Good Girl, Bad Girl(70)

Two hours later, I’m five hundred pounds to the good, having won regularly but never too much. Each of them has tried to bluff at some point. I let them go. Folded. Watched.

Midnight comes. The game is down to four because the fat man has gone home. I’ve doubled my initial stake. More. “That’s it for me,” I say, getting up from the table.

“What’s wrong, girlie? Past your bedtime,” says Barnum.

“Let her go,” says Livingstone.

“She’s taken all our money, so she can stay for one more hand—what’s the harm?”

“Don’t let him bully you,” says Katelyn.

I know I should quit while I’m ahead, but I’m well ahead. Retaking my seat, I watch the hole cards being dealt. I get a pair: two nines. Barnum pushes a stack of chips into the center without counting them. He’s making a play, keeping his eyes fixed on mine, challenging me, but he’s got nothing. Zilch. A clumsy bluff.

I match his wager and wait for the flop cards, which give me another nine.

Barnum isn’t looking at me now. Instead, he lifts and drops a stack of chips, counting them between his fingers. He pushes one stack into the center . . . then another. Three thousand pounds.

I hear Katelyn’s intake of breath. A voice inside my head tells me to fold, to walk away, to pocket my winnings. Don’t play this game. Don’t trust this man. I look at the pot. I could run a long way with that much money. I could set myself up.

“Come on, girlie, show us what you’re made of,” Barnum brays.

I don’t like him, but I can’t let that influence me.

His head is down. His hands are covering his cards. I want him to look at me. I need to see his face.

“Are you going to grow a pair or fold?” he says, tilting his head. His good eye catches the light.

I push my chips into the center of the table, all of them.

The mood in the room has changed. This is no longer a game. It’s combat.

The river card is dealt—the jack of spades. Barnum throws back his head and laughs. Something is wrong.

“All jacks and no aces, eh?” he says, sliding his hands away from his cards and flipping them over. He has three jacks.

I don’t bother turning my cards. I get up from the table and take my coat from my chair.

“You played a good game, but you got schooled,” says Barnum.

I turn slowly and whisper, “You cheated.”

Air leaves the room like a lung collapsing.

Barnum gets to his feet, growling, “What did you say?”

I lean across the table and turn the jacks. “These are newer cards. You swapped them in.”

I know I’m right. It’s written all over his face. The lie.

Shades holds up the cards, comparing them to the rest of the deck. Two of them look newer.

“She’s a liar!” says Barnum.

“Empty your pockets,” mutters Shades.

“Fuck off!”

Barnum holds the bottom of his shirt, creating a basket, and scoops poker chips from the table. Livingstone grabs him by the wrist. Barnum swings a punch with his other hand, but the black man is bigger, quicker, and stronger. Poker chips spill across the floor, rolling and rattling under the table and chairs.

Barnum is pushed face-first against the wall with his right arm twisted behind his back. Playing cards fall from his other sleeve—two queens and two kings, along with a seven of clubs and a six of hearts. He’s been holding picture cards, waiting for his chance to swap them in.

The bouncer’s boots are heavy on the stairs and his shoulders threaten to widen the door.

Katelyn pulls me away, shepherding me into another room.

“But my money!”

“I’ll fix it.”

She locks the door and we listen to the blonde cashier yelling at Barnum, telling him he’s barred. Barnum threatens to call the police and “have you all arrested!”

“And I’ll tell your wife how much money you owe me,” yells the cashier.

Katelyn pulls a packet of cigarettes from the strap of her bra. “Christ, you were cool in there. How did you know he was cheating?”

I gesture with a lift of my shoulders.

“I’ve never seen anyone play poker like you—the way you stare people down. You’re fearless.”

She offers me a cigarette. I accept, wishing I could stop my hands from shaking. The lighter flames. Smoke is exhaled in a cloud.

“You should play professionally,” says Katelyn. “You’d be a rock star.”

I don’t answer. I want to get away from this place.

“You could join the poker tour,” says Katelyn. “There are big tournaments all over the world, televised events. With your looks and your skill, you’d be top table in no time.”

“I don’t want to be on TV.”

“We’re talking millions of dollars. All you need is a decent stake. I could help you. We could be partners.”

“I don’t need a partner.”

“I could get you sponsorships and brand deals.”

Why isn’t she listening?

“I want my money.”

“OK, OK, I’ll talk to the boss.”

I follow Katelyn out of the room. The cashier is on her hands and knees picking up the fallen poker chips.