Deadman's Bluff

29

“What fucking happened?” Scalzo whispered. “I don’t know,” DeMarco whispered back.

“You don’t know?”

“No, Uncle George. I don’t know what happened.”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” his uncle whispered, his breath hot on his nephew’s neck. “A guy named Skins Turner just beat you out of a monster pot, and took a third of your chips away from you. You’re no longer in first place.”

“I know, Uncle George.”

“So tell me how Skins did it,” his uncle said.

“I told you, I don’t know,” DeMarco replied.

DeMarco and his uncle and Guido were standing on the far end of the poker room, next to the wall and away from the other players and mob of spectators. The tournament took a fifteen-minute bathroom break every two hours, and the players ran like lemmings to the johns. DeMarco had instead gone over to be with his uncle, whose voice hinted that he was on the verge of losing control.

“But Skins had three of a kind,” his uncle said, his voice rising. “You bet into a better hand, and lost. Why the fuck did you do that, Skipper? Tell me why you did that.”

DeMarco leaned against the wall, which was icy cool against his skin. Everything he touched inside the casino was cold and unfriendly, and he found himself wanting to return to Newark and the safety of his house. “It just happened.”

“But you knew Skins was holding a pair of kings before the flop,” his uncle shot back. “You knew what his cards were. You’re not supposed to lose monster pots, Skipper. You could get knocked out of the tournament.”

“I know, Uncle George.”

“You know?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not good enough, Skipper.”

“It’s not?”

“No. You gotta do better.”

DeMarco could hear the implied threat in his uncle’s voice, and wondered if his uncle thought he’d lost the hand on purpose, and was trying to sabotage his own chances of winning the tournament. That was the strange thing about his uncle George; his uncle loved him, but sometimes didn’t trust him.

DeMarco realized his chest was heaving. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm down. The truth was, Skins hadn’t started the hand with two kings. According to the clicks DeMarco had heard in his earpiece, Skins’s cards were a king and a three. Somehow, they became a pair of kings, and DeMarco had lost the biggest pot of the tournament. Either the receiver in his earpiece had malfunctioned, or Skins was cheating.

His uncle stood a few feet away, speaking in hushed tones to Guido. DeMarco wanted to ask his uncle what he was supposed to do. Should he ask the tournament director to stop play, so they could fix his earpiece? Or should he tell the tournament director that Skins was cheating because DeMarco had known Skins’s cards, and they weren’t a pair of kings? Those were his only two options, and either one would get him tossed from the tournament, and probably arrested.

DeMarco found the strength to laugh. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

“What’s so funny?” his uncle asked, drawing close.

“This is another fine mess you’ve gotten me into, Uncle George,” DeMarco said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a joke, Uncle George. Lighten up.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” his uncle snapped.

DeMarco pushed himself away from the wall. He could vividly remember the day his uncle had come to him with his scheme about scamming the World Poker Showdown. Winning would be child’s play, his uncle had said, and would make DeMarco the most famous poker player in the world. Only it wasn’t turning out that way, and DeMarco sensed they were about to get beaten at their own game.

“Where you going?” his uncle asked.

“To take a leak,” DeMarco said.

“Have Guido walk with you.”

“Whatever you want, Uncle George.”

DeMarco felt his uncle’s hand on his wrist.

“You sure you’re okay, Skipper?” his uncle asked.

“I’m great, Uncle George. Just great.”

For as long as he could remember, DeMarco had hated to lose. It didn’t matter what the game was, or the stakes: if he didn’t end up on the winning end, he lost his temper, and sulked for days. He had to win, just as some guys had to be the best at a particular sport. As he’d gotten older, he’d wondered if it had something to do with being blind, as if winning put him on a level playing field with everyone else.

Only today had been different. He’d lost a monster pot, and it hadn’t fazed him. The surprise of losing had been upsetting, but the actual loss hadn’t affected him the way it normally did. He couldn’t put his finger on why, and as he and Guido walked to the lavatory, he thought about the snapshot he’d been given. He’d studied it between hands, and decided the little boy in the photograph was indeed him, the woman holding his hand, his mother. Everything else was a mystery, and he hoped the woman who’d given him the photograph hadn’t been driven away by his obnoxious behavior.

Guido stopped. “We’re here. Want me to go inside with you?”

“No, Guido. Go watch my uncle. He’s acting strange.”

“I can’t just leave you here,” the bodyguard said.

“It’s okay. I’ll get one of the players to walk me back.”

“You sure, Skipper?”

There was real concern in Guido’s voice. As nannies went, Guido had always been there for him. “Yeah, Guido. I’m sure. Thanks. I’ll see you in a few.”

