Sam Houston left London in torrential rain. Less than three hours later, he had touched down in Barcelona, where it was 28 degrees in the shade. As he walked slowly down the stairs to exit the plane, Houston looked at the other travelers marching towards solid ground ahead of him. Most were still in clothes that were suited to the gray skies above England. They clutched bulky jumpers or wore thick coats with collars turned up against the rain they’d left behind. Sam was wearing faded tan leather sandals, an azure blue t-shirt and shades. He was smiling as the sun beamed down, warming his soul.

When you play poker for a living, you learn to plan, then adapt as you go. It was the only way to survive and he’d been doing it so long it was as natural as breathing. While everyone else on the flight waited at the carousel for their luggage, Sam headed directly outside. He traveled only with a small black carry-on which he stowed in the cabin overhead bins on the flight. It was packed for three days maximum. Ideally, he wanted to be home in two. This wasn’t a vacation, it was business.

Taking the first taxi off the rank, Houston climbed in and shut the door. Barcelona was one of his favorite cities, so he left his headphones in his bag, slipped his shades into the ‘v’ of his t-shirt and sat back, content to watch the world go by.

“Le Meridien, gracias,” said Houston to the driver. He relaxed his muscles and stretched out his legs. At well over six feet, it hadn’t taken long on the plane for him to feel the need to stretch out his limbs. He smiled at the irony of a life playing high stakes poker, chasing games where he often sat in a chair for hours at a time. It made zero sense to some. Whole days went by sometimes, the changing cards his only reminder that time had passed. He lived in a vacuum of reality, a bubble which no-one could pop. It hadn’t always been that way, but that was his life now – living on the edge of a six-figure win or loss with every trip he made.

Sam was disturbed from his reverie when his mobile phone sprang to life in his pocket. The screen showed him ‘Sophie’ was calling. He really needed to change her display name.

“You arrived then?” she said. He could hear the loud thunk thunk and tinny announcements of a London Underground platform in the background.

“Just, Twigs. Surprisingly, I’m a bit tired.”

He called Sophie ‘Twigs’ due to her incredibly long legs. Often accusing his best friend in the whole world of being related to spiders was just one of a thousand in-jokes the pair had shared since they attended University together in London.

“Hardly surprising. That was some send off last night. You know I’m supposed to be working today?”

“I can only apologize. Going away is hard. I wanted to let off some steam.”

“Sam, you travel three times a month. You drank even me under the table last night. I think I’m peeing 80 proof vodka.”

“That happens when you drink spirits. Wine is the way forward.”

“Not the way you drink it. I put the bottles out for recycling this morning. It sounded like I was making some sort of environmental protest.”

“Don’t make me miss London already. And you of course, Twigs.”

“Hunter is going to kill you when you get back this time. He’s sworn off drinking for a week.”

Sam laughed. “A week? Tell him it’s his round when I get back… win or lose.”

“Make sure you win. We’re out of wine.”

They both disconnected and Sam leaned back in the seat. It meant a lot to him to have a friend group who checked when he arrived, missed him when he was gone, and looked forward to his return. He had no family back in the States, his friends were his family.

He had brought Twiggy and her fiancé, Hunter, with him on his trips a few times. It was always the wrong call; it just turned into a holiday, and an expensive one as he never won money when he was preoccupied with friends instead of the game. If he wanted to win, he had to do so alone. When it was just him and the cards, they could go his way. If there were external influences, he only ever lost.

Sam won more than he lost, but it wasn’t like he turned up, made money and went home. He’d learned long ago that poker didn’t work like that. It was a game of fine margins and pressing any edge you could. It was, as the saying went, a hard way to make an easy living’.

The journey melted into a blur of familiar sights. He’d been to Barcelona a dozen times, maybe more. Each time he’d enjoyed it, regardless of his results at the felt. The taxi arrived at La Rambla, the bustling market center of Barcelona’s multicultural city, where he was greeted by the familiar cacophony of sights and sounds that existed nowhere else in the world. Between the buildings, in the back streets, apartment blocks stood, showcasing their graffiti art which appeared on most brick surfaces like an urban art shop. Clothes hung from every window and even the washing that dangled from window frames provided a wild, expressive backdrop to a city that not only never slept but appeared as if it was permanently dancing.

