More Twisted

out. “Twenty thousand.”
    Keller had sat in on some of the great games around the country—both as a player and an observer—and he’d spent hundreds of hours studying how bluffers behaved. The small things they did—mannerisms, looks, when they hesitated and when they blustered ahead, what they said, when they laughed. Now he summoned up all these memories and began to act in a way that’d make the other players believe that he had a bum hand and was going for a bluff. Which meant he began betting big.
    After two rounds, Piemonte finally dropped out, reluctantly—he’d put in close to $60,000—and he probably had a decent hand. But he was convinced that Keller or Tony had a great hand and he wasn’t going to throw good money after bad.
    The bet came around to Keller once more. “See your twenty,” he said to Tony. “Raise you twenty.”
    “Jesus,” Stanton muttered. Keller shot him a dark look and the old man fell silent.
    Tony sighed and looked again at his cards, as if they could tell him what to do. But they never could, of course. The only answers to winning poker were in your own heart and your mind.
    The boy had only fifteen thousand dollars left on the table. He reached into his pocket and took out an envelope. A hesitation. Then he extracted the rest of his money. He counted it out. Thirty-eight thousand. Another pause as he stared at the cash.
    Go for it, Keller prayed silently. Please . . .
    “Chips,” the boy finally said, eyes locked on Keller’s, who looked back both defiant and nervous—a bluffer about to be called.
    Stanton hesitated.
    “Chips,” the boy said firmly.
    The old man reluctantly complied.
    Tony took a deep breath and pushed the chips onto the table. “See your twenty. Raise you ten.”
    Keller pushed $10,000 forward—a bit dramatically, he reflected—and said, “See the ten.” He glanced at all he had left. “Raise you fifteen.” Pushed the remaining chips into the center of the table.
    “Lord,” Piemonte said.
    Even gruff Rothstein was subdued, gazing hypnotically at the massive pot, which was about $450,000.
    For a moment Keller did feel a slight pang of guilt. He’d set up his opponent psychologically, calculated theodds down to the last decimal point—in short, he’d done everything that the youngster was incapable of. Still, the boy claimed he wanted to be treated like a man. He’d brought this on himself.
    “Call,” Tony said in a whisper, easing most of his chips into the pot.
    Stanton looked away, as if avoiding the sight of a roadside accident.
    “Queens full,” Keller said, flipping them over.
    “Lookit that,” Piemonte whispered.
    Stanton sighed in disgust.
    “Sorry, kid,” Keller said, reaching forward for the pot. “Looks like you—”
    Tony flipped over his cards, revealing a full house—three kings and a pair of sixes. “Looks like I win,” he said calmly and raked the chips in.
    Piemonte whispered, “Whoa. What a hand . . . . Glad I got out when I did.”
    Stanton barked a fast laugh and Rothstein offered to Tony, “That was some fine playing.”
    “Just luck,” the boy said.
    How the hell had that happened? Keller wondered, frantically replaying every moment of the hand. Of course, sometimes, no matter how you calculated the percentages, fate blindsided you completely. Still, he’d planned everything so perfectly.
    “Time to call it a night,” Piemonte said, handing his remaining chips to Stanton to cash out and added humorously, “Since I just gave most of my fucking money to a teenager.” He turned to Rothstein. “From now on, we stick to that rule about kids, okay?”
    Keller sat back and watched Tony start organizing the chips in the pile. But the odds, he kept thinking . . . . He’d calculated the odds so carefully. At least a hundred to one. Poker is mathematics and instinct—how had both of them failed him so completely?
    Tony eased the chips toward Stanton for cashing out.
    The sound of a train whistle filled the room again. Keller sighed, reflecting that this time it signified a loss—just the opposite of what the urgent howl had meant at the game with the Frenchmen.
    The wail grew louder. Only . . . focusing on the sound, Keller realized that there was something different about it this time. He glanced up at the old man and the two players from Chicago. They were frowning, staring at each other.
    Why? Was something wrong?
    Tony froze, his hands on the piles of his chips.
    Shit, Keller