The Hot Seat

By Fleur Bradley

I stood by the giant window, overlooking the private golf course and the tennis court. A playground for the rich . A white golf cart along a winding path off in the distance. A few men were playing in khakis and polo shirts, moving at the speed of those that have already arrived. I played with the keys in my pocket, looking forward to starting the poker game. Tonight was my night to win. I planned it that way, though the other players didn't know it.

Curtis Mayfield was the man who owned this house, a rich executive who'd gotten it into his head he wanted to play poker. Once a week, he and his rich friends got together in his cellar and played alongside his wine collection, smoking, drinking, laughing. I was invited, though I wasn't quite who they thought I was. I wasn't rich --but the car and my clothes fooled them enough.

“We're all set up in the cellar, Joe,” Curtis said behind me. He handed me a glass of white wine, which I detested. “Quite the view, isn't it,” he said, sipping from his glass. He touched my shoulder.

I nodded.

“You know who that man is?”

I shook my head, thinking I couldn't care less.

“Fred Campbell.”

I shrugged.

“He's the CEO of--never mind.” Curtis shook his head and downed the glass of wine.

“I told you, I don't care about money,” I lied.

“It is all a bit on the opulent side here. Truth be told, I'm thinking of downsizing,” Curtis mused.

I nodded again, thinking: I'll be glad to help you downsize, Curtis.

“Come on,” he said, turning his back on the view. He massaged my shoulder, distracted. “Everyone's already downstairs. And we have a new player.”

A new player? I didn't like that at all. As we made our way through the living room, atrium, study, down the hall lined with priceless artwork, to the kitchen which led to the stairway down to the cellar, I tried to think of ways to adapt my strategy--maybe even sit this one out. But as I came down to the cellar, glowing in the tiffany light, I saw who the new player was. I'd recognize that cocky half-smile anywhere.

“This is Charles Monaco,” Curtis said and sat at the round wooden table we used to play poker every week.

“I'm Joe Moore. Pleased to meet you,” I said and shook the man's hand. His perfect looks fit right in with this poker club, and he looked me straight in the eye.

“Likewise,” he said and sat, already bored with me, it seemed. He didn't recognize me.

***

Ten years ago, I was working the Chicago streets, playing a little Follow the Lady card game, take a few bucks from some unsuspecting tourists. I made an easy three hundred dollars a night, not bad for a high school dropout.

I remember it was May, warm but still that chilly breeze in the air, when he lingered around our makeshift table (a plastic crate). My shill, I can't remember who my partner was at the time, won an easy twenty--which of course was the bait.

“A hundred bucks,” a tall man said and waved a one hundred dollar bill, which he tucked into his breast pocket as a tease. I never saw any hundred dollar bills. Usually, it was dirty fives, tens, twenties around the part of the city I worked.

“You got it,” I said and I did my hustle. Hoping this guy wasn't a cop.

He lost, shrugged, gave me that half-smile. Then he hung around until I closed up shop. I felt nervous as I folded my crate. Wouldn't be the first time I got beat up by some guy who'd figured out he'd been hustled. I broke my arm in four places once, courtesy of some burly tourist from Phoenix .

“Show's over, man,” I said, trying to sound tough. My shill had taken off already, so it was just me and this slick guy. I sized him up, but I wasn't a big guy--mostly, I relied on being quick and smart.

“Don't worry, I'm not here to get my money back,” he said. His voice was smooth and relaxed. In the streets of Chicago , the only time you could be relaxed was if you were very strong, or very insane. He nodded to my crate. “You do this every night?”

“Maybe,” I said, still not trusting this guy. He didn't seem right for this part of town. Too smooth. “What's it to you?”

“How much do you make here?” he asked. “Gross.”

“Few hundred.”

“But you have no overhead,” he said, more to himself than me. “Not bad.”

Overhead? What the hell was this guy talking about?

“What if told you I knew a way you could make a hundred times that money. Would you be interested?”

I didn't become a street hustler for nothing. More money--of course I was interested! “I might,” I said, trying to play it cool, but I knew he'd seen the dollar signs in my eyes.

“Come with me,” he said. “I'll buy you coffee.”

The guy was money all right, big money, crazy money, the kind of money you need ten lifetimes to spend. But he was bored, he said, and he wanted to pull a prank on his friends. I would join their poker game. The short version: we would pull a double duke on a few of his friends--the two of us, with him doing some bottom dealing, me taking the pot. It was a no-limit game, and with the guys at the table… This was my chance.

Two weeks later, I met Charlie at my usual spot. He'd told me to dress like I normally did, said his friends would think it interesting to play with a ‘real street person'.

I'll never forget the first time I saw that house: the iron gate, the cobblestone driveway, the huge property. The house was brick, massive, with green grass and trees surrounding the place, like it was some sort of oasis. I want that .

“Come on, Joe,” Charlie said and he went ahead of me, leaving the car running for a valet or something. He was all casual, relaxed, not impressed by his surroundings at all.

Four guys were waiting, all looking slick and comfortable like Charlie, in some sort of game room with a pool table and a bar. Everyone was drinking some kind of high-priced liquor, but Charlie didn't offer me any. That was cool, I was just there for the money. He told me to bring as much of my own cash as I could, so it would seem like a real game. I had two grand, all I'd saved from my street money--my rainy day money I called it.

Charlie started dealing. I didn't know anything about poker, but he told me I didn't have to. He had it all figured out, and I would end up with the winning hand. But I lost the first game--five hundred dollars!

I looked at Charlie, and he just winked at me. His friends snickered, all conspiratorial. And I should've walked right then.

But I didn't.

They cleaned me out. Charlie called me a cab, stuffed a hundred dollar bill in my jacket pocket when he walked me outside.

“Thanks, Joe,” he said. “That was priceless entertainment.” Charlie laughed. “We hustled a hustler--what a trip.”

***

Ten years later and here we were again: two guys who used to be hustlers, in a poker game. Charlie (or Charles, as he was now) didn't recognize me. I probably hadn't been significant enough in his life for him to. But I never forgot.

In fact, in many ways I owed Charlie. I learned there was more money to be made indoors, in private poker games, playing with these people that had too much money to burn. I learned how to play the game--that was the beauty of poker: it was all about being smart. I didn't have to hustle anymore. I just had to be sharp.

Every week, I played with these rich guys, winning one week, losing a little the next --but playing smart so I would end up ahead in the end. My fellow players were usually too wrapped up in themselves or impressing each other to pay attention. Sixty thousand a year I took in--not bad for a high school dropout.

We all sat, Charlie right across from me. I smiled. Because one thing I knew about Charlie, thinking back, was that he didn't play a very good game. And this time, he didn't have the advantage of the group of jerks he had those years ago, that much I knew. The guys at the table didn't cheat, they just liked to gamble and lose or win big for the thrill of it.

“What are you so happy about, Joe?” my host Curtis asked as he handed me the deck.

Charlie looked up, and I saw he recognized me. Charlie, in the hot seat.

I smiled as I dealt the cards. “Nothing,” I said. “I just have a feeling this is going to be a good night for me.”