Blackjack

THE PHONE purred again. Cross snapped it to his ear. “What?”

“Moving.” Buddha’s voice. “Me, too. You got two minutes, tops.”

“Moving,” Cross echoed, pointing a finger at the windshield. Rhino keyed the motor of the Shark Car, threw it into gear. Cross was punching a number into his phone.

Twenty seconds later, he said “Go!” and closed his phone.



HUMBERTO WAS standing on the wide curb, a broad-chested man at his side, obviously that on-scene bodyguard Cross had been expecting. The bodyguard spotted the Mercedes rolling toward them and stepped forward, reaching for the handle to the back door.

Cross moved out of the shadows cast by a thick concrete pillar, the gas gun up and aimed. Humberto grabbed at his neck as he fell. His bodyguard whirled just in time to meet a .22 hollow-point with his left eye.

Rhino pocketed his silenced pistol and charged forward, carrying Humberto’s body in one hand as another might a suitcase.

The Mercedes pulled off.

An ambulance rolled in, its rear doors popping open. Rhino tossed Humberto inside. The ambulance doors closed as it took off for the exit, lights flashing. Rhino ran to the Shark Car and jumped into the open back door, his movements acrobatic despite his bulk. Cross, now behind the wheel, mashed the pedal. The Shark Car chased the ambulance, easily passing it within a half-mile.

When the Airport Police arrived, they found one dead man, devoid of identification. And no shortage of highly contradictory accounts from spectators.



THE AMBULANCE pulled to a stop in the shadows of a bridge abutment, just a few yards off the freeway. The Shark Car was already waiting—Cross had placed the anonymous vehicle so that it would be parallel to the ambulance.

He stood watch as Rhino threw Humberto’s limp body over his shoulder and transferred it to the Shark Car’s trunk.

Buddha took the wheel of the Shark Car; Cross moved to the shotgun seat. Ace and Rhino took the back, weapons out, each man covering a different rear window.

As the Shark Car pulled away, Buddha said: “I spraydusted as good as I could, boss. But you never know what they’re gonna find when they vacuum that bus.”

Cross pulled a small radio transmitter from his jacket, checked the blinking red LED, and tripped a toggle switch. A heavy, thumping whoosh! followed. The sky behind them became a red-and-yellow fireball.

“What they’re gonna find is some dead meat,” Cross told Buddha. “Well done.”



AS THE Shark Car entered a quiet community of tract houses, the phone in Cross’s jacket sounded. He opened it up, but didn’t speak.

“Clear at six.” Tracker’s voice.

Cross broke the connection and gave the thumbs-up signal to the men in the back seat.



BUDDHA PULLED into a driveway of packed dirt, nosing the car forward until it was inside a garage whose doors had swung open in response to an electronic signal.

He popped the trunk. Rhino reached in and grabbed Humberto’s still-limp form by his belt.

Five minutes later, Humberto was strapped to a straight chair in the basement of the house. The men waited another half-hour. Despite Tracker’s assurance, each stayed watchful and alert against the possibility they had been followed.

Finally, Cross stood up and slipped a stocking mask over his face. “All clear,” he said quietly. “Let’s get to it.”



“THAT SHOULD be enough,” Rhino said, as he squeezed the plunger of a hypodermic, testing it for clearance. He compressed Humberto’s arm with one huge hand, tapped a prominent vein, and drove the needle home with a surgeon’s precision.

Cross waited as the adrenaline mix slowly took hold, watched as Humberto gradually regained consciousness. He signaled Rhino to stay where he was—looming over Humberto’s back, but not visible.

“Wha … What is this?” Humberto mumbled, his eyes struggling for focus.

“It’s a job, pal,” Cross said. “You do what you’re told, it stays a job. You don’t …” He let his voice trail off, its message clear.

“You’re not …” Humberto said, his vision gradually clearing.

“What we are is professionals,” Cross replied. “Just like you. We get paid for our work. Just like you.”

“What work?”

“Muñoz paid us. For your arm.”

Humberto went deathly white under his swarthy skin. “I don’t know what—”

“Yeah, you do,” Cross interrupted. “You got something Muñoz wants. A microchip. Someplace in your right arm. Muñoz, he paid us to bring him that arm.”

“Wait! Wait a minute! I can—”

“Don’t say anything. Listen to our offer. Then you say yes or you say no. That’s all the choices you get. Understand?”

