Chapter 7

My troubles with Spot were just beginning. No sooner had I taken my place at the poker table, he had come and plunked himself down on the opposite side.

"Deal me in," he said menacingly.

The cards were dealt. Money was gambled. People folded. More money was gambled. Race folded. Spot and I were the only ones left. The pile of money rose higher still. I added a pack of cigarettes. Spot added three bottles of cheap beer. Then I had a brainstorm.

"I tell youse what Ise gonna do, Brooklyn. I'll make ya a lil' deal."

Spot raised an eyebrow.

"Loser has ta sell papes tomorra."

Spot's signature smirk slid onto his face for the millionth time that evening. "Duh, Manhattan. How's else'm I gonna make a livin'?"

"Jus' heah me ou', dung-for-brains. Loser has ta sell the winnah's papes as well as dere own. So's instead o' jus' a hundred, youse got ta sell twice dat many. An' ya don't get any o' da profits." I paused. Spot was frowning slightly. Ha, I thought. The 'king' is human! Out loud I added, "Dat makes two hundred."

Spot's frown turned into a full-fledged scowl.

"Ise knows how ta add, dingbat!" he snarled.

"Soo-rree!" I said. I turned to Race, who was right next to me and remarked loudly, "Some people are so touchy!", which sent Race guffawing into Squeaky's shoulder.

Spot stood up quickly, bumping the table in his fury so that our drinks were in danger of spilling. His eyes were like blue fire.

"Dat's it, Manhattan! I quit! Dere's no poin' in playin' if youse is gonna be smar'-alecky and unfair!"

"Yer funeral," I said dryly. "I guess I'll have a day off tomorra while youse sell me papes."

Spot clenched his fists and ground his teeth together. He stood there for about a minute glaring daggers at me as though he would like nothing more than to pound me to within an inch of my life, then throw me in the ocean and watch sharks eat what was left. But finally, realizing he had dug himself into a hole, he resumed his seat trying to muster his dignity, but failed dismally.

"So, do youse fold?" I asked coolly, as if nothing had happened.

"O'course not!" he retorted, insulted that I would even think that the great Spot Conlon would admit defeat to a girl. 'I hope yer prepared ta woik yer ass off tomorra, smarty. Straight – in diamonds." He laid down his cards with a smug look on his face, all hatred gone (for now…).

"Youse good, Conlon," I said, shaking my head slowly as if astonished. But then I smiled devilishly. "But, just not good enough."

Spot's smug look disappeared. A slight crease appeared between his eyebrows; he was worried.

I turned my cards over so the whole table could see. "In yer honah, yer highness, a royal flush." My voice dripped with sarcasm.

Spot's mouth fell open in shock. I had to fight to keep from laughing. The guys around us had gone deadly silent. Then Race guffawed loudly again, and the whole table erupted. Only Spot remained silent, staring in horror at me, while the others around him screeched and hooted and hollered and slapped him on the back. I gave him an angelic smile. So there, Mr. High and Mighty.

A/N: The whole poker scenario is compliments of the writers of the Parent Trap with Lindsay Lohan, because I have no idea how to play poker whatsoever. Thank you!

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