It was an open secret at the Gypsy’s that aside from dealing cards and taking care of the bank, Pratt supplied quality weed to players. On account of that, I first steered clear of him. I had a horror of drug dealers because of Alan. I swore I’d never befriend one.
Would that things in life remained so clear-cut!
It soon became apparent to me that Pratt was a decent guy, despite his avocation. He helped people out when they needed it, giving them money or a place to stay. Unlike some of my erstwhile “society” friends, when Pratt gave his word, he kept it. He didn’t shy away from pals who got into trouble.
It was Pratt who took me aside and told me that I could actually use my “old bag” image to my advantage. He taught me how to play what I call Street Poker, which is about as far from classical, by-the-book poker as breakdancing is from the minuet. I learned that poker on the highest level isn’t really about the cards, and that the greatest players in the game can actually smell fear in their opponents. Convincing bluffing is the real key to a successful poker career. And like pretty much everything in life, poker is about people. You have to know when and whom to bluff.
“Play the player,” Pratt advised me. “Don’t let the player play you.”
Pratt’s taking a big risk having me stay here in his cabin, and I’m very grateful. He doesn’t seem at all concerned I’m on the run. He’s helped felons and fugitives before. He gave me his word he’d help me if the time came, no matter what I’d done. He has a strange honor code, like many of the poker players I’ve met. I always sensed a merry world of criminality bustling all around me at the Gypsy’s. Because I loved poker, I chose to ignore it, never dreaming one day I’d be the most wanted criminal of all.
As I surf the web on Pratt’s computer, I’m amused to see myself referred to as a “folk heroine,” mainly because I shot a rich scumbag and evaded the police for so long. America loves outlaws. Pratt’s in the kitchen sorting marijuana joints and pills into plastic baggies with a person he introduced to me this morning as “Cadillac Dan,” despite the fact the guy drove up here in a beat-up old Ford pickup. Dan seems like an okay guy, although it took me a while to get used to the sight of his jowly face emerging from the primordial sea of prison tats covering his neck and arms. Unlike Pratt, Dan’s a dealer who’s done time. But that’s because he grew up poor. By way of contrast, my brother’s first dealer was his roommate in boarding school—a clean-cut preppy with the face of a choir boy and impeccable manners. Our mother loved him. He got a job in his father’s company after college. But if he hadn’t had money, he’d be in jail.
Surfing around the web, I’m interested to see that Danya Dickert Sunderland has given an exclusive interview to a blogger named Brent Hobbs. It’s been picked up by all the news services. I read the piece very carefully. I especially like the part about the blue satin dress she wore for her wedding to Sun. In fact, she wore a white suit that day. When I finish, I know one thing for sure: This guy Hobbs may have thought Danya was talking only to him.
But, my true blue satin doll, I know you’re really talking to me.
Time to get myself captured.