Tunnel Vision (13 page)

The guy looked up at Zack as if sensing the weird link. But the other player snapped him out of it. “To you.” The Asian broke his hold on Zack and bet another fifty. When the final bets were made and the cards were dealt, the Asian guy turned over his pocket cards and claimed the pot with three queens, two in the down cards.

Zack quietly slipped away from the table and headed for the men’s room. His head had a weird buzz, and his heart rate had kicked up. At the sink he splashed cold water on his face and glanced in the mirror at himself.
What the hell was that? Just a fluke. A statistical anomaly,
he told himself.
This whole place is a temple to flukes. But three times in a row? Maybe it was some kind of déjà vu in reverse. When the guy turned up his pocket, you only thought you had seen what he had. Let’s not forget that four months ago, you did a blunderbuss with your head and a telephone pole.

He left the men’s room and went back to the poker tables. He thought about going to a different gaming room—watch the craps tables and wheels for a while. Or maybe find Anthony and Damian at the blackjack games. But something pulled him back to table thirty-three.

The Asian guy caught Zack’s eye as he approached, then looked away.

Two more hands passed when the black man announced he was quitting while ahead. He tipped the dealer and got up. He asked Zack if he wanted to play, and without thinking, Zack said, “Sure,” and sat down.

“You have a name?” asked the white guy on his left.

Zack told him, and the guy said his name was Jeff DeRonde. The others introduced themselves—Ralph, and another guy who joined the table was Sammy. The Asian guy was Winston Song. Zack bought $400 in chips. His abdomen felt as if a bird were trapped inside. He kept glancing at Winston, half anticipating some weird connection, but there was none. The first hand went by, and he and Jeff DeRonde dropped out early. Winston did the same. Zack had picked up nothing from the guy when he’d looked at his cards. It was as if the radio had gone dead. By the second hand, Damian and Anthony found him.

“Hey, man,” Damian said. “Playing the big boys, huh?”

“Until they clean me out.” Two more hands went by, reducing Zack’s holdings to $200. Still no more imagined glimpses.

But on the next hand, it was back. The dealer dealt the pocket cards, and Winston open-raised to $15. Zack had been dealt a three of diamonds and a jack of spades. He called, as did the others. The flop was jack of diamonds, two of clubs, and six of diamonds. Winston bet $50 into the growing pot. Zack called, and two others also called. The turn was a nine of diamonds, and Winston bet $75. Zack raised another $50. The river was a queen of diamonds, leaving a final board with four diamonds. With the diamonds on the table, his three gave him a flush. The guy named Jeff on his right had nothing and folded, leaving Zack and Winston. And about $400 in the pot.

Winston looked at his down cards. Zack saw a deuce of diamonds and an off-suit king. He felt himself shudder at the core of his body. He had the guy. Anthony nudged him to show his pocket cards, but Zack shook his head. That caught Winston’s eye. Zack pushed most of his chips into the pile. Winston looked at him for a chilled moment. Then he pushed in his chips, raising Zack another $50. Zack pushed in his remaining chips. Winston flicked over his pocket. A king of clubs and the two of diamonds.

Zack turned over his cards. A “Whoa” rose up from the table as the crowd took in Zack’s cards. And for the first time all night, Winston’s face broke its mold. His eyes expanded as he took in Zack’s three of diamonds. Zack had beaten him with a three.

“Thought I was bluffing?” he said as Zack raked in the chips. “Took a hell of a chance.”

“Jesus, man! That was sick,” Anthony said in disbelief. Damian just shook his head.

Zack had won a pot of over $1,100.

