Page 10 of Ace of Hearts

Levi

May

Las Vegas, USA

Rose spends the afternoon explaining all about how to count the cards and calculate probabilities.

I’m not a complete beginner, of course: all poker players count their outs—that is, the cards that can improve their hands—to some extent.

But I’ve never used that method much. I’ve always thought it too hard and a waste of time.

“You have to remember it’s not an exact science,” she reminds me when we start, shuffling the cards next to the swimming pool. “You can never know exactly what’s in your opponent’s hand.”

“I’m not stupid, Rose. Just explain.”

And that’s what she does; very clearly, I must admit. It’s as though she becomes a completely different person before my eyes. She seems ... fascinated by her subject. It’s a huge improvement over her ridiculous, clichéd flirting act.

“We’ll start with the ‘rule of two and four,’” she explains, dealing us each a hand.

“You only use it to calculate your chances in the turn and the river.” She looks at me, as if checking to see that I’m following.

Of course I am. The turn is the fourth card to be turned over, introducing the third round of betting.

The river is the fifth and last card to be turned over.

I couldn’t be a professional poker player, or any kind of player, if I didn’t know that much.

“After the flop, you multiply your number of outs by four to calculate your equity. For the river, you multiply by two.”

I’ve never been very good at math, but I catch on quickly. Contrary to what lots of people think, counting the cards doesn’t help you guess exactly which cards will be dealt, but it does help you calculate the chances of getting the cards you want.

“So, if I have twelve possible outs on the flop, I multiply that by four?” I say, just to be sure I understand. “Which gives me ... a forty-six percent chance of getting the right cards and getting the hand I want.”

“More like forty-eight. And if you’ve got twelve outs left to come, you’ll have a twenty-four percent chance.”

The basic concept isn’t too hard to understand, but the more rounds we play, the more complicated it gets.

Poker’s mainly a game of chance, so playing while relying on probabilities turns out to be tricky.

Even Rose, who counts like a pro, doesn’t manage to win every time.

The main thing is to know when to keep going and when to fold.

And tomorrow’s the first day of the tournament. Nobody will be eliminated that day, but it’s still important: we only have one chance to make the right first impression on the other players.

I won’t be on my own, at least. Thomas will be there, at another table somewhere. Who knows—we might even play against each other. Rose will be there, too, albeit under cover.

“You still haven’t told me how I’m supposed to get into the playing rooms during the tournament,” she says.

I give her a mocking smile, and she immediately narrows her eyes. She’s getting to know me. That’s good.

“You won’t be there as Rose. People will recognize you as my fiancée now. At the tournament, you’ll need to be someone else.”

“Meaning what?”

“One day you’ll be a journalist, the next day a massage therapist, then a server ... basically, anything that allows you to get into the room and walk around. You’ll just need to avoid making eye contact with anyone.”

“How are you going to manage that?”

“I know people.”

Rose says nothing for a moment. She isn’t stupid.

“You’ve been bribing them,” she says at last.

“Exactly. Your role is to watch the players, mainly the ones on the same table I’m at, and report back to me during the breaks. The primary aim, of course, is to focus on Tito.”

She nods.

We go back to our suite. Pretending I need an early night so I’ll be in top form tomorrow, I tell her to make the most of the mini bar and room service, and excuse myself.

After a shower, I sit down in my room to practice. Again and again. I’m forced to switch off the light and use the bedside lamp due to a thumping migraine. My eyes are worse than usual, maybe because the jet lag’s making me tired. This happens more often than I like to admit.

The other problems I have with my eyes cause me to also suffer from photophobia, or abnormal sensitivity to light. That’s why I almost always wear sunglasses during poker games. Tournaments allow it, and some people think I do it to help me bluff, or to look cool. The truth is much less glamorous.

Without them, there’s no way I could last ten hours at a poker table.

The next morning, I find Rose in the suite’s living room, looking completely transformed. She’s wearing a long curly wig, a form-fitting pantsuit, and a pair of cat’s-eye glasses. The only way I can recognize her is by her murderous glare.

Yep, it’s definitely her.

“ Uffa, ” she grunts. I’m fairly sure that’s ugh in Italian. “I hate yellow.”

So the pantsuit is yellow. I see. I resist the temptation to ask why she doesn’t like it. Isn’t yellow the color of the sun? The sun’s beautiful, isn’t it? Why would she hate the color of the sun? Strange.

