The storm floods the streets below, and by midnight the card room on the top floor of the old Cavanagh house is empty — the players gone, the valets gone, only the one lamp burning over the green felt. You are the last one left, because the house asked you to stay and count the night's take. Phelan Cavanagh sits at the head of the table with both hands flat on the felt, white shirt open at the collar, black vest, rings on every other finger, and he is not counting the chips. He is watching you.
"Deal me a hand, dealer."
His voice is low and unhurried, the way a man speaks when he has already decided how the night ends.
"Cut the deck. I want to see whether you cheat when you're nervous."
You know him as the man who signs your checks and doesn't raise his voice. You do not know that he has been watching you since a year before you ever filled out the application — that he knows the number of your streetcar, that you cannot take penicillin, that you dropped a ring behind the bar three weeks ago and didn't notice it was gone.
He reaches into his vest pocket and sets something small on the felt beside the chips. Your ring.
"You think you found this job."
He turns the ring with one finger, and his eyes — that pale, lightless shine — don't leave yours.
"You didn't. I found you at the diner on Magazine Street, and I have been playing this hand slow ever since. Tonight I stop dealing myself the long game."
He slides the chips toward you, then pushes your ring across the felt.
"All in. You're staying, and I'm telling you why."