Sam's Legacy (55 page)

“I'll chip another penny to the big man,” Sol said, talking to Norman.

“Twenty more to see me,” Norman said, and pushed three white chips forward.

Sam looked at his hand—there was nothing there—and turned it face down. “I work hard for my money,” Sol said. He turned his cards over and Norman took in the pot. Sam collected the cards, passed to Sol, who moved a chip to the middle, shuffled, dealt. Sam drew a pair of sevens, stayed in. Sol kept three cards, Norman took two again, but dropped out when Sol raised ten, no chip. Sam saw Sol and lost, jacks to sevens, and knew something. He watched Norman shuffle—the guy's fingers were long, and he shuffled beautifully: straight on, not corner to corner. He gave Sam a pair of sixes. Sol drew three cards; Norman took two again and raised twenty plus chip. Sam folded.

“We'll see you this time,” Sol said, pushing a blue chip forward.

Norman did not hesitate. “Cost you plate, fat man.” Too soon, too soon, Sam thought. Norman slid a red chip into the middle. Sol smiled, moved a red chip forward. Norman turned two cards over—a pair of fives—his eyes on Sol. The guy would be tapped out in less than an hour, Sam told himself, playing like that. It didn't figure.

Sol showed three eights, and pulled the chips in with both hands. He looked at Sam, raised his eyebrows. “No funny looks there, fat man,” Norman said, shoving the deck at Sam.

In the next deal, Sam drew nothing again, Norman took two cards to Sol's three, but this time Sol smiled and let Norman take in the forty dollars. “You shouldn't have called me fat man,” Sol said, slicing the deck.

“Keep the bottom card toward you—down.”

Sam was tired—the excitement he had felt when he'd held the deck for the first time had already vanished. It was a question now of staying in, of waiting. The cards moved around, left to right, left to right, Norman taking two each time, winning a few hands when both Sam and Sol would fold, but not chipping again. On the tenth deal, Sam took his first hand, holding a pair of kings, but the others did not see him. “I'll trust you, Silent Sam,” Sol said. “You're a good boy.” The pots remained small, Sam drew poorly. In a while he was down two sixty, about even with Norman—Sol had their money—but he wasn't worried. He was playing the cards, as always. If they didn't come now, they'd come later. He thought of his Bible Man, trying to lose, and remembered that there was nothing new there, either: he'd read an article once about a guy who had won at Monte Carlo with the same system.

Sol dealt, Norman passed, Sam passed, and Sol turned his cards down. He passed the deck to Norman—the first time, Sam realized, that that had happened. They raised the house, anted up again, and Sam drew a pair of fours. Norman made it thirty to draw, and Sam put his thirty in, but he drew nothing to the fours and had to let Norman take the pot.

Sam lost a few more, then drew his first good hand. He kept a six, seven, eight, and nine, and pulled the five, raised twenty and chip, then forty more. Sol stayed in, Norman folded. Sam turned the straight over, and as he waited for Sol to show his hand, he tried to show nothing. He knew that Sol was waiting, to see what he would do—if he would make a move for the chips. “Good enough,” Sol said, aware of the silence, and Sam took in the chips, stacked them, his fingers steady. He did not smile.

Would he have taken Ben's offer—and let Andy set the game up—if Flo's letter had not arrived? He watched the cards in front of him: two tens. He drew two queens, stayed in when Norman raised twenty and chip. He raised him ten more and Norman saw the ten, raised twenty. Norman blinked. Sam put his money in and Norman turned over three fives. Sam showed nothing, nodded. Watch your ass, Sam Junior, he heard himself saying. Forget Ben, forget Andy, forget Flo's letter, forget Tidewater.

The cards moved around again, and everybody passed. Another hand—nothing again. There were nine chips in the middle, and when Sam reached across for his cards he let his eyes fall on his watch: ten after ten. He was down five hundred—one good hand, though, a few small ones, and he'd be back even. Remember the rules: play it small and play it smart. He drew nothing. Sol bet twenty and chip, and Sam and Norman went out. The cards went around, Sol continued to win, to draw good cards. Sam knew that he was doing what he had to do, playing what was there. Still…

He heard a siren. He had, from his window, watched the tiny figures below freeze whenever that sound wailed through the village. About you and your father, Andy had said to him, when Ben was gone one morning, shopping. Remember this, what your grandfather always taught us: one mother can take care of ten children, but ten children sometimes, they can't take care of one mother. Sam saw two queens in his hand, then drew the third. Sol took three cards also. Sam raised twenty and chip, Sol saw him, but Norman went out. Sam didn't hesitate. “Plate,” he said. Sol looked at him, put a finger on a red chip and Sam did not move. Then: “Be my guest,” Sol said, and tossed his cards into the center of the table.

