I like playing cards. Some games are fun for shits and giggles; twenty-
one, pai-gow, Spanish, but those games rely on playing the odds, knowing
the rules, and hoping for the best. Poker is where the real action is at.
The game actually takes three things that I pride myself on having an
abundance of: skill, luck, and moxie. It's been a couple monthes since I'd
sat down and took a group of suckers for all they had. I'd lurk around at
Kenji's, preying on marks such as wide eyed tourists and lowlevel con men.
So when Lobo told me that one of Makar's top lieutenants frequented a card
hall, needless to say, I was amped. Styx and I were back in his pos Idaho,
now speeding out of the Mission District..
"His name is Nikita Kiniski. Ruthless, cunning, and fat." Lobo had showed me a newspaper clipping of a big dude walking down the steps of a courthouse, surrounded by the press. "One of Makar's top men. He has been charged more times than he can count, but never aquitted. Much of that has to do with that man." Standing next to Kiniski and shielding the man from a throng of reporters in the clipping was a tall, spiderly looking guy with beady bespecticled eyes. "His name is Lawson Graves III" Lobo continued, "one of San Andreas most successful criminal lawyers. He could've aquitted O.J. in a month and a half, tops. Eliminating these men are the keys to cracking Makar's crime syndicate." We got got onto the highway and I asked Styx where the closest Amuunation was. If we were going to walk into the lion's den, we'd have to be loaded for bear.
Stepping into San Andreas' Ammunation was like coming home of some sorts. There's just something about a gun shop that does something to me. All those firearms, all those means of destruction. Almost gives me a hardon. Lobo had given us a per diem of a couple gees, peeling off benjamins from a mammouth wad of green from his desk. Styx and I walked over to the handgun case. A man with a severe hairlip was standing behind the counter, hunched over a skin magazine. I placed a few bills on top of a set of brozed tittes and he looked up. He told us permit would not be necessary and the waiting period sure as hell could be waived.
We left the store carrying enough steel and plastic to outfit a small army. Styx bought a pair of .38s and a pump action shotgun, and I had a several glocks and a nice looking Desert Eagle 50 magnum pistol, along with a few holsters each. Styx suggested we bring along a couple of kevlar vests and I agreed; my pops was fond of saying that a man could never be too prepared. He was a military man and always thought that whatever could go wrong, will go wrong. He lived to the ripe old age of 34, dying in the field, so I guess he was right after all. The spot was about ten minutes away, and I decided to ask a little bit about my new longhaired partner.
"So you were a boxer." I said, not really a question. Styx was puffing on a jay, and coughed out some smoke.
"Yeah, fought welterweight. Forty-three wins, two losses, thirty-six by way of knockout. I boxed primarily out of Seattle. That's where I'm from." Styx offered me the roach, but i shook my head.
"Where you hail from, Vegas?"
"Not Seattle."
"Hmmph. Probably Nevada. Yeah, I was thinking about goin pro, but I hadda couple complications."
"Knock some philly up, huh."
Styx laughed.
"Shit, bro, I wouldn't let some shit like that ruin my game. Matter of fact, I'm sure theres a couple little Angelos running around as we speak. Rubbers are for pussies."
"Hah. Tell it to Magic and Wilt. So what was the deal."
Styx put a hand on his left eye and squeezed. Then the fuck pulled out his eyeball. He pinched it with his thumb and forefinger and held out a glass eye in front of me. I recoiled, and pushed his wrist back.
"What the fuck! So you lost an eye.you don't have to show me what it looks like! Christ."
"After I won my second Golden Gloves, I was in a bar getting sloshed and celebrating, pullin some fine lookin chicks, shootin the shit, y'know how it is. The guy I knocked out in the finals was there too. With a spiked set of brass knucks. Pussy sucker punched me, crushing my left retina. I thought it wouldn't matter, but I lost my next two fights. Motherfuckers sneaking some killer hooks to my blind spot. I knew my career was over, so I got out."
"Aww, poor baby."
"Fuck you, man. I was good. I could've contended."
"Yeah, I'm sure, Balboa."
"I didn't see your ass complaining when I saved it back at Jefe's."
"Hey, now we're even. Is this it up here?" We had arrived a half a block down from a large stone building.
