Poker News

Pokre Cop: A Poker Player Murder Mystery

I go to the Police. I tell Detective Sweeny, “The House of Cards is a bizarre sado-masochistic poker game played for body parts.” He throws me out.

I go to the FBI. I tell Agent Merry, “The House of Cards is a bizarresadomasochistic poker game. . . .” She throws me out too.

I go to the Hospital. Jake’s not there. House Of Cards players are.

I go to the Morgue. Jake’s not there. What’s left of Shemp is.

I go to The House Of Cards. Jenny and the Small Man are gone.

I go to Don Paulo’s home. He’s dead. There’s a new Don.

I go to the poker rooms. I play terribly.

I look again for Jake. This time in all the places I didn’t look last time. I still have the feeling Something’s wrong. I go home and think it over.

My front door is kicked in. I don’t ask, “Who is it?” I’ve already figured out what’s wrong. I say loudly, “Hello, Gyp.”

Zombies are supposed to be the living dead. My late partner walks in holding a shotgun. “Jackie, how-the-hell-are-ya?”

“Not too good, Gyp.”

“Ahm sorry to hear it. Ya no wise ahm hear.”

“Yes. To kill me. But, before you do, I’d like an explanation.”

“Sure. I owes ya dat. My grandpa, da Don, haz two childr’n, Pretty Paulie and my momma. She marries my daddy hoos a capo inda fambly and day haz me. Turnz out my dadz way smarta dan Pretty Paulie. Da Don wuz ‘fraid that my fatha mite take ova da fambly. So what’s he doo? He haz my fatha kilt. I only find diz out recent like. Ahm plannin’ to kill da Don wen ‘e telz me ’bout how hez invited ta sum big deal Card House. He axes me ta go wit ‘em ta git hiz poke. Dat wuz my chance. I blew hez head off with dis shotgun so dayed blame Jake ’steda me. Ah new Pretty Paulie wood go krazy. Awl ah I hadda do den wuz fake my own death an wait for the shootin’ ta stop. I did dat at yore Goldfish Game.”

“And your partner? The one I called Shemp?”

Fambly hit man. I promized ta make hem my consigliere. Ya woodn’t no where hez at, wood ya?

I shrug.

“It all wuz goin’ accordin ‘ to plan, too, til use messed it up chasin’ afta dat fookin Card House.”

“Whose body did you use to fake your death?”

“Da bellboy. “Knock. Knock. Who’s there? Room Service.” I shot ‘em in da face, drest him in my treads, an lef use ta tel da cops it wuz me. We kilt awl da othas, stole da money an lef you ta take da rap. Den alz ah needed ta do waz hide out waitin’ for Pretty Paulie to start ah war he couldn’t win.”

“And now?”

“Now ahm Don Gyp. Wit yore help, I got away with mioda. Jus’ one more loose end ta tie up now.” He raises the shotgun.

“Gyp,” I tell him, “Just one last thing you should know.”

“An wat’s dat?”

“I found Jake, all shot up, in a no-question’s asked clinic. I brought him here to recuperate. He’s not happy to see you. Are you, Jake?”

Click goes the hammer of Jake’s shotgun.

Gyp turns around just in time to see the muzzle flash that mucks his life.

I stumble down the stairs and into the street. I run. At some point I fall down and fail to get up.

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