I note how he leaves off the part about me needing to fight for her and take a breath. Good to know that’s off the table. Whatever it was.
“Interesting wager. Are we all playing for the same thing? Because—and I mean no offense—but I’m not interested in your woman.” Mr. Y glances around the room. “How about first choice at the auction?”
“First choice?” Mr. B perks up. “How would that work? It’s an auction.”
Mr. Y and Mr. B have been eyeing the same two girls the entire week. No doubt there will be fierce bidding between them tomorrow.
“Hm, now that is interesting.” Benefield leans back and pulls at his chin. “How about this, whoever wins gets to choose whatever girl he wants.” His sharp gaze makes a sweep of the table. “No bidding. No auction.”
“At what price?” Mr. B glances around the room. His attention focuses on the girl Mr. Y had bobbing between his legs.
“No price. The winner wins the girl of his choosing.”
“Now, I like that.” Mr. H cracks his knuckles and shifts in his seat. “Let’s play.”
With us all around the table, and the stakes clearly stated, Benefield gives a snap of his fingers. The girls detach themselves from the wall. They bring drinks and stand at attention for any demand placed upon them. The speed with which they respond to commands sours my stomach. No woman should ever be trained to perform like an animal.
I push away the girl who tries to give me a neck massage. That’s a distraction I don’t need.
“High card takes the deal.” Benefield taps the deck in front of him. With everyone seated, Benefield tosses out seven cards face up.
I get the two of clubs, while Mr. H draws an ace. Benefield hands over the pack of cards to Mr. H while we all toss our single cards toward him.
“Let’s do this.” Mr. H looks to Mr. J, who sits immediately clockwise to him. “Ante up.”
Mr. J places the small blind, the first forced bet of the game. Sitting next to him, Mr. B tosses in his chips. We all add our ante to the pot and Mr. H deals two cards, face down. Betting begins.
We all check, declining to bet. Keeping our cards, we wait for the flop, the first three cards dealt face-up. These are community cards we all get to draw from in making our best five-card hand.
Betting begins on the flop with Mr. J, who sits to Mr. H’s left. Mr. J checks. Mr. B places his bet. Mr. Q meets the bet, declining to raise. Benefield tosses in his chips, staying in the game. Mr. Y does the same, as do I.
With betting completed for the flop, the fourth card is dealt face up. We go around again, checking, betting, raising until that round concludes. I hold a shit hand, two minor cards that don’t match anything on the table, but I’m good with losing for now.
We continue to play, nothing serious, as each of us settle into our game. Texas Hold’em is not a game of chance, nor is it a game of skill. It’s a game of incomplete information. In this, it’s not much different from everyday life.
At the start, I know very little. Nothing about the cards the other players hold, and very little about them. I draw on the past week, knowing the general personalities of the men around me to base decisions upon, but that’s not good enough. I need to learn how each of them plays at the table.
With each hand, I accumulate more knowledge. I learn enough to guess at the cards they hold and how aggressively they play.
It’s Benefield’s turn as the dealer. He shuffles the deck while we ante up. He deals us each two cards, ending with his cards, then he places the deck on the table. We bet pre-flop before the dealer turns up the first three cards.
Mr. Y, who’s first to bet this round, drags his cards to the edge of the table and peeks at what he holds. The girl in his lap shifts, tightening her grip on his shirt. He places his bet.
I’m next. I look at my cards, queen of spades and a five of hearts. Not even the same suit, but I might be able to do something with it depending on what’s on the table. I check, staying in the game, and betting continues around the table.
Mr. H, sitting next to me, checks as well. No surprise there. He’s cocky and arrogant, but I respect his game. I nail his tells, those that are real and those that are pretend, like the way he gnaws at the end of that cigar. An aggressive player, he calls no matter what. He’s got experience, but I’m far better than him.
Mr. J, our banker friend, is as miserly with his chips as he probably is with the rest of his money. He’s got skill. A player to watch, but ultimately, he’ll bow out when the pressure rises. For now, he makes the first bet of this round.
Mr. B looks at his cards as if they’ll bite him and he handles his chips like they’re precious. He folds. Either the man doesn’t know how to play, or he’s stringing us along. One thing I notice is bigger bets make his play more chaotic.
Mr. Q, our beady little rat man, continues to lick his lips with anticipation. A nervous individual, he constantly wipes his hands on his pants. He does it with a good hand as well as a bad hand, which tells me it’s an ingrained habit and not a tell. What is his tell is the way he twists his wedding band, the one missing a stone. He hasn’t replaced it for a reason, not that I care.
One of the things which made me an excellent operator in the military, and now as a Guardian, is my ability to get a read on people with very limited information.
Give me a minute with a person, and I can tell you how they’re going to react. Poker is no different. I lose several hands, on purpose, to learn about the players. Sometimes it’s worth losing to extract information that will be extremely valuable later on.
The one person I can’t read at all is the psychopath sitting nearly opposite me. The man is stone cold. Benefield, unpredictable and chaotic, doubles the bet.
Mr. Y plays with a girl propped in his lap. The very same girl Mr. B wants to add to his stable of slaves. Y’s head isn’t in the game. He’s more interested in the girl on his lap than playing cards.
He’s the first to fold and excuses himself back to the couches. It’s no surprise when he takes the girl with him and sets up for round two of fellatio. Fucking putz. I want to beat him to a pulp for what he’s doing.
Mr. B’s poker game improves as the night wears on. Either he’s learning as he goes or threw those first few games on purpose.
Mr. H holds his own, losing as much as he wins. On the balance, it’s enough to keep him in the game.
Mr. Q drops out a few hands later when he loses a particularly large pot. Mr. B sits taller as he rakes in more and more chips. Time to pay a little more attention to him rather than Benefield. I can’t ignore a legitimate risk, but B falls flat on his face two rounds later. He’s out of the game.
A new round is dealt, and I settle in to win. This may not be a battle fought with knives and bullets, but it’s a battle just the same. Eve’s future is at risk. I’ve got a ten and an eight, both hearts. It’s not much.
Benefield continues with his unreadable poker face and I swear he’s hiding a smirk. He’s smug about his game, but that’s okay.
Mr. B, although out of the game, remains at the table. He glances over at Mr. Y and the girl they both want. He turns his attention to Benefield. “Where do you get your girls?”
“Why?” Benefield caresses his chips. He has something.