Dagger Key and Other Stories

The other players responded with shocked “Damns!” and “Holy craps!” Having lost close to half a million on the turn of a card, when there were only a couple of hands that could have beaten him, four sevens or a gutshot straight flush, Ruddle was speechless. Pellerin had been lucky, but he had played the hand so that if the cards were friendly, he was in position to take advantage.

“If you’d re-raised on the turn, I would have folded. Shit, all I had was a draw.” Pellerin began to stack his winnings. “Who was it said Hold Em’s a science, but No Limit is an art? I must be one hell of an artist.” He waved at the bartender. “Jack Black on the rocks. A double.”

I expected Billy to be angry that Pellerin had moved on Ruddle so early in the evening, and I scrunched down so I could see him through the glass of the trophy case. He was sitting placidly, as if watching an episode of The Amazing Race, but I detected a little steam in the way his neck was bowed. Jo caught my eye and we exchanged a disconcerted vibe.

“Yes sir,” Pellerin said expansively. “You might have whupped a bunch of Leroys and Jim Bobs down in Tunica, but this here’s a different world, Frank.”

Ruddle stood and, walking stiffly, left the room. Some of the other gamblers followed him, doubtless to commiserate over the bad beat. Kim called for a short break, and Billy stepped over to me and whispered, “What’s he doing?”

“I’ll find out,” I said.

Billy’s nose was an inch from my face—I could smell his breath mints. “I want the bastard to suffer! You tell him that!”

He went to join the commiserators. I pulled Pellerin aside and told him Billy was upset.

“He’ll get his pound of flesh,” said Pellerin. “This’ll make it easier to manage the game. Ruddle will play tight for a while, and that gives me time to clear out the garbage.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” I whispered. “The guy in the camel blazer’s a hired killer. I know him from New Orleans. Alan Goess.”

“Is he? No lie?” His eyes flicked toward Goess and he smiled. “Hey, guy!” he said to Goess. “How they hanging?”

For a split-second, the real Alan Goess came out from behind his rattlesnake deadboy guise, and I got a hint of his underlying madness; then the curtain closed and he said, “I’m doing well. So are you, from the looks of things.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” said Pellerin. “Yea, I am a troubled soul, but a firm believer in the Light and the Resurrection. How about yourself?”

“’Fraid not,” said Goess. “I’ve never yet seen anyone come back.”

“You just think you haven’t,” Pellerin said, and would have said more, but I hustled him out of the room and told him not to screw around with Goess.

“I got it under control, boss,” he said. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

In the living room, Billy was having a chat with Carl, and Buster had cornered Jo. The other players were huddled up around Ruddle, patting him on the back, saying that Pellerin had been lucky, encouraging him to get back in the game. I gazed out the window toward the Mystery Girl, floating serene and white under the dock lights, impossibly distant.

Ruddle had had more chips than Pellerin, so the beat hadn’t wiped him out; but he didn’t have enough left to compete and he made a second buy-in of a quarter-million. The game resumed, albeit with a less convivial atmosphere. The room, small already, seemed to have shrunk and the men sat hunched and quietly tense under the hanging lamp. Conversation was at a minimum…except for Pellerin. He drank heavily and whenever he won a pot he’d offer up a disparaging comment, engaging the ire of one and all. After taking forty grand off Buster, he said, “Where’d you learn poker, old son? From some guy named Puddin’ in the jock dorm?”

Buster said, “Why don’t you shut up and play cards?”

This notion was seconded by some of the others.

“In case you didn’t notice, I’m playing cards,” said Pellerin. “Damned if I can figure out what you’re playing.”

When Buster won a pot at his expense, he said, “Jesus must love a hillbilly fool.”

I had to admire Pellerin. Though he had a distinct advantage in the game, it took great skill to manipulate the fortunes of six other poker players. Ruddle gradually built his stack, winning back the majority of the chips he had lost. His mood grew sunnier and he began to joke around with the table, but when involved in a hand with Pellerin, he was barely civil, speaking brusquely if at all. By one o’clock, two lesser players had been driven out and another was teetering on the brink, down a quarter of a million, pushing in antes and mucking his cards hand-after-hand. At three-thirty, Buster decided to cut his losses and withdrew.

“Thanks for the contribution, Busted…I mean, Buster,” said Pellerin, grinning hugely. “We going to miss you, sure enough.”