Elena entered the train carriage first. She’d always been used to the man entering first, whether it was a restaurant or a house ahead of her. It was how her father had brought her up, to wait for the man to enter first. He taught her a man’s role was to be a protector, and if he couldn’t, she should leave him.

Except there was no leaving Peter Serf. He was her captor and unless and until Dimitar could raise a million bucks, she would stay that way. It had been a fortnight, but it felt like forever since she had seen Bulgaria – since she’d been home. 

‘Des billets, monsieur?’ the train guard said, and Peter Serf held their tickets out to him as he entered the compartment behind Elena. Even the train guard thought it was the man’s job, she reasoned. 

They had the carriage to themselves, as it was practically empty in first class. The guard soon left and was almost immediately replaced in their compartment by a mature woman with a kindly face pushing a drink trolley. She took a food order and left them with two caffè americanos. 

 

Elena drank her coffee, thinking of her Mum back in Bulgaria, whom the woman pushing the trolley reminded her of. She tried to picture her mother’s face, but it was a struggle. Not the vague shape or distinguishing features, but the detail, the wrinkles, the lines, her smile. Those came back to her blurred. She had only seen her a fortnight ago and now, she was appropriating her face to a waitress. This nightmare had to end. 

‘Your boy is doing well,’ Serf smiled as a sickly grin started to grow on his cheeks, climbing toward his ears like ivy. 

‘Good for you, then. You’re the one who wants his money. I just want him.’ 

‘Like you wanted him last night?’ Serf smiled. There was a sick sense of superiority about his manner. Like the cat who got the cream, Elena thought. 

‘Last night was about righting a wrong. What will you think of the next time Paris comes to your mind?’ 

‘You, of course.’ 

‘Then a memory has been changed.’ She said. 

For a while, they drank without speaking. The day was waking, the air clearing. Their food arrived and they ate in silence. Elena thought of Dimitar as his day began, wondering where he was and what he was doing. 

Peter Serf thought of no such thing because he knew exactly where Dimitar was and what he had been up to the previous night. 

*

Dimitar woke to a view of Simone’s back. His eyes focused and he watched as her shoulder blades creased as she turned over. They were both bare. The night before, this had led to comfort, two lonely people finding a mate with which to distract themselves from the jobs they must do. The morning was a spotlight shining directly down on them, however, and the mood had changed. 

‘I feel bad about last night.’ Dimitar confessed. 

‘Because of your friend?’ Simone said. She sat up, pulling the thin sheet up over herself. 

‘Because I have to stay on the right track. Not take any diversions, no matter how enjoyable.’

‘So you found it enjoyable too?’ 

‘Of course I did,’ he said, stroking her hand. ‘I’m not made of stone. But I came to you for help, not…’ The rest of what he was about to say was lost in the void of self-reflection.

Their eyes met again. Dimitar had just 90 minutes before he needed to be at the poker table for the second day of a tournament that might change things, might push him finally on to the target he had in his mind’s eye – the million dollars he needed to save Elena. 

‘Not now. Not… like this. It isn’t right.’ He said. 

‘And if you win today?’ 

He rose, turning away from her as he dressed. 

‘I need a shower. Maybe I’ll have it cold.’ He smiled a little as he turned back to face her, now at least partly clothed. 

Simone let the sheet slip from her body. 

‘Maybe I could join you.’ 

*

An hour and a half later, Dimitar arrived at the tournament room. Back in the moment, he was now focused. As he’d walked through the ship, he’d been processing what had happened with Simone. Had it helped him focus on what he needed to do? Was she good for him? Or was he distracting himself from the task at hand? It felt like the first answer was right.

As play began, Dimitar noticed that ‘Slim’ McCoy was on the other side of the room. Ten tables filled the cardroom, with everything a little more spaced out. There was a feature table that was lit brightly at the front of the ballroom. Dimitar was near the back, buried in Seat 1 of a table featuring none of the players he recognized from the previous day. 

