Poker News

Poker Cop: A Poker Murer Mystery

Donna Francesca says, “Gyp asked me to look through his nonno’s things for something about a Card House. This was all I could find.”

It’s a $25 poker chip from a notorious bust-out joint called THE LIMP INN.

“I must get back home,” say Donna Francesca, “Ever since his father and nephew were killed by this double-barreled shotgun-wielding maniac, my son Paulo worries I will die in the same manner.” I walk her out to the street where Vittorio and Jake stand by her town car. I open her car door. She stops, asks, “What is a bust-out joint?”

“A crooked poker room where you buy-in and bustout.” “The Don would never play in such a place. He would cheat but never be cheated.”

Vittorio opens the town car’s back door. “What does this ‘bust-out’ place have to do with Gyp’s death? With the Don’s?”

“I don’t know.” I hold up the $25 chip. “I’ll take this orphan home and find out.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thayer,” says the Donna getting into the back seat. “You, like Gyp, are a cheat. The Don always said, ‘The game belongs to the cheaters.’”

I close her door and step away. Vittorio starts the car. It explodes.

My hole cards are JaJd. Bloody Fishhooks. I bet half my chips.

“Alcoholya,” says the late Gyp.

The flop comes, Jack, Jack, Jack.

I raise with the other half of my chips.

“Yore bluffin,’” says Gyp, “use ain’t got no five Jax!” I come over the top re-raising myself with the third half of my chips.

Fourth Street: Jack!

Fifth Street: Jack!

“What ya got?” asks Gyp. I show down my seven Jacks.

Gyp shows me A’s and 8’s says, “How come ahm hold’en the Deadman’s Hand but the deadman’s hold’en, “Jack, Jack, Jack. . . .”

“Jack, Jack, Jack,” I open my eyes. Jake say’s, “I though you we’re a dead man.” Lying in the street, I feel like I am.

He exclaims, “That bomb blast threw you half-way across the street. Are you all right?”

I wiggle everything.

Everything, except my left arm, wiggles back. A sudden wave of dizziness, I say,”Something’s . . .”

. . . wrong.”

“Don’t ah no it!” say Gyp, “For startahs’, ahm dead.”

He deals again. My hole cards are JsJf. Black Jacks. I ask, “Whose action is it?” “Don’t matta. Ahm awl-in. Yore awl-en.”

The board is 6 6 6 4 4.

Gyp turns over 4 4.

“Four Dead In O-Hi-O,” he says.

I turn over my wired Jacks. Gyp says, “Jack’s In Hell.” I start to scream

. . . of a ambulance siren.

Jake yells, “Over here! Over here!” A Paramedic runs over and asks . . .

“Whatsamattawityou?”

I answer Gyp, “Every time I think about your murder I get the feeling. . . .

“Something wrong!’” yells the Paramedic, “Sir? Hello!

Can you hear me?Hell. . . .”

“Hell?” I ask Gyp, “Are we in Hell?”

“Naw,” he answers, “In Hell dey make poka playahs like us play Go. . .”

” . . . Go! Go!” yells someone and the ambulance speeds off. I come to, tied tightly down to a stretcher. The Paramedic, his back turned, is filling a hypodermic needle.

I ask, “Am I going to live?”

The Ugly Man, holding the long needle, turns around and says, “No, you’re going to die!”

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