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."In fact, Ozzie had not let anyone in the Poker world know where he lived.He used the name Smithwhen he played and insisted that Scott do the same, and he always kept his car registered to a post officebox."You don't want to take a chance on your work following you home," he'd said.To make that evenless likely, he had always bought new tires and had his Studebaker tuned up before setting out, and henever went to a game without a full tank of gas.And there was always a twelve-gauge pump shotgununder a blanket on the back seat to supplement the pistol in his belt.And he had made sure Scott understood when it was that you had to fold out of a game.That had been the advice Scott had ignored in the game on the lake in '69."If the drink in your glass starts to sit at an angle that ain't quite level, or if the cigarette smoke starts tocrowd in over the cards and fall there, or if plants in the room suddenly start to wilt, or if the air issuddenly dry and hot in your throat, smelling like sun-hot rock, fold out.You don't know what you mightbe buying or selling come the showdown."By the end of the spring of 1969 Ozzie had been sixty or so, and Scott had been twenty-six.Both of them had been wanting to get back home to Santa Ana Scott had a girl friend whom hehadn't seen in three months, and Ozzie missed his other foster child, Diana, who was nine years old andstaying with a neighbor woman but they had decided to hit Las Vegas before once again burning onhome across the Mojave to southern California.They had got in on a Five-Stud game that started in the Horseshoe on Fremont Street in the evening,and at dawn they had moved it upstairs to one of the rooms, and in the middle of the afternoon, when allbut Ozzie and Scott and a pudgy businessman called Newt had been eliminated, they had declared asleep-and-food break."You know," Newt had said slowly, almost reluctantly, as he finally unknotted his tie, "there's a gameon a houseboat on Lake Mead tonight." Newt had lost more than ten thousand dollars.Ozzie had shaken his head."I never gamble on water." He tucked a wad of bills into his jacketpocket.He had increased his roll from about twelve to about twenty-four thousand in the past twentyhours."Even when they had the boats out there in the ocean, three miles off Santa Monica, I never went."Scott Crane was down.He had had ten thousand when they'd driven into Las Vegas, and he hadabout seven and a half now, and he knew Ozzie was ready to declare the season finished and start forhome."What kind of game?" Scott had asked. "Well, it's odd." Newt stood up and walked to the window."This guy's name is Ricky Leroy, andordinarily he's one of the best Poker players in town." The stout young businessman kept his back tothem as he talked."But for the last two or three days he's been playing this game he callsAssumption weird game with a weird deck, all pictures and he's losing.And he doesn't seem tomind.""Assumption," said Ozzie thoughtfully."Twenty years ago a guy was hosting a game of that out on aboat on Lake Mead.Different guy George something.He lost a lot, too, I heard.""My luck's gone here," Newt said, turning around to face them."I'm going to drive out there tonight.Ifyou want to come, I'll be standing under the million-dollar-display Horseshoe at eight.""You may as well just go," Ozzie told him."This was our last game of the season; we're going to sleeptwelve hours and then drive home."Newt had shrugged."Well, I'll be there just in case."Back in their own room at the Mint Hotel, Ozzie had at first been unable to believe that Scott wasn'tkidding when he said he wanted to go meet Newt and get into the game on the lake.The old man had kicked off his polished black shoes and lay down on one of the beds, and he waslaughing with his eyes closed."Sure, Scott on water, tamed water, with a guy that always pays forhands, and playing with what obviously is a Tarot deck, for God's sake.Shit, you'd win a few signifyinghands, and a month later you'd find out you've got cancer and you're getting arrested for crimes younever heard of and you can't get it up anymore.And then one day you'd walk out to the mailbox and findyour goddamn head in there."Scott was holding a glass of beer he'd picked up on the way to the elevator, and now he took a longsip of it.Most Poker players had superstitions, and he had always conformed to Ozzie's, out of respect for theold man, even when it had meant folding a cinch hand just because some cigarette smoke was moving inways the old man didn't like or someone had kicked the table and the drinks were wobbling.Ozzie had folded some good hands, too, of course hundreds, probably, in his forty years ofprofessional play.But Ozzie could afford to: He had made a lot of money over the years, and though herarely played the very-high-stakes games, he was regarded as an equal by the best players in the country.And right now he had twenty-four thousand dollars rolled up tight in the hollow handles of his shavingbrush and shoehorn and coffeepot.Scott had less than eight thousand, and he was going home to car payments and a girl friend wholiked steak and lobster and first-growth Bordeaux wines.And he had heard that next year Benny Binion, the owner of the Horseshoe, was going to host aWorld Series of Poker, with all the best Poker players converging there to determine who was the verybest.Scott could remember having met old Binion once, at a restaurant called Louigi's on Las VegasBoulevard.Scott had been only three or four, staying out late with his long-lost real father, but heremembered now that Binion had ordered the house's best steak and had then shaken ketchup onto it.He was sure he could win this competition & if he could come into town with enough money tospread a good-size net."I've got to go, Oz.My roll's short, and the season's over.""Your roll?" The grin was fading from Ozzie's face as he raised his head to look at Scott."Whatyou've got in your pocket is a hair less than twenty-five percent of our roll, yours and mine and Diana's.We've got thirty-one and a half, and if that ain't lavish to live a year on, I don't ""I've got to go, Oz." Ozzie now wearily forced himself back up onto his feet.His gray hair was disarranged, and heneeded a shave."Scott, it's on water.It's Tarot cards.You want to play, take our money to any of thehundred games in town here.But you can't go play there."You can't go play there, thought Scott, as the beer amplified his own massive fatigue.That's whatyou say to a kid who wants to ride his tricycle to a park where there might be bad boys.I'm twenty-six, and I'm a damn good player on my own not just as Ozzie's kid.The cross-cut wooden grip of his.38 revolver was poking up out of the dirty shirts in the opensuitcase on the bed.He pulled the gun free and shoved it into his jacket pocket."I'm going," he said, and went to the door and pulled it open and strode rapidly down the hall towardthe door to the stairwell.And he was crying by the time he stepped out of the cool darkness of the casino into the brassyafternoon sunlight, because for at least several floors he had heard Ozzie shuffling in his stocking feetdown the stairs behind him, calling and pleading weakly in his frail voice as he forced his exhausted oldbody to try to catch up with his adopted son.CHAPTER 6We're Now Thirteen"Assumption," Newt said.He was talking quickly, hunched over the steering wheel of his Cadillac as the hot dark desert sweptpast on either side
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