Calvin grinned like a happy wolf, his relief written on his face. He pulled in the pot, and said, "Beautiful. Last hand of the night, and I finally hit."

One of the players asked, "What's this last hand business?"

"That's it, I'm out." There were a few unhappy voices around the table. Calvin said sharply, "Quiet, you vultures. You beat on me all night, and I finally get even. You can pick my bones tomorrow."

"Take it and run, I don't blame you," I said. "That's enough for me, too."

He gave me that wolfish grin again. "That last hand got to you, huh? Took some of the starch out of your shorts."

I shrugged.

"Come on, let's cash in, and I'll buy you a drink." He had beat me, and I was his.

We visited the cashier's cage, and then went to the bar. At five in the morning, we were the only customers. He ordered a scotch, I had the same, and he sank onto a bar stool. Some of the air went out of him then. "Sweet hand," he said when his drink came. "Lousy pair of kings, but they held up. You gotta have faith." He raised his glass to me. "That last hand saved my ass, Benny. I thank you, my wife thanks you, and my children thank you."

"Look, I asked you before. Would you stop calling me Benny?"

"Yeah, sure. What do your friends call you?"

"Ben. Just Ben."

"You're lucky. You know what my friends call me?"

"What?"

"Collect. They call me collect." He looked at me expectantly, his eyebrows jerking. "Get it?"

"No."

"Ben, it's funny. My friends call me collect. On the telephone."

"Now I get it."

"So how come you're not laughing?"

"Because it isn't funny."

"It is, believe me it is. I know funny, and that's funny."

"It isn't. Actually, it's very sad."

He thought about that, staring into his glass. He looked up, scowling. "What's that supposed to mean? You trying to say that I don't have any friends?"

"Do you?"

"You gotta be kidding. You see the way they treat me around here?" He did a Durante. "I got a million of 'em, a million of 'em."

"Name one."

He laughed. It was a bitter, unpleasant sound. He was muttering to himself again. "My friends call me collect. I like it, I like it. You're wrong, it's funny." He called for another drink, and when it came he gulped it. "What's all this about friends and friendship? You some kind of a philosopher?"

"No, just another poker player making conversation after a long, hard night."

"A horseshit poker player. You should have raised on the last card. You would have knocked me out."

"Not you. You were in love with those kings."

"Yeah, maybe." He looked at me directly. "Friends. You got any friends?"

"Four of them."

"I mean real friends."

"We're like a family."

"Lucky." He motioned to the bartender for a refill. He had been drinking steadily at the table, but he wasn't showing it yet. "Benjamin, the philosopher. You're right, don't let them call you Benny. Who ever heard of a philosopher called Benny? Well, you're right, Mister Philosopher, I don't have any friends. I got a million guys want to call me Calvin and shake my hand. I got a million broads want to hop into bed with me. And I don't have a friend in the world. I got zilch. Zero. Nada."

"You have a wife and children. That's a lot."

"Bullshit. What do you know about my wife and kids?"

"Not a thing."

"I've got a wife who hates my guts, and I've got kids I never see. That's what I've got." He put his face close to mine. "You see, Mister Philosopher, I'm not exactly stupid. Maybe I talk too loud, and I act like a shmuck sometimes, but that's part of my job. I'm not unintelligent, and I know exactly how empty and sterile my life is." He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "This is your life, Calvin Weiss. The S.S. Carnival Queen."

"You're breaking my heart."

He looked surprised. "What's with the tough guy? You started this friendship shtick."

"I just hate to see a grown man feeling sorry for himself."

"Well, fuck you and your four friends. You think I never had a friend in my life?"

"Did you?"

"Like this." He held up two fingers pressed together. He looked at the fingers, and laughed. "The short one is me. You remember the old comic strip, Mutt and Jeff?"

"Sure, the short guy and the tall guy."

"Right, so let me lay a piece of trivia on you. You ask ten people today who was the short one and who was the tall one, and nine out of ten they'll say that Mutt was the short one. Mutt, short-right? Wrong. Mutt was the tall one. Don't ask me why, but he was. I know, because my friend was the tall one, and he was Mutt. Mutt and Jeff, that's what they called us. We went everywhere together, we did everything together, and nobody ever had a better friend. So it wasn't always this way, Mister Philosopher. I had a friend once, a damn good friend."

"When was this?"

"Oh, Christ, a long time ago, back in college. A little place you never heard of, Van Buren in upper New York state. Yeah, Mutt, Jeff, and the Pom-Pom Queen, we were a team. Later on there was the Poodle, but she really didn't count. It was just the three of us, two guys and a girl, the classic triangle. It would have made a great soap. The all-star jock, the campus comic, and the prettiest girl in seven states. Here, take a look."

He got out his wallet, and laid a snapshot on the bar. It was an old picture of June, and she had been stunningly beautiful. The woman I had seen in the motel room was a beauty, but the girl in the photo took your breath away. I murmured something appropriate, and Calvin nodded.

"We were both in love with her," he said quietly. "Mutt and Jeff, we both wanted to marry her. One of us did."

"You?"

"Ta-da." He raised a fist in a victory sign. "I got the girl, and I lost my best friend."

"Sore loser."

"Ah, come on, it had to be that way. We didn't think so, but it had to be. He wouldn't have been human otherwise."

"At least you got the girl. He got nothing."

"Lucky me."

"You don't sound happy about it."

"It was a mistake, Mister Philosopher. My mistake, and hers. She married the wrong guy, and she's been letting me know it ever since." He looked at his watch. "Jesus, I gotta get going."

"To bed, I hope."

He grinned. "Definitely to bed, but I didn't say what bed."

"At six in the morning?"

"Nothing like a sunrise shtup to start the day off right." He slid off his stool. He smiled shyly, and it changed his face. "Good talking to you. Almost like talking to a friend."

"Get some sleep."

"All in good time. Stop by the casino tomorrow. I can use the money."

I didn't want him to go just then. There was more that I wanted to know about him, but there was no way that I could hold him there. I decided on a quick tap, a grab bag to see what I could come up with. I went in as he was standing there, and I came out as he walked away.

It was a grab bag, all right, with all sorts of surprises in it. I stood there trying to absorb what I had gathered, and Fleckmann walked into the casino. He saw me at the bar, and came over. He looked neat, clean, and disgustingly well-rested.

"You look awful," he told me. "Up all night?"

I snarled at him.

"That bad? Been playing poker?"

I snarled again.

"Oh dear, someone needs his breakfast and a few laps in the pool."

"Sounds good, but not right now. How does one make a telephone call, you know, ship to shore?"

"Ship to shore, how quaint. What century are you living in? You go to your cabin, you pick up the telephone, and you make your call."

"That's all?"

"Electronic wonders."

I found some coffee on the way to my cabin, and took it with me. I called the Center, and asked for Sammy. The duty officer said that he was sleeping. I told him to roust the bum out. As I waited, I regretted, not for the first time, Sammy's carefree attitude about codes. He refused to use them. That was spy stuff, not for us.