A story for your reading time
The photo above is me and Daisy a few years back – she still sits next to me when I write, purring in an encouraging fashion.
I know for many folks there has been a lot of free time to do some reading, so this is a good time to remind you that you can get a new story every month by joining me on Patreon. Each month I spend 60 minutes writing a story based on a randomly generated phrase or sentence. I’ve included one from July 2019 and I hope you enjoy it. If you’re a member of my mailing list, I’ve included another story in June’s newsletter – you can sign up on my website. If you’re interested in seeing more, I invite you to search me out on Patreon. And don’t forget, if you’ve read any of the 30 Stones Saga books, please leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads.
Every Man Has a Tell
By Rosaire Bushey
I have two things on my mind: playing cards and Chase Beard.
The first won’t bother me for long, because I’m short-stacked with a six, jack off-suit and a bladder that’s been nursing two bottles of San Pellegrino for the better part of an afternoon.
“All in.” I push my measly stack forward and don’t pay much attention as I collect sympathy looks from two others who will be in my position shortly. They fold quickly, and the look I get from the remaining three is the same kind of look I get when I see a cheeseburger after a long bike ride. There’s no poker face in any of those three, just the greed that comes from knowing their stake in the winnings is guaranteed to get better soon.
The flop comes up empty for me, a seven, nine, ace. The others bet around me, one dropping after the big stack comes over top with a nice raise. He’s probably betting on a pair of aces, maybe two pair. But his bet is too high to be anything good; he’s trying to scare off the others.
Chase Beard, who sits two seats to my left, raises an eyebrow ever so slightly at the unnaturally large raise. He’s come to the same conclusion as I have, that the man across the table from him doesn’t have much, but he plays it cool and takes a long-time counting chips, reading the cards on the table and studying his own hand. For good measure he makes his lips move a little like he’s trying to work out the math. It’s a good show, but it’s all window dressing. He throws in the chips to call the raise, but he does it with deliberate slowness. He’s holding good cards, but his opponent is cocky, ordering a drink from a waitress and paying no attention to the show being put on for his benefit.
The turn comes up as a 10 of hearts. All four suits are represented on the table, so a flush is out of the question, but an eight on the river gives me a straight, and I have to stop myself from sitting up a little straighter knowing that I have a dog in the fight. It’s a very small dog for sure, but even a little chance is better than no chance.
Chase looks my way and then back to the cards on the table. If I win the hand, it’s of no consequence to him. My pot is small and the money he’s concerned about is in the side pot between him and the player across from him. Chase tosses out the minimum bet to see if the other player will go over the top, and he’s not disappointed.
“All in.”
The room goes quiet, like we’re set up on the green on the 18th at Pebble Beach. Chase looks up and stares at the man. He doesn’t blink for a long time, never looks down at the stack of chips in front of him or at the bigger stack across the felt. He knows this drill, and the bet is a rookie bet, the bluster of the big stack hoping to intimidate others into quitting rather than risking their fortunes.
“Call.”
The room erupts into a low decibel murmur. Everyone can see the cards on the table, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out these two are playing with their hold cards. The dealer moves her arm into the middle of the felt and gets a count of Chase’s chips and relays the information to his opponent who pushes the appropriate amount into the middle. Even if he loses, he’ll be in decent shape, but Chase will be in command of the table.
Committed, we all turn over our cards. Beard has ace, ten down – good for top two pair. The man across the table is crestfallen, ace, seven.
The river is an eight and me and my straight happily collect my little pile of chips while the crowd growls its appreciation for Chase’s win, and he takes the time to smile and wave to his friends who are holding up beers in congratulations.
I hang on for two more hands before I’m tossed out on a bad beat on the river, and five hands after that Chase is winning the tournament.
After some formalities with the sponsors, the final nine players are huddled in a back room of the casino, presented our checks and offered complimentary rooms for the night. Chase takes the room, and the casino manager smiles warmly, thinking he’s going to get some of this tournament cash back.
I smile and take the room voucher as well. They won’t see any of my money. But, there again, they won’t see any of Chase’s either. Chase Beard is a gambler, but he’s careful and he’s cautious. He’ll throw a few grand around at some of the tables later this evening, but it’s all for show. This tournament netted him $750,000. That money will be safely deposited in whatever bank he puts it before he leaves this room. He’ll withdraw, maybe ten-grand in small bills, and spend a couple hours on the floor making a show of losing. Then he’ll get a good night’s sleep, wake up early tomorrow, take an Uber to the train station, and be gone.
