Eddie sees it in my face.

“That's right,” he says. “This one.”

“You two are dead,” Mr. Dalton says.

“I got the gun,” Eddie says.

“I can find you,” Mr. Dalton says. “I can get his address from company records.” He points at me.

“Don't think I won't do to you what I did to your friend. You've been playing dirty all night.”

“Yeah. Yeah we have,” I say. I have an idea.

“Take the money,” I say. Eddie glares at me.

Mr. Dalton laughs, and it sounds like bones rattling.

“You think that's going to be enough, boy? I want to watch you bleed.”

“I wasn't finished,” I say. “We play heads up, you and me. If you win, you kill us. If I win, you let us walk out and we spread that word that mechanics should stay away from this game.”

Mr. Dalton thinks on it. Eddie thinks too.

“No tricks,” I say. “We can have one of your guys deal.”

“The alternative is I shoot all of you right now,” Eddie says. Looks like I have him on board. “If I have to choose between you and the cops chasing me, I'll take the cops.”

“Boss...” one of the tan twins says. Dalton points at him.

“Deal 'em,” he says.

***

Fifteen hands in, neither of us has made a big move. I'm a little up from pulling a bluff here and there. I've got Dalton's tell. When he's not sure of his hand, he chews the inside of his bottom lip. It's a tough one to catch, and I'm sure I'm missing it half the time, but it's something. Then he turns on the heat.

“You're friend,” he says. “He wasn't the first.”

He drops $50 in the pot. We're not at the flop yet, but I have ace-ten offsuit. I match his $50.

“No?” I say.

“No. We had two mechanics before him. When I caught the first, I strangled him to death.”

Tan shirt deals the flop. Three-nine-seven rainbow. I'm not making a flush or a straight on this one, but he probably isn't either.

“You ever felt a man die in your hands?” Mr. Dalton asks.

He raises another $50. He could have a pocket pair, and maybe he has a nine, but it's not likely. I call.

“It's a rush to feel a man's heart stop,” he says. “but then we had a body on our hands.”

His man deals the turn. It's a king. Mr. Dalton puts another $100 in the pot. It's a tough call.

“We hid the body in that old roll of material—the puke green one. Didn't know what else to do with it. 'Took about three days to find a good dump site. Now we got it down to a science.”

I stare at his lip, but I can't tell if he's chewing it. I fold. Mr. Dalton rakes his chips in.

“No one's ever found any of them,” he says. And then I feel ice in my veins as he grins that grin again.

***

I can't seem to catch a break and I'm getting behind. Eddie's getting nervous watching me. I can almost feel the sweat on his palms, and the tan-twins grin with predator teeth.

But there's an upside here. Mr. Dalton's starting to feel invincible.

Tan shirt deals us another pocket each. I get aces. I check and Mr. Dalton raises. I call. We get a rainbow flop with no straight possible. Unless he happened to raise with six nine, I'm in good shape. I check again. He raises. I call. There's $200 in the pot right now, and we started with $500 each. I only have $100 sitting in front of me.

The turn gives me another ace. It's my hand. I check. He raises. I go all in. Suddenly that slave driver grin falls off his face. Suddenly, he's chewing on that bottom lip.

“Call,” he says.

I flip my pocket aces. He has second pair. We don't even pay attention to the river. It doesn't matter. I take the pot, and suddenly I'm $200 in the lead.

***

In 20 minutes I shave another $150 off him. Mostly I'm taking the blind. I push my chips all-in every other turn. Half the time I have nothing, but I see him chewing his bottom lip. Losing $300 in one shot took the wind out of him, and he's folding everything.

Then his guy deals me two seven offsuit. Worst hand in the game. I call and we see the flop. Ace queen nine—all diamonds. I go all in. He hesitates, and for a second I think he's going to call. Then he folds. I show him the two seven.

There are two reactions you get from that kind of power play. Most often, the player you pulled the move on becomes utterly scared of you. They won't play any hand you're in because they know you're just better. The second was Mr. Dalton's reaction.

“How dare you!” he yells.

He bolts out of his chair and kicks it across the factory floor. It clacks to a halt against some racks.

“How dare you pull that on me at my own game,” he says. “I ought to kill you right now. I oughta.” His hands curl into claws by his sides and he positions his legs to lunge at me. Then Eddie clears his throat and waves the gun in the air.