The next three hands yielded nothing, and he folded early. So did Winston. Again Zack thought he had fugitive flashes of his down cards, but since he never turned them up, Zack had no way to confirm. A little after midnight, Anthony joined the game while Damian stood beside him with a beer. Zack still was up about $900. The cards were dealt, and Zack pocketed two nines. The flop was a jack, a four, and another nine, launching Zack with three of a kind. Everybody stayed in as the pot approached $500. Winston had something because he smooth-called as Zack ran up the pot, scaring away two of the others, including Anthony. The turn was another jack, and the river was the last nine, giving Zack four of a kind. Winston stayed to the end, narrowing him at best to a spade flush, a full house, or four of a kind. The other possibility was a bluff. The pot was nearly $2,000, including about $700 from Zack. Winston looked at the river card, then pushed onto the table a stack of chips totalling $500, which equaled Zack’s chips. He looked at Zack with that flat, expressionless face as the people around them—now twenty strong—buzzed in anticipation of Zack’s response.

For a long moment Zack held Winston’s eyes, which were unreadable flat onyx ovals. Not a giveaway tic in his face. “I fold,” Zack announced.

A murmur hummed from the gallery of onlookers. “Had me going there,” Winston said as he raked in the chips.

“What did you have?” Anthony said.

Zack didn’t respond.

“No, really, man. Musta had the flush.” Before Zack could stop him, Anthony flipped over Zack’s two pocket nines. The gallery let out a gasp. “What the fuck!” Anthony said. “You folded with four nines?”

“Nobody folds with four of a kind,” Damian said. And the crowd agreed.

Damian looked at Zack. “You were priced in to call, man, and you folded.”

Winston gave Zack an intense glare and turned over his winning cards—two jacks, giving him four of a kind.

The crowd let out cries of dismay. “I don’t believe it,” someone said. “Holy shit!”

“This is sick, really sick,” someone else said. “He folds four nines, and four jacks takes the pot.” The crowd continued to buzz over Zack’s wild hunch that saved him the rest of his money.

Zack stacked his chips and got up. “Time to go.”

Winston picked up the river jack and turned it over, looking for giveaway marks. Then he flipped it down. “I don’t know about you, kid,” he said. “You’ve been doing that all night.”

Zack felt his chest tighten. “Doing what?”

“Reading me. Nobody folds with four nines.”

Zack could not think of a comeback, so he shrugged and gathered his chips. As they started away, two men in dark sport coats came up to Zack. Before he knew it, the three of them were being led away to an alcove where security guards asked to see each of their IDs.

“What did we do?” Anthony asked.

“I don’t know what your scheme is, but you’re counting cards and that’s a violation.”

“We weren’t counting cards,” Anthony protested. “I swear.”

But the guards looked about as negotiable as a firing squad. They handed them their driver’s licenses, and one guard went to make photocopies and check their database while the other guards held them against the wall, discreetly avoiding attention. When the first guard returned, he returned their IDs. “Your names have been entered into a database, shared with casinos from here to Las Vegas.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you’re banned for life from stepping into a casino on American soil.” His finger pointed toward the exit. “Out of here.”

“But I wasn’t counting cards. I swear.”

“Whatever you were doing, you’re not coming back ever.”

“What about my chips? I want to cash out. Cash out and leave.”

They walked them to the cashier, where Zack redeemed his chips for a $533 check. The guards then escorted them to the parking lot and waited until they moved to Anthony’s car. “Were you counting?”

“No.”

“You see him check out the river jack? Like he thought it was marked.”

“How could it be?” Damian said. “The dealer changes decks every game.”

“Don’t know, man. You played that guy like a friggin’ shark. The hell were you doing?”

Zack sucked in the night air as if to drain the atmosphere.

“Hey, you okay?” Anthony said as they moved to the car.

Zack nodded but could hardly catch his breath. When he didn’t answer, Damian took his arm. “Sure you’re all right? You’re sweating like a pig.”

“Yeah,” Zack said.
I saw his cards. I saw his buried jacks.

“Probably spooked by the security guards.”

Zack nodded as they reached the car.

“So what were you thinking?” Anthony asked.

“I don’t know. It was just a weird hunch he had me beat.”

