Pocket Hands

Sitra wrapped her arms tightly against her body attempting to shield herself from the brisk night air gusting through the gaping cracks of the worn unkempt planks of the barn which had to be doing little to offer support for its equally dilapidated and fragmented roof.

She was waiting for the day when the wind would blow too strong or a leaf would fall too hard and send the rickety heap of wood and tin tumbling down.

She was grateful though for the decrepit exterior and the guise it offered given the illegal nature of its true interior activities.

Every second Tuesday evening the old abandoned horse barn transformed into a buzzing but secretive gambling hall. The old horse barn served surprisingly well as a suitable space, each horse stall offering space for its own game table and bouncers could easily be placed at every stall entrance to man the door latch, ensuring patron honesty.

The Stables didn’t attract the most honest crowd, a backroom gambling hall appealing to a more criminal type of patron; Sitra felt right at home.

The fourth horse stall on the left, at one of the mid-stakes poker tables, was where you could find her every second Tuesday evening. They sat on hay bales, tightly around a foldable poker table lit by small lanterns on either side as the cards were dealt. Thankfully the poor insulation and constant drafts had removed any lingering manure smell. Only the acrid scent of molding hay from the bales they sat on gave any indications that horses ever took shelter there.

Starting with eight, there were now two of them left in the close-round cash game. Sitra had busted out five of the six other players and had the chip lead allowing her to bully the last player for the past few rounds.

A couple of hands later, she covered his all-in having a ten-nine of clubs and needing a queen of any suite to complete her straight and win the game.

Sitra held her breath as the dealer flipped the last two cards. The turn and the river came off in her favour revealing the card she’d been hoping for. The queen of diamonds’ face was smiling right back at her satisfied grin.

Sitra happily scooped up the pot into her burlap sack, pleased with her victory as her opponent stormed off.

Winning eight times her money minus the house cut, Sitra felt like a celebratory drink was in order, standing up and brushing away the rogue hay which clung to her polyester pants like velcro, before making her way to the tack rooms where the bar was set up.

It was livelier than normal, dimly lit by yellow-orange lanterns placed about giving a warm ambiance unsuitable for the criminals who frequented The Stables. Saddle benches acted as makeshift stools as patrons sat in bunches guzzling their drinks and laughing like horses.

Sitra was surprised to see the back left booth occupied which was indefinitely reserved for Pockets and his men. Pockets ran The Stables, from what she had gathered he was a part of some infamous crime family, but far enough down the pecking order to be in charge of smaller ventures like debt collection and running roadside gambling halls.

He rarely made an appearance at The Stables and when he did Sitra always felt uneasy. Pockets was a big poker player and rumoured to never lose, but she found it hard to believe anyone could win honestly off so many pocket pairs.

Pockets was a good ten years older than her, grey hairs poking through his otherwise blackened hair and wrinkles starting to crease his smooth face. His eyes were dark and pitted, suitable for his sharp features.

His four men who sat with him were burly and large, making them an intimidating bunch and yet Sitra found it somewhat humorous, the suits sitting on clothed hay bales and drinking out of mason jars like a group of young bohemian girls.

Sitra walked over to the back wall where the bottles leaned on blanket racks acting as makeshift bar racks. She raised her index finger to the bartender and was swiftly brought over a scotch, neat.

She took a sip letting the amber burn down her throat, a much-needed warmth in the crisp cool barn.

“Big winner tonight I hear.” Sitra turned to see Tane’s warm toothy grin.

“Already here to pawn a drink from my winnings?” Sitra teased her friend.

“Actually, I came over to give you a gift but if you felt so generous as to thank me with a drink, I’d feel obliged to accept.” Sitra always found Tane's goofy and pleasant mood refreshing in a place like this.

“What is it?”

“A seat at one of the high-stake tables.” Tane smirked, leaning back on the wooden post behind him waiting for her to be impressed.

“Yeah right, you need an invite.”

“I have one.” He continued to beam. “Dex owes me a favour.” Tane grabbed the drink from Sitra’s hand as the rest of the amber liquid disappeared down his throat. “There’s a game starting soon. Go tell Dex I sent you”

“Thank you, Tane!” Tane knew Sitra had been trying to get into a high-stakes game since this place opened, but it wasn't easy, having to be officially invited which usually meant knowing Pockets or one of his closer comrades personally, something Sitra had intentionally avoided.

Sitra rushed to the back stalls where at the end of a long hall a small sliding door was guarded by a group of bouncers. Sure enough, Dex was there and Sitra was shocked as he waved her through when she said Tane had sent her.

More surprise came when the plank wood door slid open revealing not a poker room but a set of stone stairs leading down into the ground.

“Use to be where they stored the manure.” Dex’s croaky voice laughed.