I’ve watched Chase for years, played the same tours with him for two years, and hardly had more than an elevator conversation with him in all that time. He’s not a cheater. He’s not a card counter. He’s not doing anything illegal from a gambling standpoint – he’s a damned fine card player with great intuition and people reading skills.
He’s also a spy. But for who? Unfortunately, that’s what I’ve been trying to find out for more than 20 months.
“Nice win, Chase.” I nod to his newest diamond encrusted ring staring up at him from the light blue Tiffany box its nestled in. “Going to need more hands soon.”
“I got lucky,” he says, as if it were true. “I thought Sean had me on that one hand.”
“Sean’s a horrible bluffer,” I said. “You and I both know he has more tells than a library. How he ever makes it to a final table is beyond me.”
“Going up?” We’re at the elevator’s and I nod while he pushes the button and we wait.
“Going to be out on the floor tonight?” I look up, trying to insinuate an invitation to join him. I don’t expect one, and so when he says yes and asks me to join him for dinner and then maybe a game or two at the tables, I’m surprised.
“Great,” he says. “I’ll see you at 8. I’ve got VIP access at the bistro by the baccarat table.” He pushes seven on the elevator and I push 12. We exchange pleasantries for the moment it takes the elevator to climb to his floor and when I get off on 12, I find the stairs and hike back down to my room on nine.
A quick shower and a short nap later and I’m staring at the baccarat tables, amazed as rich people with no idea of how to do something useful with their money, throw it at other rich people. For several years all my energies have been spent watching Chase Beard and playing cards, and I’ve never been tempted by the high stakes tables at the back of casinos, behind velvet ropes and near bars where the ‘cheap stuff’ is Johnny Walker Blue. For me, trying to understand baccarat is like learning a foreign language while listening to thrash metal.
“Interesting game isn’t it?” Chase whispered in my ear, and I jumped away from him, landing with my knees slightly bent and crouched. It was an instinctive move, and more than a couple heads turned. Fortunately, I didn’t draw a weapon or hold my hands up like I wanted a fight. That would have been hard to live down.
“Jesus, you scared the life out of me.” I laughed and grabbed my chest with my right hand and Chase was gracious enough to laugh along and put a hand on my shoulder, apologizing loudly enough for anyone nearby to hear.
“He just won sixth place in the annual casino hold-em tournament this afternoon,” Chase told the baccarat players who were interested enough to still be looking our way. “Afraid someone’s going to jump him and steal his check.”
The baccarat players laughed, and a couple held up their drinks to me in salute of my good fortune. They understood that a final table at a major tournament was a big deal and required skill, even if the money was paltry compared to the money they were tossing around like confetti.
“Let’s get something to eat, I’m famished.” Chase pat me on the back and walked into the bistro with me with his arm over my shoulder. We were led into a secluded area in the back that was screened off from the rest of the diners.
At the card table Chase was hard to read, he kept his eyes hidden and his head down. At dinner, he was a different person. His eyes were keen, bright brown, and the dark skin of his hands glowed holding a whiskey instead of a clay chip. He took a long sip and smacked his lips, leaning back in his chair and calling to the waitress to keep the drinks coming.
“It’s better than sitting hunched over a felt all day, isn’t it? I mean, what kind of job is this that we have where we hardly talk to each other, and most of the time when we do, we’re lying? Who has a job like that, honestly?”
“Politicians.”
He had the grace to not spit a $200 glass of whiskey onto the table, but the comment caught him by surprise.
“I suppose, that’s true. Do you think a poker player would make a good politician, Clint?”
I was sure Chase knew my name, we were after all, a fraternity of sorts, playing in the same tours together and fighting for the same prizes. But to hear him say it aloud was odd. It was almost like he wanted to talk to me as much as I wanted to talk to him.
“No, I don’t think so. We know when we’re lying, and we have a good idea when others are too. I don’t think politicians can tell the difference anymore if what they say is the truth or not.”
Chase smiled and drained his drink, and the refill arrived before the condensation ring could penetrate the fabric tablecloth. A few silent minutes later, the meal arrived.
“I took the liberty of ordering, I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “While we’re eating, why don’t you tell me what you want to know…Agent Jones?”
