The Card Player

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Harry Potter, or any of the characters mentioned herein.

There I was, sitting in the casino's snack bar, nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee. The big game was still going on. It was probably the richest No Limit Hold 'Em game in a decade. Lots of well-heeled fish; some sort of business convention or something. Whatever. Earlier that day, I had a bank of over a hundred grand, and visions of lots more. You don't often see a poker game that rich, that loose, that filled with absolute fish just itching to shove stacks of grey chips to the center at the drop of a deuce.

I had no part of it anymore. The cards ran so bad, I can't recall the last time. Start with AK of hearts in the cut-off, three bet by the time it comes around to me. Shove in another $2000 raise, get four cold callers. Sweet. Then here comes the flop: black card, black card, black card - not an ace or king in sight, and your nut flush possibilities have just swirled right down the drain. Bet, and there is no call. And so it went: go in good, flop trash.

That last hand: started with ace and five of diamonds on the button. Reraised another $5000, get the raise called. Dealer flops Q-diamond, 10-diamond, 3-diamond. Hot damn! Nut flush on the flop! I'm hoping that that queen-ten made a straight draw or two pair. That way, I can get this sucker paid off. If I ever saw anyone who looked ready to call a monster bet, he was sitting right there across the table. So I shoved my whole stack to the center, announcing: "All in". Well, Mr. CEO calls like a shot, and since it's just the two of us, I flip my hand face up. Nut flush. Mr. CEO groans, and shows a queen of clubs, and a trey of spades. Top and bottom two pair: that's a good hand, but certainly nothing to write home about. All we can do is wait as the dealer burns and turns. Some irrelevant card that does neither of us any good. Burn, turn, and here comes a mother &#% trey of hearts. Mr. CEO rivered a full. Four outs, that's all he had: one of the two remaining queens or treys, and he calls that all-in shove with a hand he had no business being in there in a raised pot before the flop. But that's the nature of the game, best hand wins and there is no extra credit for playing smart. The money goes to the best hand. Period. End of story.

That's how I came to be sitting here, nursing a cup of lukewarm, lousy coffee. Last $25.00 to my name sitting in my wallet. I figured I'd order a burger, and invest the rest in rolls of nickles for the slots.

A hand holding an envelope comes into my line of sight. I can see printed in blue ball point is a single word: FREE. I am in no mood to be dealing with some good time Charlie with yet another scam to sell. There is certainly no lack of this type here in Vegas. They're everywhere: on nearly every street corner along the Strip, accosting naive tourists with their latest hot-shot super system guaranteed to make you a millionaire overnight. There must be enough pigeons who fall for this nonsense, since they've been in business ever since I arrived in this town. I push the hand away, not even bothering to see to whom it belonged. No sooner have I done this, than the hand and envelope return. This time, I'm gonna give this good time Charlie a good piece of my mind.

I look up, but the good time Charlie isn't a Charlie at all. The hand holding the envelope is attached to a very pretty, very young girl with a pleasant smile, oval face, with brownish-blond hair spilling over her shoulders. She's wearing a white button down shirt with a dark maroon tie with golden stripes loosely knotted around the collar. Over this, a dark blue vest. Light pink lipstick, small diamond stud earrings. Did I mention young? Yeah, we're talking jail bait to the N-th degree. Hell, I'm old enough to be her father. Scratch that, I probably have a decade on her father. Wondering what this is all about, I finally take the envelope. Now I see she has two more envelopes, but she quickly hid these before I could see.

I turn the envelope over, and slit open the flap. Inside there is a single page, which I unfold. Nothing on it but three names: "Wind Song", "Pelorus Jack", and "Dream Weaver". I look up, and she immediately answers my question before I asked it.

"That's your... Three. Horse. Parley", she says in a deliberately over dramatic sort of way. I also notice the British accent. Before I can ask, she tells me: "Your race at Belmont starts in ten minutes, you better get going".

Oh well, what the hell. The burgers are always underdone and served cold anyway, and Lady Luck can find me in the race book as easily as she can find me at the slot carousel.

