It's All In The Cards

By Larry Flewin

They were all there, Snake, Dog, Vino, Willie Pete, and TJ. Where they always were every Friday afternoon, in back of Sarpino's, an old neighborhood deli that had long since converted to packaged meats and melba toast. Long time friends and associates, this one moment in time had continued despite the swirl of change around them that was called life.

Old man Sarpino had been the sixth player until his passing several years earlier. Few of the sights and smells that had built the deli's reputation remained, especially after the son had taken over. Gotta be a player he kept saying, gotta be up with the times, gotta play your cards right. As true over the front counter as it was out back.

Which is where they still played cards, on the old butchers table just inside the back door. Since the very beginning when Sarpino's had been a true deli, with joints of meat swinging from the rafters, barrels of pickles in the corners, and the smell of fresh bread unmistakable from half a block away.

The cards skittered across the rough wooden surface, dealt quickly and easily by a practiced hand. The hand belonged to Anthony Michael James Torelli. Tony to his mother, TJ to his friends, Mr. Torelli to the rest of the world. Short, stout, and bald, a thick Cuban cigar clamped between his teeth, the cards riffled effortlessly in his pudgy fingers. He'd been running numbers since he was a boy, but had never gotten past that point. The why of it was a whisper no one questioned much. It just was.

An ace to Vino, a five to Dog. No smiles, just intense concentration, and a blast of smoke from between his lips. A deuce to Snake, who did smile, a king to Willie Pete, and to the man himself, an ace. Conversation followed the flutter of the cards.

“Hey, what's with the freakin' deuce. This is poker not gin rummy.”

“Ah quit yer whinin'. Just ante up and gimme your money already.”

“Workin' a flush again? Ah man I don't believe it. How you do that.”

“ It's all in the cards my friend, it's all in the cards.”

“Yeah? Mine or yours.”

“Hey.”

“So, TJ, when's it gonna happen.”

That was Snake, always trying to keep up on things. The others called him Snake just because. Had no tattoos, didn't talk funny, or walk with a limp, just a beanpole of a guy with slicked back hair and cowboy boots. His people paid on time and never complained. “Next week or so I'm told. The old man's comin' in from Chicago for a meetin' so he's gonna do a bunch of guys, ‘cludin' Manny,” said TJ.

“That's nice man, that's real nice,” said Snake. “About time one of us made it in.”

“Ya got that right,” grumbled Dog, taking another pull on his beer.

Manny was TJ's sister's son, father unknown, mother deceased from cancer. TJ had been raising the boy himself for the last ten years, showing him the ropes and showing him around. The kid was good, no doubt about it. Always collected on time, fixed his “problems” quietly, and showed the proper respect, didn't mouth off to anyone. Still, it didn't sit right with the boys that Manny was about to be “made” while TJ never would be.

More cards flew. A ten to Vino, an ace to Dog, while Snake collected a nine with a curse. A seven went unnoticed by Willie Pete while TJ drew himself a second ace. He sat back in his chair, looking at his cards but not really looking at them. Cigar smoke puffed lazily out of the right side of his mouth, the tip a faint red. He was thinking.

It was a long time ago and the shot had come out of nowhere. One minute Peter was counting his chips, and the next he was cashing them in. His uncle the Don mourned the loss with stoic calm, blaming no one but himself for the “accident”. TJ came back with a deep breath.

“Soon man, soon,” he mused aloud. “I still can't believe it ya know. My cousin a made man.”

“Too bad about you. You'd a bin a good made man.”

“Yeah well, it just wasn't in the cards y'know. Shut up and ante in.”

“No disrespect TJ, but you know,” bristled Dog, “you bust your hump getting' your numbers in each week, smack around a few losers, and what does it get ya. Bupkis. Doesn't seem right somehow.”

Dog was a giant of man. Ex-wrestler, repo man, and loose cannon summed up a guy who visited his momma every weekend at the home, drank nothing stronger than apple juice, and wrapped crowbars around people's necks when they owed him. Few did.

The others didn't say much about what had happened. They had all been there when the “accident” had happened. There in that same room at the same table with old man Sarpino dealing the cards. Everyone except TJ.

It was always a new decks of cards every week, purchased by the dealer and left lying on the table after the last hand. Before the next game started new replaced old and life went on. A seven, a jack, a second seven, an ace, and a ten made their appearance.

“Ah it's okay. Bupkis I can live with. I make good money doin' bupkis,” exclaimed TJ.

“Yeah, so, we all do. But it still don't explain why not you,” said Willie Pete in a low voice.

