Ghosted - A Novel Part 35

Just fold the f.u.c.king hand!

"I fold," said Mason.

Seth nodded and gathered up the chips. Mason sat back in his chair. He'd lost the first hand-not a lot of chips, but that stupid smile: a victory for Seth he hadn't meant to give.

For a while they traded hands, big blind picking up antes, maybe forty dollars on the flop ... nothing made it to the turn. Mason was focused on two things. One was keeping their stacks close to even.

It wasn't until the seventh hand that they went all the way-from the flop, to the turn, to the river. But still the betting was low, $180 in the pot: Seth turned over three sixes, beating Mason's two pair. But Mason was feeling okay: the game was young, they were finding their pace.

"What time is it?" said Seth.

Mason shuffled.

"Nine forty-five," said Chaz.

"Aren't the blinds supposed to go up?" said Seth.

Mason kept on shuffling.

"Blinds are ten and twenty," said Chaz.

As if on cue, Seth pulled something from his pocket.

"Can you pa.s.s me one of those?" he said, pointing at the bar. Mason didn't turn around, just shuffled. Seth got up from the table and came back with a metal coaster in his hand. He sat down, and without looking at Mason, dumped a pile of white onto the shiny chrome in front of him.

"No f.u.c.king way," said Mason, trying to swallow the words as he said them.

Seth glanced up at him, some poor sucker's credit card in his hand. He pressed it down-that crunching sound. Mason's chest constricted, he fumbled the shuffle-and now Seth was chopping; chop-chop-chopping ... little piles, thick white lines ...

As Chaz came around the table the Kite Man lifted his hands quickly, as if trying to avoid snagging him.

"Sorry," said Chaz. "No drugs at the game."

Seth looked up. "Oh," he said, still chopping away, "that's actually not true." He nodded at Mason. "Ask your buddy there. The Rules of the House apply."

"It's my my house," said Chaz. house," said Chaz.

"And it's our game," said Seth. "Should we take it somewhere else?"

They both looked at Mason.

Mason looked at the pile of c.o.ke. Never in his life had he wanted a line so badly. He dropped his gaze and shook his head. As Seth turned back to Chaz, a look of satisfied innocence on his face, Mason-halfway through a shuffle-stretched his arms across the table, the cards in an arch between his fingers. Then he let them go.

"Oops," he said, as the cards riffled down. Cocaine blew across the table, into the air like a cloud. "Sorry about that."

Seth turned to him. "Don't worry, buddy." He smiled. "There's a lot more where that came from.

Seth snorted a rail before every hand-sometimes between bets-and he was sharp with it, too: cutting lines, cutting cards, his hands flashing in perfect practised motion. He hit the c.o.ke, then popped a popper. He drank down his bourbon in long gulps, struck a match one-handed.

The man knows how to do it.

Seth played and drank and drugged and smoked-like the Mason of old, just better. Lighting a cigarette, his eyes shone in the flame-this is what they said: It's It's worth worth it-even if my judgment falters-to drink so well, to get so high, to watch you suffer so it-even if my judgment falters-to drink so well, to get so high, to watch you suffer so.

And the Mason of new could but sit and watch. He fumbled the cards. His hands shook as he sipped his soda water. He dropped his chips, gritting his teeth as if in pain. But in truth, Mason wasn't suffering.

Inside he was Zen.

It had happened four hands ago. Surrounded by triggers-the snap of the cards, the click of the chips, the strike of the match, the clink of the gla.s.s, the cut of the chrome, the pop of the poppers, the inhale, the long, lovely drawing in, the exhale, everything he'd lost-and forced to face the end, the never again ... not ever not ever, he'd thought, as violent a thought as losing the game. Then suddenly it had disappeared. And in its place a gentler one: not now not now.

He'd breathed this thought in deep. Not now Not now. And then he'd breathed it out, aimed at all his triggers. It blasted straight through them.

He saw clearly, with focus. He kept on fumbling, just for show-shaking, dropping his chips. And now, six hands later, they were almost back to even.

There was $60 on the table, and a flop, but nothing on the board: nine, four, queen-all different suits. Mason checked.

"Sixty," said Seth, betting the pot.

Mason hesitated, then mumbled, "Okay, plus two hundred."

A moment of silence, then Seth slammed his cards down-a violent fold. "You're kidding me!" he said, and glared at Mason.

Mason, still futzing around with his chips, lifted his head-and then he grinned. The air left the room-backdraft in a burning house. Seth burst out, "You're f.u.c.king f.u.c.king kidding!" kidding!"