I arrive at the window just in time. I see that Wind Song is going off at 30 : 1 - a definite long shot. As I look up at the plasma screen, I see that the weather is gray and cloudy, the track muddy and slow. The horses are being led into the starting gate. No sooner are they off than a hellacious storm breaks. Grey sheets of water make it impossible to even see the back stretch. First out of the gray muck is Wind Song. The announcer proclaims Wind Song the winner by three lengths. Sweet. I go to the window to collect my $750, and I notice the same good looking girl I saw in the snack bar.

"I gotta admit: you sure know how to pick 'em"

"Excuse me", she says in that British accent, "do I know you?"

"I dunnow, I guess it was some other crazy British chick..."

"Oh, I see", she answered, "I must've been right all along".

I have no time to wonder about that, as the final race at the matinee at Churchill Downs is about to start. I figure I might hold back a hundred, but I've never been one to back off a parley. As soon as I bet $750 to win on Pelorus Jack, one regular tells me: "Are you nuts? Betting that much on a nag that should have been on his way to the glue factory".

"Terrific!", I think. Maybe I should have gone back on that parley. Oh well, nothing to do but watch the fiasco unfold. Regardless, Pelorus Jack ran a credible race - certainly better than a nag that should be sent to a glue factory - but not quite good enough. He lost by a nose. As I'm thinking of tracking down that girl, I notice that the board is flashing "Decision". I wait. Then it happens: "Disqualification" next appears, and the win is credited to Pelorus Jack. The glue factory nag pays 10 : 1. I turn $750 into $7500.

Next race is going off at Santa Anita. This time Dream Weaver doesn't do so good, paying off at 5 : 1. Still, that makes a total of $37,500 in under an hour. Who can complain?

I return to the snack bar, and that same British girl is waiting. She hands over the second envelope. This time, $5000 is hand printed on the back.

"What's this?", I ask.

"Considering you just made 30 grand, a very small price to pay, I'd say"

No arguing with that as I counted off fifty C-notes. She handed over the envelope, and inside was one of those score cards from the Baccarat tables. It's one of those gimmicks the casinos use to part the suckers from their dollars. Like those electronic tote boards at the Roulette tables that display the last dozen or so results. You know, to encourage all the pigeons who "think" they have a system to beat the tables. Now, you can beat Chemin de Fer because the house has no stake in the outcome of that game, and you could have beaten the "Natural Eight" and "Natural Nine" proposition bets at Baccarat. Never heard of those? I'm not surprised as they disappeared as soon as the casinos realized they could be beat.

This card was different as it was already filled out: Player wins in blue, and Bank wins in red, these dual color pens thoughtfully also supplied by the house. Right in the middle was encircled a long string of bank wins. I looked up, but before I could ask:

"C'mon", she says, "we need to hurry". She led me to the high stakes section, and to the fancy alcove where the Baccarat tables were located. "See that guy in the blue suit with the purple tie? When the shoe passes to him, that is what he will deal. Get in and don't miss it. I would've preferred a run of 'Players' since you have to pay that five percent vig on bankside wins. It's how the house stays ahead of the customers at this game".

The shoe just passed to the player ahead of him, so I didn't waste any time buying in.

"This is a hundred minimum table", the dealer says. I suppose he would, as I don't exactly look like I fit in with this crowd. Not gonna be confused for James Bond, that's for sure.

"I know that", as I slide over ten grand in C-notes. "Just give me yellows", I say. The yellow chips are worth a grand a piece.

"Player wins", the dealer announces, and the shoe passes to Blue Suit. He deals out the hands, one for himself, and another to the dealer who passes the cards to the player with the biggest bet riding on "Player". He turns over a five and a three. Oh swell! This is getting off to a good start: natural eight for the Players. Blue Suit turns over a pair of kings. In Baccarat, that's worth zero, zip, nada - pure garbage. Blue Suit pulls out a nine of spades. "Banker wins: nine to eight", and the dealer places another yellow chip next to the one I have riding on "Banker". I let it ride. Banker wins again, and I have four grand riding on the next deal. Another Bank then another, and I'm at the ten grand limit for this table. I collect 40 grand on the next deals, and now a tie is coming up. This pays 8 : 1, so I put up a grand. I get it, and another eight grand. Hit two running ties, and a total of fourteen banks. A helluva run. A run of a lifetime. A hitting the lottery kind of luck. About half way through, I look up and see this same girl standing at the rail, apparently writing something. She doesn't seem to recognize me as I give a slight wave.

