That Ragged Edge

Little

   Little sat at the card table watching the tanned weathered white man as his door guard ran his hands over him and nodded.  “Yo dog, you Jaime?” was answered with a slight nod as he moved with an easy powerful grace toward the empty seat at the table.  Little introduced the fellow players at the table and each got a glance and silent nod.   Little thought about it, every thing about the man was casual and he wondered…and doubted, “You ain’t talk much?” and the man barely shook his head no.  Little felt a prickle at the back of his neck, he was used to reading people and this one was a cipher.  He’d shown a complete lack of interest in his fellow players and Little had stacked the table with his guys who knew how to steer the game in his direction. 

   The stakes in Little’s games were high enough to dissuade neophytes, but he’d skinned more than a few players.  This one’s reputation as a very high stakes player who was gracious about losses had drawn Little’s interest and invitation to play.  Little intended to give him reason to demonstrate that graciousness and brought a good portion of his available cash as bait.  He stood next to his chair, lifted his shirt, and unhooked a belt strap with a large pouch on it.  He set it on the table, sat, unzipped it, and slid out a stack of bills, the pouch still bulging…and nodded.

   Little gave Jaime his entire attention, the man’s face might have been carved from a dark wood for all the expression it showed beyond a slight curve on his mouth.  He played methodically, pace never varying, neither slow nor fast with an economy of motion.  He did not pause to think about a hand or a bet and he did not seem to examine the other players.  His utter calm sureness was unnerving to Little, no one in his experience behaved in that way.  He showed no disappointment or elation, nothing beyond that serene not quite smile as he whittled away at Little’s men’s money and Little’s.  He began to increase his bets, taking out one after the other player and putting a serious dent in Little’s cash.

   Time and again he drew Little in and cut his throat.  Little became increasingly concerned, he just could not find a pattern to the plays other than his mounting losses.  Little fancied himself a hot player and with a table tipped toward him, had been sure of winning…now he was being humiliated and was having trouble concealing that feeling.  He went all in on his pair of kings with their brother showing, Jaime turned his pair of aces with one also showing and the flop helped neither.  As Jaime stood and began to retrieve the pile of cash Little twitched his head at him, and the door man stepped behind him.  What happened then was shocking in its suddenness and results.

   Jaime’s weight went forward on to the table as his knee drew up before him and then lashed his foot back, the stacked logging heel driving directly into the door man’s kneecap.  There was a thud accompanied by a sharp crack as the knee broke backward and the man fell with a howl, to writhe on the floor, squealing.  The men at each corner of the table nearest him had leapt to their feet and closed, his right hand slid across the table and lifted as he spun left forming a fist.  Driven by the spin, shoulder, and elbow the fist impacted the man to the right in the temple with a sodden thud and crunching sound, his breath whispered out of him as he went limp and toppled.  Index and middle finger extended his left hand went to the other man’s eye, second joint deep, and he fell back hands over his face, blood and fluid leaking between fingers.  Jaime just saw Little’s snub nose clear the table edge and whirled away as it fired, he felt searing pain in his stomach, his feet tangled in a tipped chair he fell, struck his head on the living room heater stove and blackness.

   One of the players looked down at him, “Gut shot, he done, boss.”  Little snarled, ” Get rid of ‘im.”

    “What about these others?”  “Hospital,” Little snapped.

   “But Little, these two air daid.”

   “Well sheeit.  Put ‘em where they don’ get found.”

   Little examined the pot and the pouch, “Well, a’right.  Up thirty K.  At’ll do.”

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