I kept going. “I don’t know how to play poker.”
“That’s good because women don’t sit this table.”
I was back to staring at him. Then I asked, “So what am I supposed to do?”
“Get attention.”
“What?”
“Poker isn’t all about the cards. Poker’s mostly about attention. You got a woman whose legs are like yours, tits are like yours, hair is like yours and ass is like yours, all she’s gotta do for me is sit there and half the men at the table won’t be concentrating on their cards. They’ll be thinking about your legs, tits, hair and ass, how much they want ‘em and just what they’d do to get ‘em.”
“I appreciate the compliment, Ty, but I don’t think I’m all that.”
“You got a dick?”
I felt my mouth twitch.
Then I answered, “No.”
“Trust me.”
I really had no choice; it wasn’t my money anyway so I decided to do that. Trust him.
But I asked, “So is this always your tactic, bring in some woman that gets attention?”
“I’ve never had class with a rack and an ass like yours so, no. We need the money so tonight I’m tryin’ somethin’ new.”
There it was again. Another supremely effective Ty Walker compliment.
My fingers pressed deeper into the table.
Then I asked, “Do you lose concentration when a woman you want is in the room?”
“I hope not or tonight we’re fucked.”
And there it was again. My fingertips slid out and my palm pressed into the table.
That was when he asked, “We gonna go or you wanna stare at me some more?”
I sucked in breath. Then I walked to him. He stood where he was and watched. When I made it to him, I got close, tipped my head way back and put my hand flat on wall of his chest.
“All right, hubby, let’s go kick some poker ass.”
He stared down at me. Then he shook his head.
Then he muttered, “Christ, you’re a goof.”
Then he moved to my side, put his hand to my back and propelled me to the door and since his hand was on me, I was concentrating on it so I didn’t have a smartass retort to the goof comment.
I just moved with my husband out the door.
*
I learned a few things quickly after the poker game began. First, if you weren’t playing it (which I never had so maybe even if you were, I wouldn’t know), poker was mind-numbingly boring. Second, Ty was not as good as he thought he was.
This game was like one of those games you saw in movies. I knew this when we didn’t go down to the gambling floors, we went up to the top floor. I also knew this because two men in dark suits were standing outside the double doors at the end of the hall we walked through to get into the game. Further, I knew this because when we entered, every character from a movie was there. The oldish Texan with a Stetson and a big-haired blond in strapless, clingy, cut up to there gold lamé dripping off his arm. Two men in ill-fitting but nevertheless expensive suits (in other words, it was time to lay off the carbs and that time was about six months ago) that looked like they could easily be made men in the Mafia. A slender, handsome man in an expensive suit that did fit him well, very well, and I thought there was a good chance he was a secret agent. And a swarthy man chomping a cigar, sporting a beer gut fit for two and probably being on vacation from his oppressive rule of some small, South American country. Lastly, I knew this was like those poker games from the movies because there was a bar, with bartender, and the casino had provided a black vested, white shirt, black bowtie wearing dealer and a swish poker table with all its accoutrement.
The dealer eyed me and Blondie, had a quiet word with Ty and the Texan and then Ty came to me and told me I was relegated to the couch against the back wall.
Then he bent his head, lips to my ear and whispered, “Cross your legs. Often.”
Then he went to a chair at the table where big piles of multi-colored chips were sitting.
I sat, the bartender got me a French martini after I ordered it (and I did this because of my surroundings, not that I ever drank one – I drank beer – it just popped into my head and sounded like something a woman wearing a slinky dress who was relegated to a couch during a testosterone only poker game would drink and I found out it tasted really good).
Then, for over an hour, I sipped my (two) French martinis, crossed and uncrossed my legs frequently but not frequently enough to seem silly (like Blondie was fidgeting at my side, making me wonder if she might have a movement disorder), tried not to fall asleep and watched with increasing alarm (the only thing that kept me from falling asleep) as Ty’s piles dwindled.
Twice, he’d reached into his inside suit pocket, thrown bills on the table that were snatched up by the dealer faster than you could blink and new chips were stacked at his place. Twice, those stacks shrunk.