The room told a story if you knew how to read it. All wood panelling with art déco inserts. A large, central dancefloor surrounded on three sides by low railings. Tables for eight set back from the rails, they and their chairs bolted to the floor. And cosy booths along the back walls, shoulder high with narrow entrances for more private encounters. A stage on the fourth wall. The place had once been a dual-purpose taxi-dance hall and cabaret lounge; all fresh leather and walnut veneers. Flim-flam glam. No visible bar, because of prohibition. The girls had been paid for the tickets they could collect from the motley assortment of lonely males, not how much drink they could ply their marks with.

Although, given the ownership, Crum was sure there had been enough hooch to go around, even then. And the girls would have been more accommodating than the skinnier, fairer, prettier, more well-heeled selection available across town, in the more opulent establishments that didn’t need to double up to pay the rent. The girls here then, as now, were more robust. Thicker set, with child-bearing hips, full breasts, olive skin, and a brazenness to them born from a lifetime of being both revered and reviled. Second generation Greek American, most of them would have been. Daughters of immigrants. Their mothers were the matriarchs whose word was law, yet the daughters were little more than slaves to the cost of maintaining the sons. This crop, a hundred years and four or five generations later, was more mixed. Some Greek in them still, but all jumbled up with Latin, Irish, Black, and Mexican. The American dream in evidence, after a fashion.

Crum imagined for a moment the string of those generations, all moving through the same space. Flappers, jive bunnies, disco queens, then lap dancers and strippers, all plying the same trade: fantasy. He shuddered, and the room came back into focus, clear and present.

Whatever the generation, the girls were no longer the major attraction. Not even the boys. They were collectively relegated to a side dish of a menu composed of all things immoral, illegal, and inadvisable available at The Golden Ticket, for the right price. Back to plying the customers with drinks, and angling for a private audience with a happy ending.

Crum waved the prime example at his left elbow away, refusing the temptation of a bourbon sour. He’d had enough for a lifetime in his time in the military. Heck, he’d had enough in basic training. Even after his discharge, it had taken another eight years to finally realise that. 

“I’ll take a soda, if you have any,” he said.

The girl, less than twenty, tsked like a grandma and moved on. Crum doubted he’d be seeing that soda any time soon.

“Well?” a deep, gravelly voice brought Crum’s focus back front and center. 

Back to the table. It was his call. Shit. What had he given away, drifting off into the past like that? He fought the urge to check his cards. Forced himself to remember. A queen and a ten, same colour, different suits. Story of his life. He smiled, a weak effort, and went back to scanning the other players.

To his right, Duke, a man mountain with no discernible neck and a veritable encyclopedia of tattoos adorning his vein-popping biceps, had already folded. The tall, slim man next to him sat comfortably in his chair, leaning back, cards on the table, hands on his chest, fingers interlocked. A pose chosen to keep hands visible and demonstrably not up to anything untoward. Shoulders relaxed, face neutral. He was giving nothing away. Crum couldn’t read him. That was a warning sign. Professional.

Dom, on the other hand, sat fidgeting like a kid on Christmas, eyes gleaming, licking his lips, eyeing the pot. Though, to be fair, Dom always expected to win, even if he was holding a mismatched deuce and a doozy. The guy did not know his own limitations. Largely because his father ensured he was never exposed to them. Of course, Dom senior wouldn’t be around forever.

Crum’s eyes flicked to the goons playing pool at a trio of tables arranged at the far end of the dancefloor and wondered briefly which of the circling sharks would be the first to strike when the time came, and which would be the last one standing.

Then his eyes skipped the Asian woman briefly before resting on Edgar to his right. She was here to lose, to pay off a debt, or tribute, or whatever business was between her father and Dom’s. She would fold to Dom, no matter what was in her hand. Edgar was another story. He hid it better, but he had a winning hand too.

Crum tossed his cards on the table. “Fold.” he said. 

“Pussy,” Dom scoffed, turning his attention to the inscrutable stranger. 