"Yeah. Let's do this."
The photo didn't nearly do Nikita Kiniski justice. Saying he was fat was like saying that politicians were only minorly corrupt . The man was polar bear, thick fingers holding five cards and a Cuban cigar. Toby's Card Hall was a nice looking joint. The hall's front was filled with expenive looking sofas and easy chairs moving towards several tables, currently empty, on the floor and a wide bar on the side. A set of restrooms were in the back down a hallway along with doors leading to locations unknown. Almost everyone in the room was dressed much like Makar's hit squad; Giorgio Armani seemed to be a favorite. Styx got knocked out of the game early, according to plan, and now sat at the bar nursing a bottle of Budweiser. A couple more heavies sat close to him, an older gent sporting a black bow tie stood behind the bar polishing glasses. The barkeep doubled as a cashier, and was the one that traded us our chips. It was me, the fat man, and a guy in a panama hat left playing.
Styx and I walked into the card hall and got right to business. The game was five-card, one draw, hundred dollar ante. This was no nickel and dime, but it didn't bother me at all. When the pressure is high, and the heat is on, most tend to fold. That's the way I like it. Before entering, I told Styx he would be playing the part of 'the sucker'. I almost told him that he probably wouldn't have any problems playing his part to a T, but held my tongue. The jokes could wait; we had bussiness at hand.
Kiniski was a really good poker player. The strategy in the game is not to read the cards, but rather the player. From the moment I sat down, I could read these cats like a second grade book. The dude wearing the Ray-Bans twitched his right eye when his hand was shit, and the man with the handlebar mustache licked his lips excessively when his cards were good. Panama Hat was a knuckle cracker, but kept it in check for the most part, which was why he was still in the game. Some of these things are tough to spot to the untrained eye, but some got it, and others lose money. Kiniski, on the other hand, was impossible to read. The others tried to be erratic in their bluffing, snorting and guffawing, oversighing and tittering, but beneath it all, their tells were obvious. However, Kiniski's expression didn't change a single time.
The pot was a little over fourteen grand, Panama Hat putting it all on the line. He called, and flipped over his cards. Three sevens. I smiled and uncovered my straight. Then, like clockwork, Kiniski showed us his straight flush and raked in the chips. Damn. Panama Hat bowed out and stepped over to the bar.
"And then, there was two." I mused out loud. Kiniski just regarded me with a look of fascination and disgust mixed together. It was quite a look. I hadn't seen it that often.
"You're quite a player, Mr..."
"Minor. Vegas Minor. You aren't too bad yourself." I didn't mind telling these clowns who I was. It wasn't like they'd tell anybody else, other than their maker.
"Years of practice, boy, years of practice."
The game continued for a little while longer, till I decided to make my push. I rose the pot, putting it all in, my stacks of high society totaling at least thirty thousand. I liked my hand. It could've been a winner. Didn't really matter, cause I was prepared to end the charade. I made sure Styx was paying attention to me pushing my entire bankroll into the pot. He knew the drill. Kiniski called. I turned over my cards.
Three aces over a pair of jacks. Beat that, fatass.
Kiniski finally broke his straight face, and showed me his yellow teeth. Four kings and a nine. The fat lady belted out a song, and I extended my hand, but Kiniski waved it off. I pushed off from the table and showed the man my back. Man I was going to enjoy this. I reached into my jacket and pulled out a pair of plastic pistols then unloaded on the fat fuck. He was counting his winnings as the bullets sliced through his body, his face full of surprise. He cried out and flew backwards, his portly frame knocking over the table that he landed on. It was on.
The dudes sitting at the bar whipped out their sidearms and pointed them at me. Styx had my back, and blew them away, double fisted doling out fire. Panama Hat got hit in the throat as he tried to flee out the door. Blood shot out from his neck, and and collapsed in a pile by the entrance. The bartender dissapeared behind the bar; probably didn't want to become a holy bartender, which was understandable. I popped in a few new clips the pair of men standing guard outside ran into the bar, stepping over Panama Hat, gunning for me. Styx and I blasted them, as they dropped like sacks of potatoes. That's when I felt three slugs slam into my back. I hit the floor, dazed. I rolled over and looked at the celing, breathing in gasps. I heard a scuffle, and a few gunshots by the bar, then something slumping to the ground. Styx was then kneeling in front of me.
