English guy stiffened. Marty made as if to flag the barman down, but managed to knock the guy’s glass over instead.
‘Jeez, look at that.’
A Rioja-tinted stain was seeping over the crossword. The guy’s face grew tight, and Marty winked at the mousy-looking woman beside him.
‘Least it missed his clothes. Them fake designer brands don’t wash too well, do they?’
The woman’s eyes widened. Marty waited a beat. Then he burst into a wheezy laugh and punched the English guy on the arm.
‘Just kiddin’, pal. Whooo!’ Marty patted himself on the chest. ‘Here, lemme buy you another.’
The English guy closed his eyes briefly. ‘No, thank you, we’re just leaving.’
‘Aw, come on.’ Marty spread out his arms. ‘Hey, I know I’ve had a few, but I’m celebrating. Look—’ He glanced over his shoulder, then dug the fat wallet out of his pocket and slapped it onto the counter. A wad of fifty-euro notes curled out over the sides. ‘See that? Casino money. Poker action was sizzling and I cleaned ’em out! Know what else?’ He fumbled in his pocket for a pack of cards. ‘I stole one of their decks as a keepsake!’
Marty wheezed out another laugh, and thumped the English guy on the shoulder. At the same time, he moved in front of him so as to block his exit, and slipped the cards out of the pack.
‘Hey, I’ll play you for that drink, buddy, just one poker hand for fun.’ Marty bungled a shuffle, dropping some cards on the floor. Then he straightened up and dealt two sloppy hands of five. ‘I just can’t lose today.’
The English guy edged away, sending his friend a snippety, drink-up signal. ‘Another time.’
Marty poked him hard in the chest with the cards he’d just dealt him. ‘Whassamatter? You afraid to lose in front of your lady friend?’
The guy narrowed his eyes and glanced down at his chest. Something flickered across his face, and he hesitated. Marty knew what had snagged his attention. The cards were spread in a clumsy fan that allowed the guy a peek at what he’d got.
It was hard to ignore four kings.
Slowly, the English guy took the cards from Marty and set them face down on the counter. His fingers hovered over them. Marty twisted away, as if in search of a drink, and treated the guy to a seemingly accidental flash of the other hand. He knew what he’d see there: three jacks and two odd cards. Marty swivelled back, and the guy flicked a furtive glance at the floor.
‘You still chicken?’ Marty picked up his wallet and peeled a crackling note from his wad. ‘Or maybe you’d like to make it more interesting.’ He leered at the colourless woman beside them. ‘Whaddaya reckon, fifty bucks too rich for your pal here?’
Marty smacked the fifty-euro note on the counter, covering it with his palm. The English guy’s lips disappeared into a thin line, and Marty could almost see the wheels turn. Fact was, the guy’s four kings beat Marty’s three jacks hands down. Even if Marty changed the two odd cards and drew the fourth jack, it still wouldn’t beat four kings.
The guy’s jaw pulsed a little. Maybe he suspected he was being hustled, but at this point, chances were he thought Marty had botched the deal.
The guy reached for his wallet. ‘One hand.’
The disdain had left his face, replaced now by something craftier. He flicked a fifty-euro note next to Marty’s. Immediately Marty picked it up and used it to cover his own. Another of Riva’s rules: bury the funny money. In case anyone got too curious.
Marty examined his cards and chuckled. ‘So how many d’you want, pal?’
‘I’ll stay pat.’
Marty frowned. ‘No cards?’ He double-checked his own. ‘Alrighty. Well, I’ll take two.’
He discarded two of his cards onto the counter and dealt another couple from the pack. He palmed his five cards and squeezed them into a tight fan. He let out another belly laugh.
‘Woo-hoo! What’d I tell ya? I just can’t lose today.’ He rummaged in his wallet, lurching up against the bar. ‘It’s gonna cost you another hundred to see these babies.’
He smacked two more fifties on top of the others, again covering the duds with his palm. The Englishman glanced at his cards, ground his teeth a little. Then he produced two fifties of his own and tossed them onto the counter.
‘I call your hundred.’ A smile slid over the Englishman’s face. ‘But you won’t top these.’
He spread his cards on the counter with a snap. Four big kings, fat and important-looking. Just the way Marty had dealt them. The English guy reached for the cash, but Marty smacked his hand away.
‘Hold on, not so fast.’ He fanned his cards out on the counter. ‘Where I come from, a straight flush whups four kings every time.’
The English guy’s mouth opened and the woman beside him gasped. For a second, they stared at Marty’s hand: seven, eight, nine, ten and Jack, all in a tidy row. And all of them suited hearts.
Marty gave them another second to take it in, then snatched up the cash, whirled around and shouldered his way to the door.
His heartbeat drummed against his ribs. He raced outside, wheeled left then right, criss-crossing the rabbit warren of streets. Adrenalin blasted through him, dulling the pain in his torso and setting his fingertips tingling.
He ran till he’d put a safe distance behind him, then slowed to a walk to cool down. He glanced over his shoulder, panting hard. Jesus, he was too old for this.
He stepped into a doorway to count his haul of notes, separating out the phonies. The English guy would work it out soon enough. He’d realize Marty hadn’t changed his two odd cards, but had thrown two of his jacks down instead. For a second, he’d probably wonder who the hell would do such a thing. But only for a second. The answer, of course, was a conman who’d stacked the deck.
Marty stowed the genuine notes into his pocket and slipped the duds back into his wallet. Truth was, the guy had been suckered because he thought he’d sneaked a preview of the cards. He’d been happy to fleece an obnoxious drunk, once he thought he had leverage. Marty was with W.C. Fields on this one: you can’t cheat an honest man.
Marty did a few neck rolls to loosen his muscles and felt his spine crunch. Pain lanced across his ribs. Jesus. He’d taken quite a beating to cover up for that bastard Franco. The question was, would it be worth it?
He slumped against a wall, waiting for the spasm to pass. One way or another, he planned on using Franco to generate some cash. He’d work with him or against him, he didn’t care which. Marty sighed. Well, not really.
He patted the remaining decks of cards in his pocket, letting his gaze roll over the drinkers across the alleyway.
Another bar, another sucker.
His limbs felt heavy. He stayed where he was and closed his eyes. An image of Franco’s crew drifted into his head, and for an instant he felt the rush of the glory days when he’d been a part of it all. His pulse thudded. He remembered the exhilaration of pulling a con; the electric highs, the close calls, the camaraderie on the road.
He wondered about the crew Franco worked with now, and whether they were as good as him and Riva. He smiled and shook his head, his eyes still closed. Franco, him and Riva: together, they’d been on fire. No one could touch them without burning.
Marty opened his eyes, readjusted to his surroundings, and felt his shoulders slump. Now he was back where he started: a chip thief and a hustler.
He shrugged himself away from the wall, then trudged across to the bar. A dark-haired girl eyed him from inside the doorway. She was petite and striking, like a lot of these Spanish types, and reminded him of the girl who’d been watching the crew at the casino.
Marty