Free The Neon Jungle by John D. MacDonald

was that place they started going, playing the five and ten poker game. Once he caught on to the game, he liked it. He liked spreading the cards real slow so that they came into view one by one.
    It was all a lot better than before Vern came. He still couldn’t see why Vern hadn’t warned him that night about the game. It was in a new place. Vern had said he felt lucky and they went to the new place for poker. It was fixed up nice, with green on the table and chips that felt good. There were four men playing. They didn’t say much. They looked important. Vern said it was a private club.
    One of the men said, “Twenty-five and fifty all right for you gentlemen?”
    Vern took Rick Stussen’s arm and led him aside. “Think you can stand that?”
    “Sure. Sure, I can stand it, Vern.”
    “Be lucky, then, big boy.”
    It was a real quiet game. The man who had spoken was banker. He handed Rick and Vern each a stack of chips. Rick reached for his money, but the man said, “We’ll settle later, Mr. Stussen.”
    “Sure,” Rick said, smiling. “Sure thing.”
    Rick was worried about the stakes, but when he took the first pot with a king-high flush, he began to feel more expansive. He won another pot, and then there was a long spell of poor hands and his chips melted away. When he was way down, the banker handed him two more stacks, one of reds and one of blues, and marked the paper again.
    He saw that Vern would lose and then win. All the men played intently. Rick’s second batch of chips melted slowly away, with the temporary respite of only one small pot. The man gave him a third batch, and Rick said, with nervous apology, “My luck keeps up like this, I better make this the last batch.” He figured that at twenty dollars for each batch of chips, a sixty-dollar evening was pretty expensive.
    “Maybe you ought to quit now,” Vern said, looking worried.
    “Maybe Mr. Stussen’s luck will change,” said the banker. He was a small man with a red face and fluffy white hair. There were purple veins in his cheeks and on his nose.
    “I’ll try one more batch,” Rick said.
    And the last batch began, dismally, to melt away, eaten up by the antes, lost in the purchase of cards that didn’t help a pair.
    When there were only a few chips left in front of him, the man on Rick’s left dealt. He dealt very swiftly. Rick picked up his cards and spread them slowly. Ace, three, Ace, Ace. His throat felt tight. He slowly spread the last card until he could see the denomination. Ace. Give me some play on the hand, he said to himself. Give me some play on the hand.
    The man on the dealer’s left opened. Vern, the next player, stayed. The next man folded. The banker stayed. Rick said, “Just for luck I got to nudge that a little.” He tossed out two blue chips.
    The opener said softly, “I’m proud too. Back at you.”
    “I thought I opened this pot,” the next man said. “Let’s freeze out the ribbon clerks.” He raised.
    Vern tossed his hand in and said, disgustedly, “That makes me a ribbon clerk.” The next two men stayed.
    Rick said, “I better have another batch, please.”
    The man handed the chips over, marked the paper.
    Rick said, “I’ll try it again.”
    The dealer didn’t raise again. He groaned and stayed. The opener raised again.
    The man to the left of Vern who had folded earlier said, “Too rich for my blood, gentlemen.”
    The banker stayed and Rick, gloating inwardly, raised again. It was the last raise permitted him. The opener had one more raise coming. He used it. The banker stayed in and Rick stayed in. There were four of them left in. The dealer, the opener, the banker, and Rick.
    “Cards, gentlemen?” the dealer said.
    “I’ll play these,” said the opener.
    “Pat hands make me nervous,” said the banker. “I’ll take one, please.”
    “One for me too,” said Rick, discarding the trey.
    “Opener bets,” said the dealer, giving himself one card.
    After the draw, the limit was two