Page 25 of Puck
“What?”
“I said, bullshit. You don’t just stop, not when you play poker the way we do.”
“I’m not a gambling addict, Puck,” I said, feeling defensive and a little angry.
He raised both hands. “Neither am I. But there’s no rush in the world like a high-stakes poker game.”
I sighed. “True enough. I still play now and again. Some of the guys at work play every Friday, and I’ll cash in sometimes. They’re my friends and coworkers though, so I don’t take too much of their money. I don’t play high-stakes games anymore.” I shrugged. “No need, and the risk isn’t worth the reward. In college, I played for spending cash. I had a job that helped pay for books and offset the cost of tuition and whatever, but I put all of it into keeping my debt down. Poker was so I’d have money for the club and new shoes and whatever. If I lost too much, it wouldn’t ruin me. Nowadays, I have rent and bills, and if I gamble away my paycheck, I’m fucked. Even counting cards, you can still lose, and those high-stakes games are closely watched, especially in New York. And besides, that’s how you piss off the wrong people, cheating at high-stakes poker in New York City.”
Puck laughed. “Ain’t that the truth.”
The rundown urban sprawl had become a fairly nice-looking downtown area with the occasional five- or six-story apartment building, shops, cafes, and restaurants.
Layla poked her head between the front seats. “The troops are getting restless back here, Puck. We need to stretch our legs if possible.”
“I was just thinking it was about time to stop.” He pointed at a park on our right and pulled the van to a stop at the curb beside it. “How about this?”
The park wasn’t much more than an open area with some trees and benches and an aging, rusting playset covered in graffiti, but it was back from the main road quite a way and had lots of trees to shield us from prying eyes, at least a little bit. There were buildings on three sides, so the only place anyone could approach us was from the street, which Puck was positioned to keep watch on.
We unloaded from the van and spread out into the park. The group of rescued women naturally split off into pairs and groups according to shared language, and Lola, Kyrie, Temple, and Layla clustered together on one bench, discussing something that involved a lot of giggles and glances at Puck and me, alone together on our own bench.
Puck looked over at the group of gossips, and then at me. “Wonder what them biddies are gigglin’ about? I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”
I snorted. “No kidding.” I sighed at them. “They seem so relaxed about this whole thing. It’s taking everything I’ve got to stay calm, and they’re sitting there giggling like schoolgirls.”
“This is old news for them. And, like you, they’re probably doing a lot of pretending they’re less affected than they might really be, deep down.” He shifted so he was a little closer to me, his thigh brushing up against mine; I didn’t move away from his touch. “Does that bug you? That my friends are talking about us?”
I shrugged. “Not really. What are they saying, you think?”
He dug his cigar out of his pocket, blew lint off the ash end and a loose thread off the mouth end, lit it, puffing until it was trickling thick, gray tendrils. “Probably whether we’ll shack up, when, and if it’ll stick.”
“What do you mean, if it’ll stick?”
He blew a cloud of smoke away from me. “These bother you?” he asked, lifting the cigar in gesture.
I shook my head negative. “Nah. Cigars and cigarettes are kind of unavoidable when you play poker with a bunch of serious poker bros.”
“You smoke?”
I shook my head. “Nope. I did, for a while. While I was trying to kick heroin, I sort of replaced the smack with Newports.”
He chuckled. “Oh man, Newports. Ialmostmiss those fuckers.”
“You smoked Newports?”
He nodded. “In the Army. The whole ‘smoke ’em if you got ’em’ thing was usually the only break you got. My buddy Dante was the one who got me into Newports.”
I gauged his suddenly closed expression, the quietness of his voice. “Something tells me Dante is the reason for the M16 and helmet tattoo.”
He nodded again, staring down between his feet. “IED.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. And thanks, Colbie.”
“Most people, when you say you’re sorry for their loss, they say something likewhat are you sorry for.”
He leaned back against the bench, eyeing the cherry of his cigar. “I’ve always thought that was a bullshit answer. Disingenuous at best, off-puttingly dickish at worst.” He put the cigar to his lips and his cheeks hollowed, and then he blew out a series of concentrically smaller smoke rings, shooting one ring through the next. “Folks tell you’re they’re sorry when you’re talking about someone you lost, they’re just expressing sympathy, not offering an apology. That shit is obvious enough, right? So why be a dick about it? Just say thanks for the sympathy and move on.”