Page 77 of Full Tilt
“It’s a five-dollar ante,” Jonah said. “Go for it.”
“There’s no room for you.”
“I’ll watch and coach from afar.”
“I don’t need coaching.”
The eyebrow went up. “The seat to the dealer’s right is the most important seat at the table. You up for that kind of serious responsibility?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I was born ready.” I made to sit down then paused. “Wait. The face cards are worth ten, right?”
Jonah laughed and I took the vacant seat. He stood behind to watch the hand in progress play out.
To the dealer’s left sat two young guys who looked serious about their five-dollar antes. Beside them, two older ladies chatted nonstop and played almost as an afterthought—countingtheir cards’ totals and hitting or staying automatically. Beside them and to my right sat an older gentleman in a ten-gallon cowboy hat and a denim button down shirt. He pulled a packet of Marlboro Reds from the front pocket.
“Sir,” I said. “I’m going to win one hand and then go. Would you mind not smoking until then? Please?”
He eyed me through grizzled skin scrunched up around his eyes and laughed. “You’re in the hot seat, girlie. You know how to play to win?”
“Watch me,” I said. As the cowboy put his smokes away and I leaned back into Jonah. “How do you play to win?”
“You need chips. Lay your money on the table.”
I put a twenty-dollar bill on the green felt. “I’ll take one chip,” I told the dealer, and he gave me one blue-and-white striped chip with a 20 embossed in gold on the front.
“It’s only a five-dollar ante,” Jonah said.
“Go big or go home, right?”
“You got that right, girlie.” Cowboy pulled a red fifty-dollar chip from one of several small towers of chips and set it as his ante. “Do right by me now, hotseat. I’m countin’ on ya.”
Jonah snickered from behind me.
I leaned back. “Double down on eleven, right?”
“Oh,nowyou want coaching?” He clucked his tongue.
The dealer—an expressionless man in his late twenties—deftly slid cards out of a chute to each one of us, face up. He dealt himself one down, one up—a three of clubs.
The rest of the players got lucky: nothing lower than seventeen, and Cowboy split his eights, laying another fifty-dollar chip beside his first. He was rewarded with two eighteens and crowed at his luck.
I was dealt a three of diamonds and a two of hearts.
“Are you fucking kidding me,” I muttered.
Cowboy made a face at my cards. “Not good, girlie.”
“You’re telling me. Hit.”
A two of spades.
“Hit,” I said again.
The five of clubs.
“Shit.”
The rest of the table began to grumble.
