Errors of Judgment(106)

The betting resumed. Piers raised the stakes – but only modestly. Gabir seemed unusually reflective, stroking one thick, black eyebrow. Anthony tried to read his face, wondering if he was merely bored, or had something in his hand that merited concentration. As he studied the faces of his fellow players, he was vaguely aware of an increase in the noise and laughter from the food and drink room. Presumably staff from the casino kitchen had brought up the hot supper. He realised, with surprise, that he was hungry.

People began to drift in from the next room, curious to see how the game was going, as though the slightly heightened tension of the game was infectious. Klaus and Tom Finnegan were exchanging discreet banter, but Anthony scarcely noticed. The game was like some kind of cocoon, his own concentration soundproofing him against external realities.

After a moment or two’s thought, Gabir raised Piers. Anthony, with a growing conviction that luck was with him on this hand, matched him briskly. Possibly too briskly, he realised, after he had pushed the pile of chips forward. He waited anxiously for the dealer to turn the fourth card. As the ten of spades went down he felt an almost dizzying sense of astonishment and relief. His instincts had been proved right. Now he had an ace-high flush, on the cards already down – only two pairs of ten could beat him.

Piers’ own feelings on seeing the ten of spades were akin to Anthony’s. He already held the ten of hearts and nine of clubs, and the cards which had just been dealt gave him three tens. What were the odds of anyone else having a better hand? Outside, surely. Then again, if either of the others held spades, they had a good chance of having a flush, which would beat his hand. Maybe some confident, tactical betting would give him a better idea of who had what. He stacked up a hefty pile of chips and pushed them forward.

Gabir pursed his lips, his dark eyes shifting back and forth from the cards in his hand to those on the table. He counted out four careful stacks of chips and eased them across the baize, doubling Piers’ bet. Piers knew at that moment that his speculation had been right. Gabir must be holding spades, and he must have a flush. He glanced across at Anthony, whose expression was unreadable, his gaze focused.

Anthony felt his nerve give a little as he tried to rationalise Gabir’s bet. The guy had more money than sense, so the amount he gambled didn’t necessarily reflect the realities of his hand. Also, he had occasionally made wild bets throughout the evening merely to amuse himself, so far as Anthony could tell. Either he was bluffing, or he just didn’t care. Or maybe he held a flush himself. Even if he did, Anthony reckoned it couldn’t beat his own.

Gabir stifled a yawn, then shook himself, frowning at the cards as though trying to concentrate. The gesture made up Anthony’s mind. He couldn’t sit with the best poker hand he’d ever held in his life, and not go with it. The Saudi simply couldn’t hold better cards. With a deliberate gesture, he drew all his chips together and pushed them into the middle of the table, going all in.

Piers was momentarily taken aback. Either Anthony’s move was naive recklessness, of the kind that had made Anthony such a useful customer of Blunt’s, or it was a clear signal that he held an exceptionally strong hand. Either Anthony or Gabir could be bluffing, but from the cards on the table, and from the way the betting had gone, one of them held a flush. His own chances of coming out on top depended entirely on the next card being the ten of clubs – insanely remote odds. He glanced up, and saw Julia on the other side of the table. She was watching Anthony, her gaze intense. Piers saw and read the expression in her eyes. That she should still feel anything for that lower-middle-class waste of space filled him with contempt and anger. He looked back at the cards. He knew the sensible thing to do would be to fold. But suddenly Piers wasn’t feeling sensible.

‘I’ll call you,’ he said to Anthony. Then he pushed all his own chips into the centre of the table.

Suddenly everyone became aware of the sound of shouting, and some kind of commotion in the next room. People began to look round and murmur. Anthony sighed inwardly; the chances were that Edward had started some drunken piece of nonsense, as he was prone to do. Klaus and Tom Finnegan got up and left the table to go and see what was going on. Anthony’s attention returned to the game, where the dealer was about to turn the final card.

The nine of spades went down, and Anthony’s heart jumped. Only in that moment did it dawn on Anthony that Gabir might have spades. He looked up. For the first time in the game Gabir was looking directly at him. Then, as each turned their cards over, Gabir smiled. Anthony’s stomach seemed to hit the floor. The cards Gabir had laid down were the seven and eight of spades. The six, nine and ten lying on the table completed a straight flush, beating Anthony’s. He couldn’t believe it. Just as Piers was laying down his own cards in disgust, Tom Finnegan stormed back into the room and shouted at Gabir in fury, ‘Come and sort out your fucking animal of a cousin!’