Originally published in somewhat different form as “Social Climbing,” one of four stories published under the pseudonym Thomas Sparrow in his 1999 debut Northwoods Pulp: Four Tales of Crime and Weirdness and later translated into Japanese and published by Fushosha.
https://bluestonesblog.com/category/dead-low-winter-excerpts/
EXCERPT 5
Peter McKay’s chips lay on the table in neat little equal size stacks and his gaze was fixed on the Greek. Peter was trying to look into the little man’s eyes but Miko got up and walked over to the leather-covered bar along the back wall and poured himself a shot of Petri brandy in a lowball glass. Nick always bought rotgut liquor for these games.
Now old Pete pursed his lips and made a noise in his throat that sounded like hem and brought his cards in close to his body. After studying each player with his prying eyes, he slowly counted out enough chips for the call and slid them in the pot, peering around the table once again.
Sometimes I swore the bastard was fixing on me. All night long when I eyeballed him he had this weird glazed look on his pasty face. Seemed like he was checking me out. But it made sense; I was the dealer.
Sam Cross plucked an unopened Marlboro box from the table and tapped it three times hard against the palm of his hand. He removed the cellophane, tore a hole in the bottom of the box, shook out a cig and left the flip-top unopened. He rolled the unlit cig in his fingers, stared at the pot, avoided Nick’s gaze and checked his cards. Then he brushed the ash off his beard, counted out two-fifty worth of chips and quietly called.
Nick’s face was red, matching fifty percent of his checkerboard wool L.L. Bean shirt. Maybe some gray hairs were popping out. He rubbed his temples like maybe there was an aneurysm. I wasn’t sure if it was one of his signals or the onset of a stroke.
Mayor McKay said, “Too rich for my blood, I’m afraid. Even though I had trips—I’m done. The cards were bound to loosen up. That’s the last hand for me gentlemen.” He flipped his cards over to me then leaned back and sighed.
Nick—who seemed to be about to swallow his tongue—gripped tightly at the front of his shirt and glumly slid in his chips. “Call,” he said with a weak rasp.
Now Miko was back in his dark captain’s chair looking like John Barrymore waiting for the right dramatic moment. His chest seemed to swell as he looked around at the remaining challengers and proudly slapped his cards down.
Aces over eights, full.
“Full house,” Miko said, big smile on his face. “Beat this, you mothers.”
“FUCK,” Nick screamed at the top of his lungs. “Ace-high flush and I fucking lose. GODDAMNIT.” He tossed his cards in Sam’s direction, stood up and stormed across the room to the bar. He stood there chugging from the Petri bottle and swearing to himself.
“Beats me,” Peter McKay said, smiling. “I’m afraid it’s a bad end to a good evening.” He flipped his cards over toward me, turned and looked smug.
All eyes went to Sam Cross.
Sam could hardly contain his glee. His body jerked with suppressed laughter as he plopped down his four sevens. Little bursts of air squeaked out the sides of his pressed-tight lips as he raked in the monster pot with both arms.
Miko groaned and his body went limp; he sank down into the chair in utter defeat.
Ain’t it funny how the lucky ones stay lucky and the rest of us keep losing.
(To be continued)
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