“I told ya before, ten freakin' times already. It's nothin', a hiccup, a bump in the road. I got past it and kept on going', which is more than I can say for you my friend. I had my shot but it went wrong. Somebody's in, somebody's out, somebody gets hurt, but that's the way of it sometimes. End of story.”

Which was true in a way. Everything for the five of them in that room had ended that day. They had closed ranks around one of their own and said nothing. The family had done the same, doing nothing for them. Life had gone on, locked into a time and place running close to fifteen years now.

“Hey, enough already. It was a mistake, a simple little mistake. He knows that. That's why he's doin' up Manny. Once he does some last little thing he's in. And don't ask me what that is cuz I don't know and I don't wanna know.”

A Viet Nam veteran, or so he said, Willie Pete knew everyone and everything. He was the last long-haired hippie, with more rings than Mr. T., red eyes and a constant sniff. And he had this thing about money; heads always facing the same way, smallest to largest top to bottom, and crisp, like they were ironed. Which maybe explained why he didn't like things left undone or unsaid. Things had to be just so.

The third round saw a four, a six, a trey, another king, and an eight to the dealer. They shot across the table, snapped from TJ's fleshy fingers like bullets from a gun.

“So none of us made it in, so what,” pronounced Snake. “We all still got our health thank god, and maybe some day, who knows, it could be our turn. Meantime we gotta look out for each other and we gotta celebrate TJ's good fortune. Manny isn't like us. He's what you call the next generation.”

Which was true in most respects. They were the last of the old school, tough guys from a tough neighborhood where only street smarts and close friends kept them alive.

All they knew was cash, flash, and pain. A “college boy” like Manny was a revelation, someone who was on his way up because of what he knew, not who.

“You sure giving him your old piece was a good idea TJ?” asked Vino. “You told me once it was cursed or something. That's a bad luck thing man.”

“Yeah yeah says you. Like I told Father Valpone. I didn't really mean to shoot anybody with it, I just beat on a couple guys with it, and maybe flashed it around a little. How could it be cursed I asked him. He said it couldn't be, it's not god's way or some crap like that, but he blessed it anyway. So it's clean now, so forget it, its Manny's piece now. What's done is done.”

“If you say so boss”, mumbled Vino.

“I say so. It just wasn't in the cards.”

Vino was always saying that. He rarely won but that didn't seem to matter, to him or the others. He was always first to the meeting, and always had a bottle of homemade red in his pocket. His collections always seemed to go without a hitch. Guys who owed the others never seemed to mind paying Vino.

The last five cards flew across the table. A deuce, a trey, an ace, a king and a jack, each one quickly scooped up and jammed into the hands being formed around the table. Time to bluff and blow smoke.

“I'm in for twenty,” said TJ, tossing a pair of chips onto the pile. More chips flew from all directions. Vino smelled something and gave the air around him a definitive sniff.

“What you got.”

“Not tellin' my friend, not tellin'. You got to pay ‘em to see ‘em. It's all in the cards, and I got ‘em this time, so don't gimme no shit about losin' your wallet.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah”, grumbled Snake. “So let's see.”

“No way, you go when I say. I'm the dealer remember?”

‘Okay okay. “

“Drum roll please. First from Don Vino, Capo de tutti Capi a......nothin' and you anted in on me. What are you, nuts?”

“I thought you was bluffin'..”

“As if I'd tell you. .”

“It was your body language; I thought you gave it away.”

“What are you some kind of sicko, readin' my body, you lookin' at guys now. Marie not enough for you.…”

“Hey…. ”

“Next, from the dog, meanest numbers runner in the whole US of A........nothin'. Again with the nothin'....how long you guys been playin' you call on nothin'?

“From the snake man, a pair of … two's. C'mon what is this charity day at the old folk's home. Okay, from Willie Pete himself, the oldest long hair in town.....a....god damn pair of kings. That's it, a pair? Damn this is like taking candy from a baby. And finally, from your truly, a class act from the school of fools a....ace....a.....second ace ....a....eight....a..'nother….eight, and, drum roll please.....a....oh geez…..not again.”

The shot came out of nowhere, which is to say that none of them saw anything, where it came from, where it went, or what it did. They were half out of their seats, hands reaching for whatever they carried, to deal with whatever it was. And whatever it was slowly opened the office door and peaked out, a sheepish grin on his face. Manny.

“Sorry guys, my bad. Just cleanin' ol' betsy here and she went off on me. Didn't hit nobody did I. Uncle TJ said the trigger was a little iffy, whatever that means. ”

TJ, face down over his hand, didn't say anything, blood quietly leaking out from under him. The others were silent, staring at TJ and the cards he had laid out in front of them. Aces over eights. His time had finally come, but winning still wasn't in the cards.