Dead Man's Land by Jack Patterson (digital e reader .txt) 📕

“You got a deal because you’re such good repeat customers.”

“We’ll be happy to wait and let you count it,” Torres said.

Goretti waved him off. “No need. I know where you live—and I’m quite certain you’re not dumb enough to try and pull one over on me.”

“Thank you, sir. If you don’t need anything else from us, we need to get going,” Torres said.

“Big plans for this evening?” Goretti asked.

Torres nodded. “More than you know.”

Once they climbed back into Torres’s El Camino, Ortega started to apologize.

“I didn’t mean to say that, man,” Ortega said. “I just—”

“You just can’t what? Keep your fat mouth shut? It’s going to be the death of you if you keep it up, especially at Sharkie’s tonight.”

“I won’t say another word,” Ortega said.

Torres turned the ignition and fired up the car. “I wish I could believe you.”

He jammed the gear into drive and pulled onto the circular driveway. He looked in his rearview mirror in time to see Goretti stumbling down the steps and watching them as they left his compound.

“I hope we never have to see him again,” Torres muttered as he turned onto the main road.

Later that evening, they entered the home of the infamous Sharkie. Though contrary to local legend, he didn’t earn his nickname from scamming people at billiards or from making high-interest loans. Whenever he got angry, his baldhead and fanged teeth reminded his closest associates of a great white. At first it was only talked about behind his back, but one day he overheard some of his men referring to “Sharkie” and he demanded to know who it was. When they relented and admitted it was him, he smiled and said, “Tell everyone to call me that now.” For someone with the given name of Theophilus Crappton, Sharkie was a welcome relief—even if it did poke fun at his appearance.

His winner-take-all poker games were legendary and often included high stakes. With an entry fee of $5,000, the weekly event drew characters with money to burn. And most of the time, they watched every cent go up in smoke. Sharkie limited winners to two consecutive weeks before making them sit out for four. It kept the competition stiff and helped him avoid accusations of games being fixed.

During the summers, the attendance for the games waned, but tonight the place was packed for a special event: high-stakes night. Instead of the usual entry fee, it was $200,000, something Torres didn’t know until he walked in the door.

“It’s two hundred G’s tonight,” the guard at the door said.

“Two hundred?” Torres said. “Are you out of your mind?”

The man put his hand on Torres’s chest to prevent him from entering the house. “You don’t normally get invited on these nights, Señor Torres.”

Torres turned around and looked at Ortega. “They need two hundred tonight.”

“What? Have your lost your mind?” Ortega said. “Where are you gonna get that kind of money.”

Torres stared at him without saying a word.

“Oh, no. You’re not gambling with my share.” He wagged his index finger at Torres. “No way—over my dead body.”

Torres followed after him. “I know it’s a lot, but do you know how much we could make tonight?”

“Do you know how much we could lose? Like, all of it. After we pay off all our bills, there won’t be any money left if you lose.”

Torres winked at him. “I’m not going to lose.” He slapped Ortega in the chest. “I’m going to make us rich.”

Ortega shook his head. “No, no, no. This is stupid.”

“I’m always the one telling you that, but in this case you’re wrong. What’d be stupid is if we went home instead of turning our two hundred G’s into several million. And don’t worry—I’d make sure you get some of the profit, too.”

Ortega closed his eyes and grunted. “This is loco—muy loco.”

Torres smiled. “Loco o rico?”

“I will go crazy if you don’t make us rich.”

Torres sprinted toward his car. “You won’t be sorry, my friend.”

Later that evening, Torres advanced to the final game at the big table, where the winners from each of the early games sat. For more than an hour, the competition dwindled until he was in a standoff with Sharkie.

He peeked at his cards and tried to maintain his poker face. The odds of him losing with a straight flush were practically non-existent. He took a deep breath and pushed all his chips in.

“All in,” he said.

The rest of the crowd watched the game as if it were a tennis match, eyeballs shifting back and forth to each competitor, waiting for someone to make a mistake.

Sharkie took a deep breath and looked at his cards again. He pushed all his chips to the center. “Let’s see ’em.”

A grin spread across Torres’s face as he flipped his cards over, revealing the straight flush.

Sharkie didn’t crack, one way or the other. He simply flipped his cards over, revealing a royal flush.

Torres’s face fell as blood rushed to it. There was only one hand that could’ve beaten him. One hand! And Sharkie held it.

The room erupted—shrieks of delight from Sharkie’s “minnows,” as he liked to call them, and a mixture of moans and celebratory cries from the rest of the men, who either shared in Torres’s pain or reveled in Sharkie’s success. Torres simply wanted to crawl beneath the table and disappear. Instead, he turned around and exited.

“Torres,” Sharkie called.

Torres turned around. “What?”

“You’re not even gonna shake my hand?”

Torres waved him off and stomped toward the front door. Ortega walked behind him, intermittently mocking him and bemoaning their fate. “Look what you’ve done,” Ortega said. “‘Trust me,’ you said. Well, look where that got us.”

As soon as he unlocked his car, Torres sank into the seat and shook his head, staring vacantly at the lights from the harbor shimmering on the water. “I can’t believe I did that.”

His phone buzzed. It was Goretti.

“Yeah. What do you want?” Torres asked.

“Boy aren’t we in a happy mood?”

“I’m kinda busy.”

“Well, I’ll keep this short then. While I appreciate your prompt