Catch and Release Paperback

  You can kill yourself, he thought. Or you can go back to the table and take that sonofabitch for everything he’s got.

  He returned the gun to the drawer. On his way to the table, he found himself wondering if he’d made the right choice.

  * * *

  He began winning.

  It wasn’t terribly dramatic. Most of the pots were small ones, and he couldn’t get any real momentum, but he was gaining ground, inching along, taking two steps forward and one back.

  “Slow going,” he said, when Taggert folded after receiving his second up card. “Maybe we should raise the stakes.”

  “Oh?”

  “Make it twenty-five and fifty,” he suggested.

  Taggert frowned. “Let me think about it,” he said, and reached for the cards. “I’m not sure how much longer I want to play.”

  “Come on,” Krale said. “The night is young.”

  “Well, I’m not, and it’s past my bedtime. And the trouble with a two-handed game is you’re always either dealing or shuffling. It’s a pain in the ass, passing the cards back and forth all night long.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but knew that Taggert was right.

  “What we need,” he said, “is a house dealer.”

  “Yeah, right,” Taggert said. “Why not wish for a full range of casino perks while you’re at it?”

  “I’m serious,” Krale said. He got to his feet, called out, “Tina!”

  * * *

  “We’ll stick to seven-card stud,” he said. “That’s what we’ve been playing anyway, nine hands out of ten. Tina, you know how to deal stud, don’t you? Two down cards, four up cards, one down card.”

  “What about the ante? We’ve been playing dealer ante, and if we don’t take turns dealing—”

  “What do we need with an ante?” Krale said. “Remember, the high hand’s compelled to bet the first round, and that’s enough to get the pot started. Tina deals the blue cards, and while we play the hand she shuffles the red cards. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “It might even be fun,” she said.

  “And while we’re at it,” Krale said, “we can up the stakes to twenty-five and fifty.”

  Taggert shook his head.

  “Twenty-forty? If you insist, although I’d just as soon boost it a little bit higher.”

  “I was thinking we could make the first bet five dollars,” Taggert said.

  “Five dollars!”

  “And make the betting pot limit. That way you don’t bleed away too much on hands that fizzle out on fourth street, and the big hands are really big.”

  “Pot limit,” Krale said. “Well, hell, why not?”

  * * *

  He found out the answer to that question when his three jacks ran headlong into a small straight. He’d been moving up nicely, banking a string of small pots, and the straight killed him.

  He sat there, working to maintain his composure while Taggert pulled in the pot. Midway through the task of stacking them, he picked up a blue chip and tossed it to Tina.

  “One thing I learned in Atlantic City,” he said. “A pot like that, you damn well tip the dealer.”

  She picked up the chip, looked at it.

  “It’s a joke,” Krale said. “Give it back.”

  “It’s not a joke,” Taggert said. “You keep it, Teen.”

  Teen?

  “Well, thanks,” she said, and grinned, and tucked the chip into her cleavage.

  And all at once Krale didn’t mind losing.

  * * *

  The cards didn’t favor either of them, not really. The hands tended to average out. Krale sat there and played what Tina dealt him, and he won his share of hands, pulled in his share of pots.

  But two hands killed him. Two moves, really. In one hand, he limped along with four small spades, filled his flush on sixth street, and called a big bet because Taggert needed the case nine for a full house, that was his only out, and Krale just didn’t believe he had it.

  Wrong.

  A little while later, he just flat knew Taggert had a busted flush, and no backup pair for his pair of aces. The aces were enough to beat Krale’s jacks, but how could Taggert call a big bet if all he had was aces?

  Wrong again. Right about the unsupported aces, but the sonofabitch called all the same, and aces beat jacks, the way they always do.

  Beaten, Krale didn’t curse his luck, or the cards, or Taggert. What he did do was note the expression on Taggert’s face, and the one on Tina’s, and the look that passed between them.

  “Kills me,” he announced. “How you made that call...well, I guess that’s poker.”

  “Maybe it’s time to call it a night.”

  “Maybe,” Krale said, and found that he could read Taggert now as if the man had subtitles etched on his forehead. Because Taggert didn’t want to quit. He’d wanted to earlier, but not now.

  Nice.

  “All I want,” Krale said, “is a chance to get even.”

  “Seems reasonable.”

  “But I’m running out of money to play with. If I had to write you a check for what I owe you right this minute, I’d have to do some fancy footwork to keep it from bouncing.”

  “I hate to take a marker,” Taggert said, “but in this case—”

  “I hate to give one. Here’s my thought. I’m going to stake myself to a thousand dollars worth of chips. If I win, I win. And if I lose the lot...”

  He had their attention.

  “...then you can take Tina in the bedroom,” he said, “and play dealer’s choice for as long as you want.”

  “You know, if I thought you were serious—”

  “Oh, he’s serious,” Tina said.

  “Really? Dick, don’t you figure Tina has some say in the matter?”

  “Tina wouldn’t mind.”

  “Is that true, Teen?”

  Teen.

  “You sonofabitch,” she said to Krale. “No,” she said to Taggert. “No, Mark, I wouldn’t mind.”