Partially obscured from the other players by the dealer, Dimitar played some of the best poker of his life. The night had allowed him to distance himself from the financial target of the money he needed and instead allowed him to focus on each decision he made at the poker table. Starting third in chips, he had the chip lead by the lunch break and avoided as much of the media coverage at the event as he could, politely declining an interview in English by a sideline reporter. 

‘I don’t speak good English,’ he said, but he told the presenter he would speak if he won. The presenter laughed and told him she would hold him to that promise. Dimitar guessed she said the same thing to a lot of players.

It didn’t matter that Dimitar was under the new pressure of being in the lead. With 70 players left, he grew into a monster stack. With fewer than 50, the money bubble’s approach saw his influence grow even further. With four tables left, he was joined by Slim McCoy after a table break, and both men looked good for a spot at the final table. 

‘Young man, I see the rigours of last night haven’t dampened your determination.’ Slim stated, winking at Dimitar. 

‘Looks like your early night did the same for you. How about we chop it if we make it to heads-up?’ Dimitar joked.

 

 

Dimitar and Slim found themselves at opposite ends of the table they now shared, in seats 2 and 8. While other players were seated with them, there was a growing sense that the two men were playing their own game. For the reporters writing updates from the felt, the narrative was easy to focus on. Fans started responding online, watching exciting hands play out on social media, and commenting on the action. 

One hand, in particular, hit Dimitar hard, as his lead went the way of Slim, but only in terms of chips. It was a board wetter than the bottle of water Dimitar kept by his side at all times to stay hydrated, counterbalancing the overhead air conditioning and his growing exhaustion. The day would conclude with just six players left, and when a dozen remained, Dimitar flopped middle set as his pocket eights found a third snowman on the T-8-7 flop. All three were hearts, and if a nine appeared, it would allow for a potential straight. And that is exactly what happened when as the nine of diamonds dropped on the turn.

Slim led out, taking the betting lead, so Dimitar raised to see whether the older man had found his straight or flush. Slim re-raised and stared down his young opponent. 

‘Fold and I have the chip lead. I’m good with the lead.’ Slim smiled. 

‘So am I. The lead is important, but so is having chips.’ Dimitar stated as he tossed his cards face up onto the table, folding. It was a clumsy move, with one of the eights flipping mid-air only to land facedown and some distance away from the first. The dealer turned both cards face up briefly, and Slim smiled. He slid his own cards face down into the muck. 

At the next break, only nine players remained as the two men met over a drink at the bar.

‘So, did you have it?’ 

‘Of course I did. I had the nine, too. I presumed you didn’t have a jack in your hand.’ 

‘How did you know?’ Dimitar asked. 

‘The size of your bet. No jack, and you take a little off, slightly more scared of eight outs rather than seven.’

‘I’m learning all the time.’ 

‘You’re playing very well and you made a good fold. But don’t show the table how good you are. I made the same mistake so much when I was younger. I wanted the whole world to know how good I was at playing poker.’ 

‘What’s wrong with that? It shows strength, it instils fear.’ 

‘Maybe in your home game, or your local casino. But in a game the public can see, it’s different. It can cost you value bets. It can give you a reputation. Any information you give other players helps them establish your range – for betting, raising, calling. Every move you make.’ 

‘I thought if I showed you, you might show me the bluff… or the straight.’ 

‘If I do that, who does it help? You? I like you, but I want you to have some doubt. To perhaps think I made a super bluff. I didn’t and you were right to fold, but if I show everyone else that, I not only weaken myself by I expose the truth in a hand. We only help them.’ 

‘I didn’t think of it like that.’ 

‘I know. You are a terrific player, Dimitar. But you are tired. Don’t make big mistakes late. You’ll regret them.’ 

‘I can’t believe you play with this intensity for other people.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Slim. Overhead, a light flashing overhead signified that the action was about to restart. The final two levels of the night would likely bring about the six-handed final table. 

‘I mean your charity. You’re playing for other people. None of the money goes to you. But it means so much to you, every hand. I can see that.’ 

‘It means more to me because I am playing for someone else. They need the money more than me, and I can make more money than I have by playing poker.’ 

‘You make it sound like the simplest equation.’ 

