Javier showed no emotion over the loss. Tom tried to read some clue into his style of play, some hint as to the outlines of his personality. Perhaps he had been bluffing, hoping Conrad would bow out. Or perhaps he had honestly believed his three of a kind was a winning hand. It was hard to say. He might be rash, or he might be clever, or he might be something else entirely, just testing the boundaries of his powers, taking control of the mental drama of the game from the gate.

“Boys,” Conrad said, organizing the new bills in front of him, “I’m going to call that first blood.”

“Rambo,” Javier said flatly. The word came and went quickly, but there it was, his first casually offered response of the whole day.

“Rambo?” Conrad said.

“First Blood, dipshit,” Tom said.

“Rambo!” Conrad said, pleased to have finally made verbal contact. “That’s right, Javier. Me, Rambo. You guys, Vietnam. This guy knows more than he’s letting on, Tom. Believe me.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Tom said.

The deck had landed in front of Tom and he shuffled, enjoying the purr of the edges against his fingertips. He dealt proficiently and the men raised their hands. They chose not to speak anymore, even when the sound of Lana’s hoarse laughter floated from deep inside the house, followed by the thunk of a heavy spill. They were inside the game, facing each other as equals. All the deference and tension and misunderstanding of the day sloughed away.

Conrad took two cards and Javier took one. Tom took three cards and ended up with another crap hand, two eights and change. He glanced at the other men but neither revealed any pleasure or dis-plea sure on their faces. He folded, and once again the other two fought on, hitting back and forth until the pot reached fifty-four dollars. This time, Conrad won with a flush of spades over Javier’s three kings.

“Second blood,” Conrad said, and Javier grunted, indifferent. Whatever strategy he was pursuing remained unclear.

Conrad was on a streak. He took the next three out of five hands. Why the cards ran hot and cold was one of the great mysteries of the universe, but there was no question the cosmic weather was on Conrad’s side. Soon, Javier was roughly pushing himself away from the table, shaking his head in self-disgust. He stared drunkenly at Conrad, searching for some visible sign of his powers, and then he scooted back to the table and looked earnestly at Tom. There was no need for talking. Tom pulled out his wallet and peeled a hundred dollars, rounding up, and threw in a couple more twenties as a tip. The way Javier’s luck was running, he figured, he would need all of it.