Sam dealt: another good hand—two tens, and his heart thumped when he picked up his three cards and saw that he'd drawn a third one. He had no choice: he bet as before. Norman stayed with him, but, like Sol, Norman folded when Sam bet plate. Two hands, two hundred—but he should, he knew, have had at least five with cards like that. Something was up. “We'll take a break at midnight,” Sol said. “Five minutes.”

“I ain't got five minutes,” Norman said.

Sol reared back, laughing, then dealt. When he tossed Sam his fifth card, he winked. Sam had four hearts—seven, nine, ten, jack. The others took two cards each. Sam picked up his new card, didn't look at it. “I pass to the power,” Sol said. Norman did the same. Sam looked at his card—seven of spades. He didn't fight it: he turned his cards face down, pushed another white chip into the middle and passed the deck. He drew nothing on the next deal, not even a pair, and nothing again on the hand after that, and he felt reassured. Nothing was nothing. You couldn't bet what you didn't have.

Norman, he saw, was trying to prove otherwise. And Sol could, by now, if he'd wanted, have driven out a strong pair by betting heavily. It didn't matter, though. He'd wait for the cards to come. With a pair of aces in his hand, Sam let Norman send the pot to a hundred and twenty. Sol watched them, expressionless. Norman saw Sam, Sam showed his aces. “Yeah,” was all Norman said, and he turned his cards down. Sam now had about thirteen hundred left, Norman had fifteen, and Sol had the rest. But a pro, Sam thought, could never play the way Norman was playing and be back a second and third time. Making sure the pot never built, protecting his game—he was up to something else. Sam heard noise in the corridor and Norman's neck snapped to the left. Sam saw that, briefly, Sol had tensed. Sam spun the cards around the circle. “My father,” he said.

“I hear women,” Norman said. “No women in this room, you hear? They spook me.”

Sol laughed. “I like women,” he said.

Ben passed the open doorway, and Sam turned, looked at him. It was, he realized, the first time Ben had ever seen him—Sam liked the phrase, and smiled—at work. He looked at the cards: two tens. He glanced up, but Ben was already gone. Sol put a chip in the middle, and Norman did the same. “Make it two,” Sam said, still smiling. Sol shrugged, threw a second chip in the middle. “No funny business,” Norman said. “They gotta stay far away, you hear?”

“How many?” Sam asked.

Sol asked for three, and Norman took three also. “Dealer takes two,” Sam said, and kept a jack with his two tens, picked up his two cards, one at a time: a six, then a king. He closed his hand, waited a split-second. “One and chip,” he said, pushing a blue chip into the middle, taking a white one back. He heard a woman's voice—then another. They were laughing. The widows—that, Ben had explained to him was another option: if only the thoughtful senior citizen will take a full and frank inventory of his assets and possibilities…

Sol laughed, turned his cards over. Norman touched a chip, looked at Sam. “You don't sucker me,” he said, and turned his cards over also. Sam took the stack in, passed the deck to Sol. He went out on the next hand, and the next, then stayed in when he pulled two pairs, nines and jacks. He bet twenty before the draw and Sol and Norman saw him. They each took two cards. “Last card,” Sol said, dealing. “Down and dirty.” Sam picked up the card, a third jack, and felt his stomach tighten, bounce. Outwardly he showed nothing. “Oh Ben—!” he heard. The woman's voice squeaked. Sam realized that his father's small eyes had been glazed. “We'll pass to the power,” Sol said, and Sam bet one and chip. Sol saw his bet; Norman looked at Sol. “Thanks, sport,” he said, “for saving me nothing.” He went out.

Sam hesitated, but only for an instant; he pushed three chips forward, one for each jack. “Good,” Sol said. “I see your three and we'll make it three more.”

Sam put three chips forward. “Plate,” he said.

Sol's mouth moved downward. “There's twenty chips in there, right?”

“Right,” Sam said, and slid two red chips forward.