The two men got up from their barstools and returned to the table, dodging the other players as they went. 

*

 

The day had been spent watching Europe race by. They had lunched in the dining carriage shortly after noon, Elena choosing sirloin of beef and vegetables, feeling the scar under her dress, a two-inch line of raised skin beneath her clothes, invisible to anyone who passed them, but a permanent reminder of what had happened. 

‘At least you’re eating now,’ Serf smiled. ‘You’re getting stronger, Elena.’ 

After eating, they returned to their own carriage, where they remained for what was left of the lazy afternoon. They retired early to their own beds while the light was still in the sky, each cloud a dusky orange, swallowed up in slow motion by the grey of twilight. To throw herself at Serf would be madness after the night before, so she resisted. She was thinking in terms of plausibility now. What he would believe, how reliable the story would be when he processed it. 

As night fell, he woke from a doze and spoke a little. ‘I want you to know that I’m sorry, Elena.’ 

She switched the light on above her bed. They were only a metre apart, and he left his light off. They could see fine. The sleeper train rumbled on through the countryside of Western Europe.

‘I know you are Peter. That’s why you need to do the right thing.’ 

‘That’s the first time I’ve really felt like you’ve said my name without hatred in it.’

‘I don’t hate you. I feel sorry for you. And I know that what you’ve been through is partly Dimitar’s fault, but he wasn’t thinking about what would happen to you when he slept with your wife. It was a two-way decision she made with him.’ 

For a second, Elena noticed the colour of Serf’s eyes pushed to the edges as the black centre of his eyes flared. There was a darkness that she could see as clearly as the light from the lamp at the side of her bed. Except it was the exact opposite. It seemed to suck the life out of the room like a black hole.

‘We’ll never know what happened between them. We don’t know what Dimitar is doing now, or who he is with.’ 

‘Why do you say that, to hurt me?’ 

‘Would it hurt him to know that we spent the night together last night?’ he asked. 

Elena didn’t answer. Eventually, Serf fell asleep again. She felt under the bed’s covers, then under the base sheet. Then she pushed her fingers under the mattress itself, millimetre by millimetre, so Serf wouldn’t hear the creak of a single bedspring. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Elena’s fingertip brushed against the tip of the steak knife. She pulled her hand away silently and looked at it in the glow of the lamp, which she would leave on. 

A single drop of blood emerged. She sucked it away immediately.

 

As the nine remaining players were slowly whittled down to six at the poker felt, the tension and excitement on the Cruise to a Million grew exponentially. Both Dimitar and Slim made the final six, but the Bulgarian had fewer chips than anyone else. Sitting as the short stack when Slim busted a cheerful Norwegian gentleman in seventh place, the last remaining tourist went to the rail. Four professionals and Slim McCoy stood in Dimitar’s way of the $279,000 top prize. 

After play concluded, Simone was the first to congratulate Dimitar. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. 

‘You’re so close!’ she said. Having established that she was getting friendly with Dimitar, her manager had taken her off the dealing team for the event. She’d been working ‘the pit’ all day, raking in the biggest profit margin for the casino on games like roulette, craps, and three-card poker. She’d only arrived at the rail to the feature table a few moments before play ended for the night. 

‘I’m a long way away, Simone.’ Dimitar said. ‘Sixth in chips? I have about 10% of his stack.’ 

Slim arrived on cue and patted his newest friend on the back. 

‘Totally deserved, young man. You played the best poker at the table.’

‘I have the smallest stack.’

‘You have a chance. Nothing else matters.’ 

Dimitar accepted the congratulations, but he was exhausted. They all shared a drink, then went their separate ways. Simone didn’t seem broken-hearted that Dimitar wanted to be alone to prepare for the final table, she seemed to understand. Either that or she had plans. Slim was more than keen to get to his bed. 

What seemed like a long blink later, Dimitar was awake, and it was almost time to play. The midday sun was high over the ship in a cloudless sky, and it was 35 degrees in the shade on deck. Deep in the bowels of the ship’s casino, however, it was a regulation 18 degrees as air-conditioned coolness blew around the only table left in the Cruise to a Million event -the final table.

