Three Moments of an Explosion by China Miéville Read Free Book Online Page A

guessed I’d find you here,” he said. “Been following your career.”
    Belinda liked him a lot. He flirted with her and stayed on the right side of sleazy. He told her exaggerated stories of our first meeting. He showed her the face he said I’d worn when I saw the Dowager of Bees, not even hesitating to find out whether she’d been inducted before he told the story.
    In the evening I tucked my card face down into its little band on my right wrist as usual and flicked it before covering it with my shirt and jacket. We gathered in the makeshift state room and sipped mojitos while the sun went down.
    Seven players. I’d sat across from all but one before: it’s not that big a world. Besides me and Belinda and Sugarface, there was a Maronite computer programmer I’d once beaten at Pig; a French publisher who’d partnered me during a devastating hand at Bridge; a South African judge known as the Cribbage Assassin; and the captain. He was a puffed-up little prick in a blue brocade shirt. He was new to all of us. We realized this whole gig was his brainchild, just so he could play big.
    He named the game, of course. Texas Hold ’Em, of course. I rolled my eyes.
    The Lebanese guy was weaker than I’d remembered. The judge was cautious but smart and hard to read. The publisher built up slowly with sneaky bets. Sugarface played exactly like I recalled.
    Belinda was my main competition. We tore into each other.
    The captain could barely play at all but he didn’t even realize. He preened. He barked at people that it was their deal, their bet, told them what they needed to win. We all pretty much hated him. His ship, his trip, his table were the only reasons we didn’t tell him to go fuck himself.
    I was playing well but Belinda was playing better. She beat me with two pairs. Furious, I made one of my cards spin over my knuckles. The programmer toasted me and the judge applauded. Belinda smiled kindly and took several thousand dollars off me with an offhand bluff.
    Deep night and the sky was like a massive sheet of lead. We changed the cards. The captain took a new pack from a drawer and tossed them to Sugarface.
    Bicycle cards. Red-backed. Sugarface opened the packet and dealt us our two hole cards.
    Usually most serious players just keep them facedown in front of them but that night I wanted to hold mine up like in a cowboy film. Pair of Threes. Good start.
    We bet—we bet big—everyone stays in. Sugarface deals the flop: three community cards, faceup. A Six, a Ten, Jack of Clubs. I have a good feeling, then a bad feeling, then a good feeling. Sugarface winks. This round of betting we lose Mr. IT. I can read him easily and I’m not surprised.
    Fourth shared card, the turn. Hi there, Charlemagne: the King of Hearts has been shy till now but there he is. There’s some muttering and murmuring. Belinda is rock-still while she calculates, even stiller than usual, so she’s either in good shape or bad shape and I’m guessing good. The judge goes out. Publisher blows me a kiss and follows.
    Sugarface makes us wait a long time, puffing out his cheeks. In the end he joins them.
    It’s me to bet, and as I consider and see the red backs of my opponents’ hands, floating like unmanned boats into my head comes the name of a hand I’ve heard about over the years.
    They call it a Boiler-Room: a Ten; a Jack; a King; a Three; and the Four of Chimneys.
    I start to consider what that would win me. What would be the takings from this table, not just in money. And I realize that I’m thinking with a sort of calm wonder, almost wryly, Oh, this is what I’ve been waiting for .
    And as I’m thinking that, with my hands stock-still to anyone watching, my fingers are snatching my no-longer-helpful spare Three and sending it to Hell via my sleeve, and coaxing my stolen card out from under its band, toward my cuff and fingertips, a clean sleight, bringing it back up and slipping it into position, all in a fraction of a second, all