"Told you the kevlar would be a good idea." He said, pulling me up. His ratty jacket was torn in a few places "That fucker with the bow tie hit you. But I don't think he'll be mixing drinks anytime soon. Fucker cut up my jacket though. Maaaaaan, its ruined!"
"Thanks. I can't really tell the difference, but I think he did you a favor. Let's check the back."
We walked, side by side towards the card hall's back hallway. One of the doors popped open and arm holding an uzi poked out, bullets spraying in our general direction. Styx jumped out of the way and I knelt down, aiming at the arm. I tagged the dude and his shooting stopped as the body connected to the arm fell into the hallway, the man screaming in agony. I put him out of his misery with a bullet sandwich. I slowly walked into the hallway when another body leapt out from the same side doorway, a teenaged kid, probably not old enough to vote, wearing an oversized basketball jersey faced me, frozen like a deer in the headlights. I squeezed my triggers, but was rewarded with clicks. Empty! The kid raced down the hallway, and was gone by the time I had reloaded. Styx started to pursue, but I held out my arm.
"Let him go. He got away and deserves to live. It's just a kid anyways. Get the cash from behind the bar and lets get the fuck out of here."
Styx did as I told him and I walked over to the lifeless body of Nikita Kiniski. He was laying in a pool of his own blood, tongue hanging out of his mouth. I kicked him over and felt his back pockets for a wallet. It was there. I snatched it up and put it in my jacket pocket. Might be useful for later. Styx came back with a huge box full of cash. Then we bounced.
Walking outside, Styx had taken off his jacket and thrown it to the ground. The wind had picked up and carried the tattered remnants of his jacket down the block. We made our way to Styx's Idaho, and I waited while Styx unlocked the doors, hit teeth chattering audibly.
"Colder than a witch's titty out here. Fock, man!"
Styx had saved my ass twice now, and I thought I could at least show him that I was somewhat thankful. I pulled off my leather coat and tossed it over the car roof at Styx. He caught it, surprised.
"Go on. I need a new one anyways. The holes in the back give it character."
Styx pulled my bomber styled leather on and shook it around, getting a feel for it.
"Nice jacket. Warm too. Thanks, bro."
"Don't mention it. Now let's cut. Now."
We got in the car and I peeled off my kevlar vest, running my fingertips over the slugs in its back as we sped away.
"His name is Nikita Kiniski. Ruthless, cunning, and fat." Lobo had showed me a newspaper clipping of a big dude walking down the steps of a courthouse, surrounded by the press. "One of Makar's top men. He has been charged more times than he can count, but never aquitted. Much of that has to do with that man." Standing next to Kiniski and shielding the man from a throng of reporters in the clipping was a tall, spiderly looking guy with beady bespecticled eyes. "His name is Lawson Graves III" Lobo continued, "one of San Andreas most successful criminal lawyers. He could've aquitted O.J. in a month and a half, tops. Eliminating these men are the keys to cracking Makar's crime syndicate." We got got onto the highway and I asked Styx where the closest Amuunation was. If we were going to walk into the lion's den, we'd have to be loaded for bear.
Stepping into San Andreas' Ammunation was like coming home of some sorts. There's just something about a gun shop that does something to me. All those firearms, all those means of destruction. Almost gives me a hardon. Lobo had given us a per diem of a couple gees, peeling off benjamins from a mammouth wad of green from his desk. Styx and I walked over to the handgun case. A man with a severe hairlip was standing behind the counter, hunched over a skin magazine. I placed a few bills on top of a set of brozed tittes and he looked up. He told us permit would not be necessary and the waiting period sure as hell could be waived.
We left the store carrying enough steel and plastic to outfit a small army. Styx bought a pair of .38s and a pump action shotgun, and I had a several glocks and a nice looking Desert Eagle 50 magnum pistol, along with a few holsters each. Styx suggested we bring along a couple of kevlar vests and I agreed; my pops was fond of saying that a man could never be too prepared. He was a military man and always thought that whatever could go wrong, will go wrong. He lived to the ripe old age of 34, dying in the field, so I guess he was right after all. The spot was about ten minutes away, and I decided to ask a little bit about my new longhaired partner.