Sam tipped as he always did and took a business card from the driver which he could use to rebook the taxi if he liked. The card was a simple one, just a name and a cell phone number. He slipped the card into his right pocket next to his wallet.

Once back outside into the brilliant sunshine, Sam put on his shades and took a walk

around the market square. He bought some fresh fruit, bottled water, and chocolate from a supermarket on the corner which he knew stocked foreign confectionery. A Hershey bar and Reese’s Pieces, reminders of New York, the city where he was born, although he hadn’t called it home for a very long time.

He returned to the sunny street and took a moment to watch the street performers. Regulars, like the gold statue man, who stood still as stone while children tried to make him smile, were always an enjoyment to watch. Another performer perfected a pirouette on a unicycle, their bejeweled outfit dazzling the onlookers, standing out even in Barcelona. Another artist, a man, holding a wooden staff, seemingly sat in mid-air while hovering over a carpet. It was a great trick, but Houston had seen it before, he knew how it worked. The magic of that trick was lost to him, similar to when he discovered the truth about Santa.

He walked with purpose to the hotel and checked in.

Sam dropped his bag on the bed of his penthouse suite. He had let the receptionist know that he needed an alarm call for 10pm that evening.

It was early afternoon, but Sam could sleep on command, a very handy skill to have when conserving energy – both mental and physical – it was a key to his success. His room was the same he always stayed in. The large suite with a king-sized bed was fitted with Egyptian cotton sheets. Thick carpets gave way to tasteful Gaudi-inspired artwork on each of the four walls. Sam loved Gaudí. If he wasn’t playing so soon after landing, he might have visited Gaudí’s defining work, the Sagrada Família. A huge ornate physical structure, it held claim as the largest unfinished church in the world, over 140 years in the making and still incomplete. It had completely taken over the last years of the artist’s life, having consumed him until he was struck down by a tram just eleven years after he started working on it. Gaudí was buried inside his masterpiece. Some might have found that grim or distasteful, to Sam it was inspiring – the artist had become part of his own legacy, living on forever within his magnum opus.

Absentmindedly nibbling on his fruit and drinking some water, Houston took a look out of the window at the vibrant market square full of color, sound, and chaos. He loved Barcelona more than so many other cities because of its random nature. It never looked the same two days running, much like a poker table.

Sam returned to the bed and lay down, tired but wired at the same time. There would be at least a couple million Euros on the table for him to win and he only knew only three of the players: Antonio, Sofia, and Carlos. Antonio was the organizer. He had a bit of a wild streak and was somewhat unpredictable, but he was well known and was an old campaigner at the felt. Second was Sofia, a Bulgarian heiress and recreational player. She had the talent and finances to devote all of her time to poker to make millions. And she would have had it not been for her attention span. The third player Sam knew was Carlos. A young Spanish kid who had begun to turn up in a number of private games that Sam played. He was hyper-aggressive, bulky, and indefatigable. The other player was a mystery and if he didn’t decode them out before they did him, it would cost him a lot of money. That was the thrill of the game.

There was only one problem. Sam had no idea, but his poker game was about to turn into a crime scene.

Drawing Dead – Chapter 2

Sam walked the short distance to the venue. It was a private room inside a building that was itself part of a gated community. The color and vibrant nature of Barcelona faded behind each façade as the number of buildings grew. By the time he arrived, Sam needed to look up in order to see the sky. Security was tight, but Sam had been to a few games over the past couple of years and one of the security guards recognised him. The guard welcomed Sam like an old acquaintance, but still checked his passport, driver’s license and belongings thoroughly.

It wasn’t a quick scan. One guard stayed with Sam at the tall, barred gate while the other went back inside a small adjacent hut . The gate was buzzed open to let Sam in and was closed behind him. While it would appear that all of this security was frivolous and it was unlikely that something would happen at the game, the venue did not take chances. Sam knew, as he waited on the inside of the gate that he could just as easily be going back through it in moments.

A few minutes later, the second guard brought back Sam’s passport and handed it back.

