The Gambler

Chapter 4: Gamble with the old man

Bill had become a legend in the town, his name whispered with a mix of awe and resentment. His rise from a novice to a master gambler in under a year was nothing short of meteoric. But with his success came arrogance, a belief that he was untouchable, that no one in this town could rival him. He craved a challenge, someone who could humble him, and little did he know that someone was just around the corner.

As usual, Bill walked into the casino, the air thick with the scent of cigarettes and the faint hum of slot machines. The strippers danced with practised precision, their movements a blur of glitter and skin. The tables were packed with gamblers of all kinds—rookies with wide eyes, seasoned players with poker faces, and the occasional high roller who thought they could take on the house. But as soon as Bill entered, the room seemed to shift. All eyes turned to him, the chatter dying down to a murmur. He adjusted his cufflinks, his expression one of disdain, as if the very air of the casino was beneath him.

He made his way to his usual table, the one where no one dared to sit opposite him anymore. The seat across from him remained empty, a silent testament to his dominance. He sighed, leaning back in his chair, the weight of his own superiority pressing down on him.

“Welcome, sir,” a waiter approached, holding out a small, gleaming medal. “For maintaining a winning streak of ten months.”

Bill glanced at the medal, his lips curling into a sneer. “This cheap trinket isn’t worth my time anymore. No one here has the guts to face me with everything they’ve got,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt.

The waiter forced a smile, trying to placate him. “Well, sir, it’s because you’re a truly talented gambler. It’s only natural people who are hesitant to challenge you.”

But Bill wasn’t interested in empty praise. “Whatever,” he muttered, pushing the medal away and standing up. He scanned the room one last time, his eyes narrowing as he realized no one would step up to the plate. He turned on his heel and headed for the door, the crowd parting like the Red Sea as he passed.

Just as he was about to leave, a voice called out to him. “Sonny.”

Bill stopped, his jaw tightening. He turned to see an old man, his face weathered but his eyes sharp and full of life. “What is it, old man?” Bill asked, his tone laced with irritation.

The old man chuckled, unfazed by Bill’s rudeness. “Oh my, I am no old man. I am Elias. Call me by my name,” he said cheerfully, extending a hand.

Bill ignored the gesture, brushing off the spot on his shoulder where the old man had touched him. “Not really concerned about that. What’s the issue?”

Elias smiled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, son, you’ve got talent, but you lack manners. So, I was thinking, why don’t you play a little gambling game with this old man here?”

Bill raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Really?” he scoffed, almost laughing. “You want to gamble with me? Alright, let’s do it,” he said, turning back toward the casino.

“Oh no, no, no, not here,” Elias corrected, holding up a hand. “At my place, tomorrow.” He handed Bill a piece of paper with an address scrawled on it.

Bill glanced at the paper, then back at Elias, his smirk widening. “I see. You don’t want people to witness your defeat, huh? Fine by me. I’ll meet you there,” he said, pocketing the paper and walking off without another word.

Elias stood there, watching Bill’s retreating figure with a knowing smile. “Like father, like son,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible over the din of the casino.

The next day, Bill arrived at the address Elias had given him. It was a modest house on the outskirts of town, far removed from the glitz and glamour of the casino. He knocked on the door, and Elias greeted him with the same cheerful demeanour as before.

“Welcome, son. Come in, come in,” Elias said, ushering Bill inside.

The room was a masterpiece of understated elegance, a sanctuary of wood, paper, and light. The walls were made of shoji screens, their translucent rice paper panels glowing softly under the warm amber light of hanging andon lanterns. The floor was polished tatami mats, their woven straw texture firm yet inviting underfoot. A low, lacquered table sat in the center of the room, its surface gleaming like a still, black lake. Around it, cushions embroidered with gold thread awaited the players.

Sliding doors framed the room, their wooden latticework intricate and precise, leading to a veranda that overlooked a meticulously maintained kare-sansui garden. The garden was a sea of raked white gravel, dotted with moss-covered stones and a single, gnarled pine tree that seemed to twist toward the moonlight. The faint sound of water trickling from a bamboo shishi-odoshi added a rhythmic, almost meditative quality to the air.