Humberto nodded, his hooded eyes now steadied on Cross.

“We are gonna get that microchip. We know it’s somewhere under that tattoo. We can take it gentle,” Cross said, “or we can take it hard. Your choice.”

“I have no choice,” Humberto said, his voice calming as strength flowed back into him.

“Muñoz, he has one of my men. He wants to trade him for that chip,” Cross told Humberto. “But if we saw off your whole arm like he wants, he gets you, too. And he didn’t pay us for a kill … just for the chip.”

“I could pay you …” Humberto said.

“That’s right, you could. But then what would you have? Your bodyguard’s gone. So is your driver. And Muñoz would still know where that chip was. You know how he must have found out—you’ve got a traitor close to you, and you don’t know who that is. Might take Muñoz longer the next time, but you’d end up just as dead.”

“What do you suggest?” Humberto asked, a faint ray of hope sounding in his voice.

“I suggest you pay us. Not to leave your arm alone—to take out Muñoz. The chip, that’s what gets us in the door, see? And once we get in there, we sit down with Muñoz. Only he never gets up. Costs you a flat two million. Cash.”

“I can get—”

“No,” Cross cut him off. “Forget the games. You’re not making any phone calls. Not writing any notes, either. You’re too smart not to have some money stashed. Serious money. And you’d never trust anyone with that info. I’m betting you got it nice and accessible. No safe-deposit boxes, no passwords … nothing like that.”

Cross put a cigarette into the thin slit cut into his mask and lit it with the same hand.

“So it goes like this: you tell us where the money is. Tell us right now. One of my crew goes there, picks it up. If it’s in more than one place, that’s okay—just takes us a little longer. When my man comes back here with the cash, we count out two mil for ourselves, give you the rest, if there is any. And then we do the job for you.”

“How do I know you won’t just take the money—take all the money—and kill me anyway?”

“If I was gonna do that, what would I need this mask for?” Cross said, deliberately calling attention to the makeshift balaclava covering his face and neck. “This is business, that’s all. You didn’t come after us. It wasn’t you who snatched my man and held him for ransom. That’s all on Muñoz. So it’s Muñoz who has to go. I’m just making sure we get paid for our work, see?”

“And if I say no?”

“Didn’t I say that Muñoz snatched one of my men? So Muñoz, he’s already dead. But we have to get close enough to kill him. If we can’t use the chip to get us in the door, we’ll just bring him your arm.”

A long minute passed. Humberto took a deep breath. “It’s right under her butt,” he said, flexing his right biceps, which sent the tattooed dancer into a very realistic bump-and-grind. “Have you got a drink for a man first?”



HUMBERTO WAS in a comfortable easy chair, his feet up on an ottoman. He was bare-chested, a gauze bandage taped around his right biceps. To his left, a water glass half full of dark liquid sat on an end table. A thick cigar smoldered in an ashtray. Humberto’s handsome face was relaxed.

“Listen to me, amigo,” he said to Cross. “The key to Muñoz is his pride. Muñoz was always … muy macho, comprende? Years ago, he fought a duel. With machetes. It was a matter of honor. He is very, very good with blades. And with his hands, even better—very quick, very strong.”

“And you tell me this because …?”

“Because now I trust you, hombre. And I want to prove it to you.”

“You think that does it? Telling me about this guy’s ego?”

“No,” Humberto said, his dark eyes steady on the black stocking mask covering Cross’s head. “This is what does it: I know who you are.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. You are the man they call Cross. You hide your face, but you forget to cover your hands,” Humberto said, flicking his glance at the back of Cross’s right hand, where a bull’s-eye tattoo stood out in bold relief. “I myself hired you once before. Years ago. I know your markings.”

Cross made a sound of disgust, reached up, and pulled off the stocking mask. “Tell me what you know.”

“I know you—your crew—you were the ones who killed Herrera. I was not there, but I have heard about it, from many places. Some believed you wanted his product, but I know you don’t play in my game—I always believed you took his stash of jewels instead. I know Esteban always converted his product to money. Only gold, diamonds, the true hard currency.”

“What else?”

“Esteban became too strong for his own good. And Herrera, he was a devil. El diablo does not take in partners.” Humberto’s shoulders moved in an eloquent shrug. “As for Muñoz, I know there was a battle, years ago. Many died. But you escaped. That was all I know. That and the tattoo on your hand. It must have been some kind of rescue operation, which was why Muñoz was not killed.

