Birthday
Spot: You Can't Con a Conman
I have been planning this for a long time. Four years now, since I was thirteen. I have been planning this night, everything about it, for four very long, tedious years. And tonight, Racetrack Higgins, I am going to teach you a lesson. Tonight, you are going to learn that you can't con a Conlon.
People are scared of me, and I encourage that. People are scared because they know I plot and I plan, that I always get revenge, that I always win in the end. It doesn't matter against who or what the game is, I win. I won Brooklyn when I was fourteen and I've won against everyone who's tried to take it away since. I won—well, fine, we won—against Pulitzer in the strike. I win girls like nobody's business; I win territory, I win respect, I win everything I damn well want.
And tonight, I am going to win at poker against you. It's been a long time coming, too, and a lot of games I've lost—but I don't mind losing once or twice, since I know I'll win in the end. And I've known it ever since that first game, the night I turned thirteen.
No extravagant party that year. No one really knew who I was yet, just some kid who lurked in Bridge's shadow, who was friends with Jack Kelly's boys in Manhattan. So I spent that night in Manhattan.
You'd only been around for a few months. I'd met you once or twice before, but you didn't make much of an impression; just another wiseguy I overlooked. But then we played a game of poker. There were five of us, and you won every hand. You won all of my money, and then let me borrow some back to keep playing, and won that too.
The day I won Brooklyn, a little over a year later, I sent a messenger to Manhattan. Jack came to visit, impressed with me. You came with him, and I paid you back. I always pay my debts, and I always win in the end, but god damn you, you wouldn't take the money.
You told me you didn't need it, that there were enough suckers for you to con out of hard earned cash. But Racetrack, you can't con a Conlon. I was only thirteen then, fourteen by the time I'd worked hard for that damn money you wouldn't take, and tonight I pay back the insult.
Tonight I break your poker face. Tonight I get to see you sweating behind your cards, bluffing and losing, running up debt. I planned tonight very carefully. And you don't know it yet, but you were playing right into my hands.
People think the alcohol is because I want to get incredibly drunk, though Jack said something earlier about getting some girl drunk, taking advantage of her. He was joking, mostly; we both know I can land any skirt I want without resorting to that trick. But you, on the other hand...
By the time I break away from my admirers—can't let it go to my head if I want to be a good leader—and sneak upstairs into the only office room in the building, you've been playing for awhile. I can tell because the other guys look broke and defeated. And you've all been drinking, too, courtesy of me and the kind guests who brought me enough to keep you drinking all night. There are empties littered all over the place, and you look far too amused.
I may have to cheat, but I always win in the end.
I know you know I'm in the doorway, watching, but you don't look up from your game. You're too good for that; you're serious about cards and won't let me distract you. An insult, sure, I'm the prince of Brooklyn and it's my birthday besides, and I dare anyone else to ignore me, but you know I'd rather beat you at cards than beat you up, which we both know I could do if I wanted to.
Though you aren't bad in a fight yourself. You're wasted in Manhattan, with a poker face like yours and a habit of coming out on top in a fight, you could have done well here in Brooklyn. You'd have been my number one guy, easily. I need more guys who can bluff and whose toughness won't crack, no matter what. I need more guys I can trust behind me in a fight. You really are wasted in Manhattan.
But that doesn't matter to me tonight. Because tonight, I'm going to win. Four years of waiting, and I'm finally going to beat you at your own game.
The three poor fools who're playing you all look up at me nervously, and I nod a little so no one feels the urge to speak up, and wait for you to finish your hand. Then you look over at me. "Heya, Spot," you said, sounding amused.
"Heya, Race," I echo. "How's the cards?"
"Not bad." Everyone else groans; your idea of not bad is different than theirs, and probably they're all broke now, or close to.
You reach for your bottle and take a drink, drain it, and grin at me. I nod back, but nothing makes me happier, right now, than to see that grin. Because usually in a game, you're all business, and you wouldn't even have smiled in anticipation of our game if you weren't drinking. It might not have been much; it's not like you're going to lose the next hand, being dealt now by some kid with glasses, but it's a sign.
"Uh," the glasses kid says—he's one of Jack's boy, I think—"Do you, uh, want in, Spot?"
"Not yet. You guys need anymore to drink?"
"Gracious host," Race laughs, and I think he's trying not to hiccup, and it's all I can do not to smirk. Tonight will be my triumph, at last. "Sure, Conlon, if you're offering."
So I leave them for a minute and round up another few drinks, deliver them upstairs like I was a damned errand boy. You open yours and take a swig, then turn back to your cards and frown for a second, take another drink, and smile.
