June 26, 2019

Double Sixes

It hurt more than he had imagined.

50 years, and this was the first time he had been punched in the face.

It hurt like a bitch.

But he had it coming to him. More than coming to him.

25 grand.

That’s what he owed.

And the Irishman had been fair. More than fair.

He had missed multiple payments.

Irishman said he was going to punch him in the face.

Man, it hurt like a bitch.

Thing is, nobody would play him anymore. Nobody in New York. Nobody in the whole fucking eastern sea board.

He was too good. He was too strong. What was the point of being so good if you couldn't make a living.

So he started giving way too many points. Nobody would play unless he gave up points. He knew there was no way. Knew he no longer had the edge.

So the Irishman took the points and beat him.

21-18.

Jesus, he almost pulled it off.

Gave away 11 points and almost pulled it off.

Irishman rolled double fives and double sixes back to back on a doubled cube.

Jesus.

He couldn’t get a break.

And his face hurt like a bitch. Even with this slab of frozen steak pressed up against his cheek.

The Irishman gave him the steak. He had a heart, the Irishman. He beat the shit out of him, but he had a heart.

Now he had a week to come up with 25 grand. There was no way. There was just no fucking way. And his face hurt like a bitch.

He didn't know how long the phone had been ringing. Or how many times. But he had ignored it all morning.

Good news would wait until noon. And it was never good news.

He reached for his iPhone. It was Solly.

“I have a mark.” Solly wasn’t much on formalities.

“Last time you said you had a mark it didn’t turn out so well for me,” I said.

“This time is different,” replied Solly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Dotcom asshole in San Francisco. Has more money than God. Thinks he is a player. Wants to play you.”

“In San Francisco?”

“Yeah. It’s set up.”

“How many points does he want?”

“That’s the thing. This putz want to play you heads up. Doesn’t want any points.”

“Heads up?”

“Yeah. Am picking you up in 10 minutes.”

“Jesus.”

“How’s your face?”

“It hurts like a bitch.”

He hadn’t started with backgammon. Was a chess guy. A prodigy. Okay, maybe not a prodigy. But he was good. But the old man was a dick. Wanted to make up for his childhood losses in Moscow by jumping on the success of the kid. So he rode him hard. Yelled at him. Belittled him. Ridiculed him. And more yelling. But never hit him. Would have been better prepared for the Irishman had the old man hit him a few times. So he finally told him to go fuck himself. But that didn’t phase him. The old man was a dick. Many people had told him to go fuck himself. But then he said he wasn’t going to play anymore. Pawn to king four my ass. That shattered the old man. Stung more than the right hand of the Irishman. He hadn’t touched a chess piece since.

But he missed the action. Missed the strategy. You can’t ask a thoroughbred to give up racing and switch to taking snotty-nosed kids on pony rides. So backgammon.

Started in the park. He was a mark. They lined up to play him. Salivated like the Pavlovian dog when he set foot in the park. And he was working back then. Book-keeping for the tie manufacturer in the Lower East Side. Of course the ties were manufactured in China. Elite Ties. Jesus, what a grind. What a shit hole. Basically just handing over his salary to the sharpies in the park. Solly wanted him to play chess and re-coop his losses. Had a bunch of loser marks set up. But he was done with chess. Wasn’t going to give his father the satisfaction.

And then he started figuring it out. It was only a matter of time. It was a math problem combined with the right level of aggression. He had been too cautious at first. Too protective of his men. But then he realized you had to send them out on their own. Like guerrillas in the night. The Israelis taught him the aggression. How to slap down the pieces as if he were trying to pierce the board. And how to swear in Arabic. “Kos omek! said with a wide smile. A broad smile. Shocking he didn’t get punched in the face. Shocking the Irishman was the one who broke his maiden.

The wins started coming. So did the money. There were professional tournaments but he had a panic attack the first time. Felt too much like the chess tournaments of old. Kept looking around waiting for his old man to swear at him in Russian. He walked out of the room and never played in a tournament again. So, it was only money games. In the park. In hotel rooms. In mansions in Long Island. All the guys who fancied themselves players wanted a piece of him. Wanted to take him out. But he crushed them all. Not even close.