The air itself was thick with the scent of sandalwood incense, curling in delicate tendrils from a bronze burner in the corner. The room felt timeless, as if the outside world had ceased to exist, leaving only the tension between the two men seated at the table.

Bill sat cross-legged on his cushion, his posture deliberately slouched, as if to convey indifference. His dark leather jacket was worn at the edges, and his stubble-shadowed jaw clenched as he lit a cigarette, the smoke curling upward to mingle with the incense. His eyes, sharp and calculating, betrayed the calm he tried to project. He was a man who thrived on risk but always seemed to skirt the edge of disaster.

Across from him, Elias sat with perfect poise, his tailored suit immaculate, his hands resting lightly on the table. His expression was unreadable, a mask of calm that only heightened the tension. His eyes, a cold gray, flicked toward Bill with a faint smirk, as if he already knew the outcome of the game.

Between them stood the dealer, a woman in a sleek black kimono, her hair pinned up with a single ivory hairpin. Her movements were precise, almost ritualistic, as she prepared the deck of cards. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm and measured, cutting through the silence like a blade.

"Gentlemen," the dealer began, her hands hovering over the deck, "this is three-card poker. The rules are simple, but the stakes are high. Each of you will receive three cards, dealt face down. The goal is to make the best possible poker hand. The hierarchy of hands is as follows: a straight flush, three of a kind, a straight, a flush, a pair, and a high card."

She paused, her gaze shifting between Bill and Elias. "After the cards are dealt, you will have the option to fold or raise. If you fold, you forfeit the hand and your initial bet. If you raise, you must match the ante. The dealer will then reveal the cards, and the highest hand wins."

Bill exhaled a plume of smoke, his eyes narrowing. "Let's get on with it," he muttered, his voice low and gravelly.

Elias merely nodded, his smirk deepening.

The dealer's hands moved with practised grace, shuffling the deck with a fluid motion before dealing three cards to each player. The cards landed with a soft snap on the table, their faces hidden, their secrets waiting to be revealed.

Bill picked up his cards slowly, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he fanned them out. A ten of hearts, a jack of diamonds, and a queen of clubs. A straight. A strong hand, but not unbeatable. He glanced at Elias, who was studying his own cards with the same infuriating calm.

Elias set his cards down, his expression unreadable. "Raise," he said, his voice smooth and confident.

Bill hesitated, his mind racing. He could fold, cut his losses, and walk away. But that wasn't his style. He was a gambler, a risk-taker, a man who lived on the edge. "Raise," he growled, pushing a stack of chips into the center of the table.

The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with anticipation. The dealer's hands hovered over the table, ready to reveal the cards.

"Show your hands," the dealer said, her voice cutting through the silence.

Bill laid his cards on the table: ten, jack, queen. A straight. He leaned back, a smug grin spreading across his face. "Beat that," he said, his voice dripping with confidence.

Elias's smirk never wavered. He laid his cards down one by one: ace, king, queen. A straight flush. The room seemed to hold its breath as the realization dawned on Bill.

"You lose," Elias said, his voice calm and measured.

Bill's grin faded, replaced by a look of stunned disbelief. He stared at the cards, his mind racing, his hands clenching into fists. The weight of his loss settled over him like a shroud, the taste of defeat bitter on his tongue.

The dealer collected the cards, her movements as precise as ever. Elias leaned back, his smirk widening as he gathered his winnings. Bill sat in silence, the cigarette dangling from his lips forgotten, the smoke curling upward like a ghost.

The room seemed to close in around him, the beauty of the Japanese house now feeling oppressive, the garden outside a distant, unreachable dream. He had lost, and he knew it. But deep down, in the darkest corner of his mind, a spark of defiance remained. This wasn't over. Not yet.

Elias smiled, not with triumph, but with a sense of satisfaction. “You’re a talented young man, Bill. But talent alone isn’t enough. You need humility, respect, and the wisdom to know when to fold.”

Bill nodded, the weight of Elias’s words sinking in. For the first time in his life, he felt truly humbled.

As he left Elias’s house that night, Bill knew that he had found the challenge he had been seeking. And in that moment, he realized that the greatest gamble of all was not with cards or chips, but with himself.