The Gold of Troy

For a Moment Matsoukas absorbed the suspensive beauty of the warm and cloistered room, a windowless nest secure from the world. In the center of the room a large round table of walnut, the green felt surface lit under the beam from a drop-cord light in the ceiling with a fan shade around the bulb.

There was the soft echo of the dealer's litany calling the fall of the cards, the trails of smoke rising in silver coils to merge into a swirling cloud above the light, the smell of tobacco and sweat. And on the green felt surface of the table the frivolous one-eyed jacks flirting with the elusive queens under the eyes of the somber kings. Around the edges of the cards the fingers of the players glittered, their hands severed at the wrist by the perimeter of darkness just outside the circle of light.

Matsoukas knew the hands without seeing the faces of the men. There were the plump and clumsy fingers of Fatsas, who could not win for losing; the dark leathery fingers of the guitarist, Charilaos, curling as if he were striking chords; the desultory fingers of Poulos, who played to pass the time; and the never-resting fingers of Babalaros, who played to keep from going mad. A pair of soft and diamond-studded hands, strange to him but with a certain pomposity, he apportioned to the "Fig King." And, finally, the hands of the dealer, his friend Cicero, small and frail-bodied, with a thin pale-fleshed face but with slender and beautiful fingers, long and supple, the flesh gleaming like marble in moonlight, holding the deck as a king might hold his scepter, with a grave and leisured grace.

As Matsoukas passed around the table, the Fig King raked in a pot and smiled genially.

"My apologies, gentlemen," he said. "Since I play for sport and not to win, I do this to you reluctantly."

Cicero smiled wryly and gathered the cards for the deal.

Matsoukas sat down in a chair against the wall beside a chair in which old Gero Kampana dozed with his scarred and ancient head tilted slightly to the side. The old man had been abstemious in all facets of his life but cards, playing poker for 75 of his 90 years. He had never married, never given any woman more than embers from the fire of his true love. Now grown blind and deaf, he could no longer distinguish the faces of the cards or hear the dealer's call. Still, he sat most of the day and night in the room where cards were played, assimilating in some disordered way the rhythms and the tensions. As Matsoukas sat down, he raised his head with a start.

"Who is that?" he asked, peering toward the light.

"Matsoukas."

"I knew it was you," the old man snapped.

"Of course," Matsoukas said and patted the old man's knee.

For about 40 minutes he sat and watched the game and studied the Fig King's play. He watched him through a score of stud-poker hands, 15 of which he won. When Babalaros was driven from the game, Matsoukas rose and took his place.

He winked fondly at Cicero, nodded and greeted Charilaos and Poulos, and slapped Fatsas on the shoulder. "How are you, old sport?" he asked cheerfully. "Still playing your canny and skillful game?"

"I'm still losing, if that's what you mean," Fatsas said with irritation.

Matsoukas smiled benignly at the Fig King. "Play for sport," he said politely. "Those were your words, sir, and I completely agree." He rose slightly in his chair and bowed. "I am Leonidas Matsoukas."

"Poker for sport!" Fatsas said incredulously.

The Fig King extended his hand limply to Matsoukas, who shook it vigorously. "Elias Roumbakakis," the tycoon said gravely. "One must be able to afford to lose," he said. "Only then is the game a sport. Do you agree?"

"Absolutely!" Matsoukas said. He peered closely at Roumbakakis. "Your face is very familiar," he said. "Tell me, sir, were you not in last Sunday's National Herald?"

"Not this last Sunday," Roumbakakis said, "although they often have my photo with dignitaries. Perhaps you saw my recent photo in The Ahepan magazine? I was presenting a basket of figs to Alderman Pasofski, a very close friend."

Cicero bent his head and smiled crookedly as he raked in the cards for another deal.

"That must be where I saw you!" Matsoukas said. He stared somberly around the table at the other players. "I hope you all appreciate what a singular honor it is," he said, "to be playing with such an eminent leader of the Hellenic community."

Roumbakakis raised his hand in a silent demurrer, but could not conceal the pleased flush that sprouted in his cheeks.

"Get a new deck and let's play!" Fatsas said to Cicero. "I'm ninety dollars out. Let's get on with this bloody sport!"