“Still, Muñoz always swore he would pay you back—he lost much prestige when you invaded his compound. He had to return all the protection money Herrera had paid him. That hurt him as well. When you got away that time, you took some piece of Muñoz with you.

“I heard more things, later. Herrera, he hired you to do something. Something involving Esteban. And now both men are dead.”

“Why tell me all this?” Cross asked.

“Because I paid for Esteban. Me. It was all my money, even if Herrera acted as if he was the one in charge. Esteban, he was a good front, but he was nothing but an actor, playing a role. We never met face to face, but I know it was you I paid—Herrera would not have known who to call upon, but I did. Like I said, from before.

“You did your work well, Cross. Herrera is gone. Soon, Muñoz will be, too. But you cannot run a drug network yourself. You do not have the contacts down south. You and me, both professionals, I think maybe we will be partners.”

“Like you said, not my game,” Cross answered.



“IT’S DONE,” Cross said into the mouthpiece of the cell phone.

“Yes, I watch the news on television,” came the voice of Muñoz. “But it is not done. Only half.”

“I’m ready to finish it. Now.”

“You know the King Hotel? On Wabash, near—”

“I know it.”

“My man will be standing in front, on the sidewalk, at midnight. You take him wherever you want. Once you are satisfied that we have not followed you, send us the chip.”

“How are we gonna get the pigeon?”

“Pigeon! You insult me. My man will have the bird with him. In a cage.”

“And my money?”

“Sí, compañero.”



“THE KING Hotel ain’t nothing,” Ace said, facing the assembled crew. “I got a half-dozen people in that dump. It’s a low-class dive. A little dice game downstairs, but mostly it’s nothing but a hot-sheet. I can be inside hours before they show, cover you anywhere from the top floor down.”

“Perfect,” Cross said. “Buddha, you make the pickup, all right? Me and Rhino, we’ll transport Humberto’s man. Now everybody get to work wiping things down—we can’t have another fire so soon.”



FROM INSIDE the front door of the King Hotel, all the watchful desk clerk could see was the back of a medium-height man in a blue jacket. The man looked as if he was waiting for a bus, smoking a cigarette. Only two discordant notes sounded. At the man’s feet was a large cage, draped in black with a brass-ring handle at the top. And a bright-red dot of light holding steady right between the man’s shoulder blades. The red dot tracked the man, moving as he moved.

The Shark Car pulled to the curb. The back door opened. Some words were exchanged. The waiting man climbed into the car, pulling the cage behind him. The car took off.

A few minutes later, the desk clerk saw a slim, fine-featured black man coming down the stairs, a cut-down, double-barreled shotgun in one hand. The desk clerk purposefully did not meet the man’s eyes. When he looked up, the man was gone, almost as if he had never been there.

The desk clerk didn’t react. But it wasn’t the two hundred dollars sitting atop the desk that earned his silence. The clerk knew what the red dot on the waiting man’s back had meant, and he didn’t want one on his own. Ever.



THE SHARK Car worked its way through the Badlands, heading for Red 71 as unerringly as the homing pigeon it carried in its back seat. The phone on the seat next to Buddha chirped. The pudgy man picked it up and flicked a switch with his thumb. “Go,” he said.

“All clear here.” Cross’s voice.

“Coming in,” Buddha replied. “ETA ten minus.”

“Roger that. Six still clear?”

“The full one eighty.”

Buddha clicked off the phone, his eyes flicking back and forth between the road and the rearview mirror. He pulled the Shark Car through a fresh gap in the chain-link fence, and parked just behind the back door to Red 71.

He slapped the back door three times with the flat of his hand. It opened immediately. Cross stepped to one side, covering the area with a stubby machine pistol. Buddha entered first. Then the man they had picked up. Rhino was the last to go inside, blocking the only way out with both his bulk and the ridiculous gold Desert Eagle .50-caliber semi-auto that Princess had purchased years ago … because it was so pretty.

In the basement, Rhino hand-searched the courier, his touch delicate and sensitive. When he nodded an okay, Cross came forward and ran an electronic wand over the courier’s body. “Relax,” he said to the man. “Have a seat.”

The man seated himself in an overstuffed chair, reached into his pocket to light a cigarette.

