A few minutes later inevitability of probability occurs and the man launches himself across the table at Jesse.

I quickly grab the lock box under the table, heave it to the back of the room to Dean, and push back from the table. The old man seems to be a boxer — he played cards the same way as a middle-weight flunkie.

He takes a few swings at Jesse, who ducks and covers his head. Just as Grandpa Balboa is about to land a haymaker Dean — a vision in black — steps in to deflect the punch.

But old Balboa seems to be on a tear. He steps into a left hand haymaker and before his fist even gets halfway around his body Dean snaps a little knuckle punch just above the guy’s neck, under the ear. The guy goes down like a bag of potatoes.

Dean looks back at me, then walks over to the players around the table, standing and disoriented.

The buzz resumes: this is the Montreal I know. Wisps of cold air sneak in and glance across your body, never the same place twice. It’s always been this way.