There seemed to be a hundred different things that happened during the build-up, even though it might only have been a dozen. Players were asked to complete questionnaires about their favorite hand and pose for photos. Picture of them grasping for the trophy just out of reach, sitting in their designated seats, staring at each other for the purposes of hype. 

All Dimitar wanted to do was play. 

When the action finally began, an early showdown between the other two shorter stacks went in Dimitar’s favor. The at-risk player lost with pocket tens to the other’s pocket kings. Perfect, down to five, thought Dimitar. Soon, it was his turn to commit all of his chips, and he doubled up, his ace-king holding with ease against the ace-queen belonging to Slim’ biggest threat, a strong Swedish player wearing a hoodie and sunglasses. Soon, Dimitar was fourth in chips. The only player with fewer chips than him was all-in from the small blind just a few hands later. Slim had been watching the player intently since the final table started and called it off with a suited queen-ten. The player had pocket sixes, and the queen, which fell on the river, meant only four players remained. 

Dimitar needed to wait for Slim to be free, as the media company wanted an interview with the chip leader. So he waited at the bar with Simone. 

‘Two rungs up the ladder,’ Slim said when he and Dimitar met. The two men shook hands, and the American kissed Simone on both cheeks. 

‘I made the first break at least.’ 

‘You’re still in there. Our Norwegian friend seems very capable. But the German has been very quiet. You’re closing in on him.’

‘I’m close enough to cause damage at least. Good call from the blinds. He made a lot of small pairs, didn’t he?’ 

‘He’s a great player. Won $10m online just in tournaments and he made the final table of the Main Event.’ 

‘Really? God. I’m glad you took him out.’ 

‘I got lucky. They say you’ve got to win your flips to win a tournament.’ 

Soon they returned to the action. The German player, Dietmar, was out shortly after restarting, losing with ace-king to Slim’ pocket kings. Everything was going his way. That left Dimitar short and when he called the Norwegian player’s opening bet to see a flop of jack-six-six, he moved all-in with his jack-ten. There was a quick call from Dimitar’s opponent and he saw the bad new, ace-six. 

Dimitar was crestfallen. Even more so when no miracle came to keep him in the tournament. He had won $80,300 in third place. 

One hour and two drinks later, Slim had his man, and after the winner’s photos were taken, he went to celebrate with Dimitar and Simone. 

‘I’m sorry it went my way. I thought you played the best poker at the final table.’ Slim said. 

‘Thanks. But that last hand…’

‘He had ace-rag, you worked it out. The rag was a six, that’s all.’

‘The number I always bet on roulette. I call for the devil, and today he got me instead.’ 

Dimitar went to order another drink, but his cell rang. 

‘Great result, my friend,’ Sam Houston said. 

‘That news travelled fast.’ 

‘I watched it online. Feeling good?’

‘It never feels good to lose.’

‘You won $80,000, Dimitar. That’s great it means you’re over $100,000. I have some other good news if you’re prepared to make a detour.’ 

‘What kind of a detour?’

‘Have you ever been to Portugal?’ 

 

 

 

Dead Beat – Chapter 10

The Ambassador eased into the dock. On deck stood Slim McCoy, his head bowed slightly against the noon sun as the passengers disembarked.

‘I’ll miss playing with you, Dimitar.’ 

‘Money saved is money earned.’ Dimitar laughed, shaking the older man’s hand. ‘I’ll catch up with you in Marseille without having to lose to you in a poker tournament. Have a great time until then.’ 

‘For now, my friend. For now.’ the old man laughed. Dimitar took his holdall in his hand and lifted it, slinging it onto his back as he waited the last few minutes for the ramp to come up to meet the ship’s deck. The Ambassador had looked like a daunting obelisk when Dimitar had seen it from the British shore. He had shared time with his high roller ally Sam Houston, then lost a battle to Peter Serf online. 

The memory of losing five figures to his bitter enemy overnight had been fresh in his mind. Now, the recent experience of winning $80,000 in the poker tournament on the ship was prevalent. He again had hope of raising the million-dollar ransom he needed. 

