They Call Me Steal Magnolia

Some nights, the magic neon bulb lights up your skull and you're reading their cards like an open book. You can't make a mistake. Game's going like that, you can't leave. No way in the world can you leave. Lady Luck is here, and you don't know if She's ever coming back, so you'd better be ready to dance.

So when Charlie walks by the table and points at where he'd wear a watch if he didn't have a phone, I shake my chin. You know. It's the old, “Screw off right now, I'm making too much money,” shake. So Charlie keeps walking, but I can tell from the hunch of his shoulders he ain't happy.

In 2010, you still weren't allowed to answer the phone at the poker table. Not in this room anyway. So my phone's been off for hours. I don't know the news or what's going on. Some TVs are going in the room, but they're all playing old episodes of Law & Order.

All in all, I figure the phone and news blackout's a good thing. Charlie can't nag me via ringtone. I can keep pulling in the chips with both hands.

Next time he comes back, I'm in a kerfuffle with the dealer who started to push my pot to somebody else. “Excuse me,” I say. “But I've got a straight flush.” And I don't say it too soft either.

The dealer turns red, and the villain drops my chips before I have to call security, and she does shove the pot at me then. 'Course, in their eyes, I'm the villain, but boo-effin-hoo.

“Nine four?” says the guy on my right elbow. The four doesn't matter, but my nine of hearts is what fills out the winning hand. “Gutsy.”

“Gutsy” is poker for “stupid.” It ain't the worst thing I've ever been called at the table. So I smile.

“They were suited,” I say. “Plus I was on the button.”

Despite the brilliance of my play, the atmosphere at the table has changed. Something tells me the fans aren't in the mood for any more poker lessons from any more blonde Southern ladies. Charlie picks up on it too, and he's Johnny on the spot with a stack of trays to help me rack up my chips.

“Nine four?” He doesn't say it like the other guy. He's laughing, he knows exactly what I was doing. Whatever's bothering him, that cloud lifts for a minute or two.

“How much you down?” I ask on the way out. “Because I'm up twenty-four hundred.”

“I won six hundred,” he says.

So his little rain cloud isn't about money.

I thought we had a hotel room but it's fairly obvious he wants to get the hell out of Dodge. He's driving that little red Mercedes C-class he had then. But, instead of heading straight down that long mountain road, he wants to drive around town first, make some fancy turns without the signal, you know, you've seen the same movies.

This one-horse gambling town turns all the lights to yellow blinkies after two in the morning, but we flew the coop way too early for that. Charlie makes this play of trying to cross on the yellows to force any tails to run the red or lose him. Finally, we're the ones caught at the red. There's nobody behind us, but he sits a while anyway staring back in that rearview mirror.

After a suitable interval of time, I hit him with the left elbow. “It's green.”

He just looks at me.

“That means we can go now.”

He goes.

Once we're on the main highway down the mountain, it's post-game analysis time. I expect him to tell me what we're running from, but he's all quiet and pretending to concentrate on the road. To fill in the silence, I tell about the last hand.

“A bunch of guys limp in, and I'm on the button.” I remind him of that because it's important. Button acts last on every hand after the flop. I had the advantage of having the most information before I act.

Your gambling buddy has to know you're not completely bonkers, just bonkers enough to make the moves.

“Uh-huh,” Charlie says.

“So the action gets to me, and I raise. These boys are playing so good they fold nice and easy if they don't hit something on the flop.” Good is an insult. It means they're not pulling any tricky plays against me. Part of the reason I'm reading their cards so easy. Maybe all the reason, but I like to leave room to acknowledge Lady Luck.

If he's even listening, Charlie gets it. Once they see a flop, most of them are gone, so I have to raise before the flop to build a bigger pot while I can. “Uh-huh,” he repeats.

Like I said, my hand's that wackadoodle nine of hearts, four of hearts. That's all right. At that table, in that position, I'm making the move with any two cards.

Charlie doesn't have to uh-huh that part. He just lets me keep yapping.

So the flop comes Queen, Jack, ten-- all hearts. Will you look at that? I gots me a flush. Plus, if the eight of hearts comes, I gots me a straight flush.

Go, me.

If you play, you see the problem. If the King of hearts comes, I got the King-high straight flush, but that's no good. On that board, my opponent isn't hanging around unless he's already got the Ace of hearts in his grimy little hand.

And what does that mean, class? I make the King-high straight flush, the bad guy makes the royal.

I don't have to explain any of this to Charlie. He gets it already. I'm mostly making noise to give him time to get up the guts to tell me what he's got to tell me.

“So this donkey in early position puts out a random minimum bet," I say. "Now why do that instead of passing the action to me and then going for the check-raise?"

“Because he's got the Ace of hearts but his other card's not a heart,” says Charlie. "So he hopes you'll just call down and keep it cheap until he improves."

“Bing-o,” I say. “He might as well write it on his face.”

The other clowns fold, and I'm ahead right now with my middle-sized hearts flush, so I raise. Get the money in while you're still winning, right? But not too much. The villain doesn't have a hand yet, so I don't want to scare him away.

Only now he's mad. If he's not getting a cheap look at the next two cards, by God, nobody's getting a cheap look. So he shoves all-in and waits for me to blink.

Only I don't blink. Why should I when I'm in the lead? I've got him covered, so if-- when-- I scoop this pot, he's busted.

Dealer puts out the last two cards.

Turn's some black card, nobody cares. River's the eight of hearts. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Am I one of God's chosen children or what?

But the old boy has one move left. It probably worked once in 1989. He shows his Ace of hearts and shouts, “Gotcha!” real loud, and he figures the dealer will push him the chips, and the lady actually starts to do it.

Only I get louder because that dog don't hunt. Straight flush beats your Ace-high raggedy flush. All. Day. Long.

“And so I take the money and run, and that guy would like to kill me,” I say. “Only he'll simmer down after a while and figure it ain't worth it.”

A pause. Charlie doesn't say, “Uh-huh.” He doesn't say anything.

I breathe out real hard. You'd call that a sigh.

“So. Mind telling me what we're running from?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. I made my nut, and I was bored, that's all. Getting sick of these places. Sick of the people you meet in these places.”

Now it's my turn to sing out with the old, “Uh-huh.” Of course, I don't believe him.

Later, I hear a story about Homeland Security asking questions about a fake driver's license manufacturing plant Charlie bought an interest in. Charlie says it isn't true. Says he never bought in. Some guys he knew did start something like that, but it had zip to do with him. Not one tiny thing.

And, hell, for all I know, maybe it didn't. The green light bulb of telepathy had switched off in my skull by then.

Anyway, we got away all right with the money. Some nights are like that. Magic.

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