“I hear you and Rufus Steele have an interesting wager going,” she said.

The Greek raised his arms as if to strangle an imaginary victim. He quickly lowered them. “The bet’s off,” he said.

“Oh no,” she said. “It sounded like it would make a wonderful piece.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” The Greek raised his voice. “The bet’s off.”

Gloria stepped back, unsure of what was happening. Takarama, who’d been leaning against the wall with a stoic look on his face, tapped the Greek on the shoulder.

“What?” the Greek said.

“You are dishonoring me,” Takarama said.

“But he’s trying to trick us,” the Greek said.

“A man’s word is his bond.”

“But—”

“No exceptions,” Takarama declared. He crossed the room to where Rufus was standing. “May I see one?”

Rufus handed him a skillet. Takarama pulled a Ping-Pong ball out of the pocket of his shorts, and bounced it on the flat side. The ball went up and down with the precision of a metronome. Takarama’s eyes glanced into the Greek’s unshaven face.

“I can beat him,” he said.

The Greek’s expression changed.

“Are you sure?”

Takarama nodded solemnly, the ball still going up and down.

“But you’ve never played with a skillet,” the Greek said.

“It does not matter,” Takarama said.

“Rufus has,” the Greek said.

“He is not Takarama,” the former world champion said.

19

Valentine’s son knew a lot about sports. When it came to exceptionally gifted athletes, Gerry had a theory that he claimed most bookies shared: Great athletes were not normal. They were freaks.

His son’s definition of a freak didn’t match Webster’s.According to Gerry, freaks could run faster, jump higher, and recuperate more quickly than the rest of us. They’d also been blessed with quick reflexes. Put simply, their bodies were more physically gifted, a fact that became apparent simply by looking at them.

Takarama was the perfect example of a freak. He had muscular calves, tree-trunk thighs, a girlish waist, and shoulders befitting a running back. There did not appear to be an ounce of wasted tissue on his body, and probably never had been. Walking over to the Ping-Pong table with the skillet in hand, he took several practice serves.

“Are you sure you can beat him?” the Greek asked, standing beside him.

“Yes,” Takarama said confidently.

The Greek was sweating, the bright light of Zack’s camera centered squarely on his face. Embarrassed by his decision to renege, the suckers had moved away from him. The Greek looked lost. In the poker world, your reputation was all you had.

The Greek turned to Rufus. “You’re on,” he said.

Gloria Curtis produced a shiny coin from her purse, tossed it into the air.

“Call it,” she said to Rufus.

“Heads,” Rufus said.

The coin landed on the floor. It was heads.

“Yee-haw,” the old cowboy said.

Rufus and Takarama took their positions at opposite ends of the Ping-Pong table. As Rufus bent his knees and prepared to serve, Takarama went into a crouch and held the skillet in front of his body defensively. His eyes narrowed, seeing only the table.

Rufus held his skillet a foot from his head, the ball resting on the palm of his other hand. “Good luck, son,” he said.

“I do not need luck,” Takarama replied.

Rufus tossed the ball into the air and banged it with the skillet. It wasn’t the kind of stroke that Valentine had thought would produce a deadly spin, but that was exactly what happened. The ball hopped over the net, then leaped a few feet into the air, hitting Takarama’s skillet and flying behind him.

“My point,” Rufus declared. “One-zip.”

Rufus served four more unreturnable serves. With each lost point, Takarama shifted his grip on his skillet, and tried another method of stroking. Each change produced the same result. A wayward shot and a lost point.

“Five-zip,” Rufus said, tossing him the ball.

Takarama went to the sideline and wiped his hands with a towel. When he returned to the table, Rufus was sipping whiskey.

“Not funny,” Takarama said.

“You ought to try some.” Rufus grinned.

Takarama prepared to serve. He tossed the ball into the air, and hit it with his skillet. As he did, the index finger on his serving hand struck the table edge. He yelped and dropped his skillet.

“Hope you didn’t break it,” Rufus said.

“Time out,” the Greek called.

Takarama clutched his damaged finger and left the room to walk off the pain. When he returned, he’d regained his composure, and banged the table with the palm of his good hand.

“I get you now,” he said.

It took Takarama a few points to figure out how to serve. When he finally did get the ball over the table, Rufus batted it back for a winner. Rufus had an unusual technique, and relied solely on his wrist to stroke the ball, his arm hardly coming into play.

Takarama copied the motion, and on Rufus’s next service game, managed to win two points. The score was now thirteen to two, but a significant shift had occurred. Like all great athletes, Takarama had adjusted his game, and was forcing Rufus to work to win a point, making the old cowboy lunge from side to side. The toll on Rufus was immediate. His chest sagged, a hound-dog look appeared on his face, and after every point he stopped to catch his breath.

On his next serve, Rufus lost five points in a row, making the score thirteen to seven. The whiskey had risen to his face and sprouted a thousand red blossoms. He looked like a dying man. Taking his Stetson off, he tossed it to the floor.

It was Takarama’s turn to serve. Rufus made a motion to throw him the ball, only to drop it on the floor instead. There was a loud crunching sound.

“Shit! I stepped on it,” Rufus said.

The Greek pulled a Ping-Pong ball from his pocket, and tossed it to Takarama.

“Here you go. Whip his ass.”

Takarama won the next five points. He was effortlessly moving the ball around the table, making Rufus swing at air. What had started as a one-sided contest was still one, only the person getting the beating had changed. With the score thirteen to twelve, both sides decided to take a break.

“I’m open to suggestions,” Rufus said, sucking on a bottle of water.

Valentine did not know what to say. Rufus had met his match, and everyone in the room knew it. Gloria stepped forward with an encouraging look on her face.

“I have an idea,” she offered.

Rufus brightened. “Yes, Ms. Curtis.”

“Moon-ball him.”

“You want me to moon him?” Rufus said.

“No, I mean throw up some moon balls,” she said.

“What are those?”

“Lobs, like they do in tennis. It’s a great way to throw off your opponent’s rhythm. I saw Tracy Austin lob Martina Navratilova in the final of the U.S. Open Tennis Championship. Martina won the first set and was rolling. Then Austin started throwing up moon balls. It threw Martina off, and she lost the match.”

Rufus tossed away his empty water bottle. Then he retrieved his skillet from the floor, and pointed the flat side straight at the ceiling, visualizing the shot.

“I don’t know,” he said skeptically.

“What do you have to lose?” she asked.

It was Rufus’s turn to serve. He sent the ball over the net, and Takarama shot it back. Rufus lunged to his right, and hit the ball straight into the air like he was sending up a missile. The ball went so high it nearly touched a chandelier, then fell back to earth and landed on Takarama’s side of the table. It bounced so high that Takarama had to tap it back, giving Rufus a perfect kill shot.

Only Rufus didn’t kill it. Instead, he lofted the ball into the air, then paused to watch its flight. He appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Take that,” the old cowboy said.

Takarama made a face that was part anger, part disgust. He had a lot of pride, and Valentine was not surprised when he took a step back from the table and changed his grip on the skillet. As the ball bounced on his side, he leaped into the air.