Yes, he had missed out on the $220,000 top prize that Slim McCoy had claimed, but the American philanthropist would make good on his promise to donate it to the youth charity he passionately advocated on the ship as he did with all his poker winnings. But Dimitar had still won money. 

‘Thinking about the Cruise to a Million? Still?’ said Simone, her jet-black hair glossy and bright in the sunshine. 

‘Well, not the tournament… but the money. €100,000 is a lot. But I still need to turn it into a million to pay the ransom and buy-in to play that monster, Serf.’

‘To beat a monster,’ Simone said, her thin hand gripping Dimitar’s bicep. ‘Think of everything that you’ve learned, the painful lessons you’ve taken on at the felt. He has been babysitting your girlfriend while you’ve been—’

‘Don’t say babysitting, Simone. We don’t know how hard it has been for her.’ 

‘Nor does she know what it’s been like for you.’ Simone cooed, closer to Dimitar, so close their cheeks were almost touching. ‘Don’t worry about the time you have spent away. You still have time to raise that amount.’

‘Twelve more days. Maybe ten by the time we reach Portugal.’ 

‘You haven’t seen how I drive.’

‘Who said you’re driving?’ asked Dimitar, as they stepped onto the ramp and made a brisk exit towards the car hire port. Dimitar turned and waved to McCoy.

‘I’ll see you in Marseille!’ McCoy shouted into the midday breeze. Dimitar smiled back and nodded. 

Marseille. Where Elena and Serf would end up too– but would she be alive? 

*

They began in Brest, on the North-West coast of France, and it was Simone who drove. She was a natural and knew the route. Dimitar felt like he was in a taxi most of the way, just one where any gears below fifth didn’t seem to apply. 

Despite driving at speed, it still took them the day and some of the evening to make the trip down the West Coast of Western Europe to Bordeaux. There, they checked into a small, cheap hotel with a twin room. They had lived off snacks from a service station at lunchtime. Their bodies now craved a hot meal as the clock ticked past eight in the evening, and they got a fine one.

‘Let’s keep clear heads,’ Dimitar said when the waiter in their hotel’s restaurant offered them wine. 

‘We’re in Bordeaux. It would be a crime to say no to this man.’ 

Simone ordered them a bottle of local wine, and they happily shared it. Dimitar couldn’t deny that Simone was physically attractive. She was beguiling, sweet and had the kind of eyes he could lose three days in. The problem was that he felt so much guilt over Elena.

‘What are you thinking?’ Simone asked. The way she cocked her head had the ability to crack open any secrets he harbored. He liked it about her.

‘Not regret. Just… wondering whether us being together was the right thing. I know that I can trust you. I just feel bad for Elena.’ 

‘There are moments in life when you must go with the flow, Dimi.’ Simone said, skewering a piece of chicken delicately. They both chose Poulet Sauté à la Bordelaise for the main course. Their hunger had been barely sated by the bread and butter they finished off before their meals arrived.

‘I can’t help feeling guilty about being with you. I love Elena. I got her into this mess. I slept with Serf’s wife and his revenge has already almost cost Elena her life. Will she ever forgive me?’ 

‘If you save her life? If you rescue her from the clutches of that man? Of course. I would.’ 

‘You haven’t been taken hostage.’ 

‘This is true,’ Simone admitted, ordering a second bottle of wine with barely a flick of her wrist and a smile to the waiter. 

‘What would you do?’ Dimitar asked.  

‘If I was you?’ 

‘If you were Elena.’ 

Simone thought. She held a piece of shallot on her fork but didn’t put it into her mouth. 

‘I would do anything to survive. To buy you more time.’ 

Dimitar said nothing. 

‘Not the answer you wanted to hear.’ 

They slept together again that night, pushing the twin beds into the center of the room, eradicating all of the stress from the day by the moonlight alone. When they slept, it was deep, hard-won and constant. The morning brought more miles as Dimitar drove for a couple of hours while Simone continued to rest. She stretched out languidly in the passenger seat like a sated lizard. He drove on, not to her pace, but steadily, following the map into Portugal. 

