Soon he felt the need to be back there. When his plane came down over the desert he could easily believe that this was a place he’d always known. There were standard methods and routines. Taxi to the casino, taxi back to his hotel. He managed on two meals a day, didn’t require more. The heat pressed into metal and glass, made the streets seem to shimmer. At the table he didn’t study players for tells, didn’t care why they coughed or seemed bored or scratched a forearm. He studied the cards and knew the tendencies. There was that and the blinking woman. He remembered her from the casino downtown, invisible except for the fretful eyes. The blinking was not a tell. It was only who she was, some grown man’s mother firing chips into the pot, blinking in nature’s own arrangement, like a firefly in a field. He drank hard liquor sparingly, nearly not at all, and allowed himself five hours’ sleep, barely aware of setting limits and restrictions. Never occurred to him to light up a cigar, as in the old days, at the old game. He walked through crowded hotel lobbies under hand-painted Sistine ceilings and into the high glare of this or that casino, not looking at people, seeing essentially no one, but every time he boarded a flight he glanced at faces on both sides of the aisle, trying to spot the man or men who might be a danger to them all.
When it happened he wondered why he hadn’t known it would. It happened in one of the high-caste casinos, five hundred players assembled for a no-limit hold ’em tournament with a major buy-in. Over there, at the other end of the room, above the heads at the clustered tables, a man was standing to do a series of flexing exercises, loosen the neck and shoulder muscles, get the blood running. There was an element of pure ritual in his movements, something beyond the functional. He took deep full abdominal breaths, then dipped a hand toward the table and appeared to toss some chips into the pot without glancing at the action that spurred the bet. The man was strangely familiar. What was strange is this, that after the passage of several years someone might look so very different while being unequivocally himself. It had to be Terry Cheng, easing back into his chair now, dropping out of Keith’s line of vision, and of course this is who it was because how could any of this be happening, the poker circuit, the thunderous runs of money, the comped hotel rooms and high competition, without the presence of Terry Cheng.
It wasn’t until the next day, when the woman at the podium was making announcements about available seats at certain tables, that they stood together outside the rail.
Terry Cheng showed a wan smile. He wore tinted glasses and an olive jacket with wide lapels and glossy buttons. The jacket was too large, hanging off his shoulders. He wore loose trousers and hotel slippers, velour, and a silk shirt gone stale with wear.
Keith half expected him to speak in fifth-century Mandarin.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to spot me.”
“You spotted me, I take it.”
“About a week ago,” Terry said.
“And said nothing.”
“You were deep in your game. What would I say? Next time I looked up, you weren’t there.”
“I go to the sports book to relax. Eat a sandwich and drink a beer. I like the action going on around me, all the screens, all the sports. I drink a beer and pretty much ignore it.”
“I like to sit by the waterfall. I order a mild drink. Ten thousand people around me. In the aisles, in the aquarium, in the garden, at the slots. I sip a mild drink.”
Terry seemed to lean left, like a man about to drift toward an exit. He’d lost weight and looked older and spoke in an unfamiliar voice with a scratchy edge.
“You’re staying here.”
“When I’m in town. Rooms are high and wide,” Terry said. “One wall is all window.”
“Costs you nothing.”
“Incidentals.”
“A serious player.”
“I’m in their computer. Everything’s in their computer. Everything’s entered. If you lift an item from the minibar and don’t return it inside sixty seconds it’s charged directly and instantaneously to your account.”
He liked this, Terry did. Keith was undecided.
“When you check in, they give you a map. I still need it, after all this time. I never know where I am. Room service brings tea bags in the shape of pyramids. Everything’s very dimensional. I tell them not to bring me a newspaper. If you don’t read a newspaper, you’re never a day behind.”
They talked a minute longer, then went to their designated tables without making plans to meet later. The idea of later was elusive.
The kid stood at the far end of the table, spreading mustard on bread. She saw no trace of other forms of food.
She said, “I used to have a decent pen. Sort of silverish. Maybe you’ve seen it.”
He stopped and thought, eyes narrow, face going glassy. This meant he’d seen the pen, used it, lost it, given it away or traded it for something stupid.
“We have no serious writing instruments in this house.”
She knew what this sounded like.
“You have a hundred pencils and we have a dozen bad ballpoint pens.”
It sounded like the decline and fall of literate exchange on a surface such as paper. She watched him dip the knife back in the jar and spread the mustard carefully along the borders of the slice of bread.
“What’s wrong with ballpoints?” he said.
“They’re bad.”
“What’s bad about a pencil?”
“All right, pencils. Wood and lead. Pencils are serious. Wood and graphite. Materials from the earth. We respect this about a pencil.”
“Where’s he going this time?”
“ Paris. Major competition. I may join him for a few days.”
He stopped and thought again.
“What happens to me?”
“You live your life. Just be sure to lock the door behind you when you get home after a night of drinking and carousing.”
“Yeah right.”
“Do you know what carousing is?”
“Sort of.”
“Me too. Sort of,” she said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
She stood at the window watching him fold the bread and take a bite. This was whole-grain bread, nine-grain, ten-grain, no trans fat, good source of fiber. She didn’t know what the mustard was.
“What did you do with the pen? Silver pen. You know what I’m talking about.”
“I think he took it.”
“You think what. No, he didn’t. He doesn’t need a pen.”
“He needs to write things. Just like anybody.”
“He didn’t take it.”
“I’m not blaming him. I’m just saying.”
“Not this pen. He didn’t take this pen. So where is it?”
He looked into the tabletop.
“I think he took it. He might not even know he took it. I’m not blaming him.”
He was still standing, bread in hand, and would not look at her.
He said, “I really, honestly think he took it.”
People everywhere, many with cameras.
“You’ve burnished your game,” Terry said.
“Something like that.”
“The situation is going to change. All the attention, the television coverage, the armies of recruits, all soon to fade.”
“That’s good.”
“That’s good,” Terry said.
“We’ll still be here.”
“We’re poker players,” he said.
They sat in the lounge near the waterfall with soft drinks and snacks. Terry Cheng wore the hotel slippers, no socks, and ignored the cigarette that burned in his ashtray.
“There’s an underground game, private game, high stakes, select cities. It’s like a forbidden religion springing up again. Five-card stud and draw.”
“Our old game.”
“There are two games. Phoenix and Dallas. What’s that part of Dallas? Well-to-do.”
“ Highland Park.”
“Well-to-do people, older people, leaders of the community. Know the game, respect the game.”