Chapter 7

As much as they were enjoying Vegas, as the trip neared its end, doing the same thing every day was starting to get old. House was trying to talk Wilson into increasing their gambling budget for their last night, but so far all he'd said was "We'll see." They weren't seeing a show their last night there—they had skipped the casino in the afternoon and were going to head there after dinner. In the middle of their meal at a prestigious restaurant known for the best wine selection in the city, Wilson got a phone call. House fell silent in the middle of his sentence and stared at his best friend as the now-familiar tone and buzzing emitted from his pocket.

Wilson smiled. "Excuse me a sec," he said to House, but answered his phone without getting up from the table. "Hello?"

House tried to listen to the other half of the conversation, but he couldn't even tell if the voice on the other side was male or female, let alone what they were saying.

"Yes..." Wilson was saying. "...And...? No. No, that's perfect actually." His smile was growing. "I don't even need to think about it, go ahead and tell them yes. You still have the fax number I gave you? Yes, I'll get it back to you tomorrow. Thank you so much." He hung up and beamed at House.

"What?" House said. "San Francisco?"

"No, that was from Princeton," Wilson said, putting his phone away. "All right, House, we can increase our budget for tonight. I just sold my condo."

House knew he should feel happy about the news—if Wilson had died before the condo had sold, it would have gone to Wilson's parents. Or the bank. But this way, a considerable amount of money was added to Wilson's bank account, which House would take control of after Wilson died. So yes, it was good news, but it was good news completely unrelated to Wilson's plans back on the west coast. True, Wilson had said it would be two weeks before he found anything else, and they were still four days away from that two-week mark, but he'd gotten his hopes up anyway.

Wilson knew what House was thinking, and reached across the table to squeeze his hand. "Soon, House. Tomorrow's Thursday, and she said she'd call me on Sunday. And as soon as I hear from her—no matter what she says—I promise I'll tell you everything. But for tonight, let's just forget about all that. I just sold my house, and you've been begging me all week to let us play for higher stakes. So we'll go out with a bang tonight, head back out tomorrow, and then hang out until we hear from her. But there's no reason be concerned about it before then."

House nodded, but the fact remained that he was concerned. Wilson may have let them splurge on the food, the hotel, and the shows, but he'd been stingy with the gambling budget, and House hadn't been able to figure out just why. But if Wilson really was getting treatment for his cancer, he would probably need to pay for it. And even if it was covered by his insurance or some other means, Wilson extending his life would be a very good reason to want to save money.

Except that Wilson had explicitly said that whatever plans he had in San Francisco had nothing to do with his cancer. Had he been lying? If not, then what was he planning? What was he planning that required saving money?

Fortunately, whatever Wilson had gotten from the condo was enough to loosen his purse strings, and when they got to the casino, Wilson purchased each of them $5,000 in chips. And they had fun with them. They played the slots, blackjack, craps, roulette, and finished off the night with Texas Hold'em.

By the time they were ready to go to the poker room, House had just under $800 left and Wilson had just over $2,000. House had won more than Wilson, but he'd also betted more aggressively and lost more. On impulse, they chose a no-limit table. House talked Wilson into it, but he didn't need too much convincing. It was their last night after all, and Wilson had just sold $300,000 or so worth of condo. Even if they walked away with nothing, as they'd done a few times already, it wouldn't be too much of a loss, and House considered the fun worth the price. However, as they neared the last few hands (they'd agreed to stop at midnight), it was looking like they might not be walking away with nothing after all. By their last hand, House had won enough to put him over $1,300, and Wilson had almost $6,000. And it wasn't even that Wilson was taking big risks like House was—he was getting lucky. After the last flop, two people at their table of seven folded, and House decided to go all in. It was a risk—he was going for a straight but needed a ten and either an eight or a king to give him one, and that wasn't likely. Wilson and three others called his $950—other players were considering retiring soon too, and everyone was having fun—leaving five players left.

The dealer dealt out a six, turning House's potentially promising hand into a shitty one. The first player raised a $1,000, the second $1,200. Wilson surprised House by raising $1,500. It was the most he'd bet on a single hand all night. Was his hand really that good? House studied the cards on the table. A four, a six, an ace, and a queen, in every suit except hearts. If Wilson had a five and a three or a five and a seven, the six just dealt would help, but no guarantees. Maybe he had two sixes, or even a six and one of the others and was going for a two-pair. House studied his face; he looked calm, comfortable, and confident. He had reason to be—it had been a lucky night for him so far.

