I do not own the show GRAVITY FALLS or any of the characters; both are the property of the Walt Disney Company and of Alex Hirsch. I make no money from these stories but write just for fun and in the hope that other fans enjoy reading them.

In the Cards

(Las Vegas, Nevada. Wednesday, July 6, 2016)

(With apologies to Damon Runyon)

It is Wednesday evening, kind of late, meaning it is getting on for eleven, and I am sitting in the Moon Over the Dune, which is one of the Nevada-style names for a little bar-with-diner, having myself a bite of supper, when up walks this guy who reminds me a little of somebody I might know from the past, but who at first I do not place. I ignore him for a few seconds, concentrating on my prime rib, and as I am chewing, he asks, "You do not remember me, do you?"

And then I give him a second look and realize that his voice, which is like a truck load of gravel being dumped down a chute, does sound familiar, and things sort of click, and I say, "I do not at first recognize you with your hair all trimmed and your expensive suit and fancy cologne, but now I see you are Buddy the Brick from the old neighborhood."

In a highball glass he is carrying what looks like a double Scotch, and he smiles sadly, like a Basset hound, and asks, "Mind if I take a load off?"

While I do not exactly mind, I am somewhat less than eager for his company, since Buddy the Brick is known back east in Brooklyn as a guy who is not too finicky about how he makes his living, which is by roughing up deadbeats until they pay their loan sharks, but on the other hand I personally make it a policy never to borrow money off guys who have close friends with cauliflower ears, busted knuckles, and missing teeth, so I say, "It is a free country." He puts a hand behind his left ear and I repeat what I have said, a little louder.

Buddy the Brick sits down and drinks as if he is looking for happiness at the bottom of his Scotch glass, which is one place where it never resides. Then he flags down a passing doll, who is a waitress, and asks for a refill. The way he does it tells me he has probably had more than a few already, and I ask him what is the trouble that thus drives him to drink. He sighs and asks if I really want to know, and I in fact do not, but I say "Sure" so as not to rouse his old roughing-up instincts, and he relates to me the story which follows.

Owing to the climate in New York getting a little too hot for my comfort (says Buddy the Brick), which is I hear the result of global warming, some five years ago I come out here to Vegas to work for the Norritz Brothers, who as you must have heard own three big casinos in this burg. I do OK for them, because they put me in the line of warning off wise guys who upset the sucker clientele by winning more than losing. I have always given fair value for the money I am paid, and the clucks whom I warn off stay warned off, but good. Do you notice that use of "whom?" It is very classy and was taught to me by my doll Gladys, who used to teach English before she became a pole dancer and who is still very good at both.

Anyways, earlier this evening in the Starlite Bonanza on Fremont, this rube who turned out to be from Oregon attracted the attention of Willy Ottsmacher, in Management, and Willy calls me into his private office, which is so full of screens it looks like the launch control in Cape Canaveral way back in the day when we are little kids and watch the space shots on TV. "Buddy," he says, crooking a finger at me, "come check out the action on monitor number seven."

Monitor number seven is a live video feed of a poker game, and the camera has been swiveled and zoomed in on one particular player. I see it is the lone table in the casino where guys can enjoy a game of plain draw or stud poker. They are old-fashioned games, and it is exceedingly difficult to find one in a Vegas casino, where Hold 'Em and to a lesser extent Omaha rule, but the Norritz Brothers keep one such table in every one of their joints, and I must say these tables are seldom if ever occupied by fewer than six players, for many poker aficionados are very nostalgic guys.

Anyway, this guy the camera focuses on is about fifty, with a great big red nose, and he is in black-rimmed glasses, a black suit, and a red string tie. When I first look, he has just won a pot. He rakes the chips in and does not smile or even look interested. When the next deal comes, I see this is a game of simple old-timey five-card draw. The guy antes up, holds his cards right up against his chest, and starts the betting and one by one, several players after him fold. Finally it is just him against three other suckers. When it is time to draw cards, he asks for four but does not bother to pick them up at first, leaving them lying face-down on the green baize. Two more of the players draw two cards each, and then they fold in the next round of betting. The other remaining guy I recognize as a rich Texan who comes to the casino about six times a year. He does not take a card at all, but stands pat on the hand he has been dealt.

"Watch close," Willy tells me. I lean up with my nose an inch from the screen, and I see the guy who worries Willy pick up his four new cards and tuck them into his hand, legit, and take one quick private peek, legit. He bets three hundred. The Texan raises this by a thousand, and the first guy then calls. The pot is up to right around five large. The Texan smiles and spreads out a full house, queens over deuces, and reaches for the pot. But the fellow in the red string tie says "Ah-ah," and lays down his hand, four jacks and an Ace of Hearts.

"Does he cheat, or does he cheat?" Willy asks, and I suspect he wants me to tell him the guy cheats, but I cannot.

"Boss," I reply honestly, "though nobody can trust his eyes one thousand per cent, I would be willing to swear on a waist-high stack of racing forms that this guy does not cheat."