“It’s just for a few hours,” I assure her. “You’ll survive.”

Just then, Thomas walks in, wearing his usual gray suit, his blond hair just touching his shoulders. Rose whistles appreciatively.

“Wow ... the thunder god himself!” Levi says. “Where’s your hammer, Thor?”

He ignores that comment and passes her something.

“Here—your pass.”

She turns it over curiously, then makes a face.

“Margaret Fisher? Seriously? That’s so boring ...”

I can’t hold back the grin that rises, but I quickly hide it when I see Thomas looking at me.

“Ready? Let’s go.”

I’d been missing the atmosphere of a big tournament. This euphoria, this feeling of adrenaline in every fiber of my body, the hum of conversation, and the faces of people looking excited and anxious ... As soon as I get into the room where I’ve been assigned to play, the mask goes on.

I’m not Levi anymore, but Levi Ivanovich, son of Jacob.

I sit down casually at my first table, recognizing a few familiar faces. Some WSOP regulars, but also two newcomers I don’t know. I put my chips on the table and get ready to play, pretending not to pay them any attention.

We start off slowly. Nothing too exciting. The players at my table don’t seem particularly creative, but I’m not surprised. When a tournament has a ten thousand dollar entry fee, one can’t expect much. I don’t mind—it’ll keep me from making any silly mistakes.

I don’t know where Thomas is, but I’m not worried about him. Rose, though, is a different matter, and she’s nowhere to be seen either. Forcing myself to resist distraction, I keep on playing.

The most interesting player at the table—I think his name is Wittelsbach—is studiously avoiding my gaze, fiddling with the neck of his Jurassic Park T-shirt and pulling it up to his mouth like a baby.

I fold twice, mainly so I can analyze his technique and his reactions.

He doesn’t seem to know how to bluff, and he often checks—that is, passes without calling, folding, or raising.

He doesn’t seem to want to fight to win the pot either. I make mental notes.

After an hour, just as I’m about to make a raise, I pause.

Rose is behind me; I can sense it. I know it.

I can’t see her, but the faint scent is unmistakable.

It’s the soft perfume she wears every day that leaves its trace everywhere, even on the bra she abandoned on the bathroom floor this morning.

I keep playing without batting an eyelid, but I watch her pass by out of the corner of my eye. Nobody pays any attention to her. She wanders among the tables but always comes back to mine, her eyes focused on the game.

After a while, I’m told to change tables. This essentially means moving up a level. I win more than I lose, so this comes as no surprise, but it’s still reassuring.

“Well, well, well!” drawls a soft voice as I sit down at the new table. Then the person adds, in Mandarin, “Long time no see.”

I look up expressionlessly to see Li Mei, a poker tournament regular.

According to the media, Li Mei is the definitive rich daddy’s girl: twenty-four years old, with more money than she knows what to do with.

Naturally, she spends it on luxury hotels and poker—a game at which she turns out to be surprisingly expert.

She’s also obsessed with a singer whose name I always forget, and she speaks largely in quoted song lyrics.

People find her exhausting, but I like her.

I don’t let that show in public, of course.

“I saw on Weibo that you’ve just got back from China,” she says, citing the Chinese social network. “You should have told me. We only just missed each other!”

Li Mei was born in Shanghai. I take in her perfect skin, her laughing eyes, and her pure white hair, cut into a mullet. She’s wearing a long-sleeved top that covers her neck and shoulders, paired with an extremely short, flared skirt. She’s a real beauty; I can’t deny it.

“We’re not friends, as far as I remember.”

She’s used to my brush-offs and isn’t discouraged. Her sad pout doesn’t reach her twinkling eyes.

“Ouch,” she says. “I’ll be crying into my pillow tonight.”

We play for another two hours. There’s no denying that Li Mei gets better every year.

Unlike the other, passive players, she’s not afraid to make aggressive moves.

I like that. Li Mei presents a real challenge.

Others, like the man to my right, don’t seem up to the fight.

Her only weakness is that she makes ridiculously high bets, as though to show everyone she’s got money to burn.

“Congratulations on your new fiancée,” she says with an amused look when we all take a break. “What’s the theme for the wedding? Please don’t say ‘rustic.’”

“That’s funny—you seem to think you’re invited.”