THE MAN WHO WAS SITTING AT A TABLE
He who keeps his head, keeps his seat at the poker table. Which only serves to demonstrate that when it comes to winning, losing or hitting a card, the first requirement, in the criminal game of poker, is to have courage.
Byron Duquay sat alone at the octagonal table covered with green cloth. To the right of him, a small table on which poker chips were piled up: red, white and blue. On the left, a cart loaded with Scotch, bourbon, a bottle of soda, a dozen clean glasses, and a container with ice cubes.
As he sat there alone, Byron Duquay played with one of the decks. His slender, carefully manicured fingers mixed the deck, he cut and dedicated himself to a little game that seemed like a strange combination of solitaire and fortune telling. His fine, handsome, ascetic face did not change its expression as the cards appeared. There was no noise in the room, nor in the entire apartment, other than the click-click of the cards as they passed through Duquay's hands.
No other noise, that is to say none, until the metallic and insignificant noise of the door opening was heard. The door was a little cornered, out of Duquay's range of vision, so he said in a friendly voice:
-Come in, come in, whoever you are.
He was waiting for a fellow player, but the man who appeared in Duquay's sight had obviously not come to play cards. He was short, just under five feet tall, and very thin. He was wearing dirty gray pants, a wrinkled white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and open across his chest. He had rather long, sandy-colored hair that was dirty and tangled. His small, narrow face seemed twisted, and despair was visible in his pale eyes. In his right hand he carried a knife.
Byron Duquay didn't even try to get up from the table. But he left the cards.
-You want? -she asked.
The stranger did not answer the question. On the contrary, after looking around him suspiciously, he formulated his own:
-Are we alone here?
Duquay, perhaps unwisely, nodded his head.
"Very well," said the stranger. Don't make me angry and I won't hurt you.
-What do you want? -Duquay repeated.
But this time his voice was somewhat firmer, calmer and the question less mechanical.
The young man did not answer this time either. He looked around again, perhaps trying to decide if there was anything there he wanted. On this new inspection of the room he saw the bottles next to Duquay, and his eyes lit up.
-I could use a drink,
"Sit down," said Duquay, "and I'll pour you one."
And he waited for his visitor to sit down. The young man, perhaps out of pure caution, chose the place that fell opposite Duquay and, also, the point furthest from him. He kept his right hand on the table. The blade, about seven inches long, shone on the green cloth surface like a diamond on a black velvet background.
-What do you prefer to drink, Scotch or bourbon?
Almost bewildered by the fact that he was given a choice, the young man hesitated, finally deciding:
-Bourbon. A large glass, with lots of ice.
There was silence as Duquay served the drink as requested. He then pushed her across the table. The young man received it with his free hand, with his left, took a long drink, and made a slight grimace.
"I want money," he said later, "and the keys to your car; I also want to know where you have it parked. Plus I want clothes.
Duquay made no move to provide him with any of this.
"This doesn't seem like a common robbery to me," he commented.
-It's not a common robbery. -The young man drank from the glass again. Come on, he's already heard what I told him.
But Duquay changed the subject:
-By the way, who are you?
-Damn! He doesn't care, he...
-You must be Rick Masden.
A slight smile of pride appeared on his face.
-I see that you listen to the news on the radio and watch television.
"Sometimes," said Duquay.
-Okay, I'm Rick Masden. I slashed two people in a bar last week. My girlfriend and her new friend. Two days later they hunted me down, but yesterday morning I escaped. -He smiled-. Because I found another knife.
-Do you mind if I drink with you? Duquay asked, and reached out for one of the bottles.
But Masden's left hand, leaving his drink unfinished, hit the table hard, suddenly.
-Stop the drinks! -he almost shouted-. I've already told him what I want, and I want it right now.
Duquay gave up preparing his drink, but did not move.
"Let's discuss it, Masden," he began.
Masden's right hand left the surface of the table a few inches and the knife rested impatiently between his fingers.