"Either he has a jack and draws three more and the ace, or he has the ace and draws four jacks," Willy says. "Either way, this is against the natural law of nature."

"Stacked deck?" I guess.

But Willy shakes his head. "The deck in this game cannot be stacked. Each round is from a fresh new deck which I see unwrapped at the table. Marcie, the dealer, is the most honest doll on the Strip, as is well known, on account of her being so homely that she is incorruptible, and besides the close-up videos show the deck, the cut, the shuffle, and the deal are all straight. I agree with you, the guy in no way switches or gimmicks the cards, for I watch him play three rounds so hard my eyes bleed, and he gives no sign of funny business. But even so, I do not want this lucky customer disturbing the other patrons. Please give him my best regards and wish him from me a bon voyage to wherever he may be bound."

Which means getting out the knuckle dusters, so I do, and Willy bids me adieu.

I haunt the game for a while and at first I think I am seeing double, because another kibitzer not far away over at a roulette table is an amazing facsimile of the guy in the black suit. They both wear glasses, both have big red noses, and both are about the same age, height, coloring, and weight, except the other guy looks more like an undercover cop, maybe, in a gray suit and purple necktie. But except for the clothes, they are like mirror images like you might see in a mirror. Then I notice the kibitzer has six fingers on each hand, like Jimmy the Dip in our old neighborhood, who you might recall is so unsuccessful in the pickpocketing line that his monicker gets to be Jimmy in the Jug. I remember from seeing him on the monitor that the poker player has the normal number of digits, which is what most people happen to have, which is five to a hand, so there is some difference after all.

Anyways, I sidle up to this second guy and check him out. Aside from his plus-size mitts, he is sure enough a dead ringer for the guy at the table, and right away I figure they must be running some angle. So after a while, I remark to him in a casual tone, "You look familiar, friend. I see your face somewhere else lately, but the clothes are different. Do you happen to have a brother in this establishment?"

He glances around and says, "Hello. Why, yes, I do have a twin brother. He is playing games of chance somewhere in here, but I prefer just to observe. Are you planning to bet on this roulette wheel?"

"I do not know," I say. "Frankly, the odds of winning anything, even in an absolutely on-the-level casino such as this one, are not so very much in favor of the players."

"This wheel is not properly balanced," the guy says as if he has not heard me. "If you want to bet, you can slightly improve your odds by betting on black four, red nineteen, black fifteen, or red thirty-two."

Well, we stand and watch the play for a while, and in the next six spins, red thirty-two comes up first, and then on the sixth spin, black four. Two out of six is more than somewhat unusual, so I thank him for his advice and learn his name is Stanford, and he is originally from Jersey, which I do not hold against him because I can tell just from talking to him he is only a square, but even so, he is a right guy and not at all inclined to gamble, even when he has some sweet angle like the unbalanced wheel to tempt him.

So I ankle over and watch the poker game. The guy's twin is just getting up from the table, and I can tell from his chips he is richer than when he sat down by about sixteen gees, not really all that much when you consider the ebb and flow of fortune—that is a phrase I learn from my doll Gladys, who reads Shakespeare and Anne Rice and all the other classic writers. Anyway, when you consider the sheer amount of moolah that changes pockets and hands in a joint like this one, why, sixteen grand is very small potatoes indeed.

But I tag after the twin. He cashes out and arranges to have most of his payout direct-deposited into an account. I see him tip the cashier a hundred-dollar chip, and I know he is most probably a right guy, too. Then he pockets maybe five hundred in fresh cabbage and wanders a little until he finds his brother and they both walk into the bar and sit down at a table and order drinks, and I mosey up and say, "Why, Stanford, here you are again. May I join you gentlemen at your table?"

And they say sure, and Stanford introduces me to his twin, who is named Stanley, but he tells me he is sorry that he has forgotten my name, which is understandable since I have not mentioned my name to him, so I tell them to call me Buddy, which is pretty close to the truth. Soon I find out they are leaving town on a plane to Portland at eleven, which at that time is about four hours away, and I learn they are no longer Jerseyites but live in some hick town in the middle of Oregon. Since they are homeward bound anyway, I figure I will not have to impose any wear and tear on the brass knucks after all, which is very OK by me, since the two guys are friendly and without guile and also they buy me a drink.

As they nibble their own beverages, a gin-and-tonic for Stanford and an old-fashioned for Stanley, which by the way they nurse along and have only one of each, we get to talking, and I ask if they're planning on doing any more gambling in the couple hours they have left, and Stanley laughs and says, "My brother never bets a dime, the tightwad! And I got my gambling urge out of my system for a while. Nah, I'm gonna go back home to be with my winnings."

"So you do well at the tables?" I ask, all innocent-like.

"You saw me rake in sixteen thousand, four hundred and thirty-five bucks just now," Stanley says with a big grin, surprising me, because he has not given the merest trace of the faintest sign of knowing I am standing behind him as he plays, keeping an eagle eye on him.

I express my surprise at his powers of observation, and he shrugs. "One of the secrets of successful gambling is to be aware of everything, all the time," he says.

