CHAPTER

6

PHOEBE LOVED THE sounds of the game, the shuffle of the cards, the sifting of chips, the occasional snap of a beer can popping open, the strike of a match, the sizzling tobacco of a fresh cigar. She couldn’t remember when she’d been up this late in the company of men who weren’t wearing uniforms. It almost felt like old times.

She had arrived at Keating’s house at five minutes to eight. Keating’s two-story Tudor and its sweeping roofline sat at the end of a long drive with the usual rides parked along the street: Cadillacs, Lincolns, and a sleek black Lexus. While they poured drinks, she made her way to the game room, took her place at the center of the table, and waited. She felt sure it wasn’t a parole violation to deal a poker game at a judge’s house, but she’d been in the system long enough to know that anything could land her in lockup if she came up against a pissed-off cop with a hard-on for trouble. Still, it was a chance she had to take. When Toby had come to the diner with the message that Jamie was going to miss dealing a big game at Judge Keating’s, Phoebe had seen it as an opportunity to do something to help her daughter, maybe build a little goodwill. Loyal would be angry at the change, but he might go easy on the girl if he had a decent night. She could throw him a few good cards for the sake of family peace. Besides, as much as she despised him, she owed him for taking in her kids when she’d gone away.

“I took a cut for the dealer,” Keating said, handing Phoebe some folded twenties as the men took their seats at the table.

Introductions were quick. Most of the players, Phoebe guessed, were men immune to losing money at poker from years of excursions to Atlantic City or Las Vegas. Three were from out of town and wouldn’t know her or her history, or that when she wanted to, she could pull an ace out of thin air.

Six players, six thousand dollars less the dealer pay. Unless someone busted out early and bought back in. She pegged the linebacker for that. Pocket money for Keating and Loyal. The rancher and the state rep probably had the good sense to see their attendance here as just another hazing ritual along their climb to power. An invitation to Keating’s home game was an honor, and everyone expected a few laughs even if all they left with was a sick story about a bad beat. Hardly anyone was stupid enough to expect to win, but whichever way the night went, they’d all remember the moment when their luck ran cold.

The big guy seated directly across from her was TJ Bangor, a retired NFL tight end who said he was in town to deliver a motivational speech to the men’s breakfast club at the Methodist church. Phoebe had to smile. Beating a guy like that would mean lifetime bragging rights to any man in this room.

And, of course, there was a cop. There was always a cop. Carl Garcia sat in the chair to her right looking just like a detective—mousy hair, dull eyes, faded plaid shirt—but fit and muscular like a cop with ambition. She’d throw him some good cards to keep him happy. Chances were he was a decent player. Cops in Blind River sat on their butts a lot down at the precinct. Poker was their favorite pastime.

“We’ll call the game at twelve o’clock. Winner takes all,” Phoebe said, and cut the deck. “Keep your cards on the table where I can see them, please. Good luck, gentlemen.”

A cloud of smoke already hovered beneath the paneled ceiling. Someone lit another Cuban. Phoebe breathed it in and watched as Loyal reached over and took one for himself from the humidor on the bar. She shuffled the deck twice, then dealt the hole cards.

She’d rummaged up a white button-down shirt and black vest and looked as legit as the pretty young dealers she’d seen in Atlantic City all those years ago. But she wasn’t a girl anymore. A girl could get away with almost anything when it came to poker and grown men, but prison had left her run down. Bad food, bad health care. Her left eye drooped a little now—an injury from a fight over a bottle of ketchup. She sat up a little straighter realizing she still had good posture and was glad she’d had the foresight to buy some blush and lipstick from the drugstore last week.

Keating checked his cards and threw two chips in the pot. Loyal adjusted the extra weight that hung over his belt buckle and glanced over at her. She hadn’t looked him in the eye yet, hated him despite how he’d stepped up for the kids. She dealt him a pair of jacks and watched as he calmly trimmed the ash from his cigar.

She held the deck in her hand and looked at the wall to her right while the action made its way clockwise around the table.

When it was Loyal’s turn to bet, he stared stubbornly into space long enough that she had to say something. “The action’s on you, sir.”

