Chapter 4

The late-in-the-day action has a few hard core regulars and a few tourists who often take too long deciding whether to play their 7-2 offsuit or not. No problem, really, as long as they could be bluffed and provide a steady source of funds to the rest of us.

Charles, the casino manager, walks by in his suit and tie and nods to me.

“Everything good?” he asks.

“Everything’s good,” I say.

He walks on and I focus on the flop and bet.

There are 6 of us at the table and the discussion – there’s always a discussion at a poker table and it seldom has anything to do directly with the game – is on the nature of reality, always a good topic in Las Vegas.

“The only thing you can say for real is whatever is empirically based. The scientific method. Everything else is fantasy, basically.”

That’s from Frank, a local semi-pro, who has a relatively decent stack of chips on the table in front of him but who is known for “steaming” from time to time, that is, getting angry about a bad play and letting it affect play, adversely. I seem to recall that he used to teach geology or something like that over at UNLV before he learned skillful poker play (like me).

“The great yogis of India and Tibet say otherwise, Frank,” says Srishindi , a former entrepreneur who started a software company, made a couple of million and then retired and moved to Southern Nevada.

“I’m talking about reality here, Chamath. Not visions and revelations and all that bullshit,” Frank says.

“Are you raising or just calling, Frank?” Srishindi asks.

“Based on your strong reaction, I believe I’ll go ahead and 3-bet.”

That’s a big raise and probably a bad idea since it’s attached to an emotion and not pure reason, kind of funny coming from Mister Empirical Reality.

One of the tourists who says he’s on vacation here from Topeka, Kansas, 3-bets the 3-bet, creating quite a pot. The tourist can tell that Frank is playing emotionally and it’s an easy play if you’re holding the right hand. Everyone else at the table folds. Frank puts in the money, the last card falls and the man from Topeka collects his winnings and leaves with a smile.

“Damn” is all Frank has to say.

“You need to learn how to meditate, Frank,” says Srishindi. “I’d be happy to show you how.”

“Fat chance,” Franks says. “Thanks anyway.”

It’s a polite game but you should have been here when they got into Das Kapital. It’s profitable to play with distracted players but I hate to take advantage of people that I know away from the table. Sometimes I will anyway (that’s poker) but I try to place a limit on the amount of advantage and stop there. Speaking of Das Kapital.

My phone buzzes and it’s my friend at the police department, so I get up and step away from the poker table.

“One of those sorority sisters says she wants to talk to you. Something she couldn’t say when the others were around. Can I give you her number?”

“Sure, I’ll call her.”

He gives me the number and I hold off on calling her until I’m out of the casino and away from the general madness.

Her name is Ellen and she says she’s at the sorority house and that she’s afraid someone might overhear what she has to say, so could we meet someplace. She has something to tell me.

“Would the coffee shop inside the Green Valley library be okay?”

Actually, it’s a bit of a drive but I don’t want to argue and we agree to meet there at 4. She’s picked a place outside of the city of Las Vegas where it’s unlikely, I suppose, that sorority sisters or anyone else she knows is likely to be hanging out. It’s unlikely anyone I know will be hanging out there but you never know – it’s a funny town. Have I said that already? I’ll probably say it again.

I take the drive East on Sunset Boulevard and, a short drive later, I am parking in the lot outside of the Green Valley Library, quite a change from the architecture seen on the Strip. This building is sensible and attractive, all at once, something you don’t see much back down the road. When I enter, I see the coffee shop, order a cup and I sit down in the quiet, waiting for Ellen to show up or maybe to not show up.

A few minutes go by and I see a young woman enter the library, look over, spot me and walk over, slowly. She’s about 5 foot 10 or so and I would guess, at first look, an athlete of some kind, maybe basketball, perhaps tennis. Long black hair. She’s wearing Levis and a tan shirt with no lettering on it, just a tan t-shirt.

“Are you the private eye guy?”

“Yes, I am. Are you Ellen.”

“Yes.”

“Have a seat.”

She sits across from me and now she’s sizing me up.

“The police investigator says I can trust you. Is that true?”

My, but we’re getting to the point quickly.

“Can I trust what you might be telling me?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says.

“Well then, okay, let’s trust each other.”

She takes it in, considers it and from her looks, approves.

“Mary Catherine is my best friend,” she says. “It’s been that way since we met.”

She stops and looks down at her sandals. All I hear for a minute is the soft air conditioning fighting off the desert heat.

“You can’t tell her mother any of this,” she says.

“I’m being paid to find out where she is, that’s all. Anything else you tell me is our secret.”

“I can’t tell you where she is until I know that I can trust you.”

“You don’t know me well enough yet. I mean, we’ve just met. I can’t trust you either. What do you want to do?”

She looks out one of the windows to take in the view of Sunrise Mountain over to the east, naturally.

“The police detective tells me you are no longer an actual private investigator but that you make a living playing poker. He says you’ve agreed to help Mary Catherine’s mother just this once. I take it she must have offered you a bunch of money?”

“You take it correctly.”