“I believe you,” Sol said. “But I have no choice.” He put two red chips in the middle, tucked his upper lip into his lower one. “So?” he asked. “I paid to see.”

Sam showed the full house. “Good enough,” Sol said, and turned to Norman. “Some young men are polite, you see. It pays.”

Sam heard glasses tinkling in the other room. He took his chips in. Small and smart, and he was almost back even—instead of being under a thousand, he was over fifteen hundred. He held a pair of eights, they drew, he bet one and chip, the others folded. He knew he was all right now: with or without a pair, he could take a hand.

Sam heard Andy, talking about Ben—something to do with the taxi, but Sam could not make out the words. It occurred to him that the two men, more than fifty years before, had been boys, and that when they had been boys they had slept in the same bed. Andy had known Rabbi Katimsky.

“Close the fucking door,” Norman said. “They bug me.”

“There is no door,” Sam said.

Norman looked, saw that Sam was right. “Relax, son,” Sol said. “I don't hear a word they're saying.”

“Let's pick up the pace, yeah?” Norman said, and he put twenty in the middle for ante.

“Loser's choice,” Sol said, and added a blue chip to Norman's. Norman dealt, bet twenty again, and then, for the first time all night, took four cards. Sam had a pair of sevens, drew a third one.

“Plate,” Norman said.

“I see your plate, and raise you plate,” Sam said.

“Let youth fight its own battles,” Sol said, and he went out. Sam looked at him, and Sol smiled, in a way that made Sam tense.

“I'll see that, smart boy,” Norman said, and put in his two red chips, then two blue ones. He smiled. “And it'll cost you plate again to see me.”

Sam forced himself to pay attention. Norman's left eye was steady. Sam tried to close off his father's voice in the other room, but only heard, in his head, Ben talking about what he had willed his son: about fading in and fading out. He put down five hundred, took twenty in change, and said nothing. One at a time, Norman turned over his tens: one, two, three. “It's yours,' Sam said.

His stake was cut almost in half now. The hands moved around: he paid attention, he ignored the sounds from the living room, he won his share of hands, but he wasn't fooled. The pots were for forty or fifty dollars, Sam drew well, and his stack went from twelve hundred, to twelve fifty, to thirteen hundred. He drew a flush, against Sol, and reached fourteen hundred, but understood now, with certainty, where things were wrong. With a streak like the one he'd just had, he should have doubled his wins, and been ahead, but he wasn't. Sol played steadily, and though he had not won a big pot for almost an hour, he was still ahead of both Sam and Norman. Neither Sol nor Norman would let the pot build, and Sam couldn't tell when Norman was bluffing and when he wasn't. He didn't like it.

In her letter, Flo had said that she was worried about Tidewater. She had been with him in the basement, in the morning, and then had gone upstairs to the store. He had not, as far as she knew—and she had asked the neighbors—left the building, and yet, when she returned later that day, after locking the store, and had knocked on his door, he had not answered. The following morning, he did not appear. Worried that he might be ill, she had telephoned the landlord, who had come and opened the door to his room. The room had been as it had always been, but Tidewater had not been there. She had inquired in the neighborhood, but nobody had seen him, or heard about him. She had checked all the hospitals, and the police knew of his disappearance. For a day or two after Sam's departure he had seemed unusually depressed, even for him, she said. And then—on the morning she had last seen him—he had looked as good as he had ever looked, and he had been especially helpful and cheerful. She wondered if Sam knew anything—about where he might have gone. There was no point by now, Sam knew, in telling anyone about the other room.

It was past midnight—twelve-twenty—and they had him cornered, Sam saw, pounding into him one at a time, chopping away at him, first one, then the other—testing him, like fullbacks going through the line, first off one tackle, then off the other. When Andy had asked again, the night before, Sam's decision had been there. He wanted to return, even if it was—as it had always been?—too late to do anything for Tidewater. He wanted to win.

He played what he had. Stick to the cards, guard your odds. With two pair, kings over fours, he let Norman raise the pot, then took the chips in. “Norman Noname,” Sol said, “you're slipping.”

Norman was, Sam saw, under five hundred. His eyes were bloodshot. But it didn't matter. Playing like that, he knew, they could do anything they wanted—anything at all. He had been had: one played steady, one played wild, and if the steady player couldn't win on skill, then the wild player was there, waiting to clean you out when, in the course of the night, he got his two or three lucky hands.