I catch up with the British girl at the snack bar: "A good enough handicapper could have picked that three horse parley. A lot of girls like horses, and all it would take is to follow race results in the racing forms, even in far away Britain. You could identify a horse that runs his best on muddy tracks, and in foul weather, determine when an otherwise unremarkable horse is especially ready to run a spectacular race, but no one - NO ONE - can handicap Baccarat. It's an unbeatable game, and the odds are always against you. It's impossible..."

"Impossible for muggles", she says.

"Muggles?"

She took my hand and led me to a booth far removed from other people. "I guess it's time for an introduction", she says in a low voice. "My name is Hermione Granger. 'Muggles' is the name we use for the general public, you know, the people who aren't like us. The ones with no aptitude for magic". So far, I have no idea as to what in the hell she's saying.

She pulled out a necklace she'd been hiding under her shirt. It looked like a golden disk with a tiny hour glass on a pivot mounted in the center. It had enough sand to last maybe a minute, no more.

"This is a 'time turner'..."

"A time machine?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes: that's what it is. I knew the outcome of the horse races, and that Baccarat game. I noticed you in the restaurant, and figured you looked like a smart guy I could do business with. So I sent myself back in time to meet you. I deal with older men who look like they have something on the ball, and who don't seem to have problems keeping their mouths shut".

"What's this all about?"

"This is how I'm making the tuition for Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Believe me, it isn't exactly cheap, and though my family is far from poor, they can't spare the entire expense of my education".

"But why here?"

"Las Vegas is far enough away so that the Ministry of Magic won't hear about this. I can't play myself because I'm seventeen. That's why I need you, and I figure we can do each other some good here. Especially since you lost your ass in that poker game. Yeah, I saw that too, and that was why I picked you in the first place".

"If you have a time machine, why not use it to correct history's mistakes? Stop the assassination of President Kennedy..."

"It doesn't work like that. I can go back to the very instant the time turner was first created, but that's it. No going back to play with the dinosaurs or stopping Oswald. Even if it were possible, the Ministry would never allow it. I'm not even supposed to be talking to you, and I could be expelled from Hogwart's for this, or possibly wind up in Azkaban. We are not supposed to allow muggles to even know we exist. However, what the Minister and Dumbledore don't know can't hurt me. This is why I need to count on your discretion".

"Don't worry about that. Who would I tell without looking like a flaming lunatic?" I had no idea who or what she was talking about, though I did gather that this Dumbledore she mentioned must've been the one running this school she was attending. I didn't bother to ask, and I doubt she'd've told me anyway.

Hermione slipped over the final envelope, this one with a price of $40,000. After winning over $133,000 at Baccarat, I could afford it. So I counted off a thick stack of C-notes and handed them over. This time, the paper inside was obviously the results of a Crap game. Hermione led me to the Craps pits, and pointed out a table.

"See that fat old slob? That's his hand".

This is one of the reasons I hate this game. You can't sit down, and it is filled with some of the stupidest players. I see these idiots spreading chips all over the lay out. Numbers, Hardways, Horn Bets, Crap-Eleven propositions - every bad, high percentage bet and not a one they didn't like. I've seen some of them win huge, but I have yet to see one of them walk away who wasn't broke. That, and guys like this. Ass half hanging out of his pants. You may have been an Adonis, but that was forty years ago, and no one wants to see your ass today. Those cubes are blind, deaf, and dumb, no matter how loudly you yell at them, they don't care.

Anyway, I buy in, drop a thou on the Pass Line, and Mr, Droopy Drawers rolls a seven. Next, rolls a four, and I take all the odds the house will give me. Four more passes, then an eleven is next. So I take that horrible proposition, and sure enough, it hits. Since this is the final pass of his hand, I bet the house max on "Don't Pass". Another seventy grand to the good.

I went back to the snack bar, but this time Hermione wasn't there. I didn't see her anywhere else in the casino.

No, never got a chance to say "Thanks".