Her eyes finally met his and she remembered the day, more than twenty years ago, when Jimmy had brought her home the day after they’d crossed the state line and eloped. Loyal had done nothing when his father sucker-punched Jimmy and screamed that he’d married trash. Things were never the same after that and even though Jimmy had never held a grudge against his little brother, Phoebe had. In all the years since then, she and Loyal had barely spoken to each other.

Keating knocked a knuckle on the felt and said, “Check or bet.”

“Raise.” Loyal threw two black chips into the middle, but no one wanted the action and he took the pot.

Phoebe pushed the chips toward him and said, “The raiser wins.”

After an hour she’d worked Keating’s deck to where she could read the cards like Braille, softened the corners on the aces, split the corners on the kings with her thumbnail. Queens got dented with a fingernail halfway down the side; jacks got the same indentation at the top. She barely had to glance at the cards when she turned them faceup on the table to know what had hit the flop, the turn, or the river.

The whiskey flowed. The rancher and the politician got tanked early and didn’t put up much of a fight. They busted out in consecutive hands to Keating and neither seemed to care as they drifted out of the house.

The detective made her uneasy, but it was time to cast to the shallow end. She sent him a king/jack and watched him suppress a smile and swallow some whiskey when TJ, that big football player, bet a hundred dollars before the flop. She glanced over at TJ’s cards, saw the warped corner of an ace, and gave him a little credit for trying to steal the hand with a single ace. The other men bailed but Garcia called the bet. Phoebe stuck another ace on the flop along with a jack and watched TJ’s pupils dilate like he’d fallen in love. He bet two hundred on the aces but Garcia called with the two jacks. The turn was a three and TJ bet another two hundred. Garcia stayed with him. When Phoebe stuck a third jack on the river and Garcia won with a set, TJ threw his aces in the muck, poured himself more whiskey, and tried not to pout.

“Bad beat,” Garcia said.

It was a typical nice-guy comment and Phoebe smiled because, deep down, she knew he had to be thrilled.

“That a Super Bowl ring?” Garcia asked.

“Yep.” A bet like that was nothing to a man like TJ and he played it cool. He was easily the largest man at the table and could have bullied anyone here. She wondered how many concussions he’d had in his twenty-year career and if he’d keep his cool after getting fleeced by Keating and Loyal. There was no way he would know what was coming.

Keating said, “I saw a guy throw his wedding ring in the middle once. He was out of money and had a full house. Another guy had four kings, but he folded because he was worried that the guy’s wife came with the pot.”

Everyone laughed like they’d never heard the joke before. Phoebe shuffled the deck, but she was thinking about the next hand. She’d throw some good cards to TJ, put a smile back on his face. He’d bounce out soon enough on his own accord, but a guy like TJ would get his wallet out and get back in the game. He was still famous enough that his misery wouldn’t be too pathetic. In fact, it would keep the night interesting. She remembered the play in his rookie year—hell, the whole country remembered that play. He was older now, his face gray and washed out. Probably spent a lot of time in card rooms. But it was stupid to come to this town and play this home game, a game that had been around for decades. What did he expect but to lose everything in his wallet?

Keating poured another tumbler of whiskey and passed the bottle around the table. With the whiskey flowing and the cards flying, the conversation turned, inevitably, to luck. She stifled a yawn. When it came to luck, poker players always had opinions.

“I’ve had my share of it,” the tight end said, dropping his poker face, “but there is no luck without preparation, gentlemen. Every game I’ve ever won was the result of hard work.”

Phoebe assumed he was borrowing material from the motivational speech he was known for on the church circuit. She stopped her eyes from rolling by staring at an old scar on the back of her hand. She’d stopped philosophizing about luck a long time ago when she’d learned the mechanics of dealing and started sending men into the night questioning their very existence. God? Luck? Fate? Men might not want to believe it, but none of that mattered in poker. Not when the deck was stacked. Not when she could place any card in any player’s hand any time she wanted. The longer TJ talked, the harder she stared at that scar.

