Pair of Jacks: A Novel

By Michael Batdorf

When thirteen-year-old, poker-playing psychic Jack Holden, Jr. is kidnapped, he begins a cross-country road trip like no other. He is soon leading a mission to find and rescue his missing poker pro father, Jack "Texas" Holden, from captors who force him to use his own "Poker Power" to make them rich.

During his journey, young Jack makes friends, finds love, wins fortunes from the superstars of professional poker, and dodges bounty hunters who are out to stop him. In the end, Jack must choose his fate as his psychic powers and love for his family and friends are put to the test at the secret gambling den in the Nevada desert where his father is imprisoned.

Full of suspense, twists, humor and action, Pair of Jacks is fantastic fiction, high adventure, filled with unforgettable characters and events.

Michael Batdorf's writing has an amazing, fresh, unique voice.
Katrina Kittle, Author, The Kindness of Strangers (William Morrow publishers)

Michael Batdorf has a dark and dangerous mind, and I mean that in a good way. Pair of Jacks is a terrific book - it has a novel story line, interesting characters, humor, drama, and the plot is well-constructed and full of surprises.
Anne Greenberg, Former Editor, Simon & Schuster/Pocket Books

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 16, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440144813

Michael Batdorf

Michael Batdorf graduated summa cum laude from the University of Cincinnati, majoring in Electronic Media. He studied fiction writing at The Antioch Writer's Workshop and Columbus Writer's Conference, working with authors such as Katrina Kittle, Jennifer Crusie, Josip Novakovich and others. He lives in Cincinnati, Ohio with his wife and two children. This is his first novel. www.pairofjacksbook.com

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Discussion Guide

For Book Clubs and Educators

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

My kidnapper is sitting across from me in the dim, smoky basement.

But it’s not like movies where the kid—in this case, me—is tied to a chair, duct tape over his mouth, crying and stuff, while the kidnapper’s on the phone, making a ransom call.

Instead, we’re sitting at a poker table, playing seven other guys I don’t know. All against me—a thirteen-year-old wearing a fake mustache to look older. This was my kidnapper’s idea.

The basement doesn’t have windows. The poker table, with its sickly green surface, is in the center. Dirty concrete floor. Cardboard boxes that read Milton Bradley and Hasbro are pushed against the walls. A rectangular light fixture hangs above the table, two exposed fluorescent tubes under a thin metal frame with the name of a beer company printed on it. One tube flickers. The bulbs cast an annoying greenish glow on everyone’s faces, the cards, the cash in the pot, their disgusting-smelling alcoholic drinks, and the thick smoke hanging in the air.

The funny thing is, I think it’s a school night.

My mom would flip out. She’s always pushed me to be better than other kids, make better choices, be smarter, read good books. She would be disappointed to see this.

Wherever she is.

She disappeared two days before I got kidnapped. My kidnapper had said he was a detective investigating my mother’s disappearance, which is how I came to be with him. I got in his car thinking he was taking me to the police station for questioning. It hasn’t really been my week. One day I’m home in Cincinnati, and now I don’t know where I am. I’m pretty sure I’m farther west. I need to pay more attention when we’re driving.

I’m beginning to think it just runs in the family. The whole missing person thing. My dad’s been gone three years.

Anyway. Don’t get me wrong, as sick to my stomach as I am about my mom missing and me being nabbed, I have some hope because the kidnapper has said he knows where my mom is and he will take me to her. But first he says I have to play my cards right. Which is one bright spot in my life at the moment: I do love poker. Internet poker. Live home games. Especially for the last few weeks, since right around my thirteenth birthday, because now I can pretty much guess what cards people have. My friends hate my guts for taking their money when we play, but it’s mostly nickel, dime, quarter.

But poker’s never been like this.

The man to my right raised a thousand dollars. I’ve never played for this much money. No one else at the table knows I’m thirteen. Or that I’m being forced to play by my kidnapper. I guess my picture hasn’t shown up on any milk cartons yet. Not that these old guys drink much milk.

The bet is now to me. They’re waiting. One thousand dollars. I can check, call, raise, or fold. Four choices. Like life. You always have choices, Mom says. In poker, when you make a choice, they call it gambling. In life, well, they just call it living. But I say life is a gamble, too. I mean, look at me: I chose to walk down the street one day a week ago, and now here I am.

I don’t fold or call. I can’t check. I raise the bet to three thousand dollars. A man at the table says, Slim here thinks he’s got the nuts. This other guy’s like, Or he’s bluffing.

A lot of the guys have been calling me Slim. Most thirteen-year-olds are skinny, unless you sit and eat Snickers bars all day and skip gym class. But then, some people are just born obese. And some people are born lucky. Like me. I’ve always had a feeling for what’s going to happen next. Lately the feelings have been stronger, especially when I’m playing poker. So I’m pretty lucky. Well, except for the kidnapping. And my mom disappearing.

I wait, hoping they’ll all fold. These guys puff on cigars and drink all kinds of alcohol. And this basement room is small, so the smoke and stink of alcohol is thick. I’m waiting for these men to turn into donkeys, like that part in Pinocchio when the boys smoke and drink and gamble and then transform. I hate smoking and drinking. Makes my nose all stuffy and sometimes I want to gag.