“What do they call you?” Cross asked.

“I am Lopez.”

“Okay, Lopez. Dónde está el dinero?”

Lopez’s lips twisted into a thin smile that did not show his teeth. “In the cage, hombre. In the bottom of the cage. If you will permit me …”

Cross nodded, and the man got to his feet. He walked over to the cage and gently flicked the black cover off. Inside was the big-chested pigeon Cross had seen before.

“This is el bailador del cielo,” Lopez said, stroking the pigeon’s chest, “the dancer of the sky.” He reached inside and removed the bird, cradling it softly. “Pick up the floor of the cage,” he said to Cross.

Cross studied the cage for a long minute, then removed the newspaper from the cage floor, revealing a flat metal plate with a ring in the center. He pulled the ring and the floor came off.

“What the hell does Muñoz think I’m gonna do with gold bars?” he said to Lopez. “All this has to be washed—I can’t just go out and spend it.”

“Money … bills would not fit in such a small space, hombre,” Lopez replied. “Señor Muñoz said you would have … resources. And that you could assay the gold yourself, as well.”

Cross nodded, his fingers stroking the strange blue scar on his cheekbone, wondering why it burned at times. Rhino scooped up the gold bars into one giant hand.

“Okay, how do you want to do this?” Cross asked.

“First, I check the chip. With this …” Lopez said, taking a mate from his shirt pocket. “You could never duplicate the chip, and certainly not so quickly. If it plugs into the one I have, we will know you have completed your part of the bargain.”

“Do it,” Cross said; he took the chip from his jacket and handed it over.

Lopez carefully aligned the two chips. They came together with an audible snapping sound. “Bueno! This the one.”

“And now …?” Cross asked.

“Now you put the chip right here,” Lopez said, tapping the tiny cylinder on the bird’s right claw, just above the talon. “Then he flies home. Straight home. You will see—if you care to check—that you cannot fit a transmitter into his pouch. And if you attach one anywhere else, el bailador will not fly. You understand?”

“Yeah,” Cross said, still stroking the tiny blue scar. It’s more like a brand, he thought to himself, not for the first time. After a few moments, he abruptly left the room.



“WE’RE READY to go,” Cross said into the cell phone.

“When will you—?”

“I gotta talk to him first.”

“Talk to who?”

“My man. The one you got.”

“I told you—”

“I don’t care what you told me,” Cross said. “We’re in the end-game now. You want to talk to your man, I can do that. You want to play games, you’re going to force us to do the same.”

“Call back in thirty minutes,” Muñoz said. “And have Lopez with you.”



“YOU WANT to speak to your man?” Cross spoke into the phone.

“Sí. Put him on.”

“Yes, I am here, jefe,” Lopez said, calmly. “Everything was as it should be.” He said “Sí, sí,” rapidly and handed the phone to Cross.

“Your turn,” Cross said into the mouthpiece.

“Momentito.”

Another minute passed; then Cross heard the unmistakable voice of Princess. “I’m good,” the armor-muscled man-child said. “These little punks got me trussed up like a turkey, but they haven’t done nothing to me.”

“They feeding you?”

“Just garbage. I’m probably down to three fifteen with all the crap they serve here. They don’t even have any of my special supplements. And—”

“Okay, Princess, just calm down, all right? They’ll be cutting you loose soon.”

“Are you satisfied?” Muñoz’s voice cut in. “Are you ready to release our bird?”

“Tomorrow,” Cross said. “Tomorrow at first light.”

“Why not now, hombre? Our bird can fly at night.”

“I need a few hours. There’s some things I have to do to make sure you guys are playing it straight. First light. When Princess shows up, we’ll let your man go.”

“Adios,” Muñoz said, and hung up.



“HE’S OKAY?” Rhino asked, anxiety making his voice even squeakier than usual.

“He said ‘supplements,’ ” Cross replied. “You know what that means. He’s all right, but he doesn’t see a way out of there. If he’d said ‘vitamins,’ he’d have an exit spotted. If he didn’t say either word, it would be a trap. So I don’t think they messed with him.”

“You think they’ll actually let him go?” Buddha asked.

“Would you?” Cross answered.



THE NEXT morning, dawn was slowly breaking through a blue-black night sky as Lopez stood on the roof of Red 71, the pigeon in his hands.

