The poker game had gone upscale. Mike had found some rich guy, Trip Batson, some silver spoon investment banker type who thought it terribly cool to have a bunch of artistes over to his penthouse on East Seventy-ninth to play dirty poker for just enough to cover his monthly parking bill.
The table was set up with napkins in silver holders, piles of pre-counted monogrammed chips, and tiny bowls of unidentifiable Japanese gunk. And a professional dealer. The scene was pristine.
We sat. Jake asked for booze. The Philippine girl-for-hire was very accommodating. Anything we wanted. Single malt Scotch, four choices. A fine selection of wines. No beer keg, though. She was apologetic. Our host suggested that she make a trip to the corner store. Buy a few six-packs. Mike politely declined. The Scotch would be fine.
The host explained that everyone had been allotted two thousand in chips. At the end of the night, he’d do the calculations. Whoever was short would write a check.
I looked around the table. Everyone was having trouble keeping a straight face. Poker was a game of cash, not checks.
Nobody interrupted to let him know. Nobody figured it would be their issue. Any losses amongst ourselves we could handle our own way. And nobody expected to owe anything to Trip at the end of the night.
Not a problem there. Trip was your typical rich amateur player. To him the game was all hope and luck. When he won, he gloated. When he lost, he cursed the cards. He cursed a lot more than he gloated.
It should have been fun. But it wasn’t. It was hard to enjoy. When I’d started going to the game, it had been entertainment, a dissolute night out with a crowd of characters I’d never get to meet at my day job. Now it was too complicated. Jake. Andrea too. I wasn’t sure what to expect from her. She could have already talked. Told the others of my abject failure of the other night. Worse yet, she could choose the game itself to make the revelation. I’d never live it down with Butch.
But she just ignored me. I was nothing to her.
That was the best I could have hoped for.
Jake was a different problem. He was his backslapping self. But I couldn’t see him as I had before. My guileless and charming oddball friend. Brother in maladjustment. Now I knew that his adjustment problems made mine look like a guy with a stutter looks to Steven Hawking. His mood swings made sense now. His faraway stare. Drinking himself incoherent. Dark allusions to secrets unrevealed.
He moved into aggressive mode. Aggressive and with an arrogance I hadn’t seen before. Not stupid aggressive. Good aggressive. He jammed a lot of pots. He stared people down. He kept up a constant chatter. I’ve got the nuts! he kept exclaiming, hand after hand, laughing hyena-like and gathering in another pot as the tight and cautious of us folded mediocre hands. When he was challenged he had the cards. We knew that all that meant was that we’d chosen the wrong hand to call him on. But his rush lasted through the night. He ended up with a pile of chips that made ours look like amateur night at the bingo parlor.
After one particularly subtle move that garnered him a major pot at my expense, I leaned over, put him in a playful headlock and said, Do that again and I’ll have to start playing seriously, my man.
He laughed. He punched me in the side. I twisted him sideways. We fell over and rolled on the floor. The gang gathered round, egging us on. A play fight. Butch threw himself on top of the pile. Mike poured a glass of Scotch on our heads. We spluttered up, cooled down.
When the game was over and we were waiting for the elevator, Jake turned to me.
Hey Rick, he said with childish glee, did I kick some ass tonight, or what?
You kicked some ass, Jake, I said. You kicked my ass. You kicked everybody’s ass.
I did, he said, I did.
He had that faraway look again.
I fingered in my pocket a small envelope.