then, huh?”
“Christ, man, gimme a break.”
“Come on, fella,” the fat guy said, “you’re holdin’ up the game. Five bucks. Take it or leave it.”
I could see the agony of indecision in Benson’s face. Five dollars was the current bet limit. “All right,” he said finally.
He bet two. The dealer raised him three. Benson called and rolled over his hole cards. He had his straight. His face was jubilant. He looked more like a kid than ever.
The fat guy had a flush.
Benson watched numbly, rubbing his bare left wrist, as the chortling fat man raked in the money. Finally he got up and went quickly out of the cargo hold.
“Hey, man,” the fat dealer called after him, “I’ll give you a buck apiece for your boots.” He howled with laughter.
Another player took Benson’s place.
“That was kinda hard,” a master sergeant named Riker drawled mildly from the other end of the table.
“That’s how we play the game where I come from, Sarge,” the fat man said.
It took me two days to get him, but I finally nailed him right to the wall. The pots were occasionally getting up to forty or fifty dollars by then, and the fat man was on a losing streak.
He had two low pair showing, and he was betting hard, hoping to get even. It was pretty obvious that he had a full house, seven and threes. I had two queens, a nine and the joker showing. My hand looked like a pat straight, but I had two aces in the hole. My aces and queens would stomp hell out of his sevens and threes.
Except that on the last round I picked up another ace.
He bet ten dollars. I raised him twenty-five.
“I ain’t got that much,” he said.
“Tough titty.”
“I got you beat.”
“You better call the bet then.”
“You can’t just buy the fuckin’ pot!”
“Call or fold, friend.” I was enjoying it.
“Come on, man. You can’t just buy the fuckin’ pot!”
“You already said that. How much you got?”
“I got twelve bucks.” He thought I was going to reduce my bet so he could call me. His face relaxed a little.
“You got a watch?” I asked him quietly.
He caught on then. “You bastard!” He glared at me. He sure wanted to keep Benson’s watch. “You ain’t gettin’ this watch that way, fella.”
I shrugged and reached for the pot.
“What the hell you doin’?” he squawked.
“If you’re not gonna call—”
“All right, all right, you bastard!” He peeled off Benson’s watch and threw it in the pot. “There, you’re called.”
“That makes seventeen,” I said. “You’re still eight bucks light.”
“Fuck you, fella! That goddamn watch is worth a hundred and fifty bucks!”
“I saw you buy it, friend. The price was five. That’s what you paid for it, so I guess that’s what it’s worth. You got another watch?”
“You ain’t gettin’ my watch.”
I reached for the pot again.
“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” He pulled off his own watch.
“That’s twenty-two,” I said. “You’re still light.”
“Come on, man. My watch is worth more than five bucks.”
“A Timex? Don’t be stupid. I’m giving you a break letting you have five on it.” I reached for the pot again.
“I ain’t got nothin else.”
“Tell you what, sport. I’ll give you a buck apiece for your boots.”
“What the fuck you want my fuckin’ boots for?”
“You gonna call?”
“All right. My fuckin’ boots are in.”
“Put ’em on the table, sport.”
He scowled at me and started unlacing his boots. “There,” he snapped, plunking them down on the table, “you’re called.”
“You’re still a buck light.” I knew I was being a prick about it, but I didn’t give a damn. I get that way sometimes.
He stared at me, not saying anything.
I waited, letting him sweat. Then I dropped in on him very quietly. “Your pants ought to cover it.” Some guy laughed.
“My pants!” he almost screamed.
“On the table,” I said, pointing, “or I take the pot.”
“Fuck ya!”
I reached for the pot again.
“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” His voice was desperate. He stood up, emptied his pockets, and yanked off his pants. He wasn’t wearing any shorts and his nudity was grossly obscene. He threw the pants at me, but I deflected them into the center of the table. “All right, you son of a bitch!” he said, not sitting down. “Let’s see your pissy little straight beat a full-fuckin’ house!” He rolled over his third seven.
“I haven’t got a straight, friend.”
“Then I win, huh?”
I shook my head. “You lose.” I pulled the joker away from the queens and the nine and slowly started turning up my buried aces. “One. Two. Three. And four. Is that enough, friend?” I asked him.
“Je-sus Christ!” some guy said reverently.
The fat man stood looking at the aces for a long time. Then he stumbled away from the table and almost ran out of the cargo hold, his fat behind jiggling with every step.
“I still say it’s a mighty hard way to play poker,” Sergeant Riker said softly as I hauled in the merchandise.
“I figured he had it coming,” I said shortly.
“Maybe so, son, maybe so, but that still don’t make it right, does it?”
And that finished my winning streak. Riker proceeded to give me a series of very expensive poker lessons. By the time I quit that night, I was back down to four hundred dollars. I sent the fat guy’s watch, boots, and pants back to him with one of his buddies, and went up on deck to get some air. The engine pounded in the steel deck plates, and the wake was streaming out behind us, white against the black water.
“Smoke, son?” It was Riker. He leaned against the rail beside me and held out his pack.
“Thanks,” I said. “I ran out about an hour ago.”
“Nice night, ain’t it?” His voice was soft and pleasant. I couldn’t really pin down his drawl. It was sort of Southern.
I looked up at the stars. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been down at that poker table for so long I’d almost forgotten what the stars looked like.”
The ship took a larger wave at a diagonal and rolled with an odd, lurching kind of motion.
“You still ahead of the game, son?” he asked me, his voice serious.
“A little bit,” I said cautiously.
“If it was me,” he said, “I wouldn’t go back no more. You’ve won yourself a little money, and you got your buddy’s watch