Cicero ripped the cellophane wrapping from a new deck of Bicycles and threw the (Continued on page 224) Gold of Troy(continued from page 127) jokers out. Matsoukas watched with delight the way he handled the cards, the way his long pale fingers shuffled in a dancing rhythm, the cards becoming an extension of his hands, slicing between one another in swift sure passage.

Old Gero Kampana raised his head and sniffed the air. "New deal!" he cried with delight. "New deal!"

Cicero passed the deck to Fatsas for the cut. Then he rapped the table lightly to signal the deal. He held the deck securely in his hand and with a deft snapping motion of his fingers skimmed the cards toward the players, each card coming to rest face down before each man's money. At the end of the round he barely altered the position of his fingers and the second card was pitched face up with the corner just touching the rim of the first card.

"Queen, ten, five, eight, jack," Cicero quietly called the quick and silent fall of the cards. "Queen bets."

With a five as the higher of his first two cards, Matsoukas folded.

"You play cautiously," Roumbakakis chided him.

"We are doomed to the dictates of our natures," Matsoukas smiled. "Mine is cautious, conservative."

Fatsas released a snort. When Roumbakakis looked sharply at him, he stared innocently at his cards.

"The game loses savor when played cautiously," Roumbakakis said. "I like to play by driving forward boldly. That is the Greek tradition in warfare and in life." He won the pot by pairing his queen on the last card. Fatsas threw in his jacks with disgust. Charilaos sighed. Poulos stared idly at his fingernails.

Fatsas threw in a dollar ante somberly. "Forty years I have been married to these pasteboard bastards and bitches," he said. "Nothing but grief and despair."

"A man makes his own destiny," Roumbakakis smiled broadly, showing an awesome structure of gold fillings.

If I could pluck a few of those, Matsoukas thought. "The gold of Troy," he said aloud.

"Pardon me?" Roumbakakis said, fearing there was a compliment he might have missed.

"This game is becoming a bloody bridge session," Fatsas grumbled. "A man can't concentrate on the bloody cards."

"Your disposition is less than congenial," Roumbakakis snapped. "The way in which a man loses reveals his character."

"Jack-five, ten-nine possible straight, pair of sixes, king-seven possible flush," Cicero called. "Pair of sixes bet."

Matsoukas played no-stay for the next seven hands. He could not afford to remain without a solid pair. One hand he held to the fifth card, feeling certain that Roumbakakis was preparing nervously to bluff. He bet lightly into the Fig King.

"Your five and twenty dollars more," Roumbakakis said.

Matsoukas hesitated to suggest indecision and then, as if agitated by his prudent nature, turned his cards over.

Roumbakakis laughed with delight and scooped in the pot. His flushed cheeks were clear evidence he had pulled off a bluff.

They played through the afternoon. Big Carl, heavy-bodied and lynx-eyed, replaced Cicero for an hour. When Cicero returned, he walked a little unsteadily toward the table and a certain limpness marked his lips. Matsoukas looked at him with concern, but his fingers did not waver as he resumed the deal. In his absence Matsoukas had strengthened his stake by winning about $150.

The tide turned against Roumbakakis and he began to lose. He continued to play as boldly as he had played when he had been winning and lost quickly and heavily. Matsoukas began to win more steadily and little by little the hands narrowed into a battle between the Fig King and himself. Fatsas and Charilaos and Poulos dropped from the game and the two of them played on alone with the limit raised to $50.

"Your twenty and raise you thirty," Matsoukas said.

Roumbakakis cursed under his breath and threw in $30. With a sharp look at Matsoukas, he threw in three more tens. "Back to you," he said.

"Triple ten raise to the sevens," Cicero said quietly.

"Of course," Matsoukas smiled. "Add fifty more to that." He put $80 into the pot.

Roumbakakis trembled with agitation and frustration. He cleared his throat with the sound of ice being crunched. He threw in the $50 almost in defiance and flipped over his cards.

"Aces and fours," he said.

"Three sevens," Matsoukas said gravely.

"Three of a kind again!" Roumbakakis cried and slammed the table with his fist. The cards and money jumped.

"New deal!" Gero Kampana came awake with a cry. "New deal!"

Roumbakakis signaled impatiently for the game to resume. All his amiability had fled and he played with a harsh and reckless anger. The next hand he bet senselessly against a pair of jacks and lost $70 to Matsoukas by remaining after he knew he was beaten. When his fury had robbed him of any capacity to play effectively he rose violently from his chair, which fell backward and struck the floor.

