Steadman's Blind

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

The clack of poker chips combined with the flutter of shuffling cards to create a backdrop of noise Steadman hoped was enough to cover the rumbling inside his gut. The growls stemmed not from hunger, but from nerves, and the soft green baize of the game table in front of him stretched out like a minefield, ready to blow him sky high with every faulty step.

He sat—tethered by a mixture of fear and obligation—in a chair with squeaky wheels in Garth Rafferty’s basement, three blocks from his own clapboard house. Light filtered in through the half-drawn blinds, gilded by the setting sun, dust motes floating in the beams like lazy ballerinas.

He felt like a fool. He still couldn’t believe he’d let Nan talk him into this, but after some discreet investigation and a hard examination of what he’d discovered, he realized Nan’s portrayal of the situation was spot on. Hank was in the tight grip of some dangerous people and they hadn’t left him any wiggle room. At least Nan's plan offered access, a way to crack open the impenetrable shell that surrounded their operation. After a long and emotional discussion with Vivi, his wife, he’d stepped off the edge of his own universe and into a strange new world.

Vivi’s feelings about his involvement were strong and varied, changing from one moment to the next. She was indignant over Hank and Nan’s situation, wanting justice done and vengeance taken, but she wanted someone other than her husband to be the hand that dealt it. They were expecting their first grandchild, and she was feeling protective. In the end, she conceded that Steadman wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t do what he could to help his sister, and she couldn’t sleep next to a man who tossed and turned all night.

It took Steadman less than an hour surfing the internet to realize he needed a hands-on mentor, someone who could coach him through the nuances of the game. That’s when he thought of Rafferty.

Garth Rafferty was a legend around the station. Retired ten years since, his name was still spoken in reverent tones within the taupe-colored walls of the department. He’d closed more cases than anyone else in the city’s history and put away some pretty heinous criminals. After wrapping up a nasty human trafficking case involving young Guatemalan girls, he hung up his uniform and donned a series of Hawaiian shirts while he quietly made a fortune in the local casinos. Most of it in poker cash.

Rafferty had been Chief Deputy when Steadman came in at the bottom rung of the detective division, and though they’d never directly worked a case together, Steadman had a lot of respect for the man and a lot of confidence in his abilities. They’d gotten to know each other in a mostly after-hours way, grabbing a beer after a shift or at one of Rafferty’s famous backyard barbecues. While they’d never grown beyond a casual friendship, Steadman felt he could go to the man, hat in hand.

It took some doing, but he talked Rafferty into taking him on as an apprentice. The older man balked at first, stoking the fires of Steadman’s desperation so that he leaked a little more information about Nan’s predicament than he probably should have. But something he said must have resonated because once he agreed, Rafferty took to his task like a bulldog with a bone, right from day one.

“Poker is not a game of cards,” he told Steadman as they settled in at the table. He pulled the perpetual toothpick from between his molars, stabbing it into the air to drive his point home. “It’s a game of people.” He shoved the toothpick back in and spoke around it. “Let the lesson begin.”

He shuffled and dealt out a hand of Texas Hold’em, two cards each, including a dummy position on either side of him, making it effectively a four player game.

“Meet Deadpan One and Deadpan Two,” Rafferty said, motioning to the dummy hands. “You won’t be able to read a thing on their faces. Good poker players wear a mask you can’t get behind.”

“You mean all the training the department invested in teaching me to read faces won’t help at the poker table?” Steadman asked, fuming at Nan and her hare-brained idea.

“I didn’t say that,” Rafferty replied. “You’ll pick up on some body language, and your instincts are well-honed, but top-notch players are guarded and may even deliberately send a false message if they think you’ll bite. My point is that playing style and behavior will be better indicators, giving you a more accurate pinpoint into reading your opponents.”

Rafferty chewed on the toothpick and gave a rueful chuckle.

“Beyond that,” he said, “I was really just making a joke, Steadman. You got to lighten up. I mean, how much do you really think you’ll get out of those faces?” he asked, gesturing to the empty spaces above the dummy cards.

Steadman laughed, but the tight-sprung wire within him didn’t loosen. He had a lot to learn, and so much was hanging on this education.

“All right,” said Rafferty, “let’s play through a hand. I’m the dealer this time, so that means I’m on the button.” He indicated a round, white token a bit larger than a poker chip in front of him. “Now, that doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll be the one handing round the cards. In fact, the nominal dealer rarely does. It’s just a way of keeping track of the rotation as play moves around the table.”

“Okay,” Steadman said. “I’ll take what you’re saying and hope it makes sense before too long.”

“No time at all, my friend. You’ll be playing like an old pro by week’s end. Okay, so I’m on the button, and the player to my left is the small blind. That makes you the big blind.”

“Sounds like a term that fits,” Steadman said. “What does it mean?”

“A blind is a forced bet. In a 5/10 game, it means the small blind is forced to lay out a five-dollar bet and you, as the big blind, must double that.”

“So I have to bet ten dollars, whether I want to, or not.”

“Them’s the rules.”

“Why?”

Rafferty tossed the chewed-up toothpick into a cut-glass ash tray and placed both hands, palm down, on the table in front of him. “Think about it, Steadman. Let me know what you come up with.”

Steadman squirmed. He didn’t want to think about it, but remembering why he was there brought the reason to his mind with crystal clarity.

“Okay, I get it,” he said. “There’s no point in playing if there’s nothing at stake. Still, I hate someone forcing my hand.”

Rafferty gave him a piercing look. “Then don’t get in the game,” he said. A moment ticked by as the older man continued to scrutinize him and Steadman knew he was talking about more than poker. At last Rafferty cleared his throat and asked, “Are you in?”

