The Monday-night poker game was composed of off-duty detectives from precincts all over the city. There were usually seven players in the game, but in any case there were never fewer than six or more than eight. Eight made the game unwieldy. Also, with eight players and only fifty-two cards, you couldn't play a lot of the wild-card games the detectives favored. Playing poker was a form of release for them. The stakes weren't high - if you had bad luck all night long, you could maybe lose fifty, sixty dollars - and the sense of gambling in a situation where the risks weren't frightening had a certain appeal for men who sometimes had to put their lives on the line.
Meyer Meyer was debating whether or not to bet into what looked like a straight flush, but which might be only a seven-high straight, if it was a straight at all.
He decided to take the risk.
"See the buck and raise it a buck," he said.
Morris Goldstein, a detective from the Seven-Three, raised his eyebrows and puffed on his pipe. He was the one sitting there with a three, four, five, and six of clubs in front of him and maybe a deuce or a seven of clubs in the hole. He seemed surprised now that Meyer had not only seen his bet but raised it as well.
There were only three players still in the pot. Meyer, who had a full house composed of three kings and a pair of aces; Goldstein with what appeared to be a straight flush but which perhaps wasn't; and Rudy Gonsowski from the One-Oh-Three, a sure loser even if he'd tripped one of his low pairs. Goldstein puffed on his pipe and casually raised the ante another buck. He was a lousy poker player, and Meyer figured he was still trying to bluff his phony straight flush. Gonsowski dropped out, no big surprise. Meyer thought it over.
"Let's go, ladies," Parker said, "this ain't mah-jongg night."
They were playing in his apartment tonight. The two other players in the game were a detective named Henry Flannery from Headquarters Command downtown and Leo Palladino from Midtown South. They were both very good players who usually went home winners. Tonight, though, both of them were suffering losing streaks. They sat back with the impatient, bored looks of losers on their faces, waiting for Meyer to make up his mind.
"One more time," Meyer said, and threw four fifty-cent chips into the pot.
Goldstein raised his eyebrows yet again.
He puffed solemnly on his pipe.
"And again," he said, and threw another two bucks into the pot.
Meyer figured it was time to start believing him.
"See you," he said.
Goldstein showed his deuce of clubs.
"Yeah," Meyer said, and tossed in his cards.
"You should'a known all along he had it," Parker said, sweeping in the cards and beginning to shuffle.
"He didn't start raising till the fourth card," Meyer said in defense.
"What the, hell were you doing in the game, Gonsowski?"
This from Flannery, who was so far losing thirty bucks.
"I had two pair in the first four cards," Gonsowski said.
"You can shove two pair up your ass, a straight flush," Palladino said.
"He coulda been bluffing," Gonsowski said.
"You're still looking at aces over kings," Flannery said. "Meyer had you beat on the board."
"This is called Widows," Parker said, and began dealing.
"What the hell's Widows?" Palladino asked.
"A new game."
"Another crazy new game," Flannery said.
Neither of them enjoyed losing.
"What I do, I deal two extra hands …"
"I hate these dumb crazy games," Flannery said.
"… face down. One of them has three cards in it, the other has five cards. Face down. Two hands, face down."
"Is this a five-card game?" Gonsowski asked.
"What the hell you think it is?" Palladino said.
"It could be a seven-card game, how do I know what it is? I never played it in my life. I never even heard of it till tonight."
"It stinks already," Flannery said.
"Two hands face down," Parker said. "They're called widows, the hands. One, two, three," he said, dealing, "that's the first widow . . . and one, two, three, four, five," still dealing, "that's the second widow."
"Why're they called widows?"
"I don't know why. That's what they're called, and that's the name of the game. Widows."
"I still don't get it," Gonsowski said. "What's the basic game here?"
"Five-card stud," Parker said, dealing all around the table now. "One card down, four up, we bet after each card."
"Then what?" Meyer asked.
"After the third card, if you don't like your hand, you can bid on the three-card widow. Whoever bids highest, the money goes in the pot, and he tosses in his hand and gets a whole new hand, those three cards in the widow."
"Sounds shittier and shittier every minute," Palladino said.
"It's a good game," Parker said, "wait and see."
"What about that other hand?" Goldstein asked. "The five-card hand?"
"Well," Parker said, beaming like a magician about to pull a rabbit from a hat, "after the fifth card is dealt, if you still don't like your hand, you can bid on that second widow, and if you're the highest bidder, you get a whole new five-card hand."
