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One Up
- University of Georgia Press
- Chapter
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One Up The Fat Man had graceful hands and he held his cards in an almost effete way, or as if he thought them valuable, full of secrets, and he studied them as another might study cuneiform , runic characters, cabalistics, and somehow his eyes never lost the curious attention, never displayed certainty or doubt. Neither was the Fat Man one who displayed the coarser kinds of gambling dynamics, taunts, jibes, distractions, teasing . He played simply, as if no two hands were alike and each had to be rediscovered. Of course he was a dangerous player. If usually conservative , he would also take risks. His presence in a game gave Roosevelt several feelings at once: that it would be a serious game, demanding constant attention and calculated betting; that if the Fat Man lent a certain ease to the table, was almost a comforting figure, then the Fat Man was also deception itself, for the truth of the matter was that he remained unknown. Some people called him Browny. Some people called him Fats. He had no past, and yet it was rumored that, with those delicate , manicured hands of his, he had killed. Perhaps there was another creature inside that composed and attentive facade, but Roosevelt saw no outward sign of it. The Fat Man dressed like a gambler, like a street sharpie, with a snap-brimmed gray hat with a black and yellow striped band around its crown; he wore white shirts and thin black ties, and a gray and white checked sportscoat; his black leather 98 Ghost Traps shoes always gleamed. Roosevelt had seen him shoot pool, too —where he could hold his own, but which was a game also that obviously did not hold the same fascination for him as poker, which he was addicted to, Rosey thought, in the wayof an opium smoker who has plenty of opium and a sure lineof supply—like the man in Saigon they had called Moto-wan, or Papa-san Wan. The Fat Man laid down his cards now with a little flourish, so that the edges snapped on the table. The tips of his fingers remained on the borders of the cards, too, like a Ouija reader's fingers on the moving pointer. "Three ducks/7 he said. Roosevelt folded his two pair, aces and fives, and tossed them a little hard and recklessly into the discard pile. He had six dollars left. He was on the edge of disaster. In this game, six dollars could be easily overwhelmed. He tossed in his fifty-cent ante and waited for the next round of cards to be dealt. Maybe lightning would strike. He picked up his cards and thumbed them open, but lightning did not strike. When the Fat Man opened the betting for two dollars, floating the bills into the center of the table with a flick of the wrist, Roosevelt left his cards on the table and pushed back his chair. "You leaving Rosey?" the Fat Man asked. "Yeah/7 "Better luck next time.77 "Screw ya.77 "You goin7 to play some nine-ball?77 "Maybe.77 "Don7 t go away sore,77 the Fat Man said. "Have a beer on the house.77 "Ain7 t thirsty.77 Rosey stood behind the chair and watched the game progress. It was a cut-and-dry hand won by Smitty, the chauffeur, whom Roosevelt did not particularly like, with [3.226.254.255] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 21:30 GMT) One Up 99 a simple pair of aces. Smitty, his black face gleaming, gloated over the take as if he had won a great deal of money. As far as Roosevelt was concerned, it was a pot wasted. Smitty would do one of two things if he won fifteen or twenty dollars: quit and go drinking or blow it on a bluff that everyone else knew was coming. In a way, Roosevelt felt sorry for Smitty. He really didn't know what was happening. Everybody knew his game, and yet he still thought he was being slick. He was at the other end of the scale from the Fat Man, and yet somehow just lucky enough to keep coming back for punishment. Nobody discouraged him because he primed the pump, thanks to hisjob, and also, thanks to his job, had plenty of free time in which to make his contribution. Maybe, Roosevelt had thought, I should take the brother aside and set him straight. And yet he didn...