Deadman’s Poker

He turned to see Rufus removing a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros. The Greek and his cronies were standing nearby, and watched Rufus light up and take a deep drag.

“Rufus,” Valentine said, “you can’t beat what I just saw. Give up.”

Rufus exhaled a thick plume of smoke into the still night air.

“Say that a little louder,” he said under his breath.

“Why?”

“Because I want those boys standing nearby to hear you.”

Valentine raised his voice. “Rufus, you can’t beat what I just saw.”

Rufus looked pleased and offered the pack. Valentine reached for it, then hesitated. He was going to quit smoking, even if it killed him, and withdrew his hand.

The Greek and his cronies stepped forward.

“We want to make a wager,” the Greek a

Rufus ground his cigarette into the grass. “How much?”

“First we want to settle the odds,” the Greek said. “We want three-to-one on Greased Lightning. Take it, or leave it.”

Rufus held his chin and gave it some thought. Of all the gamblers assembled on the field, the Greek had the biggest bankroll, and his action would dominate the wagering. He said, “I’ll do it, with one stipulation. You get in front of the TV camera, and say what you just said into a mike. That you want three-to-one odds on a champion racehorse beating a seventy-two-year-old broken-down cowboy in the hundred-yard dash. Say that, and it’s a deal.”

The Greek looked crushed. He had won a TV poker tournament recently, and was a celebrity in the poker world. He liked being famous, and was what gamblers called a trophy hunter. Using the palms of his hands, he smoothed out the creases in his bowling shirt, and let the appropriate amount of time pass before speaking again.

“Even money it is,” the Greek said.

“How much?”

“I’ll bet you a half-million that you can’t beat Greased Lightning in the hundred-yard dash.”

“Five hundred thousand dollars?” Rufus asked.

“That’s right,” the Greek said.

“Tony, you hear that?” Rufus asked.

It was more money than most people made in an entire lifetime, and Valentine slowly nodded.

“I heard,” he said.

The Greek and Rufus shook hands, and the deal was struck.

“Good evening and welcome to the playing field of the University of Nevada,” Gloria Curtis said, staring into the camera. “This is Gloria Curtis, reporting to you from Las Vegas, the city that never sleeps. Standing beside me is a man who never sleeps, Rufus Steele, legendary poker player and gambler. Tonight, Rufus is betting a sizable sum—”

“One half million dollars,” Rufus said proudly.

“—that he can outrun a former Kentucky Derby hopeful named Greased Lightning in the hundred-yard dash. Rufus, how are you feeling?”

“Like a spring chicken,” the old cowboy said.

“I must tell you that in all my years reporting sports, I’ve never seen a matchup as intriguing as this one.”

Rufus was about to reply when Greased Lightning bounded up behind them, the jockey pulling back on the horse with his reins.

“What do you say we get this started?” the jockey asked them. “This isn’t a pleasure horse I’m riding, folks.”

“Right,” Rufus said. “Just give me a second to set up our course.”

Rufus walked over to a large beach towel lying on the ground. On the towel sat a jug of drinking water and a brown paper bag. Rufus picked up the bag and removed a plastic traffic cone painted in orange Day-Glo paint. He tossed it to Valentine.

“Tony, do me a favor, and go put that cone on the center of the fifty-yard line.”

Valentine marched out to the middle of the football field, and placed the cone in the center of the fifty-yard line. When he returned to the sidelines, the Greek was shouting and wagging an angry finger in Rufus’s face.

“That’s cheating!” the Greek shouted.

Rufus flashed his best aw-shucks grin. “No, it’s not. I said we’d be ru

Before Valentine could answer, Rufus turned to Gloria. “Did I, Miss Curtis?”

“No, you didn’t,” they both answered.

Rufus pointed at the end zone. “We start the race from there, and when we reach the cone, we turn around, and run back to the end zone. Plain and simple.”

A hush fell over the crowd of gamblers. The Greek had balled his hands into fists and his face resembled a pressure cooker ready to explode. He stormed across the field to where Greased Lightning and the jockey were standing. The horse was kicking at the ground and seemed to know that it was about to be asked to perform. The Greek had a short conversation with the jockey, then returned to the sidelines.

“You’re on,” he told Rufus.

There was too much artificial light in Las Vegas for any stars to be visible. Only the moon could be seen in the pitch dark sky, and it appeared to be slyly winking at them. Valentine followed Rufus to the end zone from where the race would start.

“The Greek sounds pretty confidant,” he said.

“That’s because the jockey thinks he can make the turn, and still beat me,” Rufus replied, doing windmills with his arms to loosen up. “If the horse was a rodeo pony, I’d be in trouble. But not a racehorse.”

“You sure?”

“Positive, pardner.”

Greased Lightning came into the end zone kicking up a storm. The jockey had his riding crop out and was sitting high in the saddle. Valentine guessed the jockey was pla

“I don’t know, Rufus,” Valentine said.

From the paper bag Rufus removed a starting gun, which he handed to Valentine.

“Make sure you pull the trigger when the race starts,” Rufus said.

The crowd of gamblers followed them into the end zone and stood behind the two participants. Rufus and Greased Lightning toed the starting line, the jockey practically standing up in his stirrups, the old cowboy in classic sprinter’s pose.

“Tony, be our starter,” Rufus called out.

Valentine walked over to where they stood. He paused to make sure Zack was filming them, then pointed the starting pistol into the air.

“Gentlemen, take your marks.”

The wind blowing off the desert had died and the air was remarkably still. A jet passed overhead, the whir of its landing gear coming down shattering the stillness. Greased Lightning emitted a loud whi

“Get ready—go!”

Valentine fired the starter into the air. The cap in the gun made a loud bang!and the horse screamed like it had been shot. It fled ahead and went down the field at supersonic speed. Rufus appeared to be frozen, his legs stuck to the ground, as the animal passed him.

The gamblers let out a collective roar, with the Greek shouting the loudest. Rufus was huffing and puffing, ru

“Come on, Rufus,” Valentine yelled. “Come on!”

The jockey was pulling back on his reins with all his might. The horse started to break, its back legs tearing up the ground like hoes. When it finally came to a stop, it was near the opposing side’s twenty-yard line. The jockey jerked the horse’s head, trying to turn the animal around. The horse obeyed, and when it was turned around, came to a dead stop, as if the race was over. The jockey slapped its side with his crop while digging his heels into its side.

By now, Rufus had reached the cone in the center of the field, done a nifty spin, and taken off back for the finish line. The old cowboy still had some run in him, his long legs covering the ground with amazing agility. Sensing disaster, the Greek and his cronies stood at the finish line, jumping wildly up and down.