“Enjoy el juego… the game, señor,” he said in a mixture of Spanish and English. Sam thanked him and walked toward the private building which was typically Spanish, thick stucco-clad white walls rising to flawless ornamentation under a sloping roof, peaking high in the sky. The residence would have cost at least €4 million. Sam had considered buying one like it, but London appealed more as a travel hub and for the presence of his friends.

Walking through the courtyard, Sam slowed his breathing and took his time before entering the building. Inside, he was guided upstairs with a curt nod from the obsequiously silent doorman, Miguel, who doubled as the dealer. The distinct click of a deadbolt falling into place hit Sam’s ears, followed by the rhythmic footsteps of someone who knew how to not be noticed. Miguel followed him, the building now locked down.

On the third floor, there was a set of double doors. Sam pushed them open and walked into the lounge area with an open-doored dining room to its right. He passed on the offer of a cocktail from an attractive waitress and headed straight into the dining room.

“Well, if it isn’t NASA.”

Antonio, the game’s host, rose from his seat and beckoned Sam over despite the presence of the other four players comfortably seated at the table.

Antonio was not a tall man, but what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in personality. His booming voice entered a room before he did, and with a russet glow to his portly face and hair like springs shooting out of his head in every direction, he was a colorful character who livened up any game of poker. He called Sam the same name every time, but then, so did everyone.

Sam walked around the ornate custom-made poker table which could comfortably seat nine players. But this cash game – as it always was in Barcelona – would only have six players.

‘I love what you’ve done to this room. It’s different – a new table?’

“A new everything, my friend,” Antonio smiled and his eyes sparkled with delight knowing his original and unique stylings were enjoyed by his friends. “The table is nice, yes, yes, but you must look at this!”

Antonio walked Sam to the back of the room where several paintings adorned the warm, red walls. They were by known artists, and valuable, but they bordered the centerpiece of a glass cabinet roughly four meters wide. This was the star attraction.

“I’ve been spending my hard-earned winnings on artwork. It is a new passion of mine,” said Antonio. Inside the cabinet were what looked to Sam like a few childlike attempts at pottery. The name plaques that sat below each piece heralded ‘artwork by Hervé Vilachevon.’

“These seem…” Sam searched for the right word that would not offend his friend and host, “different.” Antonio threw an arm around Sam’s shoulder, laughing as he did so.

“You don’t appreciate this art?” he bellowed. “You have been in London too long, eating too many fishes and chips. He is one of the most talented artists in Barcelona. Not so successful yet, but he will be.”

Sam cast his eye across the rest of the objet d’art that were encased under the glass. There were a few items rendered in jade, a couple of pieces of jewelry that sparkled in the overhead light, but in the middle of the case, set against blue felt was a small postcard-sized drawing in black ink on blotting paper. The sketch was of a man sitting in a chair, with a crown falling from head as the chair tipped up due to his weight. The man was leaning to catch the crown as it fell through the air, and had been captured in the instant before it was clear whether he would be successful or not.

‘Is it… is that?’ Sam tried to ask, his voice trembling slightly. The four other faces in the room broke into smiles as they looked at him. Antonio answered.

“It’s a Picasso.” He nodded, with a smile that stretched across his face, very nearly touching his ears. Sam turned to look at the other guests, then back to the art. It was simply done, just a few lines having made it onto the paper, but it was a thing of immaculate beauty.

“I’ve got to ask,” said Sam, moving back to the table. He felt a little light-headed, so remarkable was the drawing. Sitting in his seat, he got his answer from Sofia.

“$3.2 million at last auction,” she uttered in her clipped American English. “Antonio, you bought it privately?”

“I did. It was good value, but it cost a little more. It’s priceless. One of his drawings – not as nice as mine – went for $10 million last year in Madrid. It’s an investment.”

“It’s stunning. So we play for it tonight, Antonio?” asked Sofia. Everyone laughed. It was very much her style to joke about such matters. The heiress from Bulgaria had no need to make money, entitled to a fortune when her father died. Unfortunately for her bank balance, her 85 year old father showed no signs of slowing down, still running four separate businesses. Until such a time when he wasn’t able to, Sofia was happy to skip around the world using poker as the excuse to travel. To her, poker was a plaything, but she was good at the game. Sam always said if she treated the game more seriously, she could be really good.

