Turn: the fourth card on the table. A seven of diamonds.
Piotr first out. Added fifteen big ones.
The Sunglass Kid put in thirty grand. Doubled the bet fast as hell.
All eyes on Piotr. Mrado knew: The Polack could have three of a kind, even a full house. Also possible: The guy could be blowing smoke.
Piotr went for it-put all in, 100,000 kronor. A murmur of disbelief swept over the table.
The Sunglass Kid cleared his throat. Fingered his chips.
Mrado eyed Piotr. Was convinced the Polack was bluffing-a brief glitter in his gaze gave him away. Their eyes met. Piotr saw that Mrado knew.
The Sunglass Kid didn’t see. The strong offense turned him yellow.
He folded.
River: the final card-was never dealt.
Mrado thought, The Polack is shooting high tonight. Playing tough with nothing.
Time for the next round.
The game continued.
Deal after deal.
Mrado stayed afloat.
Piotr played aggressively. Berra K. babbled about broads. Distracted. The Sunglass Kid tried to win back what he’d just blown.
After twenty-four deals: Mrado’s hand-the big slick of hearts. A classic in the poker world: an ace and a king. You’ve got a chance to get the best-possible hand, royal straight, and you’ve got the highest cards. And still, you’ve got nothing. Binary: If it flies, you soar; if it crashes, you’re done for.
A single drop of sweat on Mrado’s forehead. Could be his chance. So far, he’d played tight. Piotr, Berra K., and the Sunglass Kid didn’t think he’d put all his chips in without having something. But it could be a trick, too. You play steady, trick everyone into thinking that you never take risks. Then you bluff like Abagnale.
His best opening hand of the night. He made up his mind, for the sake of the companies, to save the Rado situation-bid high.
The drop of sweat lodged itself in Mrado’s eyebrow. So close to a royal straight and still, hardly one in several thousands of a chance.
He twirled a chip around his fingers.
Thought, Let’s do this thing.
Bid five grand.
Berra K. called his bet. Five grand. High-stakes game.
The Sunglass Kid pulled out. Would be crazy to ride out a game this aggressive without really sitting on anything good.
Piotr, with the big blind, raised him. Twenty-five total. Crazy.
Berra K., Mrado, and Piotr all had a sick number of chips in front of them.
Mrado considered: It’s make it or brake it now. He knew the odds; his hand was one of the top ten opening hands you could get in this game.
He looked at Piotr. Didn’t he glimpse that same glitter in his eyes as in the first deal, when the Polack bluffed? The feeling was the same. Piotr was up to something. Mrado was sure of it-the Polack was trying to pull a fast one-it was Mrado’s turn to make it big this time.
He kept going. Twenty into the pot.
Berra K. started prattling again. Jabbered on about other crazy games he’d played and that this one was the craziest one yet. Then he folded. Not surprising.
Mrado faced off against Piotr, waiting for the first cards on the table.
The Sunglass Kid removed his shades; even Berra K. stopped talking. Silence settled around the table.
The flop gave an ace of clubs, a two of diamonds, and a queen of hearts.
Piotr bet another fifteen. Maybe to check Mrado’s pulse. Disgustingly high stakes.
Mrado still had a pair of aces, the best pair you could get. He just had to be in the clear, since he had the highest kicker, the king. And still a chance he could land a royal straight. He kept going. Bet fifteen grand. Called.
He was gonna crush that fuckin’ Polack.
Turn: jack of hearts. Crazy lucky. Mrado still had a chance at a royal straight. He wasn’t going to give up now. And he kept feeling more and more certain: The Polack didn’t have jackshit. The guy was crazy bluffing.
Crazier than crazy.
Piotr raised him another thirty.
Mrado thought he saw that gleam again.
He took the chance-played all in, the rest of the money he had in front of him, 120 grand. All his chips on one board. Prayed to God that he was right, that Piotr was trying to pull a fast one.
Piotr shot back the call, didn’t miss a beat.
The dealer felt the tension around the table. Both Mrado and Piotr turned up their cards.
Everyone around the table leaned in to get a look.
Mrado: almost royal flush, except for the ten of hearts.
Piotr: three aces.
Mrado’s heart sank. The Polack fucker hadn’t bluffed this time. That gleam in his eye was something else-maybe triumph. Mrado’s only chance was that the river contained a ten of hearts.
The dealer took his time with the river. Piotr shifted uneasily in his seat. Everyone in the poker area stopped what they were doing, sensed that something big was about to happen at one of the tables. If Mrado won, he’d rake in over 300,000.
The dealer dealt the card: three of clubs.
Mrado was dead.
The winner: Piotr. Three of a kind. The entire pot. Mrado’d blown 160,000 on one hand. Congrats.
Mrado could hear his own breathing. Felt dazed, got vertigo. Ready to hurl.
Felt the beating of his own heart. Fast, sad beats.
Piotr stacked the chips. Swept them off the table into a cloth bag.
Got up. Left the table.
Someone called Mrado’s name. Ratko was waiting on the other side of the velvet enclosure. More than two hours after the appointed time. Mrado nodded toward him. Turned back to the poker table.
Remained seated, as though in a fog. Felt a flash of heat. He was sweating.
Finally, the dealer turned to him, asked, “Are you in for the next deal?” Mrado knew-for him, a catastrophe had just occurred. For the dealer, it was only a question of when the next round could begin.
Mrado got up. Walked away.
Bobban used to say, “Things happen quick in hockey.” Mrado knew-things happen even quicker in Texas hold ’em. Burned more than 160 grand within an hour. Not his night tonight. He should’ve known. Too many vets at the table.
Ratko stood at a one-armed bandit with his back to the poker table. Fed bills to the machine.
Mrado knocked him on the shoulder. “You were late?”
“Me, late? Sure, but you’ve been playing for over an hour. Made me wait.”
“But you were the one who was late. We were meeting at ten.”
“My apologies. How’d it go?”
Mrado, silent.
Ratko asked again. “That bad?”
“It went so fuckin’ bad, I’m considering throwing myself off the Klaraberg viaduct.”
“My sympathies.”
Mrado remained standing and watched as Ratko played. He was done for. Shouldn’t have played when he was so beat. Money that belonged to the video-rental stores. This couldn’t get out.
Motherfucker.
Ratko fed a final bill to the machine. Pressed the play button. The symbols started spinning.
Mrado’s head was spinning even faster.
28
Back in business. The long-lasting feeling: J-boy, baddest bad boy in town. El choro. Phoenix out of the ashes. Gotten back up after what they thought was a knockout.
His life vacillated between justified hate and high-level blow business. The hate toward Radovan amp; Co.: the ones who’d shredded him. The blow business: his job for Abdulkarim.
But Jorge was the man with the plan; he would break Radovan’s empire once and for all. Make sure the Yugo Mafia got locked up or wiped out. All he needed was more information and time to plan.
R.’s day would come. Jorgelito was mad certain.
Flashbacks.
Jorge’d recovered surprisingly quickly. First, when JW found him in a thousand pieces in the woods, he didn’t clock a thing. Who the hell was this Ostermalm creamer? Buzzing about new markets, blow-biz expansion. Did he want in?
Fifteen minutes of explaining to a busted Latino.