“Do it,” Buddha told him.

“Volar!” Lopez commanded, tossing the pigeon into the air. The bird climbed, then banked, wings working smoothly.

A few seconds later, a tiny bird blasted out of Cross’s leather-gloved hand, its blue-gray wings a blur in the sky, a distinctive killy-killy-killy trilling from its beak. The bird soared like an F-16, a blur in the vision of the watchers on the roof who were tracking the bird through binoculars. Cross picked up his phone.

“Airborne.”

Cross closed his phone, said, “Let’s go,” to Buddha. As Buddha turned to follow Cross downstairs, Rhino’s murderous hand curled around the back of Lopez’s neck.



“I DON’T get it, boss,” Buddha said. “I know we got a transmitter on that mini-hawk of yours, but I’ve seen that thing in action—no way their pigeon’s gonna make it back home.”

“East,” Cross said into his cell phone, watching a small round blue screen set into an electronic box he held between his legs. “Holding steady. You on it?”

“Total,” Rhino’s voice.

“It’s not a hawk,” Cross absently said to Buddha. “It’s a kestrel. A falcon, okay? I got a mated pair up there. The female’s sitting on some eggs. The male brings food. I haven’t fed them for days—wouldn’t let them loose to get food for themselves, either. They usually hit small birds, like sparrows. But I’ve got the male trained to hit pigeons—he really loves them.”

“Yeah, but …”

“But what?”

“You got your bird all stoked up, I get that. But that’s only gonna make him knock that pigeon right out of the sky. Then how in hell are we gonna—?”

“Kestrels only take prey near the ground,” Cross explained. “Muñoz will wait until his pigeon touches down. By the time he gets close enough to look in its pouch, it’s Kaddish for his little ‘sky dancer.’ ”

Urban scenery flew past the windows of the Shark Car as Cross continued to give directions to Buddha in person and to Rhino over the phone.

“What’s his name?” Buddha asked.

“Who?”

“The bird, Chief. The … kestrel or whatever you call it.”

“Name?” Cross said, clearly puzzled. “It’s a bird.”

Buddha shrugged, and went back to work, handling the big car expertly, as always.



“HE’S HEADING for the flats,” Cross said into the phone. “No place else he could be going. You got visual?”

“Locked on,” Rhino replied. “He’s sitting right above the pigeon. Just hovering. Ready to dive.”

“The second that pigeon starts his drop, we move,” Cross said. “Stay tight.”



“GOT ’EM,” Rhino’s voice squeaked. “It’s a three-story. Clubhouse on the first floor. Says Los Amigos on the door. Right on the waterfront, at the end of Pine Street.”

“You sure?”

“Dead sure. The pigeon’s dropping down, heading for home. And your bird, he’s still just … hovering.”

“Cars in front?”

“Only one. A white … Lincoln, it looks like. I can see … Wait! I got it! There’s a coop on the roof. Whole bunch of birds up there. It has to be—”

“Go!” Cross barked, breaking the connection.

The Shark Car’s front tires lifted slightly off the ground from the sudden blast of acceleration as Buddha tapped the first nitrous switch. The target building came into view just as they spotted Rhino’s recently stolen Montero heading toward the back.

“Here he comes!” Rhino squeaked as the kestrel went into a power dive. The pigeon may have seen the kestrel’s shadow, or it may have been alerted by its primitive sensors. Its wings fluttered desperately, seeking the shelter of the coop.

Just before the pigeon touched down, the kestrel struck, its tiny talons balled into fists, stunning its prey. The pigeon staggered away, its damaged wing barring any escape.

Muñoz ran onto the roof. He sprinted toward the pigeon, waving his arms to scare off the intruder, but the kestrel calmly mounted its prey, tearing at the flesh of the pigeon’s chest.

Muñoz slashed at the kestrel with a machete, but the tiny falcon danced away, its baleful unblinking eyes now trained on its new enemy.

Muñoz thrust his body between the pigeon and the kestrel, frantically clawing at the pigeon’s courier pouch.

A series of explosions sounded below—flash-bang grenades thrown through the glass windows of the bar. Muñoz heard machine-gun fire. A thin smile played across his lips. With one mighty swipe of his machete, he chopped the pigeon in half, then scrambled on his hands and knees to recover the courier pouch. The kestrel watched calmly, continuing to tear apart the other half of the pigeon Muñoz left behind.