“Luck is a hard nut.” Keating rapped the table with his knuckles and drained the whiskey from his glass. “I’ve seen the whole of someone’s life hanging by a thread, and I’ve snipped that thread myself a time or two in my courtroom. But, TJ, my friend, you’ve always had Lady Luck by the tail. Let’s get the country boy’s view on luck, shall we?” Keating leaned back in his chair and rested his eyes on Loyal. “Surely, the old dog has given it some thought.”

Loyal twisted his head until his neck popped. “I guess I don’t know much about luck, but what TJ says makes sense. Work hard and say your prayers. You’ll be okay.”

“Ha!” Keating motioned toward Loyal. “Didn’t take you for a praying man.”

Phoebe caught the lift and fall of Keating’s eyebrow, the smirk on his face. The two men stared at each other briefly. Loyal stretched and tensed his fingers, showing the true size of his fist. She’d seen this before. Good cop, bad cop, getting feisty with each other. No one would suspect they were in this together.

Garcia peeked at his cards and said, “As far as I can tell, luck is as reliable as a stripper on meth.” He pushed his chips to the middle. “I’m all in and I’d feel better about it if someone would pass me that bottle.”

“I call,” TJ said, and flipped over eights.

Garcia had sevens.

The hand played out and the cop busted. He pushed back from the table. “Guess I should’ve saved my money for the big tournament this weekend.”

“Buy back in. It’s too early to leave,” TJ said, a slur sliding through his words.

The cop poured himself a shot and said, “I’m a public servant. I don’t have another thousand.”

TJ stacked his chips. “I hate pushing someone out of the game so fast. Come on, Judge, let him back in. And someone tell me about this big tournament. Maybe I’ll stay in town a few extra days.”

Phoebe took her time gathering the cards while Keating decided.

“Normally, I don’t do this.” He tapped the ash off his cigar. “But I have a soft spot in my heart for public servants, especially ones that move here from out of town to serve in Blind River. I’ll front you two hundred chips.” He smiled when he slid twenty black chips to Garcia. “My treat. You came down from Albany, right? What brought you down our way?”

“Been here five years, sir. But it still feels brand new.” He downed the whiskey.

“Seems I remember hearing some story about the feds stepping in and cleaning house, getting rid of deadweight. You part of that?”

“I was there about that time.” Garcia poured another whiskey. “A new judge came to town. You know how that can go.”

“I know you ended up here, divorced.” Keating’s face was deadpan and it seemed the air got still.

The men waited, shifting their eyes at each other, until Garcia cleared his throat and said, “I did indeed.”

Phoebe figured he’d been invited to be educated on exactly who ran this town and knew Keating had made his point when he changed the subject. “Our annual poker tournament is a fund-raiser, Mr. Bangor. For our local veterans. It’d be a great honor for you to appear if you’re still in town.”

If Loyal asked her to deal at the tournament she’d come face to face with every boy she’d dated in high school and skip a shift at the diner. But she’d have to agree. She owed him that much.

Keating waved his hand toward Phoebe. “Shuffle up and deal, please. These boys are getting bored.”

TJ started out with a hundred-dollar bet. A two/six/seven came on the flop and both men liked their hands enough to bet another hundred. The turn was a four. TJ was too drunk to see there was a straight on the board and pushed all in. Loyal called him and an eight hit the river.

“My nines good?” TJ asked, flipping his cards over.

“Not against my straight,” Loyal said. “Sorry, buddy.”

“Goddamnit,” TJ said distractedly, and swayed a little in his chair.

Phoebe had seen it a thousand times before. When luck failed, God got cursed. She pushed the pot to Loyal.

“I’m down to two hundred,” TJ said, and bought in for another thousand like she’d expected.

“Lots of bad beats tonight,” Keating said, reaching for the whiskey. He poured his glass full and pushed the bottle toward TJ. “Take heart, buddy. Luck changes with the wind.”

The whiskey was starting to show in their eyes and on their faces. They were all drunk enough to snap if they saw her fish a card off the bottom of the deck. She still had it, the ability to stick the cards when and where she wanted, but her hand was starting to cramp. She dropped it beneath the table, stretched and rubbed her fingers. The whiskey smelled good. A little sip would be okay, but she stifled that yearning and dealt the cards. Maybe she’d slip a beer in her coat pocket on the way out the door.

