I sat up, and then stood, and found that the pounding wasn’t bad enough to prevent me from walking, or from taking a piss. In fact, the mirror showed me not looking any worse than usual, even a little better. Eight hours of sleep was eight hours, even if it was artificially induced. The sound of bad hotel porn was coming from beyond the attaching door. I opened it.
The Russian sat with six other guys, placidly watching some girl-on-girl action. Cigar smoke suffused the room like toxic waste. A poker table sat by the window, silently waiting to play its part. He turned to regard me.
“Our princess has awoken,” he said.
“Can I leave now?” I asked. “My wife is worried about me. You’ve proven your point, whatever that is.”
“We’ve got some poker to play,” he said.
“Haven’t we played enough?” I asked.
“Let me explain something to you,” he said. “I don’t lose. Ever. And especially not to guys like you.”
“But you did lose.”
One of his cronies stood, walked over to me, and smacked me across the mouth, drawing a little bit of blood from my lower lip. Goddamnit, I thought, I could actually fucking miss my meeting here.
“The game isn’t over yet,” said the Russian. “You took $1,000 from me, and I intend to win it back.”
He explained the rules to me. We’d each get $500 worth of chips, though my chips were, essentially, air. He got to keep the money, which was rightfully his. If I won his chips, I got to go home. If he won mine, he got to shoot me in the face. Those were higher stakes than usual, and I started to sweat.
A knock came at the door. It was a Filipina, not surprisingly, pushing a cart stacked with orange juice, eggs, and smoked salmon. If these guys were thugs, at least they were generous with the buffet. The Filipina would also, the Russian informed me, serve as our dealer for the day.
“But first,” he said, “we eat.”
I figured it wouldn’t help me to say that I was in a hurry, so I dug in. By the time we were done eating, it was nearly noon. As the first hand was dealt, I felt more jittery at the table than ever before. His cronies were playing with us, but it was obvious from the beginning that they were decoys, there to win small pots that neither the Russian nor I had a shot at; it was a two-player game, with props.
I had to make that meeting. Missing it would mean the end of my career, and maybe my marriage. So I played aggressively. This was exactly what the Russian wanted. It perfectly matched his style of play. If you re-raise a raiser when the odds are bad, or even mediocre, he will bury you. For an hour, he whittled away at my chips, and then took a huge pot when he drew an inside flush to beat my pocket kings. I looked down at my pile and realized that I was $150 away from death. That was the last thing I wanted. I took a breath and prayed patience.
By 1:45, I was back up to $500. The Russian saw what was happening, and he cursed my ability to fold a bad hand, something that he’d apparently never learned. I stayed quiet, occasionally stealing little glances at the digital clock by the bed. At this point, I knew that I was going to escape with my life, or at least assumed that I would. But if I didn’t do it soon, I wouldn’t have much of a life left. Still, I had to play carefully. It took me another forty-five minutes to get up to $800. There would be no time to go home and shower, but I could at least buy some deodorant at Walgreens before the meeting. It was time to roll ’em.
I drew a queen-nine, not the best opener, but winnable. It didn’t matter what the Russian drew, of course. He raised me regardless. I saw him, and re-raised. He did the same back, and onward until the betting was capped.
The flop revealed a second queen and some junk cards. His chance at a flush draw was nil, and a straight seemed unlikely. I’d probably flopped top pair, so I laid down a big bet. He followed, of course, and kept laying down chips. By the river, it was pretty certain that he’d bust out. The dealer called for us to show our hands. I had my queens. He had a pair of sevens, ace high.
“Well,” I said, standing up, and then backing away toward the door, “it was certainly tense, and you really proved something today-”
“Don’t fuck with me, Dodger,” the Russian said.
“Just let him win, dumbshit,” I heard a crony say, and then I felt everything go black again. Consciousness and I had a tenuous relationship that day. My world disintegrated around me, and it was night again.
I woke to the sensation of my head being dumped in a bucket of ice water, never pleasant under any circumstance. When I emerged, gasping for breath, one of the Russian’s lummoxes was holding my shirt collar. He had a huge wad of bills, which he thrust into my hand.
“Take this and go,” he said.
“What?” I said.
“Boss is asshole,” he said. “I’m tired of him doing this all the time.”
“I’m not the first?”
“You’re not the first this week,” he said.
“But why save me?”
“You’re good at cards,” he said. “I’m tired of being around people who are bad at cards.”
“At least I’m good at something,” I said. “Thank you.”
I peeled a hundred-dollar bill off the stack and slapped it into his palm.
“Buy yourself a lap dance tonight,” I said.
“Or maybe I pay rent this month,” he said.
“That too,” I said.
“They’re eating lunch downstairs,” he said. “Go now.”
I took a step forward, but that wasn’t happening until I vomited into the toilet. With that business completed, I saw that it was ten till 3:00. I wouldn’t look good doing it, but I could still make the meeting. I thanked the lummox again, and walked into the hall.
The Russian and his cronies were stepping off the elevator. I looked around. There were stairs at the end of the hall. I tore off toward them, with the Russians in hot pursuit. They might have caught me, too, if the room hadn’t been on the third floor.
A quick orientation in the parking lot showed that I was near my car, which I found easily, even though the lot was no less full than it had been when I’d pulled in sixteen hours before. The Russians kept coming. I heard the Cadillac SUV next to me beep, and I realized that it was their car. I peeled out of my spot, flipped into reverse, and then accelerated forward at an angle, aiming for the SUV’s rear taillight. It might not have done much damage, but it felt symbolic. They were far enough behind me that I was on the 5, going north, before they could figure out my direction.
Then I realized. They’d filched my wallet, so they probably knew where I lived. I needed to call Karen, to warn her. But I didn’t have a working phone. The clock showed ten after 3:00. The traffic report said that there was an accident at the 101 interchange. I wasn’t moving.
Even on an ordinary day, an overturned tractor-trailer can destroy your plans in L.A. I don’t know why I expected anything different; my meeting was never going to happen. So I formulated a plan: I’d drive to my agent’s office, so he could fire me. But I’d at least tell him the story so he could call Karen and warn her not to come home, or hire a bodyguard, or something.
Oh, man.
Was I fucked or what?
Still, I did have $1,000 in my pocket, and that was enough. I couldn’t go back to Commerce for a while, and maybe never. Who knew how often the Russian haunted those well-trod carpets? My frequent-player’s card, however, was good to go in Gardena. I’d check in there, get a room for sixty-nine dollars a night, and easily win that back at the tables, no problem. Even if I hit a bad streak, I could probably survive for a month with what I had left in my checking account. And if I ran into a really good table one night, I might even be able to win Karen back with a wad of bills and a tale of pure success. Greater women, I figured, have been seduced by less. It wasn’t the best situation in the world. But at least I had the skills to win big.