Sitra cautiously descended the stairs reaching the cellar only to realize this place was now far from a manure storage room.

Through a haze of cigar smoke, Sitra took in the dingy-chic room. A proper poker table with maroon velvet cloth sat in the center on top of an expensive-looking carpet covering the original concrete floor. The walls were lined with gold vintage sconce lights and antique farming equipment was placed decoratively about.

Sitra hurried to the only counter where a tall lanky man stood slightly bent, being too tall for the short basement ceiling. He counted out her buy-in, barely covered with her previous winnings, before making her way through the hazy air to the table.

Three other players were already seated, two older gentlemen with grey-hair, drooping eyes, and straight leathered faces. The last was a woman, younger than the gentlemen but wearing the same detached expression as her brightly painted red lips puffed more cigar smoke into the air.

The room felt tense as they sat in silence.

“Should we deal?” Sitra looked over at the young dealer unsure why they weren’t starting.

“There’s one more player.” And at the same moment a group of men in suits descended the stairs. As they approached the table they parted, letting Pockets stride through as he took a seat.

“Who’s ready to play?” The eagerness of his wide eyes and vile smile made Sitra stir.

She hadn’t realized he would be playing tonight after seeing him drinking upstairs, something he did only after his games. Pockets never loses and Sitra had come to play with the intention of keeping her night's winnings. She contemplated getting up and leaving but after her buy-in had been counted there was no way they were letting her leave with the stacks of chips she'd placed on the table. The only way out of here with her money was to play and to win.

Pockets straightened his lapel as he gestured toward the dealer to start. He swiftly obliged, dealing out the cards. It didn’t go unnoticed by Sitra that Pockets had been dealt in as the button, meaning he got to wait the longest before being forced to pay the blind.

Pockets could rig the game all he liked but he couldn't rig the math. Poker was math and math was something Sitra knew well. Sure reading people helped, but Pockets was an open book of self-entitlement and pride, nothing Sitra hadn’t played against before. It was just her and the math against the cards.

Sitra was in the small blind first with a nine of spades and six of clubs, not the best starting hand but everyone had checked so she called.

As the hands played out Sitra’s stack size stayed fairly even. Eventually, both of the grey-haired men were busted by Pockets followed by both her and Pockets eating away the red-lipped women’s chips before Sitra busted her out. Unfazed by the large sum she’d lost, she stood up and left without a word.

Only Sitra and Pockets were left. It started with Sitra slowly eating away at Pockets’ chips, seeming unfazed until the losses grew larger and larger and his calm demeanor faded.

No longer smiling, Sitra saw his pitted eyes bearing into her with furry as the dealer dealt the next hand.

Sitra was in the big blind. She peeled back her cards revealing pocket Queens. Holding her excitement as Pockets limped, completing the blind. Sitra raised again and Pockets matched.

The dealer revealed the flop showing a ten of diamonds, a king of hearts and, a queen of spades. Having a set of queens, Sitra knew the odds were in her favour.

She checked in hopes of check-raising trying to get more money in the pot. Sure enough, Pockets fired in a bet so Sitra raised again.

She was taken aback by his quick response at going all in.

There were only three possible hands he could have to beat her, pocket kings, ace-jack, or jack-nine. Deciding what to do she looked at Pockets’ smug face as he shot a wry smile.

One of the grey haired gentlemen abruptly stood up to leave as if in a hurry to get out, which seemed unusual, not staying to watch the potential last round.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sitra saw the other man staring into her. She met his pleading eyes as he subtly shook his head as if telling her not to do what she was about to do.

Sitra refused to be bullied, knowing based on the size of the pot she only needed to be good a minimum 35% of the time to call. She had come here to win, which was exactly what she planned to do as she covered his raise.

Since Pockets was all in and she had covered it, they both revealed their hands before the last two cards were flipped. Sitra held a straight face as she revealed her Queen’s.

She was confused as the grey-haired man let his face fall into his palms as if defeated, especially given he was already out.

Pockets started fuming as he slammed pocket aces onto the table, a good hand but not good enough. He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a pocket pistol pointing the barrel right between Sitra’s eyes.

“What the hell?” Sitra threw her hands into the air smelling the horse shit now.

Without taking his eyes off her, Pockets growled through his teeth at the dealer. “Flip the next card.”

Without hesitation the dealer obliged, flipping the turn to reveal a helpless four of clubs. Pockets cocked the gun.

He had six outs, needing the next card to be a Jack or an Ace to win. Sitra could feel beads of sweat sliding down her temple as her legs began to tremble, praying for the next card.

“Flip the next card.” Pockets said, shifting his bottom jaw.

The dealer reached for the deck.

The card flipped. A gun fired. Pockets never loses.