*

They stopped briefly in Lyon as the train refueled, and they partook in a light lunch. The journey from Northern France to Marseille on the South Coast was punctuated by stunning scenery, none of which Elena saw. Her only thought was the steak knife she had smuggled into her quarters and how she needed to hold onto it. 

As the train sighed on through the countryside, she and Serf spoke little. They both knew that whatever would happen would happen in Marseille, and they both desperately wanted to arrive. When they finally did, they were met by a wall of sunshine and heat that greeted them at the station like a too-familiar family friend. 

Outside the first-class carriage, Serf took her bag, and she was happy to let him. She had hidden the knife in her belt, cutting into the leather to slide the blade beneath the thick shield strapping around her waist at the back. It was where she was in most pain, and as such, she’d noticed that Serf had avoided the area, whether out of guilt or for some other reason she wasn’t sure, but he didn’t go near her there. 

‘Look at this weather and tell me that we can’t have fun here for a week.’ Peter Serf smiled, his tongue escaping his mouth momentarily before retracting like a snake’s. 

They made it to the hotel, and Serf checked them in. He seemed twitchy for a few minutes after they unpacked, this time both of them having a twin bed separate from each other. Would they be pushing the beds together tonight? Elena didn’t know, but she had to hide the knife, and under the mattress seemed the safest place for it to go. She put it there while Serf was changing in the bathroom. 

Elena wore the dress Serf had chosen for her. She smiled throughout their evening meal and laughed at his jokes. Still, he looked about the hotel nervously, like he was expecting Dimitar to arrive. 

After they’d enjoyed dessert and were about to retire, a man entered the bar. He nodded at a couple of the waiting staff and approached their table.

Peter Serf immediately relaxed, his body easing into its seat, and a sickly grin spread over his face. Elena didn’t recognize the newcomer, but as soon as she heard his voice, she knew exactly who he was. 

‘Delighted to see you Peter. And of course, your friend.’ 

He turned to Elena. 

‘I’m Jeremy.’

Jeremy. The man who spied on Dimitar in London. The man who regularly updated Serf on Dimitar’s bankroll. The man responsible for keeping track of the only person who could save her. 

Elena smiled weakly and kissed him on each cheek.

 

By the end of lunch, they had refueled. Dimitar took a call from Sam just a few minutes after Simone had taken over at the wheel. 

‘Where are you now?’ Sam asked. 

‘Nearly at Bilbao. Then we go on to Porto. We should be there by…’

‘Seven?’ Simone said. ‘Maybe half past six.’ 

‘You have pleasant help, I hear.’ 

‘I have help, Sam. Now, what about the game? I know nothing about the people I’m supposed to be playing.’ 

‘Put me on speaker. Then your support system will get the notes, too.’

Dimitar put Sam on the car’s internal speaker system and increased the volume. Sam could be easily heard throughout the car. 

‘That’s better. Hello, by the way.’

‘Delighted to speak with you.’ Simone said, more than butchering the English accent. 

‘Every time. Honestly, I wish I’d stayed in New York my whole life. OK, so the event is a €25,000-entry high roller. There’s a big festival on, and everyone will be playing the Main Event. But I need you to avoid that and go for the high roller. I’ve got a pre-registration list from the casino – don’t ask how – and I know a dozen of the players pretty well.’ 

‘You’ve played with them in this type of tournament?’ 

‘Tournaments aren’t for me, Dimitar. But I’ve played them in cash games, and I know the adjustments they’ll be making. I know them, Dimitar. And knowing who you’re playing against is everything at this level.’ 

‘I’m way outmatched, though.’ 

‘Only in terms of general play, and you’re not going to be playing generally. Poker history is littered with tournaments that were won by an underdog because the players he—’

‘Or she!’ said Simone. 

‘I was about to say exactly that!’ Sam laughed in his own defense. ‘Whoever you’re playing won’t have any clue how you’re playing. This is the first and only time playing in this way will work. I’ll give you the playbook on these guys, but you also need to listen to me.’