Should have put the money away. Obviously. An idiot knew that. But it was a spigot that wouldn’t turn off. Sucker after sucker lining up to try their hand. So he bought the cars and the hookers and the cocaine. Solly tried to help. But there was no chance. He was never going to lose. Was never going to run out of money.

And then. And then the players ran out. It didn’t peter out, little by little, over time. It just stopped. One day, there were a dozen guys just waiting to get their asses handed to them. And then there were none. Nobody wanted to play him any more. He was too good.

But now he had a lifestyle he had to support. He wasn’t about to buy a fucking Honda Accord.

It didn’t take long for the money to run out and for the hookers to refuse his IOUS.

He had already begun to give points, but then even that stopped working. And what was the point. You give away the points, you give away your edge.

Then you are just another patzer praying to God for a double six.

Then Solly comes and says the Irishman wants to play for 25k but wants 11 points.

The Irishman is shit. And drinks. Drinks a lot. Solly thinks it’s a lock.

But 11 points is too much. Even against a drunken Irishman.

So now his head hurts like a bitch.

The guy in security at the airport is giving him the once-over. Giving him the twice-over.

“You look like you went 10 rounds with Frazier,” he says.

The security guard is young. Maybe in his early twenties. Making reference to Joe Frazier was not bad. Had to give him credit for that.

How does he even know about Joe Frazier. Before his time.

“You should see the other guy.”

Solly buys the tickets with what can only be stolen credit cards. Solly has no money. Is a bigger degenerate gambler than he is. Blackjack in Atlantic City. Jesus. Solly can't even divide or multiply properly and now he thinks he is some kind of fucking card counter. It's a joke. A fucking joke.

First-class tickets too.

What the hell. If you are going to steal, you might as well steal big.

They are over Kansas when he asks him how much he is going to be playing for.

Solly says $100k. Solly says candy from a motherfucking baby. He doesn’t ask where the money is coming from. He doesn’t have to ask. He knows it has to be from the Irishman. Who else could it be.

But it was a lock. Wasn’t a person in the world who could beat him to 21 points in  backgammon. Not a person in the world.

Four scotches and two Ativans later, he is sleeping. Solly has to shake him awake. They are the only two left on the plane.

The stolen credit card is now being used for a black stretch limo. Solly is pushing his luck. The card doesn’t have many hours left in it before it gets flagged. The limo has champagne. But he declines. Wants his mind to be sharp. Doesn’t think he will need it. But why take a chance. Better to play at his best.

The limo takes them to the San Francisco Four Seasons. A suite on the top floor.

The kid thinks he is Zuckerburg. With his hoodie and his flip flops. Doesn’t look old enough to vote.

This was going to be a joke. The Irishman is going to want to take 50k. Fair enough. He is entitled. Then some for Solly. Jesus. He will be generous. Give Solly 10. He earned it. Found him a real mark. Leave him with 40. Pay back some debts. Get even on some credit cards. Maybe even look up some of the old hookers. Money was spent before the first roll of the dice.

“I didn’t bring a board,” he says after scanning the room looking for one. “Am happy to play on any board but want the dice to be from an unopened Monopoly game.” It was standard. The die could be shaven. Could be manipulated. They had tried every trick in the books against him. But there was no chance. He couldn’t be cheated.

One of the other hoodies in the room brought out a board and a large selection of dice in closed boxes. They didn’t look like they could rob a kid at a lemonade stand. He knew the dice were going to be legit.

The dotcom asshole turned on his laptop. Don’t know why he called him an asshole. Didn’t know the guy. Only that Solly called him an asshole “I’ve been working on this program for two years,” he said as he fiddled with the mouse. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to try it against you. I heard you were the best player in the world.”

Program?

Fucking Solly.

Jesus. Fucking Solly was fucking him again.

But what could he do. Kasparov beat BIG Blue back in the day. Maybe he could beat the software. He really had no choice. What could he do. The Irishman was going to beat the shit out of him again.

The hoodie said he could roll first.

He looked at the laptop, called it a  vulgar word in Arabic under his breath, and then flicked the die with flourish.

Double sixes.

It was a good start.

The end.