—Time to Kill—

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O’Connor said, “I’ll take three.” He sluffed three and picked up the replacements that Deming flipped off the deck Slumping in his chair a little, he lifted his hand up even with his eyes and fanned the cards slowly, bringing each new card into view separately.

“Two,” Sigman said.

O’Connor glanced quickly at Sigman from under heavy lids. “You oughtn’t hold a kicker,” he said. “You’re bucking the percentages.”

Sigman looked at his cards fast and slipped them on the bottom of his hands. He laid the hand on the table in front of him.

“If you think I’m holding a kicker,” he said, “you can always bet on it.”

“Poker’s figured on the percentages.” O’Connor said. “Play them and you win in the long run.”

Deming helped himself. Under the bluish cast of the single bulb burning overhead, his young face looked thin and tight. A shadow of black beard lay on his cheeks.

“One to the dealer,” he said. He flicked a corner of the card with a thumb nail and saw that he’d filled his house. What luck he’d had! Straights, flushes, full houses. All for matches. He laid his cards face down on the table and leaned back. He and Sigman looked at O’Connor.

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