The bodyguard walked away, and DeMarco went into the lavatory. When he emerged a minute later, he smelled lilac-scented perfume, and offered a smile when he felt a woman’s hand on his arm. “I need to talk to you,” a familiar voice said.

“Sure,” DeMarco said.

The woman led him to a corner table and they both sat down. She positioned her chair so their knees were touching. “Did you look at the photograph I gave you?” she asked.

“Yes. It’s of me and my mother, isn’t it?” DeMarco said.

She placed her hand on his wrist, her grip strong and firm. “That’s right.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Your mother gave it to me.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m your mother’s younger sister, your aunt.”

And where have you been for the past twenty years? he nearly asked.

“What’s your name?” he asked instead.

“Marie DeMarco.”

It felt like a scene out of a daytime soap opera, and DeMarco guessed he’d be dealing with plenty of people like her, now that he was famous. Out of curiosity, he leaned forward and brought his eyes a few inches from the woman’s face. The resemblance to his late mother was slight. He leaned back.

“Why did you come here?” he asked.

“I wanted to see you,” she said. “Your father also wanted to come. He lives in Philadelphia, not far from where I live.”

“My father?”

“That’s right.”

DeMarco removed her hand from his wrist. His father had abandoned him and his mother a long time ago. His uncle had told him so, and he’d accepted the explanation, simply because he’d never heard from his father. “I don’t know what your angle is, but I’m not giving you any money. You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here, and pulling this shit.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, then her dress going swoosh! as she rose from her chair. “I don’t want your money, Skipper. I came here to check up on you. I saw a piece on television that said you’d cheated the tournament, and was afraid you might be in trouble. So I came to make sure you were okay.”

The first day of the tournament, his uncle had arranged for a bunch of players to fold to him, giving DeMarco a huge stack of chips to play with. It was a ploy used by many top-flight players to ensure they survived the early rounds of tournaments, only DeMarco had the bad fortune to knock out Rufus Steele, who’d gone on national television and told the world what he’d done.

“Your father was going to come with me, but he’s in court, trying a case,” she went on. “He’s a criminal defense attorney.”

“Where’s he been all my life?”

“He didn’t know that you existed until I contacted him a few years ago. Once he found out he had a son, he tried to contact you, just like I tried. Only your uncle stopped us. Your uncle’s bodyguard threatened to kill us if we didn’t stay away.”

“That’s bullshit. My uncle wouldn’t do that.”

She abruptly sat back down. This time when she took his wrist, her fingernails dug into his flesh, and when she spoke, her voice was as sharp as a knife.

“Do you really want to know the truth?” she asked.

“Of course I want to know.”

“Are you sure, Skipper?”

DeMarco took a deep breath. He’d caught his uncle in enough lies over the years to realize that there was a lot about his past he didn’t know. Was this woman finally going to reveal it to him?

“Yes,” he said.

“It’s like this. Your mother got hooked on drugs when she was a teenager, and became a prostitute to support her habit. We tried to help her clean herself up. Myself, her mother, her friends, we all tried. She went into rehab, and for a while she was clean. That was when your mother met your father, who was in law school. She hid her past from him, and they fell in love. Then she got pregnant, and ran away.

“She had you without any of us knowing. Then went back to drugs and the street. We didn’t hear from her for several years. I finally tracked her down and persuaded her to come home. She lived with me for a while, and so did you. She wanted to contact your father, but never did. I think she was afraid of telling him the truth about herself.

“Your mother couldn’t stay off the drugs. One day I came home and she was gone. She called a month later from Atlantic City, said she was living there. The next call came from the police, saying she was dead. You were put into a foster home. I tried to get you back, but George Scalzo paid off a judge and adopted you.”

DeMarco shut his eyes. He tried to speak and heard his voice crack. He forced out the words anyway. “My mother was a hooker?”

The woman put her fingers to DeMarco’s lips, and gently closed them. “Your mother was a beautiful woman who loved you more than anything in the whole world. Never forget that, Skipper.”

The air trapped in DeMarco’s lungs had escaped, and he felt empty and hollow and lost. He heard her rise from her chair, and rose as well.

“I need to fly home to Philadelphia this afternoon,” she said. “I have a husband and family waiting for me.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I wanted you to know that you have a family besides your uncle,” she said. “Your father and I care about you. We both wanted you to know that. That’s why I came.”

He heard her open her purse, then felt a stiff piece of cardboard being put into his hand. He lifted it to his face and stared. It was a business card for Christopher Charles Russo, an attorney in Philadelphia. He felt her lips brush against his cheek.

“Good-bye, Skipper,” she said.