"Look," he said slowly, "either you do what I tell you or I'll cut you the same thing I did with the others."
But Duquay was undeterred.
"Don't move, Masden," he snapped, and his voice had such authority that Masden, at least for the moment, obeyed. Before you decide to cut me off, you better listen to what I have to tell you.
Masden seemed to sense the danger, the challenge. He remained still. Even the knife stilled.
"I'm listening," he finally muttered.
-Good. Let's analyze our situation, Mr. Masden. We occupy opposite places at this table, a meter away from us. You have a knife and I, at the moment, don't have any weapon. But I've been thinking, Mr. Masden, about what I might do if you decided to get violent. I would certainly try to defend myself. Do you know what I would try to do? Well, I would do the following. The slightest movement on your part to get up from your chair would tip the table over on top of you. And I'm sure I can do it. You may be a little younger than me, Masden, but if you look closely, I'm almost twice your size. So now we have the first phase of our little battle. In a moment he would be on the floor with the table on him, or if he weren't so lucky he would be, at least, cornered against the wall and with the table between the two of them. He follows me?
Fascinated, despite his suspicion and anger, the young man shook his head:
-Yes, I follow him.
-Let us then move on to the second movement. Notice the piece of furniture behind me and to my left, Masden. I think that from where you are sitting you can see the object I am referring to perfectly well. I use it as a letter opener, but it's a Turkish dagger, encrusted with jewels. You can see it perfectly from there, right, Masden? As soon as he manages to tip the table over on you, I would grab the dagger. That way we'd be more or less balanced, wouldn't we, Masden?
The young man stared, but when Duquay was silent for a moment, he blinked repeatedly and licked his lips. But he didn't say anything.
"So much for the second movement," continued Duquay, with great precision in his speech. The completion of the second movement, we could say, is the end of the preparation for battle. The third movement would be the beginning of the battle itself. Now, what would be our situation, Masden?
The blinking and licking of his lips were repeated again, but there were no comments either.
-Let's consider weapons, Masden. What type of knife is yours?
"A very sharp kitchen knife," answered Masden almost reluctantly. A guy passed it on to me in jail.
"If you don't mind me telling you," Duquay said with a slight smile, "I think I would have a slight advantage over you in terms of weapons." At the very least, I would never trade my Turkish dagger for his kitchen knife.
-Hey, sir...
But Duquay continued to insist:
-However, more important than the weapons are the men involved in this battle. Do you think we can compare, Masden? By the way, how old are you?
-Nineteen.
-I thirty-one. There you have an advantage. How much does it weigh?
-Sixty.
-I weigh thirty more, Masden. A bit in my favor. Well, how are we going to behave? First I will tell you my merits. Defense in soccer ten years ago. Equally good as a forward in basketball. More than regular in tennis, swimming, etc. Additionally, I stay in shape with an hour of exercise daily. I haven't gained a pound since I left university. This should tell you something, don't you think? Now, how are you as an athlete, Masden?
The young man sitting in front of him had turned pale and tensed. He licked his lips again. He looked as if he wanted to answer her, but no words came out.
-Let me analyze you as I see you, Masden. You suffer from poor nutrition, I would say. Not because he was hungry, but rather because he grew up uncontrolled, and therefore never ate what was appropriate. You are abnormally thin, you know? We must add to this certain bad habits. He probably started smoking when he was nine or ten years old. I have noticed excessive nicotine stains on his fingers. God only knows what he smokes now, maybe even something stronger than tobacco. And I see that he also drinks. I bet he drinks a lot more than me. Look at me, Masden, and look at yourself. And tell me, who do you think is in better physical shape?
The young man had been left speechless. His thick eyebrows were almost drawn together, and his eyes stared hard and intently at his host.
"But we haven't discussed the most important factor yet," Duquay continued. I'm talking about courage, the willingness to fight, to accept the necessary risks. You were very brave, it is true, when you entered this room. And he was brave because he carried a knife and assumed that I would not be armed. But how is it now? I guess not as brave as a few minutes ago. He was able to come in blustering and threatening to cut me up, but now that there seems to be an opportunity for his flesh to be cut a little, he doesn't seem so attractive anymore, does he?
