It was over so fast that when Halo got shakily to his feet he still had his ‘paper’ hand ready to go. He looked around him, at first unable to comprehend what he was seeing.
In an instant, the jet’s fuselage had been all but severed fore of the starboard wing. Twisted metal, heavy drapes of colour-coded wiring and dark blue patterned carpet were exposed, festooned with fluffy white insulation. The wing itself had collapsed onto the ground, buckled and broken. Over Halo’s head the hangar was split open in a rough line of gashes, each spikily framing twenty-foot blue swathes of the cloudless LA sky.
The number-one engine whined down slowly to a point at which a human voice could be heard. But there were no voices – not then, nor in the eerie silence that followed its complete cessation. Men in blue coveralls started to move, picking themselves off the floor, peering in disbelief from behind gleaming testing gear at the plane silhouetted in the giant doorway of the hangar.
Halo turned to share his amazement with Chris. But Chris wasn’t there. In his place was a shapeless red-and-blue lump. Halo frowned down at it until his brain finally registered that the red-stained chunk of blue cloth was wearing Chris Stern’s Nikes.
Then he fainted.
*
Tom Patrick felt his stomach lurch as the river card appeared on the scuffed green baize. Jack of diamonds – turning the pocket jacks he’d been nursing into something even more valuable.
If his gut rolled over, his expression was unchanged. The other players searching his face for clues saw only what they’d been seeing for the thirteen hours since the start of the tournament – weary, red-rimmed green eyes set deep in a pale face, darkened by the shadow that told of more than one day away from a razor.
Tom regarded the five cards on the baize carefully. Nothing else on. No straights, no flushes, no pairs showing. The only thing that could beat him: someone holding pocket kings to match the one on the table.
He glanced briefly at the other players.
After years of playing, he had this knack. He needed only a glance, almost over their heads – as if he was about to call for chips or food – to take in the faces of his remaining opponents. Other players would stare at a challenger, seeking the clues that might give them an edge. It wasn’t necessary – not in Tom’s book. This quick glance, perfected over years, was all he needed to size up the opposition left at this final table.
To his left was Corey Clump, big and bluff and easy, with his fat ass hanging off his seat and his dopey smile fooling everyone; but Tom had been watching Corey at the river, and he’d seen that little slump of disappointment. Corey would fold his hand.
Next to Corey was a player he’d seen around but whose name he didn’t know. Same age as Tom – maybe thirty-six – clean-cut, wearing sunglasses day and night and with white iPod cables running from his ears. In his head, Tom called him the Pinball Kid, kinda like that deaf, dumb and blind guy in the movie. Except this Pinball Kid wasn’t dumb. Not in the head and not in the mouth. This Pinball Kid was one of those players who couldn’t shut the fuck up. It was like a tic.
Now he was grinning at Tom.
‘Pocket jacks? I got the kings, man. Better fold, man, cos I got you beat …’
Tom let the guy drone on, filling the air. He knew it meant nothing. The Pinball Kid might have the kings, he might not.
Behind the Pinball Kid stood a sexy dark blonde, with smoky eyes and a tight dress showing off spectacular curves. She’d been there most of the day, sometimes with a hand on the guy’s shoulder, loose but proprietorial, a stand-out in a casino filled with a thousand men and maybe twenty women – and those generally over fifty and crammed into velour sweatpants. She met Tom’s eyes briefly but neutrally. She must know what the Pinball Kid had, but her face gave nothing away.
Next to the Pinball Kid was Mr Ling, his face a cliché of inscrutability, but he had a big fat tell, and right now Tom could see Mr Ling’s fingers sizing up his dwindling chips, estimating how many hands he could still play after losing this one. Tom was amazed Mr Ling had got this far in the tournament with such an obvious weakness.
He had his own weakness, of course …
A few years earlier, in a tournament right here at the Bicycle Club off the 710 freeway, Tom had bluffed everyone out of a monster pot. He’d held a pathetic seven and a two – the worst hand in poker – but he’d decided to make a stand anyway. As the last man shook his head and threw away his cards, they’d hit the dealer’s over-eager hand and flipped over: pocket tens! The pair would have stomped all over his lousy hand if the other player had only had the guts to call his bluff. Just the memory sent a thrill up Tom’s back as he debated his next move. So far, it was the pinnacle of his poker career – a moment to be taken out every now and then, pored over and savoured, then wound carefully in the soft cloth of memory and tucked safely away once more.
Four hands later, his own over-confidence had hustled him out of the game in a humiliating collapse.
It had been an invaluable lesson for Tom. His game could survive almost anything but his own ego.
But here and now sound judgement told him the Pinball Kid was his only danger. If he had pocket kings, Tom was finished. And, annoyingly, the sunglasses kept Tom from looking into the Pinball Kid’s Hold ’Em soul and finding out.
All these thoughts flared in Tom’s neurons in bare seconds, and he hardly paused before going all in, pushing what was left of his chips across to join the pot. He knew it would see off anything but pocket kings.
The Pinball Kid hesitated. Then laughed.
Then called his bet.
*
Tom was annihilating his sorrows when the smoky-eyed blonde was suddenly beside him. ‘Bad luck,’ she said, her voice turning it into a teasing question as she gestured to the barman.
He looked over her head to where the Pinball Kid, Mr Ling and Corey Clump were the only three left at the table, almost hidden by the throng of players and watchers looking for vicarious thrills.
Pocket fucking kings.
He shrugged. ‘They say you’ve got to get lucky six times to win a tournament. I was up to four.’
‘You ever been all the way?’ she said, with a curious little smile.
He looked at her sharply. Was she coming on to him? Tom was tall, dark, but only borderline handsome, so he decided to err on the side of caution. ‘Cashed a few times.’
She nodded approvingly and looked towards the table. He took the opportunity to glance down at the back of her neck, where a small, curved wisp of hair had escaped her chignon, and now waved gently over her flawless skin in the oxygen-rich breeze being pumped through the club. Something about it thrilled him: he wanted to curl it around his finger and feel the silken softness run across his skin.
He blinked the idea away, and ran his hand up the back of his own neck, feeling the stubble there against his palm. A nervous tic – a tell all of his own – but one he made a monster effort to keep at bay at the poker table. The blonde was sexy as hell but she was with someone else. Poker was fraught enough without banging another player’s girl between hands.
His phone rang. ‘Shit.’ He fumbled it out of his pocket and looked at the number. ‘Excuse me.’
She raised a surprised eyebrow: most people who played cards devoutly had nothing better to do on a Sunday or, if they did, they were there to avoid doing it.
They both turned at the shout that greeted the demise of another player. The Pinball Kid stood up from the table and looked around for his girl.
She walked away from Tom without another glance.
*
