Pokergeist Read Free Page A

suddenly tired. His shoulders ached, and he longed to be back home in bed watching television. But the bracelet. He was so close. He glanced at the Ant’s cards and then studied his own. The patterns swam before his tired eyes as though they were alive. He was there, almost there. He could feel the heavy weight of the bracelet on his skinny wrist…the cash in his empty pocket. Sweat dotted the Ant’s upper lip, and his eye twitched. There were so many chips spread across the table that the pot seemed obscene.
    The Ant half rose from his seat, his face eager. His dark eyes glowed hotly, with red pinpoints in the pupils. He looked demented. His fingers pressed whitely against the green baize of the table. All he needed was another heart, and there were two cards left to go.
    The Ant stood completely; Clutch was surprised at how short he was. He would barely reach Clutch’s shoulder. “Great hand, Pops,” the Ant nodded sarcastically. “But you need heart to play this game.”
    The dealer barely breathed as he waited for the right moment to deal the next card, the Turn.
    The crowd stood together as if on cue, the babble of thousands of voices drowning out the pulse in Clutch’s head. His body thrummed, and his face grew as red as the cards, sweat drenching his shirt so that it was plastered against his tense body. Feeling his collar choke him, Clutch undid the top button of his shirt. Suddently it occurred to him that he might come in second. It would be a nice purse, four million at least. But after taxes and the funds to pay off the loan sharks, he’d barely have enough for his kid or Ginny’s teeth. Truth was, he didn’t give a shit about the dough—he wanted the bracelet. He needed that trophy to wear on his wrist for the rest of his miserable life. Too bad Buster wasn’t alive to see it. He wanted to shove it in his face and gloat. It sparkled from its spot on the table. Clutch swallowed convulsively, his neck feeling tight. He looked at the creep across the table. The Ant didn’t deserve it; Clutch did. This was the closest he’d ever come. He stared at the bracelet, the gold at the end of the rainbow. He could hear his grandfather’s voice, dead these last forty-five years, saying, “It’s about the game, stupid. Not the gold. You play like crap. You never listen to me, boy.” Yeah, Clutch sneered, easy for you to say. You won a bracelet in 1954. Clutch glanced down at his two cards, his kings. With the third on the table, he had three kings, a good hand. He had to piss…really bad.
    The dealer turned over a six of clubs. The audience moaned. A black card, not a heart. Without the fifth heart, the kid would bust. Clutch’s breath stilled in his chest. He was almost there. His heart pounded in his chest as if it were a kettledrum. One last card to go. He looked at the insect’s hand. The kid’s hands were trembling, his knuckles bony white like a skeleton. He had nothing. This was it. He had this. The dealer paused, his hand hovering over the deck. His manicured fingers caressed the top card, and then he flipped it onto the green table. An eight of hearts lay on the baize, earning the Ant a winning flush. The crowd buzzed, a thousand voices washing over Clutch’s numb face. His breath left him in a slow deflation until he felt flat. He wanted to disappear.
    The Ant yelled like a little girl, his hands high up in the air. He pranced in front of the bleachers to the screaming fans and then mugged the camera. Kevin raced from his spot, mike in hand, to the older man. “Clutch! Clutch! What happened? That was so fast.”
    Clutch stared at the cards, his face impassive, the pain of his broken heart heavy in his chest. “I…I…” Words failed him. He couldn’t breathe. The room was stifling, closing in on him. His vision narrowed to the cluster of cards on the table and the bracelet winking at him. They shimmered before him; the noise of the spectators was muffled. His ears rang. He still had to pee.