When I got back to the office I started a set of four-by-six file cards. On each one I meticulously wrote one and only one piece of information. I cataloged them by verifiability. One pile of substantiated facts – FitzGibbon had adopted Mexican twins. One for facts for which there was some evidence – there were some trusts, exact terms and consequences to be verified. A pile of hearsay only – Ramon’s gun collection. A pile of suppositions contradicted by other evidence – life made sense. A stack of wild speculations – anything made sense. I put a different-colored sticker on each card, depending on the category. The stickers were removable, so something could easily be shifted from one category to another.
It took me hours. I felt good. I hadn’t been so organized in years. I usually delegated this kind of work. Relied on my guys to tell me what was important. But this was different. Everything was slippery. Evanescent. Changeable. I had to be on top of it all. And anyway, I couldn’t trust anybody with it. I thought about Warwick’s reaction if he knew I’d listed his major client, and the firm’s, as a potential suspect in a murder case.
When I’d assembled the cards I tacked them on the wall in descending order of certitude. I stood back. Gazed at my creation.
Didn’t tell me a thing.
I needed to clear my head.
I logged on to the poker site.
I rarely played poker in the office. Warwick had his tentacles everywhere. He’d find out. Give me shit. But I was starting not to care. I’d take the chance.
I played aggressive but selective. I got into the zone. I felt the power. Life was good. There was a future. I went to a high no-limit table. I put it all on a pair of Sixes.
Doyle Brunson, twice world champion, believes in ESP. Now, I don’t believe in ESP, really. But then, there have been times. There have been times when I just knew. I just knew, with the certainty that foments revolution, that the next card out was going to be a Six. Make my trips. Three Sixes. Take their money.
It happened. Two thousand bucks in a nanosecond.
Yes, life was good.
I logged off. Sat back. It took wisdom, I told myself, to step away. Take your wad. Sit back. Enjoy it. Play later. This went against the sages’ advice. When you quit or when you stayed made no difference, they said. Take the long-term view. It’s a lifetime gig, my man. The next hand has as much potential as the last. No more, no less. It’s like flipping coins. A hundred heads come up, two, three, five hundred. What are the odds of heads coming up again? Fifty-fifty. Just like always.
I didn’t believe it.
I understood it. I could not refute it. I just didn’t believe it.
Dorita stuck her head in the door.
What’s this? she asked.
I’m wallowing in poker madness.
No, this.
She pointed to the cards on the wall.
I’m organizing the Jules data.
She walked over to the wall. She looked over my masterpiece. She stood back. She lit a cigarette.
There’s a rule about smoking in the office, I said.
Right, she said, tapping some ashes onto the carpet.
Computers are great, she continued. But sometimes file cards are better.
The screen is bigger, I said.
You can see it all at once.
Right.
Although.
Although?
It still doesn’t speak to me.
Nor me, I said. Except in a whisper.
There’s a whisper?
There is. Keep it up, it says. Keep adding pieces. And if you’re a very good boy, I’ll tell you something. Something good. Something satisfying.
Wow. That’s one hell of a whisper.
I know. I think I’ll keep it on the payroll.