"So you were a boxer." I said, not really a question. Styx was puffing on a jay, and coughed out some smoke.
"Yeah, fought welterweight. Forty-three wins, two losses, thirty-six by way of knockout. I boxed primarily out of Seattle. That's where I'm from." Styx offered me the roach, but i shook my head.
"Where you hail from, Vegas?"
"Not Seattle."
"Hmmph. Probably Nevada. Yeah, I was thinking about goin pro, but I hadda couple complications."
"Knock some philly up, huh."
Styx laughed.
"Shit, bro, I wouldn't let some shit like that ruin my game. Matter of fact, I'm sure theres a couple little Angelos running around as we speak. Rubbers are for pussies."
"Hah. Tell it to Magic and Wilt. So what was the deal."
Styx put a hand on his left eye and squeezed. Then the fuck pulled out his eyeball. He pinched it with his thumb and forefinger and held out a glass eye in front of me. I recoiled, and pushed his wrist back.
"What the fuck! So you lost an eye.you don't have to show me what it looks like! Christ."
"After I won my second Golden Gloves, I was in a bar getting sloshed and celebrating, pullin some fine lookin chicks, shootin the shit, y'know how it is. The guy I knocked out in the finals was there too. With a spiked set of brass knucks. Pussy sucker punched me, crushing my left retina. I thought it wouldn't matter, but I lost my next two fights. Motherfuckers sneaking some killer hooks to my blind spot. I knew my career was over, so I got out."
"Aww, poor baby."
"Fuck you, man. I was good. I could've contended."
"Yeah, I'm sure, Balboa."
"I didn't see your ass complaining when I saved it back at Jefe's."
"Hey, now we're even. Is this it up here?" We had arrived a half a block down from a large stone building.
"Yeah. Let's do this."
The photo didn't nearly do Nikita Kiniski justice. Saying he was fat was like saying that politicians were only minorly corrupt . The man was polar bear, thick fingers holding five cards and a Cuban cigar. Toby's Card Hall was a nice looking joint. The hall's front was filled with expenive looking sofas and easy chairs moving towards several tables, currently empty, on the floor and a wide bar on the side. A set of restrooms were in the back down a hallway along with doors leading to locations unknown. Almost everyone in the room was dressed much like Makar's hit squad; Giorgio Armani seemed to be a favorite. Styx got knocked out of the game early, according to plan, and now sat at the bar nursing a bottle of Budweiser. A couple more heavies sat close to him, an older gent sporting a black bow tie stood behind the bar polishing glasses. The barkeep doubled as a cashier, and was the one that traded us our chips. It was me, the fat man, and a guy in a panama hat left playing.
Styx and I walked into the card hall and got right to business. The game was five-card, one draw, hundred dollar ante. This was no nickel and dime, but it didn't bother me at all. When the pressure is high, and the heat is on, most tend to fold. That's the way I like it. Before entering, I told Styx he would be playing the part of 'the sucker'. I almost told him that he probably wouldn't have any problems playing his part to a T, but held my tongue. The jokes could wait; we had bussiness at hand.
Kiniski was a really good poker player. The strategy in the game is not to read the cards, but rather the player. From the moment I sat down, I could read these cats like a second grade book. The dude wearing the Ray-Bans twitched his right eye when his hand was shit, and the man with the handlebar mustache licked his lips excessively when his cards were good. Panama Hat was a knuckle cracker, but kept it in check for the most part, which was why he was still in the game. Some of these things are tough to spot to the untrained eye, but some got it, and others lose money. Kiniski, on the other hand, was impossible to read. The others tried to be erratic in their bluffing, snorting and guffawing, oversighing and tittering, but beneath it all, their tells were obvious. However, Kiniski's expression didn't change a single time.
The pot was a little over fourteen grand, Panama Hat putting it all on the line. He called, and flipped over his cards. Three sevens. I smiled and uncovered my straight. Then, like clockwork, Kiniski showed us his straight flush and raked in the chips. Damn. Panama Hat bowed out and stepped over to the bar.
"And then, there was two." I mused out loud. Kiniski just regarded me with a look of fascination and disgust mixed together. It was quite a look. I hadn't seen it that often.
