Twice.
A meaningless gesture to anyone watching, but the dealer spots it.
He’s a young man with slicked-back hair and sweat on his upper lip. He catches my eye for a fraction of a second.
He gives the deck a single, sharp cut. The trap is set.
He practiced the move for three weeks in my basement, perfecting it, knowing that if he messes up, he loses a hand. Literally.
Arthur looks at his chips. It’s not enough. He needs more to pay his debts. Far more. He needs a miracle.
"One last hand," he agrees. "No limit?"
"No limit," I confirm.
The dealer gives us our cards. I don't look at mine straight away. I watch Arthur instead and enjoy the show.
His eyes go wide as he takes in his cards. It’s a tell so obvious that a child could catch it. He has a monster hand.
The dealer places cards on the table. Ace. King. King.
Then comes a ten.
Arthur breathes out shakily. He bets a hundred thousand—almost half his money. Overconfidence and greed in the face of ruin. Any reasonable man would have taken his winnings and won, but no, not this reckless asshole.
"I raise," I say, pushing my chips forward. "Two hundred thousand."
Arthur freezes. He does the math. But he calls. He’s in too deep to stop now.
The last card falls. Another ace.
Arthur stares at it. With the king in his hand, he’s holding a Full House—Aces full of Kings. It’s a hand that almost never loses.
He looks at his chips, then at me, nearly trembling in disbelief at his change in fortune.
"I’m all in," he says, shoving the rest of his chips into the center.
"I raise," I say instantly.
I push my entire tower of chips forward. Two million dollars.
The sound of the chips hitting the table is like a gunshot. The room goes silent. The other players fold immediately, backing away as if the table were on fire.
Arthur stares at the mountain of chips. He looks at his own empty spot on the table. He doesn't have the cash to cover the bet.
"I... I don't have that much on me," he stammers, eyeballing every corner of the room in desperation, as if the money will fallfrom the sky to save him. "'I can write an IOU—a note saying I owe the money. The house knows me."
"The house does not take IOUs for two million dollars," I reply coldly. "If you cannot match the bet, you lose the hand. You walk away with nothing."
"No!" He slams his hand on the table. "I have the winning hand! I can't fold! You can't do this!"
"Then pay to see the cards," I say, leaning forward. "Put something on the table worth two million dollars."
Arthur struggles to breathe, cornered like the rat he is.
He fumbles in his jacket pocket, hand trembling as he pulls out a folded document.
The Deed.
