Taco Noir by Steven Gomez Page A

was almost enough to cause me to reach for Jesse’s pitcher of water, but that simply wasn’t done. Still unsmiling and perspiring, Jesse laid down his hand.
                  “Two pair,” Jesse said. “A pair of red jacks and a pair of black jacks.”
                I threw down my hand in disgust and got up from the table. Losing a hand is always bad enough, but nothing makes it worse than gambling wit. My stack was light about three hundred dollars, and most of that was in Sweet Jesse’s pocket. I decided that I could use a break, and turned my attention to Sweet Jesse’s sandwich tray while the other players took their turn as Jesse’s punching bag.
     
                  When Sweet Jesse floats a game, the great consolation is that although your wallet is sure to be lighter, the spread he lays out for his games guarantees to satisfy.
                  Today the sweaty little toad stocked the bar with a nice selection of fancy Hefeweizens and Pilsners, and served them up with a hearty German Potato Salad and thick, warm Monte Cristo sandwiches. I used the edge of the table to pry open one of the ice cold bottles of beer, earning me a glare from a couple of the stiffs at the table. I shrugged and loaded my plate with enough potato salad to reach critical mass, tossing on a sandwich for good measure.
                  I watched the other players, Nick the Axe, Psycho Billy, and Barnstorming Pete Wilson push their chips around the table. They were just trading clay with each other as Sweet Jesse ate through them, piece by piece. While I ate, Jesse walked away with every pot but two, sweating and drinking his ice water through it all. Or so I thought.
                  On the next hand, the dealer flopped a seven, ten, and a jack. Billy checked his cards while the other seat holders mucked their hands. All but Sweet Jesse. Jesse raised twenty-five bucks, and without blinking Billy raised fifty.
                  The check-raise is an excellent poker strategy, and one of the few times when I feel it is acceptable for a player to check. As soon as Billy threw in his fifty, Sweet Jesse knew that Billy either had the nuts or wanted Jesse to believe that he did. Either way, Jesse threw in his money and they were playing poker.
                  The turn was a four, which probably did no one any good. Billy threw in a hundred more, daring Jesse to call. Jesse continued to sweat, took a drink of his ice water, and called. The dealer threw down a deuce.
                  Billy bounced, going all in, practically throwing in about two hundred more in chips. Even though this was a paltry sum compared to Sweet Jesse’s stack, the big guy sat, sipping his water, and shuffling his chips. After a moment, he called Billy again, and Billy threw down an eight and a nine, giving him a straight. Sweet Jesse threw out a few curse words with his cards, drained his ice water, and motioned for one of his cronies to re-fill him.
                  Jesse didn’t spend much time playing on tilt after losing. The next three hands all went to the fat man in succession, and he even threw down his hole cards when he took Billy’s money, an arrogant move that I always detest in players.
                  Jesse was back to his winning form after his setback, sweating his way through the cheaply upholstered chair and winning a blue streak. I helped myself to a little more potato salad and another of the Monte Cristo sandwiches while I watched Sweet Jesse pluck himself some pigeons. I don’t usually drink much during poker games, but the salt of the salad had given me a powerful thirst, so I cracked open another beer. The light Pilsner felt like heaven on my scratchy throat, and I could understand why Jesse kept draining that water pitcher next to him as he played. Except now I noticed that he didn’t. Not since that last losing