Page 32 of The Devil Wears Orange
“You speak English,” I say a little too quick to prevent the girlish swoon from overtaking me.
With a smile, he says, “I speak many languages.”
“You had me fooled,” I say, and pause for effect, then add, “that you spoke no English.”
“I do not recall being asked.”
From my purse, I pull out chips. I tried to get Jack to give me more money, but he was far too nervous about the amount he had already given me, hemming and hawing until, exasperated, I gave up and walked away with the piddling amount. I place the stack of chips before me, unnerved by the mounds resting in front of Rashid. Poker, I told Jack, is my game. “How do you think I paid for university?” I said to him coolly and left out the part about the partial scholarships and the nights I lost big.
“It’s a 3,000 Euro minimum table,” the dealer informs me.
“What?” I say, distracted. I look to the dealer, a short woman with blonde hair pulled back in a tiny ball.
“It’s a 3,000 Euro minimum table.”
Flustered, I peer at the others seated at the table, at their chips stacked before them, and I’m embarrassed by the way they stare at me, seemingly harassed by the delay.
“I was assured each table had a 500 Euro minimum.”
“This table was added at the last minute to accommodate higher stakes players.”
“Oh, I see,” I say and stand. “I see,” I repeat, unsure what to do next. Getting thrown off the table so early wasn’t written into our script, but what else can I do? I have no more money, and Jack, who assured me 2,500 Euros would be sufficient for a charity event, isn’t due to show up just yet.
Rashid waves his index finger to a man behind him and whispers into his ear. The man, dressed in a black shirt and suit, takes a mound of Rashid’s chips and walks them over to me, placing the stack before me.
“I couldn’t,” I tell Rashid.
“Please,” he insists. “After all, it’s for charity.”
Humiliated by the encounter, I wonder if he’s referring to me rather than the event. The episode knocks me back to Bond girl status. I sit.
“Aces high,” the dealer says, repeating the same in French and hands out one card to each of the four players, then a second one.
I peek at the Queen and 10, both clubs, in my hands. They’ll do as a starting point, but they don’t put me in the best position. The player, to Rashid’s right, thumps his index finger, a possible tell. To Rashid’s left and my right, the other player stares at the pot in the middle, boring holes into the chips. He’s trying too hard to keep a blank face. He’ll be easy to decipher.
“Anybody know where Josephine Baker is buried?” Finger Thumper says. “I promised my wife we’d scope out the cemetery. We did the same thing back in LA with Marilyn, spent her birthday drinking coffee and eating croissants by her graveside.”
Without breaking stride, Rashid tosses in chips and says, “3,000.”
The others, including me, toss in our chips. I note Finger Thumper (though The Chatterbox now seems a more appropriate nickname) is the last in.
“You must got good cards,” The Chatterbox says to Rashid and it has me wondering if playing the annoying guy at the card table is his shtick.
“Call. 3,000,” the silent one says.
The house shuffles out cards and displays the 10 and 2 deuces in a rectangle on the table, then reveals a 10 of diamonds, 2 of clubs, and 2 of spade. The Chatterbox checks his cards and taps his hand on the table; meanwhile, I scoop up some of my chips and shuffle them around in my fingers to distract the other players. Rashid bets 10,000. Raising his eyes to mine, he holds them on me, piercing through me. I can’t get a read on him, but I’m sure he can see how his stare affects me. A little part of me just melted.Focus!
“Twenty,” I say, flinching. Oh no, I’ve been so cool up to this point.
“Hugh Hefner, may he rest in peace, bought the plot next to Marilyn decades ago. Imagine spending eternity next to the most beautiful woman in the world? My wife says ‘but honey you are.’” He laughs.
It’s not a shtick, I determine.
“I’m out,” The Chatterbox says and tosses his cards face down towards the dealer, who places them back into the muck with the other folded cards. Rashid and the silent player call, accepting my 20,000 and toss in their chips.
The dealer displays another card, 7 of diamonds. There is hesitation in the silent man’s movement, and then he checks his cards a second time. Keeping my eyes steady on Rashid, I tossin another 25,000. The silent player rests and then throws his cards down in a huff, unable to play along with me.
I notice Rashid’s eyes on my hands as I play with the chips, clanging them against one another. Now that I’ve pulled myself together again, I’m confident he can’t read me. When his eyes move up towards mine, they blink ever so slowly. He folds and reveals his hand – Aces of Heart and Aces of Clubs—a quiet“oh”echoes from the onlookers around us.