Empty beer cans and whiskey bottles sat on the bar. They’d gone through five bags of chips and pretzels. It was near midnight when Keating said, “Final hand, boys,” and split the last of the whiskey between the four remaining players. Phoebe knew it was time to wind things up with a big hand when Keating smiled at her and said, “Cheers.”

It was a genuine smile and she took it to mean she’d done an adequate job. Then his eyes rested briefly on her chest and she wondered if he’d meant something else.

Keating had twice the chips as TJ. Garcia had tripled the two hundred chips Keating had extended him on goodwill. Loyal was down to fifteen black chips.

She was tired, but she had one more show to put on. It was time to bring the night to an end, so she chugged her bottle of water and sent the hole cards flying.

Garcia shoved all-in and so did Loyal. TJ called them both and Keating followed along.

She laid out the flop, an open-ended straight.

Garcia and Loyal groaned at the same time and mucked their cards.

TJ was dead serious as he shoved all his chips into the middle.

“I’m all in, too,” Keating said. “And I’ve got you covered.”

Phoebe glanced at their stacks and figured Keating had twice what TJ had. She started to turn the last card, but TJ held up his hand to stop her. He contemplated his cards and she could almost hear the booze washing through his frontal lobes. “Side bet,” he said, and started to pull out his wallet.

Keating grabbed his wrist and said, “No, no. Your money’s no good on this hand.”

“What do you mean, no? I’m going to cover your bet with cash. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“House rules,” Loyal said. “You can’t add cash to the pot after the hand’s been dealt.”

Keating let go of his wrist and tapped his forefinger on the table. “You want to cover that bet, you got to use what’s already on the table.”

“Everything I got is already in the pot.”

“Not everything.” Keating pointed with his chin. “You got that ring.”

“This?” TJ laughed, his bloodshot eyes going wide. “My Super Bowl ring?”

Phoebe’s grip tightened on the deck of cards. Her hand cramped. She’d been staring at that ring, had never seen one with so many stones. Only a drunk would use it to cover a bet, but she’d seen some crazy bets go down between inmates—like the time two upstate girls went after each other with blades over a bar of soap.

Keating, seemingly unfazed by all the booze he’d sucked down, said, “Yeah. You’ve been flashing it all night. In my house you only bet what’s on the table.”

“It’s late,” Loyal said. “What’s it gonna be?”

TJ stared at the ring, wagged his head from side to side. He drained his glass and lifted his chin toward Keating. “Normally, I’d say no, but I got the best hand and I’m not letting you bluff me off it.” He worked the ring off his finger and set it on top of chips.

The diamonds caught the overhead light. Lots of diamonds, lots of gold.

“Show me a winner,” Keating said and motioned to Phoebe.

She turned the last card. Her hand ached with the motion, but she managed to pull the ace off the bottom of the deck. It snagged on the top card that was slightly out of place, but she recovered quickly and landed it on the table. She felt sure TJ had missed the fumble.

“Turn them over, gentlemen,” she said, staring hard at the green felt.

Keating turned his cards over first. The ace gave him a full house.

TJ sank into his chair. His straight was beat.

Loyal and Garcia pushed back from the table like they didn’t want any part of what happened next. Phoebe set the deck down but kept her hands in front of her just in case a fist came flying.

TJ slammed his hand on the table and the ring tumbled toward Keating. When Keating chuckled, Phoebe thought the whole thing might have been a joke, but he picked it up and slipped it over a knuckle, inspecting its facets in the overhead light.

“You know I can’t let you keep that,” TJ said, and reached his palm across the table.

“What did you say earlier about speaking at the Methodist church? Seems to me you’re a man of your word, isn’t that so?”

“I am a man of my word, sir. But I want that ring back.”

“A man of his word only bets what he can afford to lose, and when he loses he takes responsibility for his actions.”

TJ’s jaw went slack as his face shifted, and he went pale for the second time that night.