"I cannot play for peanuts!" Roumbakakis said hoarsely. "I wish to play no-limit! I will put all my resources in this game and we will see!"

"No," Matsoukas said quietly. "We will allow the fifty-dollar limit to remain or we will stop."

"You are afraid!" Roumbakakis cried.

"Man, you are unbalanced by anger," Matsoukas said patiently. "You could lose a small fortune before you regained your rattled senses. It would be plucking feathers from a dead pigeon."

"Who are you to tell me what I am?" Roumbakakis shouted. "I am a man of considerable prominence in this city. I have intimate friends in City Hall. I demand to play no-limit!"

"Not with me," Matsoukas said and calmly began to count the sheaf of bills before him. Roumbakakis watched, quivering with fury.

"Six hundred forty," Matsoukas said. "Six hundred fifty and the final twenty makes a total of six hundred seventy dollars." He smiled amiably at Roumbakakis. "The way in which a man loses reveals his character," he said. "I am pleased you take it with such grace."

Matsoukas started for the door with a final grin at Roumbakakis.

"I see it all now," Roumbakakis said hoarsely. "I see now that I have been involved in a game with . . . with a cheat!"

Cicero let loose a fierce tight cry. His pale face was livid with fury, his lips as sharp as the blade of a knife. He lunged at the Fig King with his thin arms flailing the air. Matsoukas moved swiftly and caught him in the cradle of his arm. He held him gently but firmly as the dealer struggled to break free.

"Let me at him!" Cicero cried. "I will tear off his goddamn jackass ears!"

"All right, now," Matsoukas sought to console him. "It's all right, my friend. The buffoon isn't worth a blow." Still restraining Cicero, he turned to Roumbakakis. "Listen to me, Fig King," he said softly, "when you make an allegation against me, you also slander a dealer who is known all over the country for the relentless honesty of his deal. For that reason I will enlighten your ignorance." He paused. "While you have been accumulating figs, I have spent some considerable time playing bank craps, open craps, blackjack, roulette, chemin de fer, baccarat, gin rummy, poker, draw and stud, keno and the match game. I have bet on horse races, lotteries, sweepstakes, pools, raffles and varied and assorted carnival and amusement-park games."

Roumbakakis shrugged scornfully, as if the information confirmed his own observation.

"Take the game in question, stud poker," Matsoukas said. "To suggest that I am a card carpenter, that I have thimble-rigged, switched, palmed or stacked any card in the play is a stupid impertinence. To suggest that you have been trimmed, fleeced, flushed and clipped requires an incredible pomposity. To cheat in a game with you is to resort to an enema for a sliver in my finger."

Roumbakakis flushed and opened his mouth to cry out. Matsoukas cut him off sharply.

"You are not listening," Matsoukas said. "Poker is a skill and your arrogance, incompetence and pomposity doom you to what you are in this game and will always be--a bird, a greenie, a rabbit and a pigeon."

"Hold on, now!" Roumbakakis cried in an outraged voice.

"Let me clip the bastard just once!" Cicero pleaded for Matsoukas to release him.

"I will spell it out in figs," Matsoukas said to Roumbakakis. "Poker is a game of deception, strategy, mathematics and psychology. You play it as a game of chance, alibis, frets, frowns and squawks."

Roumbakakis tried to form words to answer, but no sound passed his lips. His face had grown darker, his eyes strangely glazed, and he chewed helplessly against the fillings of his gold teeth.

Matsoukas prodded Cicero, who had quieted slightly, toward the door. He turned in a final summary to Roumbakakis. "My advice to you, old sport," he said, "is to avoid poker. Find another game at which you might hope to achieve some modest success. Marbles with cross-eyed donkeys, and demand they pass a saliva test at the end of each round lest your grievances accumulate and cause you to fart away the gas of your figs."

For a long moment after he finished, the room remained totally still. Roumbakakis released his breath in slow fitful spurts. Fatsas and Charilaos and Poulos tried to suppress their grins. Matsoukas let the dealer go with a final look of warning. Cicero cast a scornful glare at the Fig King and started for the door. Matsoukas followed him.

"New deal!" Gero Kampana cried. "New deal!" And the old man's voice rose and became a wail that echoed and re-echoed in the dark corners of the room.