“This is the first time I’ve been free to play,” he replied casually.
“And when can we get this game going?” asked Malik. He was a high-ranking beta of Pack Thunder. Malik was good-natured.He never seemed to be rattled, regardless of how games played out. I had seen him win and lose big, and he seemed equally pleased, or rather unconcerned, by each outcome.
“Always the last chair to be filled and hold us up,” Andrew said to Ashford. He was a human businessman or banker. I wasn’t sure what he did exactly, only that he was at every game, big or small.
He was right. Ashford was always the last to sit down. He wasn’t late. No. He never actually made anyone wait for him, probably because he knew they wouldn’t. He didn’t have any real power. Not in this room, with these people. If it weren’t for the fact that Pack Blizzard had been growing and becoming a rising name in construction over the last few years, he wouldn’t have a seat at any table.
I still remembered vividly how he had screamed in anger the moment we were in the car heading home, barely able to contain his rage until the door had shut after Andrew had referred to him asnew moneyduring one of his first games.
Being the last to sit made him feel important.
Tonight’s game was a $250,000 buy-in, $1,000/$2,000 blinds, the largest game Ashford had played in. There were nine players total, a mix of werewolves and humans. Money was the great equaliser; there was no anti-werewolf/human rhetoric when everyone was rich. Bias—I had learned while watching how the elite operated and learning the game of poker—was a tool of manipulation. Keep your cards close, keep the uninitiated and ill-informed guessing while you use probability and the rules of the game to your advantage and aim to walk away with the pot.
Ashford was playing wisely, folding before the flop for ten straight hands. The men at the table were talking, goading, laughing like losing or winning tens of thousands was no big deal.
I watched Gael, glancing in his direction occasionally; his attention was utterly on the game.
Waitresses in dresses as tight and short as mine brought drinks between hands. The game runner, Samar, an older man, human, bald, always impeccably dressed in pinstriped three-piece suits, sat in the cash room off to the side. I saw him glance up from his computer screen occasionally.
As much as those at the table seemed unencumbered by the numbers at play, it was clear that everyone else was paying close attention. Samar would get his 3% rake, and Gael his money plus interest, one way or another.
Ashford won a hand, a pot of over $40,000. I wasn’t sure of the exact amount, but I saw how his back relaxed, his easy smile, and the large celebratory gulp he took of his drink.
The game continued, and Ashford lost—again and again.
“Rebuy,” he said, his voice hoarse and his drink quickly empty.
No one at the table commented as the dealer glanced behind Ashford to Gael. Gael nodded, and the dealer dealt another $250,000 in chips to Ashford.
“Rebuy,” he stated again in half the time.
I felt dread trickle slowly down my spine as I watched Gael for his reaction. A small nod of approval, and the dealer dealt more chips.
“Got a money tree we don’t know about?” Andrew joked.
“That’s not a tree. It’s a line,” Malik replied.
“Everyone wants to back a winner,” Ashford said.
“I can’t remember the last time I saw you leave the table having won anything,” Darren said. It was uncharacteristic of him to make any sort of dig, but was it a dig if it were true? Ashford had been on a losing streak for weeks. I wasn’t even sure how much he owed. I suspected it was close to seven figures, but now, with the original buy-in and two rebuys, it had to be seven figures.
“Trying to throw me off my game won’t help you,” Ashford replied.
“Sure,” Darren said as the dealer dealt out the new cards. The dealer button moved to Ashford, meaning he was in the advantageous position of playing last.
He called. The flop was placed. Fold, check, check, check. Darren raised. Fold, call, call. Ashford raised, staring down Darren. The turn community card was placed. By the end of the round, only Darren and Ashford remained in the game. The river was placed.
“All in,” Darren said calmly, pushing all his chips forward.
Ashford could fold. I didn’t know what he had, but it was clear he was playing with his ego. I knew he wouldn’t fold. He couldn’t back down to Darren Sandstorm.
“All in,” Ashford said and pushed his chips forward.
Ashford showed his cards—two pair.
Darren smiled. Not calmly, confidently. He showed his cards—a flush.
“Hard luck,” Darren said as the dealer moved the pot to him.
