The left, Claudio says.
No, the middle, the hotrodder says. The one in the middle, jack.
Stanley turns over a seven on the left and takes away Claudio’s dollar.
Enough of this, Claudio says. Enough. He puts a five-dollar bill down on the Wheaties box, and the hotrodder’s eyebrows rise a bit. Stanley matches Claudio with a second fin, then holds up the cards—the king in his left hand, both sevens overlapped in his right—and starts his shuffle.
The hotrodder points, whispers something to his girl.
Claudio stares hard at the three peaked rectangles, blinking, shaking his head.
The one on the right, the hotrodder says.
Stanley shoots the guy an angry look.
Claudio bites his lip, looks around. The right, he says softly.
Stanley turns over the king, hands Claudio the two bills, looks up at the hotrodder. Listen, buddy, he says. You better show me some cash, or keep your damn trap shut.
The hotrodder digs out his wallet.
The guy’s following the king easily, and Stanley lets him win a couple of singles. Can I bet on him? Claudio asks. Can I bet on this man?
Stanley leans back, looks away, pretends to think about this. A short distance down the boardwalk, next to an icecream cart, a couple of greaser kids are watching him work. Slouching and smoking. Hard-faced and hungry-eyed.
Okay, Stanley says. But you gotta keep quiet. It’s his play.
Claudio puts down another five. The hotrodder hesitates for a moment, then puts down a fin of his own.
Stanley holds up the cards: the king and the seven of hearts in his right hand, the king in front. On the throw he switches their positions. So fast that not even somebody watching for it could see. The cards float like gulls in the shuffle. Stanley arranges them on the cardboard and looks up.
It’s the one on the right, the hotrodder says.
Stanley turns the card over. It’s the seven.
Shit! the hotrodder says.
What? Claudio says. How did this happen?
The hotrodder looks at Claudio, at Stanley, at Claudio.
My money! Claudio says.
Stanley takes another five from each of them on the next throw. Claudio curses the game, curses the hotrodder, and stalks off, reeling. The hotrodder stares after him, confused, his mouth working silently. Stanley takes a moment to look around. Down the boardwalk, the two greasers have disappeared. He gathers his cards and rocks back into a crouch, as if he’s about to leave. Hey! the hotrodder says. Wait a sec, buddy!
I gotta move, Stanley says. A plainclothes cop’s been working this stretch.
One more round. Double or nothing.
Stanley settles onto his knees again, throws the cards, takes away the guy’s sawbuck.
The hotrodder is giving him a hard look. The smart thing would be for Stanley to clear out now, but he’s not ready to go. He’s tasting blood: this clown is a choice mark.
Tough break, my friend, Stanley says. One last round? Double or nothing?
The hotrodder is taking rapid breaths, tapping a foot, grinding a fist into his palm. He looks pretty comical, but Stanley keeps his face empty. There’s a sloppy tattoo on the back of the hotrodder’s hand: what looks like a crow. Stanley smells liquor each time the guy exhales.
C’mon, Mike, the girl’s saying. Let’s just go.
You’re down twenty bucks, chum, Stanley says. You sure you want to walk away now? Look—I’ll give you a real easy one.
Stanley holds up his cards—the king behind the seven of diamonds—and throws them, working the switch. The shuffle so slow a child could follow it. Are you watching me here, Mike? he says. Last chance. This is a good investment, chum.
The hotrodder looks up from the cards, narrows his eyes, and looks down again. He draws two tens from his billfold. The middle, he says. It’s the one in the middle.
You sure about that?
Yeah.
Stanley takes the two bills from the guy, snaps them into a rigid rectangle, and turns over the middle card with their upper edge. The seven of diamonds.
What the fuck, the hotrodder says. His nostrils dilate; his hands wad into fists.
Well, shit, Stanley says, glancing away. Here comes the goddamn cop.
The cards and the bills vanish into his shirt pocket; he slings the jacket over his shoulder. The girl is scared now, wild-eyed, looking around, but the hotrodder is sputtering in Stanley’s face. Scram, Stanley tells him. Go the other way.
Stanley turns on his heel and walks. Claudio is right there behind him, coming in fast from the opposite direction, and he lurches past Stanley into the hotrodder’s path, tripping him up. Did you win? Claudio asks him. Did you win back my money?