Antonio found Sofia funny, but there was no way the wily old campaigner was putting his pride and joy up for grabs – yet. He laughed it off.

“Maybe if you’re winning big. Or losing big,” said Carlos, the youngest of the group. The 24-year-old Madrid-based pro played an aggressive brand of poker and cut a large figure at the table – literally. Just shy of two meters tall, Carlos looked like he spent a significant amount of time in the gym. He was nicknamed ‘The Train’ because once he got going, he was extremely hard to stop. That, combined with an indefatigable energy, he could easily keep going through the night. He was no sleeper, preferring to get into the lead and bully others with his stack.

Cash games would normally decree that there was a minimum and maximum buy-in, but Antonio’s games were private and had no need for a casino’s restrictive house rules. Everyone was required to buy-in for the same amount — €500,000. The money had to be cleared and in Antonio’s account before play, with bank permissions for any re-entries that players set up prior to the game. This information was available to all of the players within 24 hours from the start of the game.

“Is everyone ready to play?” Antonio asked, his arms wide, every inch the gregarious host. Assertions were made around the room and Sam sat down to join his tablemates, as did Antonio.

The poker table was stunning. Mahogany carved into an oval with a red felt overlay, perfectly fitted to the table top, with carved round alcoves designed to hold drinks in front of each player. The four table legs looked like the trunks of oak trees, the wood carved with the texture of bark.

Looking to the floor, Sam noticed that Antonio’s usual deep beige carpet had been removed from the room, presumably while he was redecorating. In its place, two overlapping rugs sat beneath the ornate table, presumably to protect the floor before being replaced with a single carpet that would complement the mahogany.

It set Sam off to reminisce of the dinners back in New York City, when his mother and father were between cities in a rented home. Back then, a plate of haute cuisine from one of the Big Apple’s best restaurants might be set upon a folding table with a pile of boxes in the corner ready for a forthcoming relocation. Sam blinked away the memory. It was a lifetime ago, before he lost them both.

Antonio’s voice brought Sam back from his reverie, “The game is No Limit Hold’em. We’re at €1,000 and €2,000 blinds. Is everyone happy with a €4,000 straddle?”

Sam nodded, and Sofia cheerily waved a hand in the direction of the host, diamonds glittering on a bracelet around her wrist that probably cost more than the money on the table – €3 million between the six players.

“I’m happy,” Carlos said as he tossed four €1,000 chips into the pot from the straddle position at the table. Sam was in the big blind, and he tossed two €1,000 chips into the center of the table. Sofia sat to his right in the small blind, and she tossed in one chip of the same denomination.

Antonio looked to the other two players. One was a tall, thin gentleman with skin the color of caramel and eyes of a slightly deeper brown. It was impossible to guess his age; he could have been 30 or 50. Sam watched as the man looked down at his stack of chips, counting them with his eyes in a matter of a second.

“This is acceptable,” he said.

The other player was an overweight middle-aged American man with a pear-like figure. He had a small head that appeared to widen as he waddled to the table, which sat under the muffin top of his midriff, which was the width of a small cow. In a confident and brash tone, he replied, “Sure. If that’s your limit. I’m Felix by the way, NASA. Ready for take-off?”

The man surveyed his opponents with a cool, calculating gaze, his chubby fingers drumming nervously on the felt surface impatiently. Despite his bravado, Felix looked to Sam like he was feeling the pressure, like this was a make-or-break game for him, financially or in some other way, as if a single misstep could cost him everything.

“Always,” said Sam. “Nice to meet you, Felix.”

Sam looked down at the first two hole cards of the game and saw the two one-eyed jacks – spades and hearts – winking back at him implacably. Antonio eased himself into his seat and raised his glass to five opponents who didn’t reciprocate.

“Let’s play some cards.”

Drawing Dead – Chapter 3

At high stakes, the first few rounds are always the most fun. Everyone is still involved and no one has had to rebuy. If anyone is drinking, they’re at that merry stage between overpolite awkwardness and pure boorishness. It was in the dining room of the Barcelona penthouse where Sam Houston was taking on five of the deadliest poker players in Europe.

