Jacks Are Wild
By Lennie Briscoe
I don’t know if Ed will ever forgive me, but I wouldn’t have missed that poker party for the world. We were on stake-out, waiting for a drug ganglord to contact his hit man. The DA saw this as a high stakes gamble: if Mr. Big came, we’d have enough to put him and all his Mr. Littles away for a long time.
But it gets boring, sitting in a nearly empty apartment building, earphones on your head, listening to mostly nothing. So it was only natural that Ed suggested a friendly little game.
“Yeah, anything to feed you addiction,” I said. “How much are you into your friends for now? Next week’s pay, or next month’s?”
Ed ignored me. “Come on,” he said. “It beats sitting here, taking turns looking out the window. Besides, I brought a deck of cards.”
“Marked, I’m sure,” I said. “Ed, two handed poker just isn’t any fun. Besides, I won’t play you for more than a penny a point.”
“Look, I hear that McCoy will be dropping in in a little while, to see how things are going. Maybe we can rope him into playing a few hands.”
“And who gave you that tidbit of information?” I asked.
“Profaci, when he brought up the pizza. He said he gets off in five, and will come up to keep us company.”
“Yeah, and Jack will come in and see us all playing Old Maid and blow his stack,” I said. “Think, Detective, think! This is Jack McCoy we’re talking about. If we were in here with a bottle of Scotch, he’d be more forgiving.”
“No,he’d be drinking,” Ed replied. “Besides—“
There was a knock at the door, and I went to it, gun drawn.
“Profaci. McCoy is with me.”
I let both men in. Jack was dressed casually, in his jeans and ancient leather jacket. He probably thought he was incognito. If he wants that, he needs to keep his helmet on—every perp knows that mop of his from a mile off.
“Anything?” he asked grimly as he put his motorcycle helmet on the table.
“Well, we know the lyrics of the latest rap songs and how far down the Dow went today,” I replied. “Seems our little helper across the way is very eclectic in his tastes.”
“But Gordon hasn’t shown himself?” Jack asked.
“No,” Ed replied. “But we are—“
“Shh!” I said. “Someone’s coming in the apartment across the way!” I flipped a switch on the recorder so everyone could hear.
“…and Manny says he will need my services. Tonight. Yeah, baby, so our little love tryst is off for a couple hours.”
“Like there’s a hate tryst,” I commented.
The voice went on. “Yeah, I’ll call you later, say about ten. We should have done our business, and unless I have an assignment tonight….yeah baby, what you say!”
“Can you see anything?” Jack asked Ed, who was at the window with binoculars.
“He’s talking on a cellphone. He’s put it in his pocket, and now he’s turning on the television—look out!”
The blair of hip-hop came through the speaker, and Ed rushed to turn it down. “I don’t think we need to hear that.”
“I’m putting in for Workman’s Comp when we’re done with this job,” I said as I adjusted the earphones. “Darned music’s nearly made me deaf.”
Jack was looking at his watch. “If what he says is right, Manny Gordon will be over there in an hour and a half. Mind if I stick around? I’d like to be in on the action.”
“The more the merrier,” Ed said, grinning at me. Jack and Profaci pulled up chairs around the table. “It’s been getting really boring around here, so I invited Profaci up to play a friendly hand or two, until something happens.”
I glared at Ed, but Jack expressed interest. “I’ve heard you like to play cards,” he said. “I don’t see the harm in a friendly game. Though it will probably be a let-down for you.” He smiled at Ed. “Say, nickel a point?”
“Dealer’s choice.” Ed was getting the cards out of his pocket. “How about starting with five card stud?”
We played, and, as I suspected, Ed won most hands. Of course, my mind wasn’t fully on the game. It was on what was going on in the apartment across the street and on what was going on in Jack McCoy’s head. I never saw a more inept player in my whole life. He’d bet to the limit on a pair of deuces, or forget the rules and turn over his hole card. We played five card stud, seven card stud, and five card draw, and McCoy was equally lousy at all of them.
“Well, it’s my turn to deal,” he said. “And I’d like to play Hearts.”
“Hearts? What kind of poker is that?” Profaci asked in disgust.
“Oh, let’s play,” Ed replied. “Betting is betting. Only this time, you pay the man with the lowest score, right?”
“Right,” Jack said as he dealt out the cards. “You pay the difference between his score and yours.” He paused. “Want to raise the limit—say a quarter a point? I need to try and get some of my money back.”
Ed laughed. “Tell you what, Jack. Knowing the fast deteriorating bankrolls of our friends Briscoe and Profaci, here, how about it be this—for them, a nickel a point, but for us, a dollar. Ok?”
Jack shrugged. “I think I’ve got enough in my wallet to cover it,” he said. “Besides, if Gordon shows up on time, we’ll only have time for one game.
If you’ve never played Hearts, it’s very tricky. If you’ve only played it once or twice, it’s confusing, because instead of wanting to get tricks and points, you want to lose them. Unless you get all the trumps, which are every heart in the deck plus the Queen of Spades, upon which you win. Like I said, a tricky game. Ed started out confident, and wound getting the Queen of Spades in a trick.
“Too bad,” Jack smiled as he counted the two hearts he had won. “The Queen is worth 13 points, where every heart is worth only one.”
Ed just growled.
The next hand was more interesting. Ed was more on his game, and I was, too. We managed, between us, to make sure that Jack got stuck with the Queen of Spades and a number of hearts besides. It wasn’t until the hand was over and we were counting up that we realized our mistake. Jack had every trump in his hand.
“That’s called ‘shooting the moon’,” he said casually as he added 26 points to all our scores. “Hmm. Ed, right now you have 44 points. Almost half way to oblivion. Whoever reaches 100 first stops the game.”
Ed looked at Jack grimly. Profaci and I, both way out of our league, merely played and tried not to get too badly damaged. Hand after hand was played, and we watched as the scores rose.
Profaci hit 100 first. The game was over. My score was a respectable 68, but Ed’s was 97, and he was livid. For Jack McCoy ended the game with a score of 47.
“Don’t worry about the nickels, Detectives,” he said, pushing them aside as we made to pay up. “I really played this game to see how I’d do against Ed. Thirty points-thirty bucks, right?”
“Right,” Ed said grimly, digging out his wallet.
But Jack stayed his hand. “I just remembered,” he said, “Gambling is illegal in this jurisdiction. We’d better all just call these friendly games.”
“I pay—“ Ed began, but I held up a hand.
“Company’s come,” I said. We turned on the speaker and listened as Manny Gordon ordered a hit on a rival dealer. “That’s all we need,” I said, and got up. Ed was phoning the uniforms, who were already across the street by the time we got downstairs. McCoy was triumphant as the collar was made.
It was only as he was getting on his motorcycle that I had time to ask McCoy the question that had been bugging me since we played the first hand of Hearts. “Come on, Jack, no one who is as good at cards as you are muffs games like stud and draw. What gives?”
McCoy grinned. “I’ve heard about Green’s talents, and I was curious how I’d fare against him. As for the hustle, hey, how do you think I worked my way through college?” He hopped on his motorcycle and rode off.