"This is my last hand," one of the other players mutters, and there's a general agreement.
"Aw, don't run away," Race half-slurs, as they finally put down their cards. And he's still won. But these are pretty mediocre players, most of them drunk themselves, where as I am quite good and haven't had a drop all night.
Despite Racetrack's pleas, the players all opt out of the game and stumble back downstairs. I let myself into the room, nudge the door shut behind me with a foot. "You still feel like playing?"
He takes another drink. "Been waiting for you, Spot," he answers. "Nice of you to invite me. I figured after last time we played, you didn't ever want to see me again."
"Nah," I laugh, sitting down across from him, as he picks up the deck. "I only hold grudges about important things." Important things like when I lose—though I always win in the end.
"Awright. Then prepare—" he pauses to collect his thoughts, "prepare to go broke. Again."
"I ain't really interested in going broke, on my birthday and all," I comment as he shuffles. "And you always win anyway, so it ain't like it's a contest."
"You wanna play for nothing?" he asks, incredulous.
"You got other guys you can con," I remind him, and he laughs and starts to deal.
"But I wanna keep things interesting," he almost whines. "I mean, you've gotten pretty good—better'n most people. No fair to make me play the only interesting game of the night for free."
An idea forms in the back of my mind. I was just going to do to him what he did to me, make him live with knowing how broke he could have been, how he owes me, how he's in my debt. But another thought occurs. I've been losing at poker to Racetrack for a long time now, and while he's pretty mouthy about winning, I doubt he'll be so happy to tell people when he loses. And I don't want to seem like I'm bragging, beating someone who's dead drunk isn't all that impressive, but if there's another way to humiliate him...
"Hmm," I muse, as Race gathers his cards in one hand and takes a drink using the other. "Racetrack, you ever played strip poker?"
*
I'll admit, I'm surprised by how good you are, given how far gone you are. I've seen things tonight I never would have expected; I've seen you fumble your cards, stare at them in horror, gloat when you've got a good hand, and generally forget that you don't ever let things show. I am having far too much fun with this, really.
Because you're down to your last sock. Admittedly, I'm not doing that much better, but you're down to the sock in question and your shorts. But both of my feet are still perfectly warm, and I don't intend to start losing again now.
We lay down our cards—and I frown. Your flush beats my three of a kind, which means we're pretty much even now. I narrow my eyes and kick off my right sock, and I swear you're about to start laughing, and if you laugh at me I will punch your lights out.
I glare, and you suddenly look serious again, and maybe a hint apologetic. But not half as sorry as you're going to be.
See, I don't plan to give your clothes back.
It's my deal and I shuffle once or twice. You finish your drink and wait, clearly impatient. "Can you hurry up?" you finally ask. "I gotta piss."
"You shouldn't a' been drinking," I remind him, as I finish dealing. Which is true, but not for the reason you think. You don't look thrilled with your hand, but discard two and pick up two. You still don't look thrilled, so even though my hand isn't great, just two of a kind, but one of them's a jack, so I figure that'll take high pair if you've got the same thing. I call.
You grumble, of course, you've only got one pair.
You are now sockless, Racetrack, and the only item left to bet is your shorts. If you want to retain any dignity, you'll bow out now. I even ask if you want to, but you shake your head. "Nah," you decide. "Come too far to give up, right?"
"Yeah," I agree, and you shuffle and deal. "So you're betting it?"
He glances down self-consciously. "Yeah," he says. "Against your sock."
I nod and look at my cards, but they're rotten. Nothing matches anything, and you call before I get a chance to build up to something more than mediocre. Your hand isn't as good as I bet you're used to, but it still beats mine.
And I suddenly realize, we're even. You already said you're not quitting, and damned if I'll let you beat me again. It's all or nothing, Racetrack Higgins, and tonight is my birthday. That's got to be good luck. I am not losing to you. I will not lose to you. Not in this game.
I gather the cards slowly, take my time shuffling. You know I'm going to win, I can see that you just realized it, too, because your poker face went awhile ago. And when you actually have your cards, when you look at them in horror, well, I'm close to laughing in your face. The look on your face is priceless, too, I wish I could get a picture and frame it, hang it on my wall.
My cards are already good, and judging by the look on your face (which I wouldn't be able to do, if you were sober) yours aren't. I've got three of a kind already, sevens, somehow. You discard two and pick them up, and still look dismayed. I discard my spare two, and manage not to start smirking when I pick up the fourth seven. I call.
