The Long Way Down (Daniel Faust #1)(25)
Carl hissed through gritted teeth, “We have a deal, Artie.”
“We talked about this last night,” Artie said, pitching his voice almost too softly for me to hear. “We agreed—”
“Fine,” Carl snapped, throwing up his arms and dropping into his chair at the poker table. “Fine, be that way, f*ck it. Everybody, get your asses over here. Let’s get this over with.”
I concealed a smile and sat down opposite Artie. My theory was right: Carl acted like a heroin addict jonesing for a fix, which made Artie his dealer. Whatever Caitlin did for the detective behind closed doors, it had long since warped from a desire to a desperate need.
That wasn’t good news for me. The only thing more dangerous and unpredictable than a junkie is a junkie with a loaded gun.
The five of us paid cash into the pot, and Artie dealt out stacks of plastic chips. There were a few too many back-and-forth glances between him and his two friends for my liking. I saw a setup coming from a mile away, but with the Eye weighing down my neck like a millstone I couldn’t do anything but watch close and try to stay sharp.
Half an hour later, I was down by three hundred dollars and looking for the number of the truck that hit me. Lady Luck was colder than a woman scorned, but I’d figured out why. As expected, the bastards were hustling me. They’d worked out a system and kept it tight. A tug of the ear here, an anxious finger tapping on the emerald felt there, little signals to help them work with a singular purpose: burning me down. I figured they’d split the take after they sent me home empty-handed. That was their plan, anyway.
Carl didn’t seem to be in on it. He was too impatient and distracted to be any good, burrowing down to his last stack of chips even before I did. He’d take himself out of the game soon enough. I deliberately threw the next few hands, watching every discard, working out the nuances of their system. It didn’t hurt that Twitch barely knew what game he was playing, and Shades couldn’t keep himself from grinning like an idiot every time he caught a decent hand. If not for the hustle, this would strictly be amateur night.
I sank down in my chair like a whipped dog, digging into my pocket and tossing a handful of crumpled bills onto the felt. “I shouldn’t do this,” I said. “I really shouldn’t do this, but count me in for another three hundred.”
“The table turns fast,” Artie said with a wolfish smile. “You can still go home a winner.”
“I’d better, this is my rent money.”
“Gonna have to blow your landlord again,” Carl muttered, then slapped his cards on the table. “Fold. And I’m out.”
Now it was the four of us, and Artie and his buddies were happy and complacent. Just where I wanted them. Twitch was the weakest link. I decided to take him out first. I waited until he signaled to the others that he’d been dealt a great hand, and then I waved Caitlin over.
“Another beer?” I said.
When she came back, I took the bottle with an outstretched hand and “accidentally” dropped it into Twitch’s lap. He jumped up, spattering beer onto the felt as he dropped his cards, yelling louder than I’d dared to hope despite my oh-so-sincere apologies. Artie got up to find a towel. Caitlin bent over to pick up the bottle from the floor, stealing everybody’s attention, and I had two seconds to switch my useless seven of hearts for Twitch’s ace.
When things finally settled down, Artie and Shades folded their hands like clockwork, confident that Twitch had this round locked up. The look on their faces when I beat him with a lousy two pair was priceless. A tiny victory for a tiny hand, but the real reward was making Twitch look like an idiot incapable of managing a grade-school hustle. He blew the next hand all on his own, too flustered to pay attention. Artie and Shades froze him out by silent consent after that, leaving him to dangle even as he kept signaling his hands, telling me exactly what he was holding.
Off balance and out of the loop, Twitch went into a nosedive. We whittled him down, dividing up his stake until he barely had any chips to his name. I kept my victories small, occasionally tossing a hand to Artie or Shades on purpose, wanting them to stay confident.
The shoe came around the table and it was my turn to deal. “I don’t know about you guys,” I said, “but I’m starting to feel lucky.”
Thirteen
Luck comes naturally when you make it yourself. I palmed a couple of cards from the shoe as I dealt out the next hand, slipping them up my sleeve and wedging them against the band of my wristwatch for safekeeping. Then I took the kid gloves off and started winning.
Twitch dropped first. Cleaned out and withering under his buddies’ glares, he mumbled something about needing to get back home and skulked out the door. Shades was next on the chopping block. I cut into him again and again, my stack of chips growing. He winced at each loss like I’d leaned across the table and gut-punched him. He suddenly remembered it was getting late and he had to be at work in the morning, offering limp apologies as he chugged down the last of his beer.
“There you go,” Artie said from across the table, forcing an enthusiasm into his words that his eyes didn’t match. “Like I said, you could make some money tonight.”
“Night’s still young.”
He slapped a roll of bills onto the table. “Any objections?”
“None.”