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"There's an open chair," I offered. "Let's get you some chips."
Blackie shrugged like he'd almost expected the invitation, took off his coat and sat down. His bodyguard hovered near his shoulder, giving me nasty looks. He pulled out a wad of bills with his left hand -- and plopped a hook down where his right should be.
At first blush, I was shocked. But then, as the metal glinted in the light, I snickered.
The bourbon did that sometimes . . . it gave me a twisted sense of humor. And right then, the idea that the powerful and feared Blackie Malone was saddled with a metal claw, while a nobody like me had been blessed with the greatest hand in the world was funny. Hilarious. A downright rip-snortin' knee-slapper.
I almost choked, holding down the guffaw rattling around my diaphragm.
Blackie read my mind. He held up his stainless steel appendage. "You got something to say?"
"Me?"
"Yeah."
"Nope. Nothin' at all."
"Okay then -- let's play cards."
And for the next hour or so, that's just what we did: played cards.
Blackie's talent wasn't much better than Jack's. And my hand was doing its thing, almost scorching the cards with every touch. The outcome was inevitable. In the meantime, I kept drinking -- and goading Blackie Malone.
Every time I dealt, I did a few of my best tricks, always finishing with a one-hand shuffle with my right. And every so often, I ran a chip down my fingers, index to pinkie and back. It was a gas.
Blackie didn't appreciate my antics one bit. Every so often his face would flush, and I could see he was trembling. And then -- after one last right-hand shuffle -- he blew his stack.
"You think you're a fancy fuck, don'tcha?" He bellowed. "You think you can show me up to my face!"
He stood up and hammer-drove his metal claw at my right hand. I yanked it back. The razor point on Blackie's hook buried itself in the table. The other players scattered.
"You son of a bitch, you could've killed me!" I yelled, jumping to my feet. Blackie Malone wasn't a guy you argued with, but I was a lot mad and a little drunk. He'd almost skewered my right hand -- my precious God-given right hand! I leaned in, nose-to-nose with him. "You don't deserve to even sit at the same tables as me. You can't play cards worth shit!"
"Oh yeah, fancy boy? Well, I think you're a cheater." He pulled his hook out of the table and held it up to my throat. "And I'll bet that I can beat you, fair and square." He pulled out a stack of bills. "Anything!"
"I'll bet you anything that you can't!"
"Anything?"
"Anything."
Blackie dropped the bills on the table. His bodyguard flashed his gun. "Okay. If you want to get out of here alive . . . I bet you that cheatin' right hand of yours."
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