Who folded quickly, with a bland smile. 

“I call,” Dom said, tossing a chip onto the pile, ignoring the fact it was his raise everyone was folding against, “and I raise you.” Dom looked at his pile of chips, three times the size of Edgar’s, “Oh, what the hell, I’m all in.”

Which in an actual game, with regular rules, would have been dumb. Because Edgar had a winning hand, which would mean he could go all in, too, and double his money in one hand, making them even. Which, in an actual game with regular rules, would have meant Dom would be out of chips in a couple of hands. 

But, of course, this wasn’t an actual game, with regular rules. It was the Golden Ticket, where Dom ruled. Which made what Crum had to do even more dangerous and ridiculous than it would be in a Vegas casino. And what Edgar did next sensible, if not in line with regular rules.

“Ah, what can I say, Dom?” He said, sliding his chips into the pot. “You got me.”

And then he got to his feet with a forced rueful humour and held both hands up in surrender.

Which, usually, at this part, would have elicited some sign of confusion from the newcomer. Who would argue that Dom and Edgar should show their cards, and if Edgar won, he would get the pot up to this round, his stake, and a matching amount from Dom, with the rest of Dom’s stake returned to him. 

Then Dom would explain, with exaggerated patience and forbearing, that the newcomer was mistaken, and that Edgar had not matched Dom’s stake, therefore he had not called, and Dom had won; cards unseen.

Normally, the newcomer might wonder why, then Edgar had not simply folded like everyone else, and Dom would say he guessed Eggy just wasn’t that bright, loud enough for everyone to see the slight but significant pause in Edgar’s departing steps, and the increased stiffness in his shoulders. The newcomer would then look at his pot, and at Dom’s, do some brief calculations, and realise, to his horror, that he would leave the room empty-handed.

But not this guy. This guy just sat, with his shoulder relaxed, his fingers steepled over his chest, and his face an emotionless mask. Inscrutable. His eyes didn’t even flicker to the pile of chips on the table. He just watched Edgar go as Dom raked in his winnings. 

Crum calculated this was his chance. The next hand. Had to be. Otherwise, the Asian woman’s chips would go to Dom’s pot, and Crum would be in the same position as Edgar. As Dom made a show of shuffling the cards before dealing, the stranger’s eyes slid to rest on Crum. With no perceptible change in the set of his face, the eyes seemed to speak a warning to Crum: Don’t do it.

Crum shook the sensation. The nerves were rattling him. It wasn’t like he had a choice. Sure, Dom would beat him within an inch of his life and dump him in the alley if he got caught. But if he didn’t test the device and get back to Yarek with the results, preferably positive, he was a dead man.

Besides, Dom deserved it. Needed to be taken down a peg or two. If not taught a lesson, at least given a glimpse of those elusive limitations. Crum remembered rolling around on the canvas, faking dizziness, waiting for the ref to count to ten, while Dom junior, raised his hands to the crowd in victory. Raised his left hand to his cheek unconsciously, then, realising, faked an itch at his temple.

“Still sore?” Duke asked, reminding Crum of his presence at the table. Not about the bruise. About the dive.

Crum faked a rueful smile. “Nah. He got me a good one,”

Dom beamed with pride as they collectively reached for their cards. Crum watched their responses before looking at his cards. Duke reacted with good natured indifference to the duds in his hand. What did he care? He wasn’t playing with his own money. His job was to fold, stay in the game, at the table, and make sure Dom won without incident. The Asian woman, there to lose, but to make it look good, scrunched her nose slightly. She wanted to win. Wanted to play the hand she’d been given and wipe the smug look off Dom’s face. But she couldn’t, so she would push the pot up, hoping someone else would do it for her. Bad for Dom, good for Crum. If the device worked.

The Asian woman tossed a larger chip than necessary into the pot, confirming Crum’s assumption.

