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happen to you. And the worst part of it was, we’re sitting there playing with cash.All that dough is sitting right there on the table. It’s a dumb thing to do, but those rich creeps like it that way, it makes them feel important. Like desperadoes in some half-assed western movie—the big showdown at the Last Gasp Saloon. You’re supposed to play with chips, everybody knows that. The whole idea is to forget about the money, to concentrate on the goddamn game. But that’s how those lawyers play, and there’s nothing I can do about their rinky-dink house rules.
    “There’s forty, maybe fifty thousand dollars’ worth of legal tender sunning itself on the table. I’m spread out on the floor and can’t see a thing, but I can hear them stuffing money into bags, going around the table and sweeping it off—whoosh, whoosh, making quick work of it. I figure it’s going to be over soon, and maybe they won’t turn their guns on us. I’m not thinking about the money anymore, I just want to get out of there with my hide intact. Fuck the money, I say to myself, just don’t shoot me. It’s weird how fast things can happen. One minute, I’m about to raise the guy on my left, thinking what a smart, high-class dude I am, and the next minute I’m flat on the ground, hoping I don’t get my brains blown out. I’m digging my face into the goddamn shag carpet and praying like a son of a bitch those robbers are going to split before I open my eyes again.
    “Believe it or not, my prayers are answered. The robbers do just what they say they’re going to do, and three or four minutes later they’re gone. We hear their car drive away, and we all stand up and start breathing again. My knees are knocking together, I’m shaking like a palsy victim, but it’s over, and everything is all right. At least that’s what I think. As it turns out, the real fun hasn’t even started yet.
    “George Whitney got it going. He’s the guy who owns the house, one of those hot-air balloons who walks around in green plaid pants and white cashmere sweaters. Once we’ve had a drink and settled down a little, big George says to Gil Swanson—that’s the luggerwho worked out the invitation for me—‘It’s just like I told you, Gil,’ he says, ‘you can’t bring riffraff into a game like this.’ ‘What are you talking about, George?’ Gil says, and George says, ‘Figure it out for yourself, Gil. We play every month for seven years and nothing ever goes wrong. Then you tell me about this punk kid who’s supposed to be a good player and twist my arm to bring him up, and look what happens. I had eight thousand dollars sitting on that table, and I don’t take kindly to a bunch of thugs walking off with it.’
    “Before Gil has a chance to say anything, I walk right up to George and open my big mouth. I probably shouldn’t have done that, but I’m pissed off, and it’s all I can do not to punch him in the face. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ I say to him. ‘It means that you set us up, you little slimeball,’ he says, and then he starts poking me in the chest with his finger, pushing me back into the corner of the room. He keeps poking at me with that fat finger of his, and all the while he’s still talking. ‘I’m not going to let you and your hoodlum friends get away with a thing like that,’ he says. ‘You’re going to pay for it, Pozzi. I’ll see that you get what’s coming to you.’ On and on, jabbing with that finger of his and yammering in my face, and finally I just swat his arm away and tell him to step back. He’s a big one, this George, maybe six-two or six-three. Fifty years old, but he’s in good shape, and I know there’ll be trouble if I try to tangle with him. ‘Hands off, pig,’ I say to him, ‘just keep your hands off me and step back.’ But the bastard is going crazy and won’t stop. He grabs me by the shirt, and at that point I lose my cool and send my fist straight into his gut. I try to run