Page 48 of Bozo

BOZO

I keep a watchful eye on the men sitting at the table. Each of them are firmly on my radar. I received a call to fly out to Spain and participate in one of the biggest poker games in Europe. It wasn't the usual caller, Lorcan; this time, it was Pyro, my president.

Pyro had received a call from Denis Gallagher, whose son, Malcolm, runs the Irish mafia in Spain. Rumor has it that the notorious organization known as The Revenant has finally surfaced from the small time shit they had been at and are now making their way into central Europe with full force, and they want to know who and what is behind it all.

I've heard whispers about The Revenant, but no one dares speak too loudly about them anymore. Anyone who had spoken about them is no longer alive to tell the tales. The Revenant is known for its cult-like loyalty. Once you’re in, there’s no way out except death.

Not much information is available about them; even their leader remains a mystery. That's why I'm here in Spain, trying to gather any intel possible while secretly observing a few members of The Revenant at the tables.

I take a sip of my whiskey, eyeing the players over the rim of my glass. There are five of them, all dressed sharp in tailored suits that scream money. Two I recognize from the underground circuit back home, but the other three are new faces. One of them, a tall blonde with a scar across his jaw, is surveying everyone just as I am.

There’s a darkness about him, one that I’ve seen a lot of before. Many of the men I’m close to are the same. We’ve all got that darkness in us. We’re all capable of the depravities I’ve seen committed. It just depends on how far you’re willing to go. I’ve not crossed that line yet, but I know the line and what’ll happen if it’s crossed. The tall blonde, I’ve no doubt that he’s crossed that line many times over.

The dealer shuffles the cards with practiced precision, the soft sound barely audible over the low hum of conversation in the dimly lit room. I've been here three hours already, and so far, nothing's happened that screams 'new criminal organization'. But then again, that's how these things usually go. The real action happens between the lines, in the pauses between hands and the meaningful glances exchanged across the table.

I toss in my chips for the next hand, my mind racing. Pyro didn’t give me much to go on, just that The Revenant was making waves across Europe, muscling in on established territories with a ruthlessness that had caught everyone off guard. And now here I am, trying to piece together a puzzle without knowing what the final picture looks like.

Lorcan heard I was looking for a game, and within the hour he had a location of where I needed to be. Lorcan decided that I wasn’t coming here alone and joined me. It's been a while since he played a game, but he’s good—not as good as me, but he can hold his own. Cowboy and Tank have also joined me. Our prez didn’t want me coming alone. He wanted me to have backup in case shit hit the fan.

Malcolm Gallagher’s also here, not to mention his men that are casually playing, but they’ll be paying attention. Jerry’s also here. He’s been spending more time in Spain the past few years. It would make sense for him to be here. Jer loves playing poker. It would be suspicious if he wasn’t here.

“Étienne,” I hear one of the men at the table say, his French accent thick and prominent as he stares at the blonde scarred guy.

Étienne glares at him. “Marcel,” he growls, showcasing his own French accent. “Not here. I warned you.”

The tension at the table goes wired, everyone watching the two of them with curiosity. I keep my face impassive but my mind is racing. Étienne and Marcel—these are names I haven't heard before. But I have a gut feeling that these two men are part of The Revenant.

I glance at Lorcan, who's sitting a few tables away. He's caught the exchange too, his eyes meeting mine for a split second before he turns back to his game. We've worked together long enough to communicate without words.

The tall blonde—Étienne—leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. "Gentlemen," he says, his voice smooth, his accent even more defined. "Shall we focus on the game?"

The dealer nods and begins to deal the next hand. I pick up my cards, barely glancing at them. My attention is fixed on Étienne and Marcel, watching for any tells, any sign of them being part of The Revenant. I know they are. I can feel it in my gut.

As the night wears on, the stakes get higher. Étienne and Marcel are playing reckless, throwing as much money as they can at a pot in order to try to win it. They have sorely underestimated their opponents. We won’t back down. Hell no.The other cash games have wound down and now the other players are watching our table with rapt interest.

Étienne's eyes glare at me as I raise the pot, pre-flop. I’ve watched him play, seen the way he likes to dominate the hands. Now it’s time to switch it up. Let’s see how he likes it.

I’m sitting with a pair of queens in my hand. Not the best starting pair, but also nowhere near the worst.

The flop comes down: ace of hearts, queen of spades, seven of clubs.

My heart rate quickens, but I keep my face neutral. Top set. I've got him.

Étienne's eyes narrow as he studies the board. He's first to act and he doesn't hesitate. "All in," he declares, pushing his stack of chips forward. The man’s got close to five million in his stack. I’ve got a little more, meaning if I call and lose, I’ve a little behind to try to rebuild. But I’m confident in my hand.

The table collectively holds its breath. It's a massive overbet, way more than the pot. He's trying to bully everyone out of the hand.

Marcel folds quickly and the other players follow suit, until it's just me and Étienne.

I take a slow sip of my whiskey, letting the silence stretch. Étienne's jaw clenches, a flicker of irritation crossing his face.

"Call," I say finally, pushing my chips in to match his bet.

Étienne's eyes widen in surprise then narrow in suspicion. "Show your cards," he demands.

I shake my head. “You made the bet, you show first.” It’s the rules of the game. The person who calls the bet doesn’t show their hand first. No, we bought the privilege of seeing his hand.

Étienne's face contorts in anger as he throws his cards face-up on the table. Ace-King of diamonds. He has a pair of aces and that’s it. Christ, it was beyond an overbet. It was reckless, stupid even.

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