Ronnie showed his questionable teeth in a grin. He was playing to a gallery by then; we had attracted about half a dozen spectators. Skip and Nate were among them. ‘Want to play it that way, do you? Okay. Spread your cheeks, moron; you’re about to be cornholed.’
Two hands later, I cornholed him. Ashley, who started that last hand with ninety-eight points, went over the top in a hurry. The spectators were dead quiet, waiting to see whether I could actually hit Ronnie with six — the number of hearts he’d need to take for me to beat him by one.
Ronnie looked good at first, playing under everything that was led, staying away from the lead himself. When you have good low cards in Hearts, you’re practically bulletproof. ‘Riley’s cooked!’ he informed the audience. ‘I mean fucking toastyl’
I thought so, too, but at least I had the queen of spades in my hand. If I could drop it on him, I’d still win. I wouldn’t make much from Ronnie, but the other two would be coughing up blood: over five bucks between them. And I’d get to see Ronnie’s face change. That’s what I wanted most, to see the gloat go out and the goat come in. I wanted to shut him up.
It came down to the last three tricks. Ashley played the six of hearts. Hugh played the five.
I played the three. I saw Ronnie’s smile fade as he played the nine and took the trick. It dropped his edge to a mere three points. Better still, he finally had the lead. I had the jack of clubs and the queen of spades left in my hand. If Ronnie had a low club and played it, I was going to eat The Bitch and have to endure his crowing, which would be caustic. If, on the other hand . . .
He played the five of diamonds. Hugh played the two of diamonds, getting under, and Ashley, smiling in a puzzled way that suggested he didn’t know just what the fuck he was doing, played void.
Dead silence in the room.
Then, smiling, I completed the trick — Ronnie’s trick — by dropping the queen of spades on top of the other three cards. There was a soft sigh from around the card-table, and when I looked up I saw that the half-dozen spectators had become nearly a full dozen. David Dearborn leaned in the doorway, arms folded, frowning at us. Behind him, in the hall, was someone else. Someone leaning on a pair of crutches.
I suppose Dearie had already checked his well-thumbed book of rules — Dormitory Regulations at the University of Maine, 1966-1967 Edition — and had been disappointed to find there was none against playing cards, even when there was a stake involved. But you must believe me when I say his disappointment was nothing compared to Ronnie’s.
There are good losers in this world, there are sore losers, sulky losers, defiant losers, weepy losers . . . and then there are your down-and-out fuckhead losers. Ronnie was of the down-and-out fuckhead type. His cheeks flushed pink on the skin and almost purple around his blemishes. His mouth thinned to a shadow, and I could see his jaws working as he chewed his lips.
‘Oh gosh,’ Skip said. ‘Look who got hit with the shit.’
‘Why’d you do that?’ Ronnie burst out, ignoring Skip — ignoring everyone in the room but me. ‘Why’d you do that, you numb fuck?’
I was bemused by the question and — let me admit this — absolutely delighted by his rage. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘according to Vince Lombardi, winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.
Pay up, Ronnie.’
‘You’re queer,’ he said. ‘You’re a fucking homo majordomo. Who dealt that?’
‘Ashley,’ I said. ‘And if you want to call me a cheater, say it right out loud. Then I’m going to come around this table, grab you before you can run, and beat the snot out of you.’
‘No one’s beating the snot out of anyone on my floor!’ Dearie said sharply from the doorway, but everyone ignored him. They were watching Ronnie and me.