Dom looked confused. Like he’d read the cards in his hand and been unpleasantly surprised by what he’d found there. Probably tried cutting the deck and fumbled the deal. Possibly why the Asian woman had a strong hand, and he didn’t. Which would mean that Crum had the hand intended for the Asian woman. Shit.

Crum tossed matching chips onto the table without looking at his cards. Which he realised a moment later may have been a mistake.

Dom’s mistake also meant that Duke had Crum’s hand, which was probably not much better. He folded.

The stranger, who was still giving nothing away, had Duke’s hand, which was probably just as bad. But not bad enough to prevent the stranger tossing his chips onto the table.

None of their hands would be worse than the stranger’s intended hand, which had fallen to Dom because of his own incompetence. Dom, uncharacteristically folded.

A perfect opportunity, then, to assess the device. It wouldn’t be Dom, but the Asian woman he’d be cheating. 

Without Dom in the hand, she could play to win. She tossed more chips into the pile, silently. Not trusting her voice to not give her excitement away?

Her pot added to his, instead of Dom’s, would put Crum ahead. Crum matched the pot again, holding back on raising too early.

He could leave with his winnings, or happily lose to Dom with grace, depending on how well Dom took the loss. And on who the stranger deferred to. The stranger called. 

Which, all in all, probably meant Crum would be going home empty-handed. But what did he care? Like Duke, he was playing with someone else’s money. He tossed more chip onto the table, matching the Asian woman’s raise.

But at least he’d know if the device worked. And that was the point, after all.

The stranger called, and they were back to the Asian woman. She eyed Crum, then the stranger, sizing them up. She visibly dismissed Crum as unimportant, but her eyes narrowed against the stranger’s facade. Clearly, she was having just as much trouble reading him as Crum was.

It was time. Crumb sniffed and rubbed the bottom of his nose, as though warding off a sneeze. Then, as instructed, he forced a yawn. 

“We keeping you up?” Duke jibed, before being surprised by a yawn of his own. 

Dom guffawed, his snort of derision warping into a yawn of his own. The Asian woman tossed in more chips, then, covering her mouth with one hand to stifle her own yawn, pushed in a stack with the other.

Crum smiled and called her raise. The stranger lifted two fingers to his mouth, gave a delicate yawn with no real in-breath, and matched his call.

It was working. Crum cracked his neck, left and then right. Duke and Dom followed suit, right on cue. The Asian woman sat up even straighter than she already was, shoulders straining down. Pushed another stack into the pot. 

Crum called. The stranger turned his steepled fingers inside out, stretching forward, before following suit.

So far, so good. Time for the next stage. Yarek would be pleased with the results so far.

The Asian woman looked at her remaining chips. Three stacks. She pushed another one into the pile. 

Crum smiled. Looked around good-humouredly. “Let’s speed things up a bit, shall we?” he said. “It’s getting late.” He pushed four stacks into the pot. Enough to put the Asian all in and out of the game if the device worked.

The stranger shot him a side eye. The first sign of any kind of reaction all night. But he smiled thinly and called Crum’s raise. 

“Well, boys, that’s me,” the Asian woman said warmly, pushing her chips into the pot, and standing, just as Edgar had done. “Good luck, Dom. Duke.” She nodded from one to the other, then glanced from Crum to the stranger, adding, “Gentlemen,” as an afterthought.

Crum smiled again, turning his attention to the stranger, as the Asian woman signalled her young male escorts to withdraw.

He took in the two stacks of chips, almost evenly matched. But Crum’s was a smidge bigger. Which meant, by Dom’s rules, he had the pot. Without the device and without Dom’s rules, not so much, if he was right. He had the Asian woman’s hand, which would have been the second worst. The stranger had Duke’s, which would have been second best. Dom was dumb like that. When fixing a hand, he’d fix them in order of who he liked or trusted best.

Crum yawned again, to see if the device’s effects were wearing off yet. Duke and Dom yawned almost in unison. The stranger, after a brief pause, raised his eyebrows, opened his mouth, and raised his fingers to his mouth in that same gesture. 

