"Fuck this shit!"
The Albino shoved all his chips to the center of the table.
"This has gone on long enough. Let's end it here."
I studied him through the cigarette smoke drifting through the harsh glare cast by the buzzing fluorescent light above the table. His appearance reminded me of a snake. The eyes were tiny red dots lost in a rolling mass of jowls. All I could see of his nose were two flared nostrils that seemed to have been cut into the surface of his sickeningly white skin. His thin lips, barely discernible above his multiple chins, framed a mouth that was nothing more than an angry slit from which a reptilian tongue would occasionally dart. I could see no evidence of a neck; just a blob of fat that emerged from his too tight shirt collar. If his scale told him he weighed three hundred pounds, it was only out of pity.
But he sure could play poker. I'm good; he was better. Every other player in the bar had cashed in their chips. Now they stood around us, waiting to see who would survive this marathon ordeal. We'd started at nine and it was half past two. Usually, the Wet Spot closed at one on a weeknight; but morbid fascination persuaded Ned to keep the bar open to slake the thirsts of the spectators who sadistically waited for one of us to fall.
Like I say, I'm good. I'd held my own through most of the evening, but I could never quite put him away. The past few hands had gone badly against me, and now The Albino sensed blood. But I had two things going for me.
First, the boys downtown would be very upset if I wasn't able to pay my gambling debts the next day. If I won the pot, at least my face wouldn't be rearranged for the next few weeks.
And then there was the scotch and soda in his fist. Not that I didn't also have one in my hand. But I was still nursing my first, and I stopped counting when the waitress handed him his third.
I pushed my chips into the center. The pile was barely half of his. I took out my Blackberry and added it to the pile. He stared impassively. I added my cell phone. Still nothing. Sighing – but only inwardly; had to keep that poker face – I slipped off my Rolex and gently put it down on top of the pile. He waited a second, then nodded.
"Call," I said.
He spread his cards on the table. A pair of aces.
I looked directly at him and put my cards down, one at a time. Three tens. The Albino stared in drunken disbelief . Then he – deflated. I swear, it looked like he'd instantly lost at least one hundred pounds as he contemplated the wreckage of his evening.
I raked the chips in. "I love this game!" I exulted to no one in particular.
"So do I." The moment I heard her voice, I was lost.
I don't know what it is about me that leads me to spend most of my free time in seedy bars in the roughest neighborhoods, playing seemingly endless, illegal poker in some grimy backroom. I'm good enough to play the casinos in Vegas or Atlantic City with reasonable success; had done so several times.
Maybe it's the occasional easy mark one encounters in dumps like the Wet Spot; the big casinos are required to protect these chumps from themselves. Or maybe it's the fact that the big casinos tend to get ugly if they think you're winning too much. But I think I'm most turned on by playing in some dark, hot hole in the wall that reeks of cheap tobacco and sweat. It's the excitement of knowing that, if things turn out badly, someone might break a bottle over your head or pull out a switchblade. It's the edginess of places like this that give me such a hard-on. Like the raging boner I experienced the moment I heard her voice. For I like my women the way I like my poker; edgy and dark.
Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. I probably would not have heard her if she weren't standing just behind me, a little to my right. As soft as it was, the voice commanded attention.
She appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties. I've never understood why most men are so hot for girls in their twenties. They may have the bodies – although many of them would die for the body I was staring at now. But those sweet young things haven't read the owner's manual. By the time a woman reaches her late thirties, she's not only read the owner's manual; she's written it.
Her hair was a deep red, wavy, shoulder length. She was dressed in a white silk shirt, the top two buttons open, revealing just enough cleavage to tell me that it would be well worth my time to open the remaining buttons. No bra. Over the shirt she wore a black leather vest that matched her skintight pants. The stiletto heels on her black boots added at least 2" to what I estimated to be her 5' 8" height. Her blue green eyes fixed me with her gaze, boring into my soul. I could feel that familiar melting sensation in the pit of my stomach; she wanted me.
