The boy fumbles the cuff-links off his wrists and tosses them in to the scattered packs of cash in the middle of the table.
“Call.”
He’s been smoking since we started the game, and the cigarette barely fits on the ashtray. He picks it up to talk; it gives away his youth. He’s all bravado when he says he wants to know what cards I have, and whether I’m going to take all the “dough on the table”. He says dough so he doesn’t have to face the reality of “money”. I take a small vial out of my pocket and scatter white powder along the plush leather rim of the table. I snort it and look at him. It’s been our showdown rhythm all night: He reaches into his chest pocket, snaps open a lid and pops something in his mouth.
“They’re kings,” I say. I slip my finger under the cards and flip them.
His hands slam down. A woman approaches him, and puts a hand on his chest. She lifts the cigarette, and he mumbles in her ear as she waves her eyes across lines of smoke between us.