-It's a bluff!
Rick Masden had finally regained his speech and the three words came out like a small explosion.
Duquay smiled a little more and asked:
-Do you think so? All you have to do to make sure is start a movement out of your chair, Masden.
Another silence followed, denser this time, more charged with hostility and hatred. Masden did not move.
After a moment, Duquay continued:
-There is one more thing, naturally, that I must not overlook. It's about motivation. Even if you are not the bravest man in the world, you have a good reason to fight. If he kills me, nothing happens, and he gets my money, my car and whatever he decides to take. On the contrary, if I kill him, he will be no worse off than he was before he escaped.
Something like hope lit up the young man's pale eyes. He wanted to know:
-What are you going to gain by fighting with me, sir? -She said with a tone full of cunning.
"This is a very good question," Duquay admitted. I suppose I could let him have what he wants, and make the Police's job more difficult by delaying his capture by a day or two, or a week or two. And I could hope that by allowing him to have whatever he wanted, he would leave me quietly, without doing anything worse than tying me up, perhaps. But it turns out that I don't trust you to that extent. He is a bad class punk, he enjoys violence, he enjoys damaging, hurting people. Maybe he would be satisfied by hitting me a little, but on the other hand... with murders already on his record, I imagine he wouldn't hesitate to kill me.
The young man frowned, his expression darkened, his eyes reflecting pure evil.
-Besides, Masden, it turns out that I don't like you at all. It's pure garbage, nothing more than garbage. I wouldn't mind taking the risk of being hurt, or even killed, for the privilege of being able to attack him.
Rick Masden, although he didn't actually move, did shift in his chair and his right hand seemed to shake. He asked:
-So you and I are going to fight with knives, right?
-In all safety if you get up from the chair.
Masden took a long drink, emptied the glass, and felt the burn of the alcohol. He looked at Duquay and then blurted:
-{Okay, start, daddy. Come on, go ahead, start something.
"I didn't say I was going to start anything," replied Duquay. I've only been telling you what I proposed to do if you started something.
Now the silence became deep and endless. They both looked at each other, both with both hands visible on the table. The kitchen knife was still on Masden's right. Both of Duquay's hands were empty. But Masden's gaze went to the furniture, he saw the dagger there, he returned to the table again. Minutes and seconds passed. Then Masden said:
-Why don't you just give me what I want? A few dollars, a suit and the keys to her car. He is insured. This way neither of us will be harmed. Why doesn't he do it?
-Because I do not want to.
Masden bit his lip thoughtfully.
-What's going to happen, daddy? Should we just sit there? He said if he moved me he would tip over the table and grab the dagger. Then the fight would begin. So we sit back or fight, huh? I have to go... -Suddenly a new light shone in the fugitive's gray eyes. He tried to get up, but changed his mind, although his body vibrated under the violence of the other's threat. "I get it, I get it now," Masden said between clenched teeth. He's waiting for some guys who are coming to play cards, and he's trying to entertain me until they arrive.
Duquay did not lose his cool.
-Well, I'm doing very well, don't you think, Mas-den? -asked-. Yes, I'm waiting for you in a few minutes.
-Well, he's not going to get away with it.
-You can still choose. If you leave the chair, I'll overturn the table and take the dagger. You can try your luck this way.
-I would be completely crazy if I waited...
The thin body trembled, indecisive.
-Of course you still have another alternative, Masden.
-What does it mean?
There was now some hope in the fugitive's voice.
-If we fight, I also take the risk. And I don't want to take the risk just because. So I'm willing to negotiate. My safety for your escape. His escape empty-handed, I might add.
Rick Masden didn't feel as confident or as truculent as before.
-I'm all ears, daddy.
