The Wild Card by Mark Joseph

thing we were most afraid of has happened. Our worst nightmare has come true. Now, it’s up to us, including Bobby, to determine what we’re going to do about it. I swear he’ll show.”
    â€œWho are you, the fucking pope?” Dean asked. “You gonna wave your magic wand and make him walk through the door?”
    â€œWhere do you think he is?” Nelson asked Alex. “Maybe he missed his plane. I can call the airline.”
    â€œNah,” Alex said. “My guess is that he hasn’t been to San Francisco for a long time and he’s taking a tour, Noë Valley, Baker Beach, you know, the old stomping grounds. It’s hard for him. He doesn’t know what to expect from us any more than we know what to expect from him.”
    â€œMaybe we should do the same thing,” Charlie piped up. “Let’s play tourist. Let’s forget the game and go to one of the old Irish bars in the Mission. Let’s go to the Dovre Club and get fucked up.”
    â€œWe’re here to play cards,” Alex asserted, mildly alarmed that the game might be slipping away. “Even if Bobby shows, poker is the main event.”
    â€œYou’re a poker junkie, Alex,” Nelson said. “We all know that. You’re crazy. And you,” he said, pointing a finger at Charlie, “you’re losing, so shut up.”
    â€œThe Dovre Club!” Dean exclaimed with a gleeful laugh. “Hot stuff. All right.”
    â€œShit,” Alex said.
    â€œSorry, Wiz,” Dean said, “but we have all weekend. Maybe Charlie can find another player tomorrow.”
    â€œNelson, would you rather play or party?” Alex asked.
    â€œI don’t care. If these guys want to go to the Dovre Club and make fools of themselves, I don’t give a shit.”

    â€œI have an idea,” Alex said brightly. “Let’s make the game more interesting. Let’s raise the stakes to a hundred dollar ante.”
    â€œLeave it alone, Wiz,” Dean said. “Look, the game isn’t working with only four players. That’s too bad, but that’s the way it is.”
    â€œI didn’t fly three thousand miles to go bar-hopping,” Alex protested, petulant.
    â€œThen why don’t you go down to Artichoke Joe’s,” Dean hissed, naming a well-known local card room.
    A look of undisguised horror blanched Alex’s face. After a long, long pause he said, “You know I can’t do that. I can’t even think about that.”
    Dean immediately regretted his faux pas and apologized. “Sorry, Alex. I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t mean it.”
    â€œAh, what the hell,” Alex conceded. “Every year the game goes haywire one way or another, but usually not until the second night. The wild card usually keeps it interesting until he goes broke.”
    â€œYou mean until you skin him alive.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œYou’ve got a fat head sometimes,” Dean said. “And if it gets rough, you’d better have the cards.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” Alex said. “I used to beat him left, right, and upside the head.”
    â€œExcept for the last time.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” Alex reiterated.
    Edgy, inhaling several slow, deep breaths, Alex started doing card tricks to keep his hands busy. For a moment he contemplated going to Artichoke Joe’s, sitting down, and never getting up. Maybe he wouldn’t lose everything, and if he did, so what? After tonight it might not make any difference.

14
    The doorbell chimed, followed by a loud rap on the door. They froze. For a moment the only sound in the room was a scratchy old recording of Johnny Cash’s ballad of addiction and redemption, “I Walk the Line.”
    â€œHoly shit,” Charlie squealed, jumping up. “I’ll get it.”
    Dean pointed a threatening finger at Nelson and said, “This better not be one