Mason swept the pot towards him. He was the chip leader now-not by much, but it meant a lot. If, say, in this next hand, they both went all-in and Mason won, then Seth was done, Seth was dead. Mason stacked his chips. By the way he'd played it, his cover was blown-Seth knew he was strong and had been for a while. But the grin, too, was worth a lot. It said that Mason was more than strong. He took the cards to shuffle.

"All right," said Seth. He did a last thick line, then swept the rest onto the floor. "You think you can get into my head? Is that what you think?" He pulled off his cap and threw it. The Kite Man flinched, pulling back with his forward hand. "Take a look!" He bowed across the table, giving Mason a bird's eye view. The purple flesh seemed to pulse. "Get right in there," he said, then lifted his head and stared into Mason's eyes.

"Cut," said Mason.

Seth tapped the deck. Mason began to deal.

They looked at their cards.

"Fifty," said Seth, b.u.mping up the blind.

Mason nodded, and put it in.

He burned a card, then dealt the flop: eight, eight, two. He always liked the way two eights looked-like infinite snakes.

"A hundred," said Seth.

Mason looked at him, then down at his cards. "Plus a hundred," he said, and reached for his chips.

"All-in," said Seth.

It is a particular kind of stillness-when even an invisible kite stops moving.

Mason took a breath. "All-in," he said.

Chaz was coming out from behind the bar.

Seth turned his cards over: an eight and an ace. He smiled.

"Oh, G.o.d," said Chaz, in the voice of someone watching death.

Mason flipped his cards: a jack and an ace.

Chaz sat down. His mouth hung open. "Oh, G.o.d," he said.

Seth grinned. "What the h.e.l.l were you thinking?"

Mason didn't answer. He looked up at the Kite Man and shivered. He turned back to the table, then looked at Chaz. "I was pot committed ..."

Chaz said nothing, still staring at the cards.

"Burn and turn," said Seth. "Burn. And. Turn."

Mason reached out. He burned a card. Then turned a jack.

There was a quick inhale and Seth laughed. "Not a chance in h.e.l.l," he said.

Two running jacks is impossible.

Like finding G.o.d ... well, anywhere.

Mason burned the last burn. Only the jack could save him.

"Hey, Chaz," he said, his hand still shaking. "I think I could do with a drink."

Then he turned the final card.

75.

"Show me again."

They were sitting on opposite sides of the bar. Mason did a wash, spreading the cards in all directions. Then he gathered them up and started to shuffle every which way: waterfall, chopper, one-handed. He split them one last time, then dealt the cards: Mason a jack and an ace, Chaz an ace and an eight. Then came the flop: eight, eight, two.

"Booyah!" said Chaz.

Then a jack and then a jack.

"Holy f.u.c.king c.r.a.p."

"It's not as easy as it looks," said Mason. "First you got to get a hold of 'em-all nine cards-and nick 'em like so. It takes a lot of hands."

"That's why you were playing so tight."

"Yeah, sure. But that's just the start." He picked up the cards. "You got to shuffle the same every time, and get the guy to that special place-rile him up just right." Then he snapped them together and put them down.

"So he taps the cut," said Chaz.

"So he finally taps the cut."

"What if he never did ... or you couldn't get the lead?"

Mason shrugged. "Then I'd just become the Warrior Monk."

"That was your backup plan?"

"I did get worried a couple of times."

"You're f.u.c.king insane."

He shrugged again, and grinned.

Chaz shook his head. "Why that hand?"

"I guess it ate away at me a bit," said Mason. "That was a bad f.u.c.king beat."

"But you still should have told me the plan ..."

"It works!" said Dr. Francis, pushing through the curtain. She looked happy, waving her hands in the air. "I can see him wherever he goes! You should come to my office and take a look."

Chaz got up to pour her a drink. It occurred to Mason he'd never seen Dr. Francis excited-in an enthusiastic way. "Give me a double," she said, and sat down at the bar.

She'd bought the GPS microchip and software online. The puncture gun she got from the vet who looked after her cat when she went away on vacation.

"I still can't imagine you on vacation," said Mason.

She held up the gla.s.s, then drank it straight down. Within forty-eight hours Seth was supposed to kill himself. And now they could track his every move.

She hadn't said a word to Seth. It was like watching a gangland hit. She came out of the darkness, took a hold of his head and pumped the chip with a blast up through the back of his neck, into the base of his skull. A brain surgeon would have trouble getting it out.

"I can't believe he just sat there," said Chaz.

"Actually," said Dr. Francis, "neither can I."

"You wanted death," said Mason. "So we had to renegotiate. The stakes went up at the end."

They looked at him.

"To what?" said Chaz. "What do you put up against a chip in your head?"