The best thing about the Wolf’s Lair was its lack of success. Never more than seven or eight people in the joint. Except on Saturday night. I tried to stay away on Saturdays. For some reason, the college crowd showed up. Chatty misfit girls. Surly misfit guys. The socialized ones went to Armando’s, down the street. Armando’s had a DJ. They danced til dawn. The Wolf’s Lair crowd sat, stood or staggered. No dancing there. No doubt they all had two left feet.
I know I did.
Tuesdays, on the other hand, weren’t a problem.
I took my place at the bar.
Hal was in his usual spot, two stools down.
Hey, Hal, I said.
He looked up from the notepad he was scribbling on.
Rick, he said.
I’ve got a question, I said.
Fire away, boss.
What you said about Jake, the other night?
What I said about Jake?
Something about him not looking you in the eye?
Did I say that?
Something like that, you did.
I don’t remember that, man. Sorry.
Oh.
I was a bit bewildered. He’d said it with such sincerity.
I turned back to the book I had brought with me. Sklansky. The Bible of Texas hold’em. I was on my sixth pass through it. My second copy. The first had disintegrated from use. Cigarette burns, spaghetti sauce, bathtub water. This one bristled with colored tape flags. Every second line was highlighted, underlined, highlighted again in a different color. You read, you played, you reread. You played some more. Suddenly, something you’d only digested in the abstract took on a life. You’d played that hand last night – you knew that situation – and here it was, on the page. Maybe not the very same cards, the very same bets. But the situation.
A hand on my shoulder. I turned my head.
Jake!
Yo Rick!
At least you remember my name.
Well, yeah.
He looked puzzled.
You got one leg up on my wife in that department, I explained.
Really?
That innocence. Charming.
He saw the book. The forest of tape flags.
Whatcha reading?
Sklansky.
I held the book up.
You’re kidding.
I am not. You know Sklansky?
Shit. He’s my brother. My right arm. Shit. You play?
I try.
Oh man. I got to get you to my game.
You’ve got a game?
Sure, I’ve got a game. I’ve got a helluva game. Hey, you serious?
Do I look serious?
He looked at the tattered remains of Sklansky.
Yeah. You look serious. Okay, listen, this game is very cool. Actors. Artists. Very successful people. I got to get you there.
Well, sure, I said. What’s the buy-in?
Five hundred. No limit.
I think I can handle that. How do I get in?
I’ve got to work on that.
Hm. Mystery. Impediments. I liked that.
What is this, the Masons? I asked. You need the secret handshake?
James Mason?
No, the Masons, I laughed. You know, the Masonic Lodge, all that?
He looked blank.
Charming, like I said.
Hey, he said. You hear about anybody needs a little carpentry work done?
Actually, I said, I’ve been thinking about putting a bookcase in my bedroom. That too small a job for you?
Nah. I’ll take anything I can get.
Great, I said. Why don’t you come by, look at the space. Give me an estimate.
Sure. Just let me know when.
Let’s make it Thursday night, I said. Say around eight?
This Thursday?
Right.
Uh, okay.
Some other day better for you?
No, no. Thursday’s fine. Thursday’s fine.
We got down to poker talk. We talked about semi-bluffs. Semi-bluff raises. How to play a maniac. What to do with two maniacs.
Find another table, he said.
Be happy, was my opinion. Stay right there.
Poker is a solitary occupation. You don’t reveal your thoughts to anyone you might be playing later. Which is to say, anyone at all. But there was something about Jake. His innocence, his enthusiasm. And,
I guess, the fact that there wasn’t a whole lot else we could talk about for more than two minutes.
When I finally left the bar, hours later, my feet didn’t quite find the ground. I stumbled. A little lean left, a list to the right. I had to focus to stay upright.
I didn’t usually let myself get drunk. Normally I was in control. I’d developed a prodigious capacity over the years. I knew when to stop. To slow down. I could feel it coming. The cotton-ball brain. The tongue less limber. The quips a little lame. Too quick to laugh. Too easy. Got to keep it hard. Keep the line. Don’t cross the line. Drink water for a while.
This time I’d let it go a bit. One too many single malts.
I staggered down the street in the snow. I tripped on my own front stairs. I laughed out loud. Laughed at myself. It took a clumsy try or two to get the key into the lock.
Shit. Sometimes it felt good to let it go.