“Sit down,” Eddie says.

Mr. Dalton turns his killer's eye toward Eddie, and Eddie points the gun at Mr. Dalton's face.

“Sit down,” he says.

Mr. Dalton turns to the tan shirt that isn't dealing.

“Get my chair,” he says.

***

From then on, I bide my time. Mr. Dalton plays a lot less timid. Now he's just mad, and he's playing like it. He's pushing chips at everything. I let him. Mostly I fold. He creeps back to about $400, but that's fine.

Showing a two seven after a bluff in a heads up game is a set up. If they turn timid, you slowly bleed them out. If they turn angry, you wait for the killing hand. They'll go all in whenever they think they have something. You wait for trips or better and trap them.

Then his man deals me ten jack of spades. Mr. Dalton raises $10 before the flop, and I call. The ace and eight of spades come up on the flop, along with the queen of diamonds. Didn't have anything yet, but 18 cards in the deck would give me a winning hand.

Mr. Dalton raises another $25. I call.

The turn gives me the nine of clubs. Still nothing, but now I had 21 outs. Mr. Dalton raises another $25. It's a tough call. If the river fails me, he's ahead and I'll have to play risky. He's going to push at everything. If I turn meek, he'll bleed me dry, but if I call the wrong thing, he'll kill me outright. I call.

And then the river gives me the two of spades. I have a flush. Now I just have to play out the trap.

I glance at my cards and hesitate before touching my stacks.

“I raise ten,” I say.

“I raise you forty,” he says.

I hesitate again and re-raise him $50.

“All in,” he says.

“Call,” I push my chips up. Now I'm confident. If he noticed, he'd probably be worried, but he turns his pair of aces with triumph.

I show him my pocket, and he goes red. His hands come up ready to attack and he heaves long, heavy, angry breaths.

“I'm gonna... I'm gonna...” he growls.

I just stare him straight in the eye. I don't stand up. I don't even move. It's confident stillness.

“Choke you so hard...” he says. A vein pulses in his temple. It looks like it's going to pop.

“Don't forget the gun,” I say.

It doesn't sink in. He just keeps seething. Then Eddie whistles and Mr. Dalton looks. The muzzle points at the middle of his chest. He takes another angry breath and stands up straight.

“Did you win it square?” he asks me.

“Yes.”

He looks at the Tan Twins.

“Get out of here. They won. They get to walk.”

One rises slowly. The other one just stares slack jawed.

“Go,” Mr. Dalton says. Now they move. The door slams shut and we hear engines start. A minute later they fade into the distance.

***

Mr. Dalton wants to talk to me before we leave. We stand in the pre-sunrise glow by the factory door. Eddie's at his car with his gun ready if anything goes bad.

“You're a good cheat,” Mr. Dalton says. “I don't ever want to see you at a table again.”

“I'm done,” I say. “I don't want anything to do with poker anymore.”

“Not anything?” he says, and I can see he has an idea.

***

I watch blue shirt deal the cards at a table in the back of Charlie's. He'd been raking in a couple too many pots, so I lean against a wall and wait. And now he's doing it. His thumb twitches, and the top card slides in the wrong direction. I put my hand on blue shirt's shoulder and he looks up at me surprised.

“Something wrong?” blue shirt says.

“The sign on the door says 'no mechanics,'” I say. He looks at me stunned. “You're second dealing. I'd like you to leave.” I say.

And he cashes out.

So I'm not out of the game altogether. Not yet. Turns out Mr. Dalton knows the guy who owns Charlie's, and the connection got me a job busting cheats. In just a month they've mostly learned to stay out. Now I'm only catching about one a week, and business is booming because of it. Word got around this is a safe haven. Sure there are sharks here—there'll be sharks anywhere there's cards, but there aren't any mechanics.

Eddie's been in here a couple times. He's still working games over. I don't let him play—I won't even let him near the tables. He knows that. He just comes by to ask me to take down this game or that one, but I don't play anymore. I just watch. That's enough for me.

Officially, I'm a bartender. I don't think I've ever touched a bottle in here, but in a couple years I'll be able to leave and put that on my resume. For now, I'm covering my bills and living closer to straight than I have in half a decade.

There's light at the end of the tunnel again, but now it's brighter and cleaner.