And he was about to find out exactly how deadly they were.

The early minutes of gameplay was a fun blend of bloated pre-flop pots combined with aggressive post-flop continuation bets. Carlos was quietly bullying anyone he could. Mohammed, whom Sam hadn’t met before, was pleasant and an excellent conversationalist. He was sharing his tale of his move to Spain as a young boy and spoke of his property interests in Barcelona and Madrid.

Everything was polite and convivial until Sam played his first major hand.

Raising it from early position, Sam caught the flop holding the seven and eight of hearts. The board opened with a seven and an eight, prompting a continuation bet from Sam; two callers matched – Sofia, the Bulgarian heiress, and the middle-aged American, only known as Felix but was brash, talkative, and as wide as he was confident.

“Sofia, it’s good to see you attacking,” Antonio said with a smile. “Are you ready to take our money tonight?”

Sofia laughed. “I’ll do my best, but I make no promises. But first – Sam’s money.”

The air in the poker room was thick with tension and the other players seemed on edge. Sam tried to brush it off as just his imagination but he couldn’t shake the gut feeling that something was about to happen. And his gut was almost never wrong.

The turn was dealt, opening the board to include a flush draw, then pairing the board on the river. Sam, who was ahead on the flop, was now losing to trips, a flush, or a boat. There were a lot of possibilities but Sam still felt like he was still winning.

Sofia led out with a bet. Not big enough to scare off Sam, but not thin enough to look like a cheap grab for value. Sam put in a call, hoping to induce a raise from Felix, which he got. Sofia shrugged, folding her cards into the muck with a delicate flick of her wrist that made her jewelry jangle. Sam, however, wasn’t going anywhere, at least not quietly.

“What, you figure I’m weak? Raise me, pretty boy,” said Felix, the folds of fat under his chin undulating in time with his heartbeat.

“Maybe I will. Maybe I’m worried you’ll shove. You brought a rebuy and I don’t think you’re afraid to click the button early. Maybe you want to show us all how rich you are.”

“I don’t need to show anyone how wealthy I am. You all know. You arrived with the cattle. I came by helicopter.”

“You’ve done your research on me. I’m flattered,” said Sam as he pulled his original chips back, showing his intent to raise.

Like black pebbles buried in the sand, Felix’s beady eyes studied Sam minutely. Any facial tic, any break in breathing would be detected. Sam could feel it. His heartbeat was calm, and he was using techniques to keep his breath steady. But his chin was itching. His arm felt restless. He could feel that Felix had the better hand, but not the best possible hand. A flush would make sense. Sam knew he had only two options; fold his weaker hand or convince Felix that he had a full house.

One choice would see the pot slide over to Felix. The other, if not believed, would see his entire stack go to the large American. But, if successful, convincing Felix to fold, would give Sam a huge pot early in the night and make him the chip leader. Sam could see the tension in Felix’s neck.

“All in.” Those two words took him half a second to say and could cost him his entire €500,000 bankroll.

Time stood still. The sun appeared to set as the building was instantly buried under a shadow. In reality, it was only one minute, but to Sam, it felt like an ice age. He replayed memories of other moments in his life when he was all-in. These were distractions, changes of focus that allowed his body to stay alert while keeping his eyes unreadable.

He knew that Felix was looking at him, studying him. Outwardly, Sam’s eyes were fixed on the five cards in the center of the table. In his head, touchstones of his memory flashed in front of him. His parents’ gravestones, the newspaper headlines kept hidden by compassionate family members – Sam did eventually find the headlines and spent hours looking for any evidence that they weren’t truly dead. He wanted to believe it was all an elaborate joke, that his life was a retelling of the last five minutes of the Michael Douglas film, The Game. Anything to hang hope on that it hadn’t really happened. Promising that he would appreciate life more now that he had experienced the terrible pain of losing his parents.

But it was all real.

The car crash moments before he became an orphan.

All of it was real.

The memories sped up. The first time his plane landed in London. Graduation and throwing his mortar into the air as his friends held him in ecstatic congratulation. A dozen arms, all caped in black, soaking up the English sun with its oppressive heat.

