Author's note: I do not own Pokemon or related trademarks.
I would like to point out here that while I AM a fan of Texas Hold 'Em as both a spectator and as a player, I do not indulge in playing so much that it becomes an addiction. There are places and groups that can help you if you DO have a gambling problem, and I encourage you to seek them out under those circumstances. Gambling every once in a great while is fine. Letting it control your life is not.
I also am never going to consider myself an expert or a great player. You want to read Texas Hold 'Em stuff from experts, there are plenty of books available. People like Vanessa Selbst and Phil Gordon and Annie Duke would probably bust me in less than a dozen hands.
OK, now that I've probably bored the fuck out of you, language warning (ironic since I just dropped an F-bomb a few words ago!), and if you're offended by poker or gambling, well, warning for that too:
Tristan, standing on the other side of the glass, was uncomfortable at the sight of Frank's mask of cold fury that disguised his own discomfort. "What the hell's she talking about, Captain Hopfmar?"
The captain sighed. "Long story. You want to hear the start of it?"
The Gallade shrugged. "Do I have a choice?"
"It was about two, three years ago…."
"Fold."
Frank Caldwell watched as the dealer took his two cards away. 7-2 was simply not going to work this time.
The tables for Texas Hold 'Em poker players were packed this evening at Celadon's Game Center ("Fuckin' stupid name," Dom LoMarco spat before the operation had started three months earlier. "It's a fuckin' casino, simple as that."). Frank had the luck, bad or otherwise, to get the table with seasoned players he had gone up against many times and whose strategies he knew all too well.
Except they still weren't entirely savvy to the ways of Michael O'Leary.
The first undercover assignment for Frank had come pretty much by accident. He had happened upon Hopfmar, LoMarco, and a few of the other, older, detectives playing Texas Hold 'Em in Hopfmar's garage after hours. The young detective had gone there to ask his captain some question and generally shoot the breeze, but he saw them playing (Alex, who was as new as he was, was dealing, using his Ghost-type abilities to deal the cards) and couldn't resist asking if he could join in.
"Sure, kid," LoMarco laughed harshly. "Another clock for me to clean."
About three hours later, LoMarco drove off in a profanity-laden huff. Frank had cleaned HIM out, as well as everyone else at the table. All those days and weeks of watching poker on TV and reading all the books he could on the subject had made Frank Caldwell a force to be reckoned with, at least amongst the unskilled.
So when the decision was made by several of the police departments in the Kanto region to send an officer undercover as a Texas Hold 'Em player with the intent of breaking into Giovanni's inner circle, LoMarco was pissed to find that he had been passed up in favor of the junior detective that had embarrassed him a few weeks earlier.
It had only been a short couple of weeks after Frank had joined the force that gun violence in Kanto and Johto increased dramatically. Drug gangs were migrating from Mexico and the United States, and they were finding guns in easier supply than in the past. Police were baffled, until they began tracking some of the guns and shell casings and came to the horrified realization that Team Rocket had reformed, and this time, stealing Pokemon was not their preferred form of business. Arms trafficking was.
Frank himself was not sure how playing poker was going to take the Rockets down once and for all, until he was told that the district attorneys needed proof that the highest levels of the hierarchy (read: Giovanni) were behind the problem. As it turned out, Giovanni had a reputation for holding private poker parties with a select few individuals. Perhaps if a Texas Hold 'Em-playing middleman named Michael O'Leary were to get in that inner circle and arrange a purchase of semi-automatic rifles with Giovanni….
And thus it was that Frank/Michael was in the casino that night several months after the operation started, no closer to getting to Giovanni. All he WAS doing was picking off players left and right, albeit rather slowly.
Stuart, ensconced at the slot machines, kept glancing over his shoulder at his colleague. "Guys, how long do we have to keep doing this?" he asked, seemingly to no one in particular, but in reality he was talking into his wire to Hopfmar and LoMarco, waiting in various sections of the building.
"As long as it takes, Stuart," the captain replied.
"We coulda gotten there faster if I was the one doing this," LoMarco complained.
"Well, if you didn't suck so badly at poker-" Stuart began.
"Don't you talk to ME about sucking, faggot!"
"I'll fucking kill you if you say that again."
King of diamonds, jack of clubs, Frank noted. The flop came up nine spades, king hearts, and four clubs. I can play with this, but I'd like something good on the draw.
