The Pummerin Bell Read online

  2

  I slammed the door after the Gorilla and Fatty Irish were gone and set an egg to boil. Just as the three minutes had expired and I fished the egg out of the hot water, the telephone rang. I answered it.

  On the other end was my brother, Eddie. He was the last person who I wanted to talk to now and I gave nothing but yes or no answers to his numerous questions. Eddie didn't get the hint and wished me a happy birthday. He was cheerful, as if everything was just fine. After all, it wasn't him who had all his savings at risk. The whole two minutes that we talked, he didn't say one word about Fatty Irish and his debts, just some made-up bullshit instead. I played along, but didn't really know why I did it.

  So I asked: »Everything okay?«

  »Feeling great, man. Sicily's so beautiful this time of year. From my hotel room, I can see this volcano. What's its name again?«

  »Etna.«

  »Yeah, Etna. «

  »When are you coming back?«

  »I don't know. It's so beautiful here, I think I'm gonna stay a bit.«

  I listened for a while, about what he had to say about Sicily and the sea, and then I hung up on him mid-sentence. I suddenly had a terrible anger burning inside me and I didn't know quite where to go with it. So I swallowed it back down and focused on figuring out how I could politely convince the beautiful Asian to leave.

  The weekend came and I drove out to Simmering. I had the sixty thousand in my jacket pocket. It was everything I had saved over the last several years through my own hard work. It was a small fortune for a guy like me. Every step toward the subway station hurt and when I finally got onto the train, the pain became unbearable. I only wanted one thing. To turn around.

  It was 7:30 pm as I stepped out of the subway. I took the long way around to Fatty Irish's Temple of Poker, hoping I would change my mind. But suddenly the old factory building that Fatty Irish had converted into a gambling house appeared in front of me. I had a bad feeling. Everything in me rebelled against entering the Temple of Poker. But I did it anyway.

  I entered the Temple through a sliding door and walked on a red carpet to the bar. The factory was packed tight with people, almost up to the point of bursting. All the tables were occupied. Fatty Irish earned a percentage of each pot. He was the only one who went home every night with a full wallet. I waved one of the guys behind the counter over to me and gave him the password that Irish gave me. I was immediately taken to the back and a door marked private swung itself open, as if by magic. I entered a long corridor but my way was blocked by the Gorilla. When I stopped in front of him, he looked at me with his bulgy eyes. His hand disappeared into his jacket and reappeared with a thick, brown envelop. He handed it over to me. I added it to the sixty thousand in my pocket without saying a word. Then the Gorilla led me down the corridor. We passed countless numbers of closed doors until we finally stopped in front of one that looked exactly like all the others. He knocked three times. Somebody unlocked it from the inside and let me into a large room with a private bar on the left side and a poker table in the middle. There were even seats for spectators. I gave my name to the man who opened the door, a guy in a penguin tux, and he led me to the bar.

  It looked as if the already assembled players and audience had just been waiting for my arrival. The game would start at 8 pm. I counted twenty-one people, including Fatty Irish. Although he would have passed easily for four. Irish greeted me with a greasy handshake and introduced me to the round.

  They were quite the group to be admired. First, there was Dixie Johns from Memphis Tennessee, an old poker pro who was on a European tour. Then there was Little Willy, a six and a half foot tall giant, wide as an ox. He was chewing on a toothpick and had the peaceful, glazed over expression of a ruminating cow. That was only for show of course, because Little Willy had a reputation as an irascible mad man when things did not go the way he wanted. The third and final professional, who I'd never seen before but only heard of, introduced himself by his online name, Mampfa. And then there were the five others who made up the remainder, businessmen who had always wanted to boast that they were sitting with the great Dixie Johns at a table. There were two Germans, an American, a Viennese man and one Asian. Except for the Viennese, they all arrived specifically for the game. It was no mystery who would end up playing for the big pot. Perhaps one of the businessmen would manage to finish in the top four, if luck was on his side.