The bitter cold of the early morning ski trips where he played poker for the first time. Learning the game with a cup of hot cocoa, sitting by the fire, looking out at the snow. Every bad beat and failed bluff, every miscall. Then, after discovering the game, getting drunk on the cards instead of Vin Chaud at the chalet. Returning to London. Playing online for 16 hours a day, six days a week. Never missing a Sunday. The months raced by in his mind, a blur of numbers, and the cards replaced painful memories. He dreamed of suits and picture cards in his sleep. He had done it this way for five years.

“Fold.”

Sam blinked back to the table, memories stored for the next big hand.

“Nice one, NASA,” laughed Antonio, leaning forward in his seat, hoping to see Sam’s cards, but they were thrown into the muck face down, like always. That was rule number one: Never give anyone information unless there’s a benefit.

“Maybe I take longer getting your money,” said Sofia, running her fingers slowly up Sam’s arm. He didn’t pull away. He wanted to let her think that she was stroking an immovable object, like the table leg. Like he was made of mahogany.

They played for an hour. Felix got short, shoved, and busted. He rebought and began playing even looser. By the time the first break rolled around, nearly two hours had passed. Throughout the game, while everyone else had spent time wandering the rooms, standing for a minute or two between hands to stretch their legs, grabbing a fresh drink or helping themselves to canapés when the waitress brought them around, Sam hadn’t moved. He’d more than doubled his opening stack and was well on his way to crushing the game and it was only just beginning, or so he thought. Sofia had lost the last hand before the break to Felix, but it was small consolation to the American who finally had a few chips to pull in and sort back onto his messy stack.

“Let’s take twenty minutes,” said Antonio when it was time, “You are all welcome to take a look around my apartment.”

Antonio stood up and moved to the back of the room, where his artwork was kept.

“Or you can all stay here and admire my newly-acquired art and learn something about…”

Antonio’s voice trailed off. His eyes scanned the glass cabinet, noticing each piece of pottery, every jewel, each bracelet, necklace, and trinket under the transparent cover, still in its chosen location, all but one.

‘The Picasso,” he said, voice trembling, his neck turning red as blood rushed to his head. “Someone has taken the drawing.”  Five pairs of eyes looked up at him in shock.

“What are you talking about?” asked Sam.

“It… it is gone.” He looked as if he was about to pass out through a combination of anger and confusion.

Sam rose from his seat, quickly followed by Sofia and Mohammed. Felix was still counting his money at the table. The four of them crowded the glass case. It looked immaculate. Untouched. But right in the middle of the display was a pathetic-looking felt plinth where the Picasso had been. The case was undisturbed but the Picasso, as impossible as it seemed, was gone.

The room started to feel smaller. Tight. Constricted. The walls appeared to be closing in around Sam, exacerbated by the proximity of those around him, crowded together, staring at an impossibility.

Antonio’s breathing became noticeably shallower, bringing back Sam from the precipice of disaster. He put a comforting arm around Antonio, “Did you take it out after you showed me?”

“I didn’t touch it after I showed it to you. We sat down and played. But people have been walking around. All of you!”

Antonio had moved from denial to anger in an instant as he glared at the four players standing around the sealed case.

“Any of you could have broken into the case and stolen the drawing.”

“But it is not broken, Antonio,” Sofia said softly, not wanting to upset Antonio more than he was. Mohammed was shaking his head incredulously and Carlos stood in shock, a confused look on his face.

“I haven’t moved from my seat,” said Sam, earnestly. “But everyone else has. It must have been someone. If this is a joke…”

But no one was laughing, least of all Antonio.

“You are all here with me now, looking shocked. But you are poker players…”

Antonio stopped mid-sentence. It was at that moment he realized he was wrong, there was one more player. His eyes flew to the table. The others followed his lead.

Since Antonio had announced the drawing had gone missing, there was one person who hadn’t said a word. The American, Felix. Sam looked over. Felix’s chips were now stacked and perfectly ordered in front of his steepled fingers, while he sat as straight and still as the chips, not moving a muscle, a slight smirk on his lips.

Sofia gasped.

Sam saw exactly why Felix hadn’t moved a muscle.

The handle of a blade was protruding from the back of his neck.

Chapter 2                                  Chapter 4

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.