I pretend to be a potential high roller and ask, "Are there any other secrets of the trade to which you might enlighten me?"

Stanford says, "Now, Stanley," but the other one waves him off.

"Look," he says, "unless I am badly mistaken, you are muscle for the casino. I will tell you up front, I do not cheat. I just play the odds and I have runs of good luck. And I have card sense and know how to handle a deck."

With a smile, I admit, "Very few people have ever made me as an encourager of customers who for their health urgently need to return home post-haste. You are astute, and I am impressed."

Stanley laughs. "Me and my brother do not blame you for having that sort of a vocation! Everybody's gotta make a living, am I right? Hey, you want to see some fancy card handling?"

"Stanley, don't bore our guest," Stanford says.

"I am far from bored," I tell him. "I am intrigued. But let us stipulate that anything you show me will be with a cold fresh deck and not with one of the many trick decks which you can purchase for purposes of harmless amusement in the better magic shops all across this great country of ours."

"Let's do it," Stanley says.

So I flag down the waitress doll, whose name it says on the tag over her left breast is Doris, and ask her to run out and buy us a nice fresh wrapped deck, and I give her a fifty. She is quick off the mark and in less than no time, she returns and I tell her to keep the change and she smiles so big, I have a feeling I have made a friend for life.

Then I personally unwrap the deck, take out the jokers, and cut and shuffle and reshuffle it and hand it over.

Stanley has taken off his jacket and has rolled his shirt sleeves up to the elbows. "You have a boxer's build," I say. "I did not notice that previously on account of your clothing. Are you ever in the ring?"

"Just some lessons when I was a kid," he says. "I will say that lately, I do try to keep myself in shape. But I hate fightin', and I never beat up people unless they're undead zombies or otherwise ask for it."

I laugh, even though Stanford, who has taken out a book and is reading it, does not. Stanley then performs an impressive number of card tricks—me picking a card, him guessing it in various ways, him dealing us poker hands and almost always winning, though just barely. I watch him like a hawk flying over a chicken coop filled with unusually fat and toothsome poultry, but his bare arms are not concealed, his moves are not furtive, and I would swear on the soul of my beloved Gladys that no funny business goes on.

"Honest deck, honest deals. Just luck and card sense," he says. "And good card handling."

"That is very impressive," I admit. "No doubt you do exceptionally well when you are dealing."

"Nah, I usually just about break even on my own deals," Stanley says. He gets a gleam in his eye. "Would you like to make a little bar bet that I can't do a card trick?"

"Maybe," I say. "What is the trick?"

"Name a suit of cards," he says.

"Diamonds," I say.

"Name one of the face cards."

"The Jack of Diamonds."

"Very well," says Stanley, returning the deck to me. "Will you bet me fifty dollars that I cannot let you inspect the deck all over again to make sure it is straight and unmarked, then shuffle it as much as you want, and then without my even touching the cards, I can make the Jack of Diamonds rise up out of the deck while you are holding it in your own hand?"

"I now and then see David Copperfield do something similar to that," I say, "when he comes to perform in the theater here, so no, I would not care to bet you fifty dollars on that proposition."

"Shall we sweeten the pot?" Stanley asks with a grin. "Would you bet me all the money you happen to have in your wallet that I cannot only make the Jack of Diamonds rise up out of the deck while you hold it in your own hand, but also make him take a whiz in your left ear?"

"Stanley," says Stanford.

"Let the man make up his mind, Poindexter," Stanley says.

Now, I think of what scratch I have in my wallet, which amounts to maybe three hundred smackers in all, and I remind myself that Stanley has just won pretty big and knows I am in the encouragement business, and I think to myself, this is his way of giving me a friendly monetary tip so that I do not hassle him any further, and even though I have decided there is no percentage in hassling him further, three Ben Franklins is still three of a kind, and in my book it is always wise to bet on three of a kind, so I say, "You are on."

Buddy the Brick tells me this much of the story, and then he sighs and stares down into his empty glass. "Look," he says, very quiet, "you and me know each other from way back. Would you object to lending me fifty? You can find me in the Starlite any day from noon until eight P.M., and you know I am good for it. Only I owe for my drink and I would also like some walking-around money so at midnight I can go home without completely empty pockets to Gladys when she gets off work."

"You are without funds?" I ask, surprised, for in truth I myself would have bet against Stanley based on what I have heard. He cups his hand behind his ear and I repeat the question, louder.

"I am flatter," he informs me, "than any flounder you care to name."

"But surely this Stanley character of whom you speak cannot have won such a bonkers wager," I say to him in disbelief.

He just shakes his head sadly and opens his wallet to display the fresh air contained therein.

I take out my roll and peel off three twenties, because you never know when doing a favor for a guy such as Buddy the Brick may pay off in the long run, and I slide the dough across to him. I say, "Pay me back any time."

He nods his thanks and then blinks his eyes at me. "What did you just say? I hate to make you repeat it, but it is very difficult to hear what people are saying when your good ear is full of piss."

The End