Confession From a Former Card Shark, by Hobie Anthony
“The real trouble started after the show”
There are only ever two ways out of Vegas for me: slip out on a late night bus, or get dragged out in an anonymous and very cheap coffin. So far, I've only managed the former. As I’m writing this now, I just bought an express ticket out of Vegas, heading to Reno; the bus arrives in just a few minutes.
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I just can't seem to help myself. Every time I hit good old downtown Vegas, my blood starts to rush. The lights, the women, the gracious but shady underworld friend whose name changes every single time I see him but who manages to keep the same cellphone number year after year. I bless him and his delivery service.
I always try to focus when I unpack my things in the hotel room. I sit and I practice my card tricks. I'm an illusionist and my magic is not any kind of hocus pocus. I have to practice every single day.
So, when I hit town, I started practicing. Then I checked my phone to see if I still had my Vegas numbers. I did. I worked on flipping cards into my sleeve, pulling coins from the air. I did a mock-up for the ice illusion and it went perfect.
Shady underworld friend, check. Special lady, check. Bail bondsman, check.
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The real trouble started after the show. Full of post-applause adrenaline, I dialed the aforementioned friend. In exchange for a few tricks of the trade, a stage hand tipped me off to a hot a card game. This is the way it always seems to go.
When will I ever learn to get some mellow friends, a six-pack of beer, and a real lady to my room? Do things with class, and take it easy. Once she leaves, I could play a few hours of Hold 'em in some Gaming Club, and save myself any unnecessary trouble. Hell, I can play whatever I want online. You can always find an honest game on the Internet. I can put down my shark fin, give up the mind games and cruel manipulations that I tend bring to the table. Nothing up my sleeve, Rocky. I swear it.
But that wasn't today. Today I did what I always do.
I found the fish at the gaming table and I gutted that sonuvagun. I fattened him up first. I gave him the pot and then I landed him. He thought he had a few grand coming to him from a nasty round of Texas Hold'em. But he had to think again.
I tried to make a hasty exit from the card room, but that never works. Someone recognized me and pulled my photo up on their goddamn smartphone, Marlin the Magnificent. Damn. No one likes being taken by a pro when they're sitting with anxiety in a poker room, much less a professional magician. It's like sleeping with Doug Henning, but not getting a goodnight kiss when you're done.
So, I bolted. I ran like a little chicken, gathered my things and made it here, to the bus depot with just a few minutes to spare. Thank god for phone apps. I'm already up $500.
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Hobie Anthony was raised on the red clay of Georgia, cut his teeth on the hard streets of Chicago, and now roots into the volcanic soil of Portland, Oregon. His work can be found (or is forthcoming) in such journals as Fourteen Hills, Fiction Southeast, The Rumpus, [PANK], Wigleaf, Housefire, Crate, Ampersand, Birkensnake, Word Riot, Connotation Press, and many more. He earned an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte. When he needs money, he writes. Learn more about him now at his blog, here.