"Raise five thousand," he said aloud, carefully taking the chips out of his stack and edging them towards the pot, which had several thousand dollars in it already.
"Fuck this, I'm folding," one player immediately said, tossing his cards away.
"I'm out," added another, disposing of his hand.
That left two others. Both decided to call.
"Drawing," announced the dealer. He set another card on the table and flipped it up: king of clubs.
Bingo. "Raise ten."
"Twenty," one of the other two players immediately declared.
"Fold," said the man to his left.
All right. So he thinks I'm either bluffing or he's got something good that he knows can take me. Maybe a pair of nines or fours. Which would suck a big pile of hot, rotten monkey dicks if that's the case.
"Hot rotten monkey dicks"? God, I've been around Dom LoMarco too much.
"River card, gentlemen," the dealer said, and put the card down.
Jack of hearts.
NO. FUCKING. WAY.
Trying his best not to betray his glee, he went for the kill. "Forty grand."
"Fuck you," snapped the other player. "I'm all-in." He shoved his chips forward, contempt in his eyes.
"Well? What do you got?"
The man flipped his cards. "Full house, nines over kings." He sat back down, a smug smile on his face.
"Nice. Too bad," Frank continued as he turned his pair over, "that it's inferior to kings over jacks."
"MOTHERFUCKER!" screamed the player. He stood up, held his face in his hands, and took a few moments to calm himself down. Finally, he looked at Frank. "Well, I guess it's a good thing I don't do this often. I usually can avoid stuff like this. I mean, what are the odds?"
Frank could not help but feel bad as the man walked away-
"Sir?"
He nearly jumped as the owner of the voice tapped him on the shoulder.
"I have been asked to inform you that you have been invited to participate in a private session with the Game Center's owner," said the man, brown hair extending down his neck. His badge read: STEVEN R.. "If you would, please."
"Could I have a minute to organize and rack my chips, please?" the detective asked.
"Certainly, sir."
Stuart watched furtively, trying not to start spontaneously celebrating. "Guys, I think we have a breakthrough."
"Well, it's about goddamned time!" snapped LoMarco.
After getting his things together, Frank followed the man to a wall. The man put his hand on a spot on the wall, and much to the detective's amazement, the floor opened and a stairway manifested itself. "This way, sir," the man said, leading him down.
And out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw him.
Giovanni looked like he hadn't aged much at all, the silver streak in his hair being the only betrayal. His suit was not as garishly pinstriped as the detective had expected, either. To one side, a slim yet well-endowed (relatively speaking, Frank mused) redhead stood in a dress that matched her hair, only the dress didn't stiffly extend like her hair did. There were several other people at the table, none of whom Frank recognized as he was led in.
"Ah, there you are," the head of Team Rocket intoned grandly. "I've heard plenty about your poker prowess from some of the dealers upstairs. Please, have a seat, mister, uh…."
"O'Leary," Frank lied. "Michael O'Leary."
"Ah, yes, silly me, I should have remembered when they told me about you. You will sit down, won't you?"
Frank sat down without another word, and Giovanni turned to the redheaded woman. "Katja, would you please get the gentlemen more drinks?"
"Certainly, sir," she replied. Frank instantly knew that despite her name, which suggested Eastern European heritage, she was from nearby.
"What will you have, Mr. O'Leary?" Giovanni asked.
"A Shirley Temple," Frank replied. "I avoid alcohol when I'm playing, it clouds my concentration and my judgment."
"Understood."
"Let me ask again," Frank said, impatience having flooded his voice, "where were you at 11:43 this morning?"
"I was at home fingering my pussy. Of course nobody can back it up!"
The detctive sighed. "So you're certain you had no contact with Donna after the breakup?"
Jessie rolled her eyes. "OK, let me repeat what I have been saying for the past fifteen minutes or whatever: I have had NO contact with ANY of my former Rocket grunts since you had us broken up. Is that so hard for you to understand, Frank Caldwell? Now if you two aren't going to charge me with anything, I would like to retreat to the relative calm of a bubble bath."
Frank sighed. "Fine, but I suggest you don't make any travel plans any time soon."
Jessie got out of her chair and almost ran Stuart over as he held the door for her.
The dark-haired detective then looked at his partner, who was visibly shaking in his chair. "Are you going to be all right, Frank?"
"No."