With the completion of Thunder and Strangers and Household Routine, I turned toward the final entry this month, a suspense tale. At first, I didn’t know who I wanted to follow for this story. Something kept clawing at the back of my thoughts, but the rest of my chaotic mind buried it beneath everything else bouncing around in there. However, as the deadline crept closer, the strange voice finally forced its way through the noise and revealed the character demanding this tale, Marcus from Dead Man’s Hand.
Storms change the feel of places. The steady thumping against windows dulls conversations, stretches shadows across old wood, and turns smoke into a drifting haze beneath dim lights. Some bars grow quieter when the rain rolls through. Others grow tense, especially the ones that lock their doors while the open sign still hangs in the window.
Poker has never simply been a card game. The cards matter, of course, but they only tell part of the story. The people around the table matter far more. Some players lean on confidence. Others lean on fear. A few try burying both beneath stacks of chips and expensive liquor while pretending the tension around them doesn’t exist. Those are usually the most interesting tables to watch.
Here we follow Marcus through one of those nights and a quiet game against a dangerous opponent. In a room filled with criminals trying to decide who should fear whom, some people bluff with the cards in their hand. Others bluff with every movement, every word, and every glance toward the door.
Excerpt of False Tells
As the rain battered the bar’s windows, I rolled a poker chip across my knuckles. My eyes wandered to the door. When I found the open sign facing the table, I fought a smile. The establishment had closed an hour ago, despite it being Friday night. The owner valued privacy over profit.
I tapped the chip on the table and returned my attention to the dealer. Cigar smoke drifted beneath the yellowed lights overhead while low jazz crackled through the bar’s speakers. While some of the players who started this game were milling around trying to recoup the owner’s loss, four remained at the table. But only one of them bothered me.
Rourke lounged in his seat across from me. A cigar hung from his lips while scarred knuckles engulfed his whiskey glass. Unlike most players at the table, Rourke stayed quiet. That disturbed me. Talkative players volunteered weaknesses they’d never otherwise express.
Silent ones like him forced me to double down on my investigation. As I took a sip of my altered drink, the dealer dealt the next hand out once the players shoved their blinds into the pot. When the last card slid across the felt, Rourke’s emotionless eyes focused on me as I studied my pocket cards: the seven of clubs and the deuce of diamonds.
I grabbed enough chips to cover the blinds to witness the flop, despite the hand being trash. If I hadn’t taken a couple of terrible hands all the way tonight, I would’ve folded. When the action came to Rourke, he shoved twenty thousand into the pot.
While he wasn’t a talker, that move didn’t surprise me. He’d dominated weaker players with huge bets for about sixty minutes, emphasizing his legendary reputation that circulated among the players at the table. Most players feared him more than the cards.
While the other two at the table folded at his initial bet, I focused on his ice-cold eyes. I released my small stack and claimed a single chip as I tapped the back of my hand. After several seconds, I matched his raise. “You know, Rourke, most people try flirting with me or buying me dinner before attempting to rob me.”
A busted player snorted into his drink, while Rourke nodded. “Are you in or out?”
That was what I expected. He was direct and impatient, as always. But I slid my bet into the pot, and the dealer revealed the flop: the king of hearts, ten of spades, and the three of clubs. I continued tapping my hand. I’d spent too much energy laying out that false tell to allow it to go to waste. It was unfortunate that those cards offered me no help. I still had nothing but garbage.
Rourke unleashed a faint smile as he slid more chips across the table. “It’ll take thirty grand for you to see the turn.”
I rubbed my thumb along the edge of my cards. I considered altering the seven into an ace or a king. But I struck the cards with too much force as I banished that idea. Despite the lack of cameras here, the temptation to manipulate my hand to ensure a victory felt too risky. If one player declared they’d received that same card, I’d have trouble. Accusations of duplicate cards never proved healthy, given the suspicious criminals surrounding me.
No, if I sought to prevent a bullet wound, I needed to manipulate something safer than the deck.
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