  * * *

  At first they took turns picking up small pots. The cards were uninteresting, and the hands generally ended with the second up card, but Krale could feel the game’s level of intensity rise in spite of the cards.

  Fifteen or twenty minutes in, Tina dealt Krale a pair of tens in the hole and a seven on board. Taggert’s face card was a queen; he bet and Krale called.

  On the next round, Krale paired his seven while Taggert picked up a king. Krale bet, Taggert called.

  Krale caught a ten on fifth street, filling his hand, while Taggert paired his king and made a medium-size bet. He had kings and queens, Krale decided, and didn’t want to chase Krale out of the pot. Krale thought it over and called.

  Taggert’s next card was a queen. Two pair on board, and Krale read him for a boat.

  His own card was a ten, giving him two pair showing.

  “Maybe you’re not full yet,” Taggert said, and bet into him.

  Maybe you’re not full yet. Like it mattered to Taggert, who clearly was full himself, with a boat that would swamp tens full or sevens full or anything Krale might have.

  Krale just called.

  And Tina dealt the river cards. Krale looked at his, for form’s sake, and it was a queen, which meant that Taggert couldn’t have four of them. He could still have four kings, though.

  Taggert made a show of looking at his river card, squeezing it out between his other two down cards. Nothing showed on his face. He sat there considering, and pushed chips into the pot.

  “Here’s your chance to double up,” he said. “My bet’s whatever you’ve got in front of you.”

  “Oh, what the hell,” Krale said. “Let’s get this over with.” And he shoved his chips to the middle of the table. “I call, Mark. What have you got?”

  Big surprise—Taggert showed a king and a queen, giving him the full house Krale had read him for all along.

  “Kings full,” Krale said. He felt the blood in his veins, felt energy pulsing through his body
. He noted the way Taggert was trying not to look at Tina, and the way Tina was allowing herself to look at Taggert. And then he turned over one of the two tens he had in the hole.

  “Tens full,” he announced. “I just didn’t believe you had it, Mark.” He dropped his other two hole cards face-down on the table, mixed them in with the pack Tina had been dealing from.

  He stood up. “That’s it,” he said. “Enjoy yourself, kids. You deserve it.”

  * * *

  He poured himself a brandy, and held the glass to the light while he listened to their footsteps on the staircase.

  Now they’re at the top of the stairs, he thought. Now they’re in the bedroom, our bedroom. Now he’s kissing her, now he’s got his hand on her ass, now she’s pressing herself into him the way she does.

  He sipped the brandy.

  Suppose Taggert had caught a fourth king. Then he could have shown the fourth ten, and he’d still be sipping brandy and they’d still be up in the bedroom.

  He thought about them up there, and he took another small sip of brandy.

  Better this way, he decided. Better that he’d had the winning hand and refrained from showing it. This way he had a secret, and he liked that.

  Noble of him. Self-sacrificing.

  He finished the brandy, went to his desk, opened the upper left-hand drawer, took out the gun. Assured himself once again that all the chambers were loaded.

  Another brandy?

  No, he didn’t need it.

  He was quiet on the stairs, avoiding the one that creaked. Not that they’d be likely to hear him, not that they’d be paying attention to anything but each other.

  He walked the length of the hall. They hadn’t bothered to close the door. He saw their clothes, scattered here and there, and then he saw them, looking for all the world like internet porn.

  He approached to within ten feet of the bed. He was within Tina’s peripheral vision, and he could tell when she registered his presence. She froze, and then so did Taggert.

  “Nice,” Krale said.

  They looked at him, and saw his face, his poker face, and then they saw the gun.

  God, the looks on their faces!

  “I had four tens,” Krale said. “So you both lose.”

  A VISION IN WHITE

  The game changed over time. Technology made change inevitable: racquets were larger and lighter and stronger, and even shoes got a little better every few years. And human technology had much the same effect; each generation of tennis players was taller and rangier than the one before it, and players improved on genetics by getting stronger through weight training and more durable through nutrition. So of course the game changed. It had to change.

  But the players still—with rare exception—wore the traditional white clothing, and that was one thing he hoped would never change. Oh, some of them sported logos, and maybe that was inevitable, too, with all the money the corporations were throwing around. And you saw colored stripes on some of the white shirts and shorts, and periodically the self-appointed Brat of the Year would turn up in plaid shorts and a scarlet top, but by and large white prevailed.

  And he liked it that way. For the women, especially. He didn’t really care what the men wore, and, truth to tell, found it difficult to work up much enthusiasm for the men’s game. Service played too great a role, and the top players scored too many aces. It was the long drawn-out points that most engaged him, with both players drawing on unsuspected reserves of strength and tenacity to reach impossible balls and make impossible returns. That was tennis, not a handful of 120-mile-an-hour serves and a round of applause.

  And there was something about a girl dressed entirely in white, shifting her weight nervously as she waited for her opponent to serve, bouncing the ball before her own serve. Something pure and innocent and remarkably courageous, something that touched your heart as you watched, and wasn’t that what spectator sports were about? Yes, you admired the technique, you applauded the skill, but it was an emotional response of the viewer to some quality in the participant that made the game genuinely engaging, and even important.