The rooftop now held a pair of predators, each absorbed in its own work, totally unconcerned with the other’s.

Downstairs, Rhino swept the ground floor with a long blast from his M-4, screaming “Princess!” at the top of his lungs.

Two men charged down the stairs, and were immediately cut down by a blast from Ace’s shotgun. Cross pointed at Buddha, who was working his way along the wall, his modified Sig out and ready.

At Buddha’s nod, Cross pointed to an open door. As soon as Buddha started to move, Ace began to climb the stairs, chest flat against the wall, gun arm extended as a probe.

Buddha stepped carefully down the darkened stairway. Suddenly, he spotted Princess in a far corner, the bodybuilder’s chest crossed with heavy chains like bandoliers.

Princess’s head lolled against his chest—Buddha could see only the top of his shaven skull. He holstered his pistol, eyes sweeping the room for any sign of a key to unlock the chains.

A shot rang out, catching Buddha in the left shoulder. The pudgy man went down and rolled, whipping out his pistol and returning fire in the same smooth motion.

A muffled grunt of pain from the deep recesses of the basement told Buddha his shot had hit home. He changed direction, crawling until he was next to Princess. Then he popped straight up, firing a short, sweeping burst from his pistol at the same time.

With all his remaining strength, Buddha braced one foot against the chair Princess was strapped into and shoved, toppling the bodybuilder to the floor. More shots peppered the wall behind him.

Buddha scrambled so that his own body was covering most of the fallen Princess, calmly ejecting the magazine from his pistol and snapping in another. Then he called out ¡Vamos! as a challenge to anyone who wanted to come closer.



MUÑOZ POCKETED the microchip and started down the stairs, a machete in one hand. On the third-floor landing, he cat-footed his way toward the rearmost room. He stepped inside, then satisfied himself that his escape rope was still anchored to the floor.

The drug lord had a car waiting below. If his luck held, he could be on his way to safety in seconds. As he gathered the rope to himself, Cross walked into the room, an Army-issue .45 in his hand.

Muñoz turned to face his sworn enemy. He stood with his legs spread apart, the machete now held in both his hands.

Cross held his weapon in both hands as well, aimed at the chest of the kidnapper.

For a few seconds, there was nothing but silence. Neither man noticed a thin black splotch at the edge of the room.

“So, hombre,” Muñoz said. “It must always come to this, no?” Suddenly, he flung his machete point-first at the floor, where it stuck, quivering from the sheer force of its entry.

The black splotch quivered, too, as if in harmony with the machete.

The tiny blue brand on Cross’s face began to burn.

Muñoz moved slowly toward Cross, hands curled into claws. “You always wanted to know, didn’t you, Cross? ¿Quién es más hombre? Any coward can fight with weapons. A real man fights with nothing more than his own hands.

“Now we see, yes?” Muñoz snarled, as his entire body flowed into a hand-combat crouch.

“No,” Cross answered, pulling the trigger of his .45. The heavy slug took Muñoz in the stomach, knocking him to his knees.

Standing over Muñoz, who was writhing on the floor in horrific pain but still clawing with his hands, Cross carefully emptied the magazine of his .45 into the dying man’s skull. Cross released the magazine of his pistol, slammed in a fresh one, and turned to the door. He never noticed the ace of spades and the jack of clubs floating toward the ceiling. Nor the still-burning blue scar on his cheek.



IN THE basement of Red 71, Buddha reclined on a cot, an IV running into his arm. He blinked his eyes rapidly a few times, finally recognizing Cross.

“Everybody come home?” the pudgy man asked.

“They weren’t fighters,” Cross said, “just punks with guns. You were the only one who took a hit.”

“Muñoz?”

“Same place as Humberto. It’s all done.”

“You’re a real man, Buddha!” Rhino squeaked. “I’m sorry for everything I ever said bad about you. That was so brave, the way you covered Princess.…”

“I still don’t see why that crazy bastard should get a share,” Buddha mumbled as he drifted back to sleep.



BUDDHA DREAMED he was sitting at a blackjack table in a lush casino. So Long was standing behind him, her jewel-lacquered nails over his right shoulder. He looked down at his two cards. Both aces: hearts and spades.

“Double down,” the pudgy man said, just before he left his dream-state and dropped down to recovery-depth.