-Let's see. I feel in danger while I have the knife in my hands. If he suddenly jumps, how will I know if he intends to attack me or flee? So whatever is proposed, if it jumps I will defend myself. This is how the battle will begin, whether we want it or not. Do you understand what I mean?
Masden nodded.
-I think so.
-The key to the whole situation is in his knife. You want to run away. I don't want to fight you, or help you, or cooperate. But as long as he has the knife in his hand, he can't move in any direction without starting the fight. So the only way out I see for you is to throw the knife in the center of the table.
-That?
-That's right. This way neither of them will be armed.
-What will happen to me next? You are a soccer player and you can… -The table is still between the two of us. The advantage is yours. He should be able to get out of here before he catches up to him. -But he will phone the Police.
"He's a clever boy, Masden," laughed Duquay. It hadn't occurred to me but since I'm a good citizen, he probably would have. Okay, I'll make a deal with you. My phone against his knife. -What does he mean?
-My phone is here, within arm's reach, on top of the furniture. If you'll allow me, I'll pull it out and rip off the connection. I'll do it first. I snatch the phone and you throw the knife in the center of the table and run. That tells me?
The young man's eyebrows twitched. He thought furiously. From time to time he looked at Duquay, sizing him up, measuring the breadth of his shoulders, the tenacity of his purpose.
"It's okay," he ended up saying. First boot the phone. Now. I'll hold the knife while she does it. And if he tries to take the dagger instead of the phone... -Don't let me out of your sight, Masden. Slowly, without making sudden movements, and trying not to lose sight of his adversary for a moment, Duquay had half turned in his chair, extended his left arm back and to the side, reached for the telephone, grabbed it, and gave a loud shake. jerk. Then he continued pulling hard. Finally, there was a snap and the cord was dangling.
-Are you convinced it's broken? -she asked. He dropped the phone, which fell to the carpet with a dull thud. Now, his knife, please. In the center of the table, where neither one nor the other can easily reach it. They looked at each other again without believing too much in each other, still distrusting each other. A long pause followed in which they did not move.
-Come on, Masden, as long as you hold the knife you can't leave the chair.
Silently, with obvious regret, reluctantly, the young man resigned himself. Turning his wrist, he sent the object to the center of the table. He did some pirouettes on himself and remained still.
"Don't leave your seat, Daddy," Masden announced. Leave.
"I'm sorry I can't wish you good luck," said Duquay.
They said goodbye in silence. And then, both the silence and the farewell were interrupted by a faint noise. Both men, sitting, heard it.
Masden did not hesitate to react. His chair flew after him as he ran away from the table. Duquay did not move, but instead grabbed both arms of the chair and shouted at the top of his lungs:
-Sam, stop that man, he's a criminal!
Screams and noises of fighting and cursing were heard in the next room. Byron Duquay didn't even move to participate or watch. He sat where he was, content to listen. The noises grew in crescendo until, finally, a single, tremendous sound ended it all... the crash of a fist against bone.
Duquay leaned back and relaxed. The bright light that illuminated the gaming table revealed the sweat on his face.
Captain Sam Williams made his second appearance at Byron Duquay's poker game about two hours later. It had taken him all this time to deal with Rick Mas-den, return him to jail, and fill out a full report detailing his capture.
"Byron," he said, shaking his graying head, "I don't know
If I will ever dare to sit down and play a game of poker with you again. Man, I never guessed you had such an ability to bluff.
"You flatter me, Sam," declared Duquay, "I was lucky, nothing more." This afternoon, before Virginia left, I insisted that she take me out of the wheelchair and sit me here. Sometimes I prefer to receive you sitting in the armchair, you know. I feel less invalid. If I had been in my wheelchair I wouldn't have been able to fool Masden for even a moment.
Sam nodded, agreeing. His gaze sought the open bedroom door, where in the semi-darkness a pair of silver wheels could be seen shining. Rick Masden hadn't seen them. Or if he saw them, he did not relate them to the man sitting at the table.
END
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