  Interesting how some of them engaged you and others did not.

  The one who grunted, for example. Grunted like a little pig every time she hit the ball. Maybe she couldn’t help it, maybe it was some Eastern breathing technique that added energy to her stroke. He didn’t care. All he knew was that it put him right off Miss Piglet. Whenever he watched her play, he rooted for her opponent.

  With others it was something subtler. The stance, the walk, the attitude. One responded or one didn’t.

  And, of course, the game the woman played was paramount. Not just the raw ability but the heart, the soul, the inner strength that enabled one player to reach and return shots that drew no more than a futile wave from another.

  He sat in his chair, drew on his cigarette, watched the television set.

  This one, this Miranda DiStefano. Sixteen years old, her blond hair hanging in a ponytail, her face a perfect oval, her nose the slightest bit retroussé. She had a slight overbite, and one close-up revealed braces on her teeth.

  How charming...

  He’d seen her before, and now he watched her play a match she was not likely to win, a quarterfinal that pitted her with one of the sisters who seemed to win everything these days. He liked both sisters well enough, respected them as the dominant players of their generation, but they didn’t engage him the way Miranda did. She didn’t have to win, he just wanted to watch her play, and do the best she could.

  A vision in white. Perfectly delightful and charming. He wished only the best for her.

  * * *

  There were sports you could see better on television. Boxing, certainly. Even if you sat at ringside, you didn’t get nearly as good a view of the action as the TV camera provided. Football was a toss-up; at home you had the benefit of good close-up camera work and instant replay, while from a good stadium seat you could watch a play develop and see the whole of a pass pattern. Basketball was better in person, and hockey (if you could endure it at all) was only worth watching in person; on TV, you could never find the bloody puck.

  TV covered tennis reasonably well, but it was much better in person. The court was small enough so that, from a halfway decent seat, you were assured a good view of the whole of it. And, of course, watching in person had other benefits that it shared with other sports. There were no commercials, no team of announcers droning on and on, and, most important, it was exciting in a way that televised sport could never be. You were there, you were watching, it was happening right before your eyes, and your excitement was magnified by the presence of hundreds or thousands of other similarly excited fans.

  He’d been here for the entire tournament, and was glad he’d come. He’d managed to see some superb tennis (as well as some that was a good deal less than superb) and he’d made a point of watching all of Miranda DiStefano’s matches. The blond girl won her first two matches in straight sets, and he’d sat there beaming as she dispatched both opponents quite handily. In the third round, his heart sank when she double-faulted to lose the first set tiebreaker, then had her serve broken midway through the second set. But she rallied, she summoned up strength from within, and broke back, and went on to win that set. The final set was no contest; Miranda, buoyed by her second-set comeback, played brilliantly, and you could see the will to win drain out of her opponent, a black-haired Croatian girl who was five inches taller than Miranda, with muscles in her arms and shoulders that hinted at either steroids or a natural abundance of testosterone.

  And Miranda crushed her. How his spirit soared to see it!

  Now she was playing in the quarterfinals, and it looked as though she was going to beat the bigger, taller girl on the opposite side of the net. A strong player, he thought, but lacking finesse. All power and speed, but no subtlety.

  A lesbian, from the look of her. He hadn’t heard or read anything to that effect, but you could tell. Not that he had anything agains
t them. They were as ubiquitous in women’s sports as were their male counterparts in ballet and the design trades. If they played good tennis, he could certainly admire their game.

  But he wouldn’t leave his house to watch a lesbian, let alone travel a few hundred miles.

  He watched, his heart singing in his chest, as Miranda worked the ball back and forth, chasing her opponent from one side of the court to the other, running the legs off the bigger girl. Running her ragged, crushing her, beating her.

  He was there two days later, cheering her on in the semifinals. Her opponent was one of the sisters, and Miranda gave her a good fight, but the outcome was never in doubt. He applauded enthusiastically every time she won a point, cheered a couple of difficult returns she managed, and took her eventual loss in good grace—as did Miranda, skipping up to the net to congratulate the girl who beat her.

  A good sport, too. The girl was one in a million.

  * * *

  He knew better than to write to her.

  Oh, the impulse was there, no question about it. Sometimes he found himself composing letters in his head, but that was all right. You could write anything to anybody in the privacy of your own mind. It was when you put your thoughts on paper and entrusted them to the mails that things could go wrong.

  Because there were a lot of lunatics out there. An attractive young woman could find herself an unwitting magnet for the aberrant and the delusional, and a letter from a devoted fan could seem as fraught with potential danger as one threatening the life of the president. There was a difference, you wouldn’t get in trouble writing a fan letter, but the effect on its recipient might be even greater. The president of the United States would never see your letter, a secretary would open it and hand it over to the FBI, but a young tennis player, especially a relative novice who probably didn’t get all that much fan mail, might well open it and read it herself.

  And might take it the wrong way. Whatever you said, however you phrased it, she might read something unintended into it. Might begin to wonder if perhaps this enthusiastic fan might be a little too enthusiastic, and if this admiration for her athletic ability might cloak a disturbing obsession.