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“Coming right up,” I say, waving the waiter over.
As I relay Sydney’s order, Smitty picks up the two new decks of playing cards, then smugly looks at her. He passes one deck to Prosper who sits to the left of him.
“So, do we have the privilege of calling you Sydney too?” Smitty asks, opening the deck, then sitting the empty box to the side.
Sydney interlocks her fingers, then places them on the table as she gives Smitty a kind smile. He grins back, thinking he’s intimidating her, but it falls when she replies, “They can, but you will address me as Ms. Morgan. You lost that privilege when you let those chauvinistic words come out of your mouth.”
I don’t know where this woman came from, but I’m already liking her no nonsense attitude. To me, there is nothing more attractive than a woman who is confident enough to stand on her own.
Smitty looks at Sydney as if he wants to jump across the table and attack her. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll remain seated. I would feel no remorse putting a bullet in his head for laying a finger on Sydney or in fact, any other woman. I don’t play that shit.
He chuckles, shuffling the cards. “Have it your way,Ms. Morgan.I just hope when it’s all said and done you don’t cry about losing all your money. As they say, ‘there’s no crying in Poker’.”
“And I hope you remember that” Sydney throws back.
Yes, sir. This is going to be a very interesting game indeed. I want Sydney to take Smitty for everything he’s got just to teach his ass a lesson.
Three hours later, Pierre and Prosper have dropped out of the game, leaving Sydney and Smitty still battling it out. Sydney has been putting a hurting on them and I’m surprised Smitty hasn’t cut his losses yet. I think he’s trying to save face from potentially losing to a woman. His pride and ego won’t let him give up. This last hand will determine if he’s still in the game or will have to leave with his tail between his legs.
One thing with playing the game, some people can hide their Poker faces while others let it be known that they have a good hand and become overzealous like what Smitty is doing right now. Sydney sits perfectly poised like the lady she is, showing no emotion.
“Girl, I hope you have one hell of a hand over there because if not, I’m about to take all of your winnings,” Smitty taunts.
Sydney doesn’t feed into his bravado as she picks up a ten-thousand-dollar bundle of one hundred dollar bills she has in a tower in front of her, then tosses it onto the table.
“I call,” she simply says.
Smitty, quick to think he’s won the game, throws down four of a kind. He whoops in glory as he starts to sweep the entire take towards him. Sydney puts her hand down on the pot, stopping his celebration.
“Hold on, Smitty. I haven’t revealed my cards,” she says, peering at him.
“What does it matter? You don’t have anything to beat my hand,” Smitty growls.
“Sad that you would think that” Sydney says before laying down a straight flush.”
The color drains from Smitty’s face as he realizes he’s been beat. Whoever taught Sydney how to play, taught her very well, because these men are three of my best players.
“Booker,” Sydney summons. Once he’s next to her, she states, “Please gather my take from the table.”
Booker says nothing as he approaches the table, then places the briefcase on it. He enters a combination of numbers on it before it unlocks. Booker opens the briefcase and begins to fill it with Sydney’s winnings. Truth be told, she was walking away two hundred and fifty grand richer.
“This is some bullshit,” Smitty yells, jumping up and tossing his chair to the side.
Bringing my hands up to try and diffuse the situation, I tell him, “Smitty. This game was just like any of the others. Every time you sit in that chair, you take the chance of another player outdoing you. Tonight is no different.”
“Fuck that,” he growls. “I think you and this black bitch are working together.”
I don’t know who drew their weapons first, me, Sydney, Batista, or Booker. Pierre and Prosper clear the table, not wanting to have anything to do with the shit Smitty is spewing.
Pointing at me, Smitty accuses, “We thought the fourth player was going to be a man like it has always been, but you’ve thrown in a ringer.” He starts to laugh. “You know, I’ve heard the stories about your daddy back in New Orleans, and I’m sure he wouldn’t let shit like this go down. Especially, letting a darkie win over dignified men like us.”
Something about that word darkie rubs me the wrong way. Smitty is officially showing his true colors. I think if Sydney were male, he would have the same argument. As for my daddy, he didn’t give a shit about people’s skin color or origin. He treated everyone with respect and that’s how he raised me to do the same.
Trying to keep shit copasetic, I state, “Smitty, you lost fair and square. There’s no need in blaming others for your shortcomings.”
With hatred in his eyes, Smitty says, “Fuck you DeLuca. If you would’ve screened your players properly, then we wouldn’t be in this position. It’s one thing to let a woman in, which is considered bad luck, but you let this nig...”
That’s as far as he got as Sydney, and I turned his body into Swiss cheese. Not sure which one of us fired the fatal shot. I guess we’ll never know, and neither will his family because his corpse will never be located.