“I’m all in.” Crum pushed his pile into the pot.

Duke and Dom turned to the stranger in anticipation. Dom, full of excitement, clearly expected the stranger being pushed out in this hand, then him taking the pot from Crum in the next hand. Duke, however, was doing some mental calculations. Slow, painful calculations that were ending in a red flag. This hand would put Crum over the top. Dy Dom’s own rules, he would lose. Which meant Duke was already eyeing Crum up, figuring out if he would have the sense to lose enough small hands fast enough to let Dom win, or if Duke was going to have to call in the goons playing pool to settle things.

The stranger, with a brief glance at Duke, pushed his chips into the pot.

“Congratulations, Mister Crum,” he said. “It seems you have me, fair and square.”

But he didn’t get up to leave. He sat back, fingers steepled, as though still in the game. “But let’s say, just for fun, we look at the cards, shall we?”

Crum’s eyes narrowed as Dom reached to turn the cards, even though he knew what they would be.

He turned the strangers’ cards over. A small pair. Then he turned Crum’s cards over. A deuce and a doozy. 

“What the?” Dom’s voice sounded incredulous. Angry. Crum glanced at the cards on the table. A queen and a ten. Same colour, different suits. Enough to give him a straight. But, most importantly, Crum’s cards from the last hand. Not the hand intended for the Asian woman in this hand.

“What the?” Crum echoed Dom’s disbelief. How the? Crum turned back to the stranger, who was smiling serenely.

“And what say we look up your sleeve?”

“Why, you thieving, cheating piece of shit!” Dom screamed in outrage, as Duke hoisted Crum out of his chair by the collar.

Crum held his hands up, dumbfounded. “Now look, fellas, I don’t know what the fuss is about, but I won that hand fair and square,” Crum said, banking on the fact neither was dumb enough to say aloud they knew he was cheating because he didn’t have the cards they’d given him. Realising belatedly, the cards had been rigged every hand, not just this one. And not just by Dom. Talk about double standards.

“Then let’s see up your sleeves,” Duke said, yanking Crum’s arm out of its socket, and running his hand roughly over Crum’s unresisting flesh.

When he found nothing, he showed Crum, turning him on the spot, and tugging on his collar, ripping his shirt open at the neck.

“Uh, fellas,” Crum said, distracted from the indignity of being practically strip searched right there. They wouldn’t find anything. The device was safe.

Duke shoved his hands up Crum’s back, under his armpits, ripping his shirt further. Finding nothing, he pushed Crum back into his chair, and turned back to Dom. “Nothing, boss.”

“Then how…?” Dom asked.

Duke shrugged.

“Uh, fellas?” Crum repeated, pointing at the empty table.

It took a second or two for them to catch his drift, and then all three looked around.

“Where’d he go?” Dom demanded, first of Duke and Crum, then of the room in general.

“Where’d the mark go?”

“Cashed out a minute ago,” one of the girls, circling with a tray of drinks, said.

“That’s impossible,” Dom insisted. “He was still here, losing the hand a minute ago.”

The girl shrugged and moved on, used to Dom’s exaggeration, and dismissing his claim.

But for once in his miserable life, Dom was right. The stranger had been right there, at the table a minute ago. How could he have cashed out and left already?

“You!” Dom turned on Crum. “You’re in on it. What did you do?”

“Me?” Crum cried in genuine disbelief. “The guy just stole my pot.”

“Your pot, eh?” Duke said. “What you won fair and square with your ten and your queen? From the last hand.”

“See now,” Crum argued, “how would you know that, if you didn’t see the cards in the last hand? Huh? I folded, remember?”

At which point, Duke did what he always did when caught out in his own stupidity. Which was get angry, and punch someone in the face until they stopped talking. Which, in fairness, was usually just the one punch. And in this case, that was all it took to silence Crum. And to break a billion-dollar device.