Steadman thought over the arguments he’d had with himself, Vivi’s tortured conclusion, Nan’s riven face. He remembered Hank in that hospital bed, full of tubes, with more and worse to come. He wished he could formulate a better solution, but big blind was all too apt a description for the way he felt. He picked up his cards.

“I’m in.”

“All right,” Rafferty said, helping himself to a new toothpick and advancing a red five dollar chip from the dummy player to his left. “Ten, to you.”

Steadman pushed forward a blue chip.

“And now the action starts with the player to the left of the big blind. This guy,” Rafferty said, jerking a thumb toward the other empty seat. “He has three options. He can fold. If he’s got a couple of lower, non-consecutive unsuited cards, that’s what he should do. There are plenty of other times when it might be smart to fold, and you’ll learn those as we go along.”

Steadman rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“He can call,” continued Rafferty, “meaning he matches what the highest betting player has put up. In this case, that’s you, and he would match your ten.” Rafferty placed a blue chip for the dummy.

“Just for fun,” he said, “I’ll exercise the third option, and raise. That means I have to at least double the amount of the previous bet. So if I raise, I have to bet at least twenty. I’ll do that.” He placed two blue chips in front of his pile.

“And so the action moves around, coming back to the small blind. How deep is he in?”

Steadman calculated. “He’s in for five, so that means he’s got to toss in another fifteen to stay in the hand, right?”

“You got it. And now it’s back to you. Will you kick in another ten to call?”

“My other options are folding or raising at least forty.”

“Correct.”

“I’ll call.”

“All right, and Deadpan Two will follow suit. Each player is now in for the same amount, and that ends this round of betting. It’s time for the flop.”

Rafferty tossed aside the top card on the deck, “burning it,” and flipped the next three face up, placing them in a row.

“Okay,” he said, “you’re starting to learn some basics, but you’re going to have to reach way deeper to meet the challenges of your situation.” He dropped the deck on the table and leaned back in his chair. “What are you thinking about right now? What are you basing your decisions on?”

Steadman glanced down at his cards and compared them to what lay on the table.

“I’m trying to figure out my chances of putting together a winning combination between what’s in my hand and what’s in the flop.”

“Okay, and let’s say your two cards plus three on the table make for a strong hand. Then what?”

Steadman shrugged, no idea what Rafferty was driving at. “Then I bet big.”

“And what about your opponents? What do they have?”

Steadman stared at him. “I have no idea.”

Rafferty nodded, grinding the toothpick between his teeth. “Uh-huh, and that’s a problem. You should know what your opponents are holding.”

“How can I possibly know that?” Steadman asked, trying to rein in his exasperation.

“What’s the first thing I said to you when we sat down at this table?”

Steadman tried to remember. “You said poker wasn’t about cards. It’s about people.”

“That’s right—people, Steadman. If you base all your decisions on the cards you hold, you make yourself predictable. Easy prey.” Rafferty tapped two fingers against his skull. “You’ve got to get inside your opponent’s head while keeping him out of your own.”

He worked the toothpick around to the opposite side of his jaw.

“It doesn’t matter what cards you hold in your hand. Nine times out of ten, you can play a winning strategy, regardless. But only,” he said, jabbing the toothpick once more for emphasis, “only if you’ve got a fair idea of what your opponents have and how they’ll play it. You’ve got to put them on a hand, and you do that by reading their behavior, gauging their style of play, and making sound judgments based on your observations.”

“Oh hell, Rafferty—I’ve only got a couple of weeks to get this down. Sounds like I’d need a lifetime.”

“Maybe,” Rafferty agreed, “but I think you’ll catch on quicker than you give yourself credit for. It’s not all that different from reading a suspect under interrogation. I’ve got some cronies coming over tomorrow to take you out for a test drive. But you need to be aware there are even deeper levels of play. Remember—while you’re reading them, they’re reading you too. You have to ask yourself: what do they think I have?”

“Oh marvelous. And then I suppose it’s what do they think I think they have, and it just goes on and on, like looking into a set of mirrors facing each other.”

“Yes,” Rafferty admitted, “but don’t lose heart. You only have to go one level deeper than your opponent. Anything more than that is wasted effort.”

“Cripes,” Steadman said, shoving back from the table and coming to his feet. “This was a bad idea, Garth. I’m sorry I wasted your time.” He sighed and tossed his cards onto the table, rubbing a hand through his hair before turning toward the back patio slider.

“Sit down, Rand.”

Steadman shook his head and took a step for the door.

“I said sit down!” Rafferty’s voice thundered through the low-ceilinged room. Steadman froze, startled enough to break through his frustration. He turned back, staring at the portly man in the flowered shirt.

“If I read you right,” said Rafferty, and there was no toothpick bobbing now between his teeth, “and I’m pretty damn good at reading people, Rand—you’re backed up hard against a wall and you need a way forward.” He motioned toward the chair and Steadman fell into it without argument.

“Now, I know you for a smart man, Chief. I’m not apprised of the details of your situation,” he held up a hand, “and I don’t want to be, but you wouldn’t have come to me if you didn’t think I could help. We have two weeks to get you ready for that casino, Rand, so scoot that chair up to the table and let’s get started.”

Steadman swallowed. He felt that wall at his back, lined with razor blades and dripping with acid. He sorely needed that way forward, and he didn’t know if this was it or not, but he saw nothing else on offer. The wheels of his chair squeaked as he rolled it back into place and picked up his cards.

“I sure hope you can work a miracle, Rafferty,” he said, “’cause you’ve got to teach a blind man how to see.”