Seconds

by

Craig Terlson

“This Scandinavian buries aces, spins bottoms and seconds better than anyone I’ve ever met.”

A friend of a non-friend, guy named Lloyd, met him at a hookah lounge on the fringe of town. “What was it, Walter?”

“Yeah.”

“She’ll flip ya whatever you need to cash in. Five bills. Four for her, one for me,” Lloyd said.

“That’s a lot of scratch.”
“Pots start at ten times that and go all the way to Mexico,” Lloyd said.
“You playing?”
“I’ll be there for color. It’s all yours, Walt.”

Two hours later he was in the back room of a Ramada circa nineteen-who-gives-a-shit. The Scandinavian raised a blonde eyebrow when she sent Walter the pair of ladies. Maybe she’d lower something else later.

More royalty fell, Jack and a King. Then a couple more dames in crowns.

He didn’t care about the river—Walter was all in, the entire stake.
Two fat cats in tweeds folded like egg whites.
“Lot of green in there. What was it, Walter?”
“Yep. Take me all the way to Mexico.”
Lloyd pushed in his stack, flipped the red nine and ten that went with the other valentines.
“You might need a lift.”