“Weird hunch he had four jacks to your nines? You’re either wicked lucky or psychic, is all.”

Zack said nothing and got into the car.

23

During the next four days, Zack tried to sort out what had happened that night and settled on a rational explanation. His brain had suffered considerable trauma and rewiring over the last four months. As a result, he had deluded himself into thinking he had mind-glimpsed the guy’s cards. But in hindsight, it was no more than autosuggestion crossed with pure dumb luck. Since then, he had experienced no more weird fugues.

Earlier that day, Damian had called Zack to join him at Uno Chicago Grill at Huntington Avenue and Gainsborough Street, just off the NU campus. Damian said it was his treat. Zack was still a charity case. His Discover bill was now $4,200 and growing by the hour.

“So, what did you do with your winnings?” Damian asked, sipping his Coke.

“Paid off half of next month’s rent.”

“What about the other half?”

“Anthony.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing they banned you.”

“Those days are over, online and off. Gone cold turkey.” He took a bite of pizza. “My postcoma resolution.”

“Hear, hear!” Damian raised his glass. “To cold turkey.”

Zack clinked him. “Except I can’t live on everybody’s dole. Twenty-four friggin’ years old and I’m drowning in debt,” he said. “I’m going to have to get a job.”

“You can’t do that and finish your thesis.”

“Maybe I’ll put in for another extension.”

“Your adviser could die of old age before you’re finished.” Then Damian pulled something out of his shirt pocket. “This is what I called you about. From a notice board in the union.” He handed Zack the flyer. “They’re looking for research volunteers.”

The announcement was written in bold letters. And under it was an 800 number.

IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU CAN MAKE MONEY (!) AS A PARTICIPANT IN A SLEEP STUDY. CALL THE PROTEUS RESEARCH CENTER AND LEAVE YOUR NAME AND PHONE NUMBER TO SCHEDULE A TIME.

“Some kind of sleep study. I called and they pay two fifty a session.”

“Just to go to sleep?”

“I think it’s an insomnia study. Might even be a twofer—figure out your sleep problem and pay you for it.”

“Probably not a university project with the 800 number.”

“They’re looking for volunteers between the ages of twenty-one and fifty. No drug or alcohol dependency, no history of mental disorders. And two hundred and fifty dollars if eligible.”

“Did you say you were interested?”

“Yeah, and I asked if they could use another, and they said yes. They’re interviewing tonight down the street at the Colonnade. What do you think?”

“Can’t hurt.”

Damian paid the bill, and they walked to the Colonnade. When they asked at the desk about the Proteus interviews, the clerk directed them to a suite of rooms on the third floor. As they approached, a male and female about their age came out the door. Damian asked if this was for the sleep study, and they said it was. They tapped the door, and a man with fuzzy gray hair and a white shirt let them in. He introduced himself as Dr. Morris Stern and asked them to wait a few minutes, then disappeared into another room.

A minute later, he emerged with a tall woman who introduced herself as Dr. Elizabeth Luria. Splashed across her right cheek was a red birthmark. She thanked them for coming, then checked her watch. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to begin immediately.”

They agreed, and Stern led Damian into one room while Zack followed Luria into another that had a desk with a laptop and printer. Luria directed Zack to take a seat across from her. She looked to be about sixty and had quick, dark eyes behind perfectly round glasses. The birthmark began an inch or so under her right eye and ran down her cheek, making her look as if tears of blood had dried on her face. “So, what exactly have you heard about us?” She spoke in a sharp, clear voice that went with her quick, dark eyes.

“Just that you’re doing sleep studies.” He unfolded the flyer from his pocket.

“Yes, we do a variety of sleep-related projects, including assessment of disorders. You and your friend are students, so I needn’t explain how loss of sleep can impact the way you function both physically and mentally.”

“I thought sleep studies were done in hospitals.”

“They are. And some are in universities or private research centers. Let me say right off that we cannot take volunteers with a history of drug or alcohol dependency.”