"You're quite a player, Mr..."
"Minor. Vegas Minor. You aren't too bad yourself." I didn't mind telling these clowns who I was. It wasn't like they'd tell anybody else, other than their maker.
"Years of practice, boy, years of practice."
The game continued for a little while longer, till I decided to make my push. I rose the pot, putting it all in, my stacks of high society totaling at least thirty thousand. I liked my hand. It could've been a winner. Didn't really matter, cause I was prepared to end the charade. I made sure Styx was paying attention to me pushing my entire bankroll into the pot. He knew the drill. Kiniski called. I turned over my cards.
Three aces over a pair of jacks. Beat that, fatass.
Kiniski finally broke his straight face, and showed me his yellow teeth. Four kings and a nine. The fat lady belted out a song, and I extended my hand, but Kiniski waved it off. I pushed off from the table and showed the man my back. Man I was going to enjoy this. I reached into my jacket and pulled out a pair of plastic pistols then unloaded on the fat fuck. He was counting his winnings as the bullets sliced through his body, his face full of surprise. He cried out and flew backwards, his portly frame knocking over the table that he landed on. It was on.
The dudes sitting at the bar whipped out their sidearms and pointed them at me. Styx had my back, and blew them away, double fisted doling out fire. Panama Hat got hit in the throat as he tried to flee out the door. Blood shot out from his neck, and and collapsed in a pile by the entrance. The bartender dissapeared behind the bar; probably didn't want to become a holy bartender, which was understandable. I popped in a few new clips the pair of men standing guard outside ran into the bar, stepping over Panama Hat, gunning for me. Styx and I blasted them, as they dropped like sacks of potatoes. That's when I felt three slugs slam into my back. I hit the floor, dazed. I rolled over and looked at the celing, breathing in gasps. I heard a scuffle, and a few gunshots by the bar, then something slumping to the ground. Styx was then kneeling in front of me.
"Told you the kevlar would be a good idea." He said, pulling me up. His ratty jacket was torn in a few places "That fucker with the bow tie hit you. But I don't think he'll be mixing drinks anytime soon. Fucker cut up my jacket though. Maaaaaan, its ruined!"
"Thanks. I can't really tell the difference, but I think he did you a favor. Let's check the back."
We walked, side by side towards the card hall's back hallway. One of the doors popped open and arm holding an uzi poked out, bullets spraying in our general direction. Styx jumped out of the way and I knelt down, aiming at the arm. I tagged the dude and his shooting stopped as the body connected to the arm fell into the hallway, the man screaming in agony. I put him out of his misery with a bullet sandwich. I slowly walked into the hallway when another body leapt out from the same side doorway, a teenaged kid, probably not old enough to vote, wearing an oversized basketball jersey faced me, frozen like a deer in the headlights. I squeezed my triggers, but was rewarded with clicks. Empty! The kid raced down the hallway, and was gone by the time I had reloaded. Styx started to pursue, but I held out my arm.
"Let him go. He got away and deserves to live. It's just a kid anyways. Get the cash from behind the bar and lets get the fuck out of here."
Styx did as I told him and I walked over to the lifeless body of Nikita Kiniski. He was laying in a pool of his own blood, tongue hanging out of his mouth. I kicked him over and felt his back pockets for a wallet. It was there. I snatched it up and put it in my jacket pocket. Might be useful for later. Styx came back with a huge box full of cash. Then we bounced.
Walking outside, Styx had taken off his jacket and thrown it to the ground. The wind had picked up and carried the tattered remnants of his jacket down the block. We made our way to Styx's Idaho, and I waited while Styx unlocked the doors, hit teeth chattering audibly.
"Colder than a witch's titty out here. Fock, man!"
Styx had saved my ass twice now, and I thought I could at least show him that I was somewhat thankful. I pulled off my leather coat and tossed it over the car roof at Styx. He caught it, surprised.
"Go on. I need a new one anyways. The holes in the back give it character."
Styx pulled my bomber styled leather on and shook it around, getting a feel for it.
"Nice jacket. Warm too. Thanks, bro."
"Don't mention it. Now let's cut. Now."
We got in the car and I peeled off my kevlar vest, running my fingertips over the slugs in its back as we sped away.