"Ya know, Race," I say slowly as I set my cards down, "you ougtta know it now—you can't con a Conlon. I always win in the end."
He looks down at my cards a little and nods, sighs, and lays his out. I smirk, then stop and stare. That can't be right. I look at my four of a kind. I look at your—your straight flush. Your straight fucking flush, you asshole.
I stare for a second, then look up at you, and you look remarkably sober.
"Sure thing, Spot," you agree, smirking just a tiny bit. "But what you gotta know is, you can't con a conman, either. And I'm the best conman you're ever going to meet."
I stare. He's been drinking all night, I've been watching him, he's been drunk all night, and... "How?" I finally demand, too dazed to be really angry, though I'm sure that given a few minutes to recover, I'll be furious.
"'Cause you didn't notice I was nursing that same drink since you handed it to me," he says, tapping the bottle, "and that one—" he taps one of the empties around the table, the one he finished when I first walked in, "was the first one I'd had all night. The rest was the other guys and maybe my tolerance ain't as good as some people's, but I ain't that cheap a date." He laughs. "Takes more than two cheap beers to get me drunk enough to lose at my own game."
I barely hear him talking. I can't—I—this was supposed to be my triumph! Tonight—it's my birthday, for Christ's sake—and I never lose, never. I stare at him.
"It was a good try, though," he acknowledges, "but I think you owe me something."
And Spot Conlon always pays his debts, everyone knows that. I can't back out of this, but I can make him regret it. "I'll kill you for this," I promise him.
"No, you won't," he answers, as I slowly stand and rest a hand, uncomfortably, on the waistline of my shorts. Cocky bastard. Maybe I won't kill him, but I think I'
"How do you know?" I spit.
"'Cause if you kill me, you'll never win at cards." He's smirking, and I swear I could kill him now. Which he's right, I won't, but I think maybe I will beat him senseless. "Besides, you've been planning this for ages. You got us alone up here and nearly naked. You tried to get me really drunk, and you've always had an obsession with me—trying to crack my poker face."
I wonder where he's going with this, and sit back down on the edge of the table. "So?" I ask.
"Spot, I wouldn't have bothered playing along with you if I didn't want something interesting to happen—if I didn't like you."
And it kind of dawns on me, suddenly. "You like me, Race?" I ask.
He shrugs, and I can see his poker face suddenly return. That ain't the kind of thing one guy admits to another, ever. "We been friends for awhile," he says casually.
"Yeah," I agree.
We sit here, nearly naked and very quiet, for what feels like a long time. "You're wasted in Manhattan," I tell him finally, kinda shaken by what I think he just told me, not sure how to react, no idea what to think.
"Nah," he disagrees. "I like Manhattan—I don't want to be scared someone's gonna stick a knife in my back every time I turn around. I gotta be around people I trust."
"I trust you," I say almost immediately—and the thing is, I do trust him. I ought to be angry because god damn it, I never lose, but things—what he said, his damned poker face, our distinct lack of clothes, lots of things—are keeping me calm. Making me think. Making me wonder.
"I trust you, too," he says. "Even though you just tried to cheat me at cards."
"Hey," I say defensively, "I trust you even though you just bluffed me at cards forever."
"Okay," he agrees, and there's another quiet. "So, you gotta girl?" he asks.
"Nah. Girls ain't worth it. They—they want too much of you. Too much time, too much attention, just..." And the words are pouring out of me, like I was the one who was drinking or something. "I stopped dating, ya know? I stick to whores now, 'cause all they want is money. Don't need to worry about nothing else."
There, I said it, out in the open; the great Spot Conlon who could have anyone he wanted prefers to sleep with cheap whores. It's not like I have to, like I couldn't have a girl if I wanted, but... It's trust. I can't trust anyone but a few people, and a girl wouldn't fit in to my life real well.
"Too bad there's no one you trust," he says. "Someone you could work something out with—someone you already trust, you wouldn't have to worry about getting too attached, who would be risking a reputation too so you could really trust whoever you were talking to."
"Yeah," I say. I look over at him, and his brown eyes are all serious. I don't think that's his poker face after all. "Too bad," I say, and the poker face is back, but I can tell what's under it. He's disappointed, but he'd never let on.
But he kind of had a point.
We sit in quiet for a long, long time, this time. Finally, I look over at him again. "Race?" I ask.
"Yeah?"
"I still owe you my shorts."
He grins. "Yeah, you do."
"And I know you're a conman, but I trust you."
He smiles. It isn't even a smirk, it's a smile. I stand again, and so does he. And it's good to have someone to trust.