The last player folded, and the first two called Wilson's $1,500, bringing the pot to just over $12,000. The dealer dealt the last card: the eight of hearts. The first guy folded; the second one studied his cards for a second before raising $2,000. He was an older guy, maybe in his late sixties, and he'd been making high bets all night, and winning a few, too. House had creatively christened him "Guy Number 2," and had been able to read him pretty well after the first few hands, and thought he must have a decent one now. He was calm and dignified, and his pattern had been to either fold early or stick it out the whole way. Wilson had been doing the same thing. He now put in six purple chips—$3,000.

House raised his eyebrows, impressed, and tried to catch his best friend's eye, but Wilson wouldn't look at him. The ace and the queen didn't matter too much, but the four, six, and eight might. If Wilson had a five and a seven, that would give him a straight, which was the highest hand he could possibly get. Two aces would give him the highest possible three of a kind, but what if the Guy Number 2 had a five and a seven? Was Wilson willing to take that risk? He'd bet almost all his money now, more than he'd started out with this evening.

All eyes went to the other Guy Number 2 again, who was staring determinedly at his cards. Was he willing to dish out the extra grand and risk losing it? House thought he looked less confident than he had a moment ago—he clearly hadn't expected Wilson to raise the stakes that high. He probably hadn't expected him to raise them at all. Wilson usually kept his bets under a $1,000, even if he had a really good hand. House had been calculating in his head, and Guy Number 2 had already put almost $5,000 in this hand. If he called or raised and Wilson won, that would be almost a $6,000 loss.

After what felt like an eternity, the man laid his cards down on the table and whispered, "Fold." House's heart jumped in his chest. Wilson won by default. Even though House was still technically playing, the most he could get was $2,700. The value of the pot was over $17,000. And it was theirs.

"All right, let's see, then," said one of the guys who'd folded earlier and had been watching intently since.

"Yeah, Wilson, what do you have there that's made you take the biggest risks you've been taking since we got here?" House added.

Wilson smiled and showed his cards, smiling widely. A two and a seven. Aka, nothing.

"Are you serious?!" exploded Guy Number 2, who'd just lost nearly $5,000. "You were bluffing? You asshole, I had two pair, I would've beaten you!"

House started laughing. He'd even beaten Wilson—his highest card was a jack while Wilson's was a seven. The rest of the players showed their cards, and Wilson turned out to have had the worst hand of the table.

"I believe this is yours," Wilson said warmly, handing House five purple chips and two black ones, taking the other nearly $15,000 dollars for himself. Guy Number 2, the only one who'd stayed in the game the longest besides House and Wilson, seemed a little irked, but the rest of the table was impressed with Wilson's daring, House especially. He'd just single-handedly won back all they'd lost in gambling on this trip, and then some.

"Want to play again?" one of the younger guys at the table asked House and Wilson eagerly.

Wilson smiled and shook his head.

"We're not going for another seventeen grand?" House asked mock-disappointedly, and Wilson laughed.

"No, I think it's time to cut our losses," he said. "It's been fun playing, good luck to all of you." He tipped the dealer and shook Guy Number 2's hand, and then he and House headed out of the poker room to cash in their chips.

House watched the countryside roll by, the wind whipping his hair as he and his best friend headed back to their temporary home of San Francisco. He and Wilson were still basking in the glow of their win last night. It hadn't been enough to cover the bill for their super-fancy hotel room, but there was enough left over after making up for their gambling losses to also cover a few nights' worth of food and entertainment. They were more on top than they would have thought, especially with Wilson's condo finally selling, and in a good mood.

"So what are we doing when we get back to the city by the bay?" House asked. He was still counting down the days until Sunday (3) in his head, the day Wilson promised to tell him what his plans were. He didn't expect to find out before then, but maybe their plans for the meantime might give him a hint.

Wilson shrugged. "Just hang out, I guess. We can make a day trip or two, if you want. But now that the place in Princeton sold, I think we should look for something more permanent than a hotel room. If the news we get on Sunday is good, I plan on living my life out in the San Francisco area."

House wondered what would constitute good news, but knew better than to ask. "Why did you pick San Francisco then?" He said instead. "You chose one of the most expensive markets in the country and you want to move there?"

