The Wild Card by Mark Joseph Page B

parents’ garage, full of swagger, high on life, getting ready to play on a cable-spool. In those days poker had been fun. Now, when he sat down to play every night, he felt nothing. He was neutral. Poker was work, his métier, and he’d long since surpassed cockiness or any mindset that interfered with his play. This was different. A swirl of emotions battered him from all directions, and he struggled to maintain his mental balance.
    â€œSo you guys do this every year, right?”
    â€œMost years,” Alex said. “Sometimes we miss for one reason or another.”
    â€œAnd some years we get so wasted we can’t play,” Dean said, laughing. “At least I do.”
    Charlie returned from the kitchen with Bobby’s drink, and they endured another long pause until Bobby said, “I went by Lyle Tuttle’s tonight, and he’s gone. The whole building is gone.”
    â€œStill got your tattoo?” Nelson asked.
    Bobby’s hand went to his left shoulder. “Yeah. It’s faded, but I can tell you one thing,” he said with a sharp laugh. “I don’t look like Dean. You’re a walkin’ billboard there, boy. USMC. I heard you were in the Corps.”

    â€œSemper Fi, dude,” Dean said. “I heard you were a lifer.”
    â€œYeah, twenty and out,” Bobby said. “How long were you in?” he paused and snapped a mock salute, “Sir?”
    Dean smirked and returned the gesture of mutual respect. He wanted to say, “The past is gone and I don’t want to think about it anymore,” but he couldn’t say that because before the game was over the past was going to become the main topic of conversation. Instead he said, “Four years, and that was more than enough. I don’t dwell on those times. I got a life.”
    â€œYou seem to have had a lot of lives,” Bobby said, gesturing with his head at Dean’s body art.
    Dean laughed heartily, his beard quivering and spraying droplets of rum. “Sometimes I use up two or three a day,” he said. “I don’t give a shit.”
    Earlier in the evening, while eating at Joe’s, Bobby had wished aloud that he wanted to be eighteen again, and suddenly he was, or almost was, as though time had stopped and rolled back to the point where his life had been sheared off and rent asunder. A bond that had been broken was now precariously rejoined. He felt uncertain and a little queasy, and when he decided not to bring up Shanghai Bend immediately, he realized no one else was in a hurry to mention it, either.
    Another awkward silence persisted until Alex said, “How about let’s play cards. We can reminisce and tell war stories later.”
    â€œRight on,” Bobby said. “Let’s do that.”
    Standing around grinning foolishly at one another, they were like stardust bouncing aimlessly around the universe. At the poker table their reunion would have a structure that would make it bearable. With a clamber of fussy noise they scrambled into their chairs, fiddled with chips, rattled ice in their drinks, and plinked fingernails against the hotel’s fine tumblers.
    Bobby took the empty seat and ran his fingers over the felt. “Nelson said you fellas play five and seven stud and draw,” he said.
    â€œThat’s right,” Alex replied and rapidly outlined the rules they’d established earlier.

    â€œSounds like poker to me,” Bobby said. “You still playing with chips?”
    â€œThe same chips we used in the old days,” Charlie said, handing Bobby a blue for inspection. “You don’t use chips in your games?”
    â€œIn private games it’s usually cash, but chips are fine, especially nice ones like these. Five grand, right?”
    â€œFive big ones,” Nelson confirmed.
    â€œWe don’t have a banker,” Dean said.
    â€œWe never did,” Bobby said, turning over the old, flat disk in