  I paid my one hundred thousand, and Irish locked the money in a small safe behind the counter. All the players sat at the table. Irish declared the tournament open and the dealer shuffled and then dealt the cards. We played with 3000 chips. The big blind started at 20 and was increased every forty-five minutes.

  After the first half hour, one of the German businessmen said farewell. He made an all-in with a pair of kings, but hadn't counted on the two aces in Mampfa's hands.

  The game went on for a while. I made myself discreet like Dixie Johns did, quiet and unnoticed. One after another said goodbye and at midnight there were only four of us left. The Viennese businessman, Freddy Seidel, had surprisingly managed to stay in the game up to this point. In a duel with Little Willy, he had more luck than judgment. Willy had an unbeatable inside straight. But the last two cards gifted a Lucky Flash to the Viennese businessman. Little Willy was already sure of his victory and bared teeth that desperately needed a dentist. But when the river card lay on the table, the fun was gone. The toothpick between his teeth broke in two and his chips were flying across the table. It took pretty much all of his will-power in order not to demolish anything. Then he went like everyone else back to the bar and ordered a drink. After the third whiskey, he had half calmed down and watched the rest of the game. Next to leave the table was Mampfa. He had no chance with his two kings against Dixie John's three fives.

  It was now almost one o'clock. Freddy Seidel's stack of chips was getting smaller. It was only a matter of time before he was out of the game and Dixie and I would have to settle out who’s balls were the biggest tonight. I had 8000 chips and, in my hand, a diamond Jack and an Ace of hearts. The blinds were at 1000 and I was in the first position.

  »Call,« I said.

  Seidel thought long. He counted his 7000 chips several times, and then made three equal stacks of it. He was decked out in a fine black suit with a bow tie, sitting too tight. The color of his face had changed two hours ago from pale white to flaming red. He sweated and tried with his wet fingers to loosen up the bow tie. After he had succeeded, he brought a handkerchief to light and wiped his forehead dry.

  »Raise,« said Seidel and put 2000 in the middle of the table.

  Dixie threw his cards on the table, I went along and the flop came with three hearts. A jack, a queen and a five.

  »Check.« I said.

  I knew Seidel had to get another 2000 to be taken seriously, which was already in the middle of the table. It was clear that Seidel had two queens. But I had a forty percent chance to complete my hand. I did the only thing you could do in this situation. I went along. The turn brought another heart. I had something to show now: an Ace-high Flush. Exactly what I had been working for. The probability that Seidel also had a heart in his hand was high. I didn't want to scare him off, so again I said: “Check,” and tried to act like I was a little disappointed. But not too much, it would not deter him from his plan. He pushed his remaining chips into the middle of the table. I brought his 2000 and then he grinned broadly, confident of victory. Poor bastard. He showed me a king of hearts and a queen of clubs and leaned back. I turned over only the ace of hearts and all the color drained from his face. He was now whiter than snow. His hands were shaking and his knees buckled a little as he rose from the table. One of the other players stood by, helped him to the bar and ordered him something to drink.

  In the meantime, the game went on. Dixie did not want to stop for a break and I was only just getting into the game. We had the same number of chips and played more aggressively, until the Blinds stood at 2000. Then the dealer
gave me a beautiful gift, two aces.

  Dixie raised 4000, and I went along. The flop put a queen, a two and a five down on the table. Dixie again bet 4000, I wasted no time and paid up. The turn gave us an Ace. Dixie was now going all in. As I pushed all my chips into the middle of the table, he realized that he was throwing his hundred thousand euros into the wind. He showed me his two queens, which he held in his hand and a soft Oh made the rounds in the audience. The others were not as fast as Dixie. He already knew my hand. The probability of four of a kind was 0.02% and it was the only thing that could help him now. Fatty Irish glanced casually at the game, as if it was no concern of his. After all, he got 3% of the pot which totaled thirty thousand euros. He would have lost only ten thousand euros. An easy loss for him to bear.