‘Was there a reason this had to be on speaker?’ Simone asked. ‘Poker is my job. And not the fun, winning money bit, the dealing cards bit.’

‘There is. Dimitar, I need you to open your phone and your Notes app.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘Because you’re going to write down everything I tell you, then in the next six hours, you’re going to learn it so that you know everything there is to know about half the field. Knowing these players the way I do, there’s likely to be a lot of rebuys going on which means a lot of money to be won.’ 

*

They arrived in Porto later than Simone had boasted. After stopping in Bilbao, they traveled to the capital city of Portugal in around six hours, but the traffic in the capital itself was gridlocked. By the time they reached their hotel in the coastal municipality of Foz do Douro, it was nearly nine. Again, they ate, this time in near silence. Dimitar was entirely focused on what Sam had told him. 

They discussed the players, Simone researched their previous cashes on The Hendon Mob, which allowed them to break down exactly where and how each player had won money recently. The big fish with endless rebuy pockets were identified, and the playing styles nailed down. When they booked into their hotel room, Sam logged online with them and walked Dimitar through dozens of simulations of situations that might arise. How each player might act in a specific position, their tells, their traits, the patterns they might fall into, and how each opponent could be exploited. 

When they slept, they were apart. Again, they had twin beds, but this time, they stayed separated by a length of carpet, a bedside table, and a small amber lamp that glowed while Simone slept. Dimitar continued to review his notes over and over again. When he slept, it was past midnight, but exhaustion took him under like a tidal wave.

They woke and ate but spoke very little as the magnitude of what was to come eliminated the relevance of small talk. The tournament began at noon and would take, in Sam’s estimation, between 12 and 13 hours to conclude, including the two-hour late registration period. 

Dimitar took his seat at a table with a businessman named Saul. Sam had prepared him perfectly for taking him on, and over the course of those two hours, Dimitar trebled his starting stack from 100,000 chips to 300,000, forcing the businessman to rebuy twice in the process.

It was almost a shame when the event became a freezeout, but Dimitar plowed on. He stayed out of the way of a Canadian player called Shane, who he had been warned about. Sam had stated to “not engage” before the final table if he could avoid it. Dimitar had studied push-fold charts for a few hours the previous night before sleep took him, but he never had cause to use them as he was never too short. When late registration ended, there were 53 entries in total with only seven players getting paid. 

Dimitar won a big pot with a bluff against a Spanish player who Sam had played with previously and who hadn’t cashed in the past four months, despite getting close to seven figures in high-roller events. He was on a bad run, and Dimitar punished him for it, pressuring him to call for all his chips outside the money. The Spanish player folded, and Dimitar was polite but slid his cards into the muck without showing anyone what he had.

He hadn’t shown his cards all day unless required to by the rules of the game. 

Eating at regular intervals on breaks, Dimitar shared his progress with Simone, but she seemed distracted. A Frenchman was at the bar, speaking in her native tongue to his fellow player, another man who was a little older and greyer around the temples.

‘What’s he saying?’ Dimitar asked. Simone relayed the information without giving herself away, speaking quietly behind one hand. 

‘He said that you’re good but too timid. That he’ll be able to… press, no, exploit you. Take advantage. Eventually, you’ll find too many folds on the… fourth road? Street. The turn.’ 

There was a pause as the Frenchman continued speaking, even though Simone did not.

‘That’s it?’ 

‘Yes, he’s talking about the food options now.’ 

Dimitar had a fairly wicked thought. 

‘Maybe you could keep an eye on him for me?’ 

Simone nodded. Dimitar smiled.

‘Now the game is really on.’

 

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About the Author: Paul Seaton has written about poker for over 10 years, interviewing some of the best players ever to play the game such as Daniel Negreanu, Johnny Chan and Phil Hellmuth. Over the years, Paul has reported live from tournaments such as the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas and the European Poker Tour. He has also written for other poker brands where he was Head of Media, as well as BLUFF magazine, where he was Editor.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

 

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Edited by Maury Orton and Shawn A.