The bouncer on the door is wearing a neck brace that makes him bend from the waist when he looks down at me.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m looking for a cash game?’
‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘You got proof?’
I shrug off my coat, revealing my dress and boots. I’ve bundled my hair on top of my head, trying to look older.
‘Nice try,’ he says. ‘Piss off!’
I peel off two twenties and slide the notes into his trouser pocket, letting my hand brush over his groin.
‘How old do I look now?’ I whisper.
When he flinches, I duck under his arm, through the doorway and up a set of stairs before he can stop me. The cashier is a large woman with peroxide blonde hair that seems to glow in the dark. She’s sitting in a wooden booth behind a glass window. I hand her the roll of banknotes and watch her count out stacks of coloured chips that she takes from a drawer. Cupping my hand over each stack, I pick up the chips and let them drop through my fingertips, counting by touch.
‘You’ve shorted me.’
‘The house takes five per cent,’ says the cashier. ‘You’re in the Aces High Room. Third door on your right. Toilets are out back. Drinks are extra. You want to nap during games, find a couch. They can’t be reserved.’
I take my chips and move along the corridor, not bothering to knock before entering. Nobody looks up. Four men are sitting at a green baize table in a circle of bright light and a haze of cigarette smoke. Each has a pile of chips in front of him and tumblers of various spirits. The dealer is a young woman, perched on a stool.
I clear my throat.
The dealer eyes me curiously. ‘Hello, Sunshine, you’re new. Are you waiting for someone?’
‘No, I’m here to play.’
One of the men laughs. ‘Go home and watch Sesame Street.’
The dealer kicks him under the table. ‘Where are your manners?’
The fat man rubs his shin and fetches a chair from against the wall, positioning it next to him.
‘You sit right here, young lady,’ he says, pretending to dust the seat. ‘You’re going to bring me luck.’
‘You need more than luck – you need divine intervention,’ says a large black man with tight curly hair and a small emerald stud in his left ear.
A third man is wearing sunglasses that seem to swallow half his face and a T-shirt that says: I COULD GIVE UP GAMBLING, BUT I’M NO QUITTER. He continues the conversation. ‘You’re so unlucky – if you fell in a sack full of tits, you’d come up sucking your thumb.’
A fourth man interrupts, his voice shaking the room. ‘Why don’t you all shut up and play the fucking game!’
His face is drooping on one side as though collapsing in on itself, while the other side is so animated that one eye sparks dangerously.
‘What are you staring at?’
I look away, wishing I could un-see the image.
The dealer leans closer. ‘Don’t you worry about Barnum – he’s all bark and no bite.’
‘All jacks and no aces,’ says the fat man, who blows his nose on a tissue and shoves it into the pocket of a shapeless jacket.
The dealer is in her late twenties, dressed in black trousers and a white blouse. ‘I’m Katelyn,’ she says. ‘You want something to drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Come on, have a drink,’ says the black man, holding up a bottle of Scotch. ‘I’m Livingstone.’
‘Don’t force her,’ says the fat man, whose paunch is like a pregnancy.
‘Deal the fucking cards,’ says Barnum, drumming his manicured fingers on the baize.
‘We’re playing Texas hold ’em,’ says Katelyn. ‘No limit. The buy-in is two thousand. The blinds are ten and twenty.’
I arrange my chips on the table in order of value, so that I can see at a glance exactly how much money I’ve won or lost. The first hands are playing quickly as I feel my way into the game. Even when I draw strong hole cards, I fold quickly, letting others fight for the pot.
The fat man is easy to read. He talks too much and fidgets, constantly counting and re-counting his chips. Shades is also an open book because he procrastinates before making each bet and always checks on the river. Livingstone reveals himself through his superstitions, betting from a different pile of chips depending on the strength of his hand. Barnum is the wildcard because of his drooping face and his impatience, constantly trying to speed up the game. He’s the kind of player who waits until he has good hole cards before committing himself to a hand, but reacts carefully, often betting or raising before the flop, but folding quickly if it threatens him in any way.
Two hours later, I’m five hundred pounds to the good, having won regularly but never too much. Each of them has tried to bluff at some point. I let them go. Folded. Watched.
Midnight comes. The game is down to four because the fat man has gone home. I’ve doubled my initial stake. More. ‘That’s it for me,’ I say, getting up from the table.
‘What’s wrong, girlie? Past your bedtime?’ says Barnum.
‘Let her go,’ says Livingstone.
‘She’s taken all our money, so she can stay for one more hand –
what’s the harm?’
‘Don’t let him bully you,’ says Katelyn.
I know I should quit while I’m ahead, but I’m well ahead. Retaking my seat, I watch the hole cards being dealt. I get a pair: two nines. Barnum pushes a stack of chips into the centre without counting them. He’s making a play, keeping his eyes fixed on mine, challenging me, but he’s got nothing. Zilch. A clumsy bluff.
I match his wager and wait for the flop cards, which give me another nine.
Barnum isn’t looking at me now. Instead, he lifts and drops a stack of chips, counting them between his fingers. He pushes one stack into the centre . . . then another. Three thousand pounds.
I hear Katelyn’s intake of breath. A voice inside my head tells me to fold, to walk away, to pocket my winnings. Don’t play this game. Don’t trust this man. I look at the pot. I could run a long way with that much money. I could set myself up.
‘Come on, girlie, show us what you’re made of,’ Barnum brays.
I don’t like him, but I can’t let that influence me.
His head is down. His hands are covering his cards. I want him to look at me. I need to see his face.
‘Are you going to grow a pair, or fold?’ he says, tilting his head. His good eye catches the light.
I push my chips into the centre of the table, all of them.
The mood in the room has changed. This is no longer a game. It’s combat.
The river card is dealt – the jack of spades. Barnum throws back his head and laughs. Something is wrong.
‘All jacks and no aces, eh?’ he says, sliding his hands away from his cards and flipping them over. He has three jacks.
I don’t bother turning my cards. I get up from the table and take my coat from my chair.
‘You played a good game, but you got schooled,’ says Barnum.
I turn slowly and whisper, ‘You cheated.’
Air leaves the room like a lung collapsing.
Barnum gets to his feet, growling, ‘What did you say?’