  »Three of a kind: queens.« said the dealer.

  Now it was my turn. I tossed my two aces on the table. The volume of Oh's from before was surpassed and sporadic applause began.

  »Three of a kind: aces beats queens.« said the dealer.

  But to Fatty Irish, all of that seemed to make no impression at all, I'd only helped him to a paltry million. He didn't even look once at the cards. His gaze was fixed on Seidel, who was standing a little off from the others and whose face flushed red again. His right hand disappeared deep in his pants and he suddenly whipped out a small, baby gun. The others waited, spellbound for the final river card. They focused intently at the table and only looked up when Fatty Irish shouted: »Every man down!« and then he threw himself onto the floor. I could've sworn that I felt the whole building shudder. I wanted to place myself under the door frame, as you should during an earthquake, but the gun that was pointed in my direction, prevented me.

  Speedy as a cat, Fatty Irish rolled under the table. This surprised not only me, but caused Seidel's eyes to widen as well. Then he waved his gun around in front of us and casually asked for the million. No one moved an inch. Automatically we raised our hands in the air and stared in amazement at the Viennese businessman.

  »No way,« came a voice from under the table. »Only over my corpse,« Irish said.

  Seidel dropped to the floor and tried to aim at the fat bastard.

  »I'm serious. Hand over the million or you're dead, Irish. Your huge beer gut won't protect you from a bullet.«

  »Go on, pull the trigger! I'm the only one who knows the code for the safe. You should see your stupid face now, you moron. You were too damn impatient. Should have waited until I'd handed over the money to the winner. I'd be kicking my own ass right now, if I were you« yelled Irish from under the table.

  Seidel was back on his feet, looking frantically around the room.

  »This isn't funny, Irish. Give me the million or one of your buddies bites the dust.«

  »You've only got two bullets in that gun,« Irish responded » That won't get you far.«

  »Irish is right,« said Little Willy as he took a step forward. Another toothpick broke threateningly in half between his teeth. Willy stared at Seidel as if he wanted to jump him. »Besides, it's Steiner's million,« he said, »so back off. The last time I counted, odds stand at 20:1 and I counted Irish only once.«

  »You hear that, Seidel? « Fatty Irish gleefully called out from under the table. »One bullet can't even hurt me. You'd need at least three. And I'll crush you before you can reload,« said Irish, bringing his strongest asset into the race.

  Seidel tried to answer, but just opened his mouth and closed it again. His second attempt consisted of nothing but babbling.

  Seidel's indecision forced Little Willy to act. He bounded forward with the grace of a kangaroo and grabbed Seidel's gun, but the man resisted and fought back like a wild animal, biting and scratching like a mad dog.

  And then the shot went off.

  It was suddenly quiet. Only the heavy breathing of Irish could be heard. The fat man rolled out from his cover, just as Little Willy crashed like a plank on the floor. Everyone just stared at the dark red blood pooling out from underneath him, blending with the colour of the carpet. The first person to get his shit together was Seidel, and he hopped excitedly around Little Willy's body, freaking out. »Shit shit shit fuck goddammit what the fuck?! Why's this fucking shit always fucking happening to me?«

  »'Cause you're a fucking moron,« chimed in Irish.

  Seidel's panic turned him onto Irish and the man rammed the shaking barrel of his gun into one of Irish's nostrils.

  »No more fucking around! You give me my god dammed million now, before I lose it and you end up with a hole in your fat face the size of your medicine ball heart!

  Irish's eyes were wide and his sweat trickled down the barrel of the gun. »Whoa, hey now, you win Seidel. I- I'll give you the million. « His eyes flickered around the room, seeking help, and when no one moved, he finally said: »Maybe someone can help me up?«

  It took five men to heave Fatty Irish off the ground. The American, the two Germans, the Asian and the online player Mampfa had started to sweat. It was hard work.

