‘I’m going to have to rely solely on my wits.’ Dimitar said. Simone told him not to worry and that she would be on the rail – now behind a series of velvet ropes – watching him and listening to Philippe.
The heads-up battle began with Dimitar facing a 3:1 deficit in chips. Soon after, Dimitar got lucky, hitting bottom set on a board where Philippe had middle pair. Dimitar’s shove on the river wasn’t called but two streets of value pulled him close to level.
‘You have a… monster?’ Philippe asked. ‘I make good lay-down I think.’
Dimitar said nothing.
They played on; Dimitar was unable to take the lead but stole pots where he could. Flopping top pair with a backdoor straight draw on K-9-8, he soon had his chips in for a chunky raise.
‘I am all-in.’ Philippe said to the dealer, looking directly at him rather than Dimitar. This was the moment, Dimitar thought. This is when he thinks I’m going to fold. The point where he’ll get his big lead back.
Dimitar called.
Philippe turned over two pair, an eight and a nine, both in hearts.
‘A big call,’ said Philippe. ‘I knew you would make it.’
‘You thought I’d fold,’ said Dimitar as an ineffective deuce landed on the turn.
‘I knew you’d call.’
‘When?’
‘I could tell that your… friend was French.’
That was when Dimitar saw it all. Philippe had first come over to the bar not to be overheard speaking strategy but to fake it. When he was talking about how he believed Dimitar would fold in a big spot, he was setting him up for a call.
Dimitar – and Simone – had fallen for it.
The river was a four. It was all over. Dimitar was runner-up for over a quarter of a million. It was a lot of money – more money than he had ever won in his life, let alone one crazy day. He shook Philippe’s hand and complimented him on victory. Dimitar left, standing to one side, while Philippe had photographs taken of him with the trophy. The photographer, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a twinkle in his eye, asked if Simone would like to join her partner in the shots. She was still standing close to him in order to hear what was said.
‘Oh no, I’m not…’
‘Why not, madame?’ Philippe asked, and Simone smiled. Looking over at Dimitar, he made eye contact with her. He saw the sympatico between them in an instant. It was cheesy, it was a Gene Hackman film, but there it was—the French connection.
There was a natural rhythm between them that made him think of Elena.
Of home.
He went to collect his winnings. He now had €347,000, a vast amount, although not yet the ransom stake.
The bright lights behind the buttons of the slot machines and at the fringes of the table games seemed to have lost a little of their sparkle. When they met at the bar a few minutes later, it was Dimitar who broke an awkward silence.
‘Valencia could be fun.’
‘I’ve been to Valencia, Dimi.’ Simone said.
They headed over to the roulette wheel, and Dimitar was tempted to throw the whole lot on red. But he resisted, risking his float that was supplied by Sam.
He put a €100 note in front of the croupier, who changed it for a stack of chips. Dimitar placed them all on the number six.
‘Sticking with the devil?’ Simone asked, interlocking her hand in his one last time. The little silver ball hopped around the numbers too quickly for them to notice but landed on the number 13.
‘Unlucky for some,’ said Simone.
The roulette wheel spun on, slowing down as the croupier neatly raked 95% of the chips on the table into a wide black recess in front of her while her supervisor watched. She paid out an old man with just five chips. The old man was expressionless and reached forward to put the chips straight back on red for the next spin.
‘You like him, don’t you?’ Dimitar asked, looking back at Philippe, who was now at the bar.
‘I like freedom. I love Porto. Maybe I could stay for a while. Not with him, with anyone, but…’
‘You’re going to stay.’
‘You are going to rescue another woman. I can’t see this lasting for much longer, can you?’
‘What is this?’
Simone cradled his chin in her hand. She had a faraway look that he had never seen before. It made her seem younger somehow.
Dimitar had to admit that he would be more focused on money than ever before in Valencia. Sam’s help would be vital. Time would be sparse. Then there was Marseille and a showdown with the man who had sent him on this wild goose chase around Europe… if he made it that far.
‘I’ll say goodbye, then. I’ll miss the journey.’
Simone glided up to him and kissed him briefly on the lips.
‘I’ll be with you.’
Then they kissed again. Each of them closed their eyes, and when they opened, either two seconds or an ice age later – neither could be sure – they were different people.
‘Good luck, Dimitar. Go save your girl.’
‘I’ll leave the room key at reception. You’ve still got another night.’ He said, smiling.
With one last glance, Simone turned and was gone, heading in the direction of the bar and the man who raised a glass to toast her arrival.
Dimitar left the casino and, after collecting his belongings from the hotel, hopped in a taxi to the airport. Within half an hour he had bought a one-way ticket to Valencia in Spain. Within the hour, he was on board, and ten minutes after that, he was asleep.
Less than three hours after cashing out in the Portuguese capital, he was coming in to land, waking only when the wheels of the plane hit the tarmac.
It was a little before two in the morning. Dimitar checked into the nearest hotel and threw his bag down. He took out the money he had won at poker over the last three weeks and stacked it neatly on the bedclothes. It totalled €347,000.
He felt like a million dollars.
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.