Keating took the ring off and said, “I shouldn’t gloat.” He put the ring in his breast pocket. “Don’t worry, son. I’ll keep her safe.”

TJ shook his head and pointed a finger at Phoebe. “That ace come off the top?”

Keating used his courtroom tone. “Don’t blame her; she dealt those cards straight.”

“You paid her though.”

“She got paid out of the buy-ins.”

“But you picked her.”

“I hired her for the evening. Nobody made you place that bet. You lost fair and square.”

“I want to hear her say it.” He leaned over the table toward Phoebe, his breath foul with whiskey and cigars. “Lady, say you didn’t cheat me. Say it in front of the cop.” He motioned toward Garcia.

Keating raised his voice and stood up. “I’m telling you, there’s no cheating in my house.”

TJ pushed himself upright, but it took a moment for his feet to move. Phoebe watched him carefully. A man that big and drunk could take this place apart in seconds. He picked up his coat and turned toward the door. “Cheat,” he said with as much scorn as the booze made possible, and walked out of the room.

It made her queasy to think she’d been part of that hand. The ring was worth thousands, enough to elevate a charge to grand larceny. She took her time collecting the chips and placing them back in their case, hoping to give TJ plenty of time to get to his car and drive into the night, hoping the cop hadn’t been watching too closely when that last ace appeared.

Garcia stood. “I don’t think he should be driving.”

The front door slammed shut. Keating raised his voice. “Leave him alone. He’s a grown man.”

Garcia draped his coat over his shoulder, looked toward the hall, and asked Keating, “Are you really going to keep that thing?”

“I won it fair and square.” He reached out and shook Garcia’s hand. “Thanks for coming tonight, son. It’s always nice to have someone from downtown in my home.”

The implication was clear. Keating meant to use the cop’s presence to prove the game had been legit. He’d invited the cop and expected loyalty in return. It chilled her, how effortlessly some men wielded power.

Garcia shook his head. “Thanks for inviting me, but what are you going to do with it?”

“Add it to my collection of priceless items handed to me over the years by drunk men,” he said. “But first, I’ll get it appraised.”

A car engine started up outside, tires squealed.

“Let’s go,” Loyal said. He pointed at Phoebe. “You’re square with her?”

Keating’s eyes slid from her cleavage to her mouth. “Of course. I always treat the ladies right.”

The look he gave her made Phoebe wonder if she should stay behind a minute, see what might come of things. It had been so long. His hair was gray, but it was full, and his belly wasn’t as big as most men his age. As far as she knew he’d never married, never had kids. This house was too big for one person. Maybe he was lonely, too. But then he yawned and she reconsidered. It had been too many years anyway. Maybe if he gave her that same look another time, like in the diner when he dropped in each morning to fill his thermos with coffee. Maybe then, but not tonight. She buttoned her coat and followed Loyal and Garcia outside.

Low-slung oak trees lined the avenue. Streetlights glowed in the cold night air. Garcia offered them a ride.

She’d die before she ever rode in a car with a cop again. “No, thanks, I need the exercise.” The three of them walked to the end of the drive.

“I’m just over there,” Loyal said, pointing his key fob. A truck made an awful honk and its parking lights flashed obnoxiously.

“New Dodge?” Garcia asked.

“Yeah,” Loyal said.

“Nice.” The cop jiggled his car keys. It was obvious that he’d been upset by that last bet and wasn’t ready to let it go.

“Man, you ever see anything like that?” Garcia asked.

“Like what?” Loyal asked. “A straight beat by a full house?”

“Not that,” Garcia said, his voice incredulous. “He took that man’s ring.”

The two men stood under the street light. Garcia shook a cigarette from his pack, lit it, and offered one to Loyal.

“I think he took a lot more than his ring,” Loyal said, tipping his chin and exhaling a cloud of smoke over the cop’s head.

The cop scraped his shoe against the curb. “What do you mean?”

“The way I see it,” Loyal said, climbing into his truck, “he took his soul.”

Phoebe started walking. Their doors slammed shut, the engines started up. She jammed her hands deep into her pockets and picked up her pace for the dark walk home.