  Irish slowly trotted behind the counter. The rest of us had not moved, our hands still stretched to the sky, not willing to risk a single twitch of a muscle. Irish began fiddling with the safe. He frowned thoughtfully. I held my breath, fearing that he maybe forgot his code. Finally, the safe door swung open. Irish turned to Seidel and said: »Give me the bag.«

  »What do I want with a bag?«

  »Where the fuck else am I gonna pack up all the money, you moron?« Fatty Irish hissed impatiently at him. »Didn't you think of anything, before you started robbing my place?« Seidel just stared back at him. Irish looked up to the rest of the room. »I'm really sorry my friends, but do any one of you got a bag?«

  Mampfa showed mercy and emptied his backpack, as Seidel's eyes flickered between him and Irish, gun unsteady in his hand. Mampfa threw his backpack across to the counter. Fatty Irish caught it and began stuffing it with the million.

  »I'm done,« he finally said, and threw the thing at Seidel's feet.

  Seidel stooped and swung the backpack over his shoulder, and walked slowly back to the exit.

  »Don't you even fucking think about following me. I still have one bullet in my gun and I'll use it on any fucker who tries to be a fucking hero.«

  With this little speech he was out the door. No one in the room moved or even lowered his hands, until Little Willy sat up suddenly in a hacking fit of wet coughing. I jumped up from the table, left the room and ran down the long corridor. By the time I stormed into the main casino area, Seidel had long since disappeared. No trace of him in the parking lot outside either. The million was gone, but much worse, I'd lost my share of a hundred thousand euros.

  I didn't really know what I had expected to find in the parking lot, so I went back to the playroom and finally ordered something strong. The waiter mixed me up a highball that quickly lost its way down my throat. Nothing felt better after that, so I ordered another one. But it helped just as much as the first one. After my third highball, the paramedics finally dropped in. Three guys in red with a white cross on their backs. They stuck Little Willy with several little tubes and hooked him up to beeping machines. It looked complicated as shit. I didn't really know anything about that stuff, and wasn’t even that interested in it. I waved to Little Willy as they rolled him away on a stretcher. But the anger came back and I couldn’t wash it away with a third highball.

  After Little Willy was treated, the police made themselves comfortable in the playing room. Each of us had to give them his side of the story. This went on and on until a policeman with a beer belly and a cigarette in his mouth entered the room. He had a well-kept beard, wearing a white shirt and a rumpled tan suit.

  »Inspector Hasenzargel, criminal investigation department,« he said. »Where's the fire?«

  He looked at the round. »Ah, a raid on a poker game. Seems like someone couldn’t lose?«

  He gave Fatty Irish a disapproving look. They seemed to already know each other. Irish volunteered to tell the whole story
again. It was only his second time, so it seemed fair. After all, he was telling the story for four people. Meanwhile, inspector Hasenzargel looked at the cards from the last game, which still lay on the table. As Irish had finished his story, the inspector looked at me and said: »So you're the unlucky millionaire?«

  »Was,« I corrected.

  »You didn't even check the river card. You not gonna take a look?« he asked friendly.

  »No. Why?«

  »Is nobody curious if Mr. Steiner had really won? The chance of four of a kind is small but present. Isn't it exciting to know who of the two gentlemen should be kicking himself?« said the inspector and looked at me and Dixie Johns. When nobody answered, he reached out and exposed the river card. It was a seven of diamonds. I shrugged my shoulders and inspector Hasenzargel said. »At last we know for sure.«

  It was around four o clock in the morning, when I was finally allowed to go home. I spent the last of my money on a cab. After climbing the stairs up to my apartment, I fell half dead into bed. I was completely exhausted, but couldn't sleep and miserably rolled back and forth. The thought that I spared my idiot brother broken bones unfortunately didn't help that much. A bad feeling haunted me and I couldn’t lose the thought that I had made a wrong decision. It would have only been a few broken bones. Bones grow back together or you replace them with titanium. One hundred thousand euros grew nowhere and couldn't be replaced with anything else. Goddammit, Eddie.