"If you say so, Mick." His expression said he didn't believe a word of it, but that still didn't stop him from trying to break all of my fingers with his farewell handshake.
THE GAME WAS IN THE Red Room, a VIP private player's lounge at the Pale Horse. Dim lights, soft carpeting, and a single table where the high rollers came to play. Tiny drones hummed silently overhead, recording every move, every facial tick, every card shuffle. The entranceway doubled as an x-ray scanner, preventing any cybernetic augmentations to enter the vicinity. As I walked in, security was dragging away some skel in a cheap suit that had just been nabbed trying to get into the game with enhanced pupils. His frightened gaze caught mine as we passed; two men going opposite directions in more ways than one. That's what life was like in Bayside. Divided unequally, but in only two camps: winners and losers.
Six other players waited with Faye at the table. They were a wildly diverse assortment of characters. I recognized No-Nose Nate, a flamboyant capo from the Flacco crime family. His tailored glad rags were on point, but he contrasted the dark threads with the loudest canary yellow — from his tie and hankie set to the hatband on his Trilby. His prosthetic nose was plated in the finest silver, which glinted as if newly polished, throwing flickers of light across the room.
There was Steve Cash, a corporate scumbag who made a fortune manipulating stocks and laundering dibs for unsavory customers. He wore casual rags and oversized shades to cover the fact he was in over his head among the current crop of players.
Dick Styles was an edgy fashion designer popular with the brat crowd, playing renegade with urban wear that got most of his clientele profiled by the cops. His personal style was the polar opposite — elegant in a velvet smoking jacket over his tweed vest and slacks. He chatted amicably with Dean Norton, a premier film actor with a penchant for daredevil behavior.
The group was rounded out by Harry Gutierrez, a tiny woman with a pixie cut and stylish tuxedo who happened to be the proprietor of the most popular underground gambling ring in New Haven. She was known to come up for air in a legal game on rare occasions, usually to clean her opponents out.
Faye was already there when I showed up. Her expression remained cool, fixed in flawless nonchalance, but I saw the flicker of relief in her eyes. She didn't know if I was going to make it or not. Felt good to surprise her.
The dealer was a synoid named Felix. Tall, slim, angular-faced, with a pencil mustache. He looked human the way all synthetic humanoids do, like an intricately detailed mannequin might look if you glanced at it. Too perfect to be human, which left him just a creepy facsimile of a real person. He gave me a polite nod as I took my seat.
"Mr. Trubble. Thank you for joining us."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Mack."
A discreet cocktail waitress silently floated by with drinks. She set a Bulleit Neat on a napkin beside me, a reminder of the surveillance that tracked not only your actions, but your habits as well.
I grinned and downed the bourbon in one swallow. "So. Who's ready to gamble?"
IN POKER, IT'S JUST as important to know the players as it is to know what's in their hands. Players generally fall into certain categories of behavior. The play-it-safe types, the by-the-book types, the maniacs, the noobs, the sharks. No-Nose Nate was a maniac. A fiend for action, he liked to stir the pot with big bets for no logical reason, all the while shooting off with bad beat stories like we were all close friends. Just when it seemed a recipe for complete disaster, he'd hit big and make the rest of us look like amateurs. It was aggravating, but only a matter of time before his luck ran dry and he busted out.
I'd pegged Dean Norton for a noob, because he lost chips like a dispenser the first few rounds. But I quickly picked up that he only lost small hands, trickling dibs until he got everyone relaxed. Then the dagger struck, revealing him to be a shark in disguise. Pretty impressive. Turned out Dick Styles was the noob, busting out after betting the house on an obvious bluff. He laughed it off as he left the table. I figured it was just a regular night for a rube like him.
Steve Cash turned out to be pretty damn passive, despite his flashy last name and background. He folded early and often, and refused to take any betting risks. He'd just scowl at his cards like they were pictures of his ex-wives, betting in the most timid fashion I'd ever encountered. It was like he was scared of winning anything. Only a matter of time before the antes increased and his stash slowly burned out.
I didn't pay him much mind. Same for No-Nose Nate. I kept my focus on Harry and Dean. Faye was technically an opponent, but our agreement ahead of time made us allies with an even split no matter who won the final pot. There wasn't much wiggle room for any sort of codes or signals, but neither of us really needed them. We'd formed an instinctual sort of bond by that point, and knew each other's styles and habits on a near intimate level.
Besides, I was in a zone.
I like to think I hate mathematics and probability, but the time with Faye at the tables taught me I had a natural talent for it. Things just clicked, allowing me to predict values and odds, almost as if I could see what cards where in the other players hands. After a few rounds, I felt like a magician, making the cards dance to strings only I could see. After a while, even ol' Harry gave a disbelieving grunt when I topped her quads with a straight flush. The antes raised, the chips stacked higher, and the cards flew faster.
Steve Cash flew into a savage rage when he busted his bankroll, and had to be dragged out by security goons, all the while accusing us of being every sort of cheater. The play resumed in short order, after another round of drinks.
"Think I don't know what's going on?" No-Nose Nate leered behind a cloud of gasper smoke. "You and the china doll. Trying to be all cute and partner up, get an edge on the winnings. What did the broad tell you — that she'd split the pot?" He sniggered and pushed thirty grand in black chips forward, raising the bet. "Yeah, I bet she did. You might not know it since you're new to the high roller suite, but your moll's got a bit of a reputation."
"Is that so?" I gave him a tight grin as I matched the bet. I figured he was jawing off to distract me from focusing on his bluff. Faye and Dean folded, but Harry matched along with me.
"Yeah." No-Nose Nate barely glanced as Felix dealt an Ace to a board that had two Jacks, a nine and an eight. Nate smirked and shoved his entire bankroll forward. "Did she rope you in with her flawless looks? Her perfect blend of mysterious vulnerability? Pulls 'em every time. You think you got you a perfect dame, but all you got is a spider. She'll leave you dangling, mark my words."
Harry folded. No-Nose Nate stared at me, rubbery lips twisted in a mocking smile. He was daring me. Or so he wanted me to believe.
My eyes flicked over at Faye. She raised an eyebrow, her lips curved in an amused manner. Her eyes said it all. There was no way she'd cut me out. We had a bond of trust that folks like No-Nose Nate couldn't possibly understand.
"You know, you could be right, Nate. Then again, you could be just hiding behind a bluff." I matched the bet, which took nearly all I had. The quick flash of surprise that flickered across his face verified my assumption. Turned out all he was holding was a pair of nines. My three Jacks officially put him out of business.
He managed to lose with grace, downing a shot of whiskey with a rasping laugh. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He shook a lazy finger at me, lit a Cuban, and strutted away from the table puffing like a chimney.
That left me with Faye, Dean, and Harry. The playing field would've been pretty much even had everyone being playing fair. Which wasn’t the case because No-Nose Nate was right about one thing. Me and Faye were working the system. Collusion happens all the time in poker, no matter what rules are in place to stop it. Most players know this, but a combination of arrogance and confidence makes a top rate player believe they can beat even those odds. Dean and Harry apparently felt comfortable in their positions not to feel threatened by the idea of an alliance between Faye and me. Maybe they should have formed their own temporary alliance, because Dean busted out on a bad beat when Harry dropped a royal flush on top of his quads after he bet the house. He looked heartbroken as his chips shuttled over to the other side of the table.