Free Loose Ends by D. D. Vandyke

a nice friendly table waited for me within blocks. Of course, I usually arrived during daylight and left the following morning.
    My heart rate climbed and my mind seemed to expand as concentrations of positive stress hormones flooded my brain and nervous system. Even if the mind said no, the brain said yes yes yes . If they had this high in a pill I knew I’d pop it regularly. As they didn’t, I just had to admit that nothing beat pitting myself against a table full of decent players and winning.
    Because I was way better than decent.
    Some people think poker is gambling. That’s true only if you aren’t more skilled than most of the table. Sure, there’s luck involved, but just like market trading and venture capitalism, if you’re an expert and your opponents aren’t, the odds will eventually put money in your pocket. In fact, you can even swim with the sharks and come out ahead if you stay out of serious confrontations with them and everybody takes their bites of the fish.
    Fish are what we call the guaranteed losers on the felt, the ones without a deep understanding of the game, the ones who often don’t even realize how badly they are outclassed, the ones who do believe it’s all about luck. These are why people like me are here, night after night, waiting for their pounds of flesh.
    For a wise working rounder, a steadfast player-of-the-odds or grinder , it’s about doing eight to twelve hours and coming out ahead, night after night, four to six nights a week. It might be fifty bucks a session or five hundred, occasionally more, but it pays the bills.
    Me, I could never be a grinder. I’m a player . I lose more often, but I win more money. This is just my style. I don’t have the patience for the grind. If I play every night, I’ll start dropping too much, and then chasing my losses in a fog of judgment-sapping adrenaline poisoning.
    I know. I used to do it.
    I did it the night before the bomb.
    Fortunately, it hadn’t affected me that day. Being a bit less fried and a little sharper wouldn’t have done a damn thing to change the outcome of the situation, I was sure.
    Pretty sure.
    The tables sang their siren songs to me as they always did, but this time I had the case to fend them off. Talia’s picture hung in my mind’s eye.
    Looking around, I spotted a guy I’d played with now and then, a big redhead with his beard and long hair unkempt, a cheerful maniac at the table in a faux retro Zeppelin t-shirt and black roadie jeans. I’d seen him snorting before – maybe cocaine, maybe speed, so he seemed like my best bet for a further tipoff. I didn’t know his name, but in the manner of poker aficionados everywhere we exchanged cordial nods.
    “Not playing tonight?” he asked.
    “Not tonight.”
    “You need a few bills I could front you.”
    “Thanks, no. But maybe I can buy you a drink.”
    The redhead looked at his cards and tossed them into the muck with a grimace. “I’m out,” he said to the dealer before collecting his chips and standing up.
    After he cashed out I led him out of the back room, my barely touched beer in my hand. He ordered a double Jack and Coke from the bar. When Sergei had set it up, we slid into a dim booth across the room.
    Red lit a cigarette. “What you want, girlfriend?”
    “Ain’t your girlfriend, hair boy.”
    “You don’t like it?” He ran both hands through his ginger locks and slipped a rubber band around the mass, forming a ponytail.
    I shrugged. “Not to my taste, I guess.”
    “Look, you asked me over here. You must be interested.”
    “Not in hooking up. I just want some info.”
    “What kind of info?” He took a swallow of his drink.
    “What do I call you, anyway?”
     “Red works.”
    “I’m Cal.”
    Red licked his lips. “Nice to meet you, Cal. I got some high-quality blow back at my place. Pure. Uncut.”
    I shook my head. “Listen, powder ain’t my thing, but you know where I can get some high-quality uppers? The real shit only,