"I know, which is why we won't choose something in San Francisco proper. We'll do some house-hunting. It is a relief to finally have the condo sold, though," he smiled. "That helped my budget more than a little bit."

Instead of staying in a hotel when they got back, Wilson took them to a furnished temporary apartment that he had found while they'd been in Vegas. It was small for the two of them—one bedroom—but comfortable. Even knowing it was just temporary, it felt good to be living in an actual home rather than a hotel after being on the road for a month and a half. Wilson seemed to let his guard down a little, but he still spent a lot of time on his laptop. On Sunday morning, House wandered into the kitchen to see Wilson sitting at the round four-seater table. The laptop was open, and Wilson was taking notes on a legal pad.

House stepped quietly over the linoleum and stood behind Wilson, peering over his shoulder. Wilson knew he was there—his cane made enough noise on the floor, and the only other sound in the apartment was the morning birds outside the window—but for once he didn't slam his computer shut and change the subject. Instead, he looked over his shoulder and smiled at House.

"Take a seat," he said, pulling out the chair next to him. House moved over and glanced at the screen to see a real estate Web site. "I'm looking in the suburbs of Oakland, if we buy outside the city we can get much more space for a decent price."

A quick look at Wilson's legal pad showed a list of towns, neighborhoods, addresses, and names of what House guessed were real estate agents. He then turned to Wilson. "Did you say 'buy'? You're looking to buy a place?"

"Yeah," Wilson nodded. "But I want you to have a lot of say in it—you're going to be living there longer than I will."

"I don't need you to buy me a house," House said. "What if I don't want to stay in California after you die?" House wasn't even sure he'd want to be staying anywhere. But if he did decide to live, he'd need money, which he wouldn't have if Wilson spent it all on a house they didn't need.

"What's wrong with California?" Wilson asked. "The weather's nice, the population's big—it's not like you'll be in a small town where someone from your past might recognize you. And it's on the opposite side of the country from Princeton. This is where I want to live out the rest of my life, and if you really want to move again down the line, you can sell the place then."

"It would be easier to just rent for the rest of your life," House said. "So if I do decide I want to move, I won't have to deal with the hassle of selling anything."

"Which is why I want you to be a major part of this decision," Wilson concluded. "Now sit down, take a look. What's important to you in a home? I've already added a nice tub to the list, and I'm trying to narrow it down to one story so you don't have to worry about stairs..."

House opened his mouth to argue again, but before he could respond, another thought occurred to him. Maybe Wilson was looking for a more permanent home because things were going to be more permanent, for both of them. Everything seemed to be riding on this phone call that was supposed to be happening today. Wilson had said that it wasn't about his cancer, but he could have been lying. The phone call could be about some sort of treatment he might be getting to extend his life. Maybe he was trying to give himself more than the short three-and-a-half months that his prognosis declared for him. Could he have been taking any sort of medications recently without House noticing? He certainly hadn't been doing any chemo, but House concluded it was possible for him to be taking some sort of pills while House was asleep. But if he was taking medication, what was he taking, and why? Or was whatever treatment or surgery he'd planned waiting on this call?

Once when Wilson was asleep, House had stolen his phone and gone through it. There had been a few recent calls to Bonnie, his ex-wife, who'd apparently been handling the condo sale, and a few other calls to someone listed in the phone as Rebecca. There wasn't a last name or a company to go with it, and House hadn't called, but he'd put the phone number into White pages. It was just listed as a landline in Berkeley. House had no idea who Rebecca from Berkeley was, but it seemed that Wilson's fate—and indirectly, his own—lay in her hands.

House played along with Wilson's house-hunt for about an hour, when they agreed to get brunch. They drove to a little cafe a few blocks from their temporary apartment where House ordered a Southwestern skillet and Wilson a salad. Wilson did most of the talking, and kept it to the homes they were looking at.

"I really need to find a good real estate agent, it's too bad we don't know anyone around here," he was saying as he sipped his iced tea. "And I wish I knew more about which neighborhoods are nice and which aren't—that's the problem with moving to a completely new place, you know nothing about where you're living. But it is looking like they have homes available in our price range, which is a huge rel—"

Wilson cut himself off in the middle of the sentence, and House immediately knew why. Emitting from his jeans pocket was a repeating chime and a buzz that somehow cut through the noise of the crowded restaurant. House and Wilson stared solemnly at each other as Wilson lifted the phone and put it to his ear.

"Hello?