I’m starting to think like Pinocchio, too. I wish I could be a real boy. A normal boy. Instead of whatever I am. Some kind of card freak. That’s why I got kidnapped. This guy who nabbed me keeps telling me he knows I can sense things. He says he’s going to help me learn how to do it better. By the way, yes—I’m thirteen and I still like Pinocchio. My mom threw out my other DVDs—they were all poker movies, like Rounders, The Cincinnati Kid, Lucky You. She had said she didn’t want me ending up like my father. She let me keep Pinocchio. Maybe that’s why I like it. It’s the only movie I have left.

My kidnapper, sitting across from me, folds. He doesn’t mind because he gets all my winnings, minus food and gas and hotel money. I have to pay for my food, for wherever we sleep, and for gas for his Cadillac. But he does let me keep ten dollars each time I win.

He doesn’t look evil. In fact, he looks honest and friendly, always with a toothpick hanging from his mouth. I guess that’s another reason I got in the car with him that day. He’s never hit me or yelled at me or done anything like kidnappers do. It’s weird and complicated. I trust him but I don’t. I like him but I hate him. I call him Fagin (pronounced Fayg-in). Fagin was the name of a character in Oliver Twist, a book by Charles Dickens, one of those good books my mom made me read. In the book, Fagin gave homeless boys food and shelter and taught them how to pick pockets and steal and stuff. Anyway, Fagin folds and smiles.

The man who made the first bet stares at me. He’s like way old, probably fifty or something, and has about sixty chins and big puffy cheeks like he’s a squirrel and he’s keeping some nuts in there. He puffs his cigar, taps the ash in a tray on the table, then folds. Smart move. I put him on a queen-ten unsuited, drawing to a straight or flush. This means I guess he’s hiding a queen and a ten. I’m pretty sure it’s the queen of diamonds (Q♦) and the ten of spades (10♠). The three cards in the middle of the table are king of diamonds, nine of diamonds, and two of diamonds (K♦, 9♦, 2♦). This means if I’m right about the cards he folded, he needed a diamond to make his flush or any jack for a straight.

After he folds he chomps his cigar, puts his hand on his, like, two hundred chins, and says, I think Slim’s got the flush. Maybe ace-high. You better not be bluffing, kid. He calls me kid, but that’s only because I look way younger than his old fogy self. This makeup and mustache make me look about nineteen. Fagin rubbed rouge or something and some sticky, sandy mixture on my forehead and cheeks to make my face look reddened and toughened like I worked outdoors, instead of like a pasty school kid.

The game we’re playing? Texas Hold ’Em. Two players are forced to bet before seeing their cards. These are called blind bets. One small blind bet and one big blind bet. The big blind is double the small blind’s amount. Then every player gets two cards, facedown. Then everyone bets or folds. Then the dealer gets rid of the top card on the deck—burns it. He deals three cards in the middle of the table—called the flop—face up. You bet again. Or check. Or fold. Another card gets burned, and one more gets turned over on the table—this is called fourth street, or the turn. More betting. Then one more card gets burned and another gets turned over—this one’s called fifth street, or the river. One last round of betting. You’re trying to make the best five-card poker hand using any combination of your two cards and the five community cards on the table. You pick the best five and that’s your hand. Everybody knows what the cards are in the middle and can use them. But nobody knows the two cards each player gets, the hole cards. Nobody but me.

This other guy to my right, who’s drinking something from a glass that smells like mouthwash with ice, stares at me, too. He’s wearing crazy-looking glasses like Greg Fossilman Raymer wore during the World Series of Poker he won. The lenses look like big Jurassic Park lizard eyes.

I look at him and don’t blink. I try to tell him with my mind: Fold. Don’t lose any more money. Sometimes I’m too nice. I scratch my upper lip because my fake mustache itches.

The way you’re fidgeting with your lip tells me you’re nervous, kid. I’m all in.

He pushes all his cash into the middle. Dumb move.

I look across the table at Fagin. He nods gently. I raise my eyebrows. I laugh because the guy who just went all in thought my lip scratch was a tell. A tell is when you do or say something that gives away what you’re thinking or holding. It’s unconscious. If only he knew.

I’m putting him on ace of diamonds (A♦) and king of clubs (K♣). With the cards in the middle, that would mean he has two kings—the top pair—and needs only one more diamond to come on the turn or the river for a diamond flush. He would have the highest flush, too, because he has the ace of diamonds.

Call, I say.

That’s more than ten thousand dollars in the pot, says the Fossilman wannabe with the crazy lizard glasses.

Wow. My first ten-thousand-dollar pot. Mr. Cray Z. Glasses takes a big drink of his disgusting-smelling Listerine-on-ice and stands. He flips his cards over. Ace of diamonds (A♦). King of spades (K♠). I was close. I guessed the king was a club. They’re both black. I wasn’t concentrating as hard as I should have been. All the money made me a little careless. Doesn’t matter, though. I’ll win.

He says, Pair of kings. Any diamond and I’ve got the flush. He takes off his weird glasses.

I turn over my good-luck hand.

Two jacks. One diamond, one heart (J♦, J♥).

My good-luck hand because my name is Jack.

The dealer, some guy with a wrinkled tan face and wearing a visor, says, Bob versus, hey, what’s your name, Slim?

He’s asking my name. The guy with the lizard glasses must be Bob.

Jack, I say, then look at Fagin, because I think I should have lied and said something like Bill or George.

Fagin nods gently again. I guess it’s OK to say my name is Jack. He just doesn’t want me to tell anyone my real last name because of my dad. People might know who he is.

His name is Jack, too. Jack Holden. I’m Jack Jr. My mom told me they used to call my dad Texas as a nickname, even though he’s from Cincinnati, Ohio. Jack Texas Holden, like what we’re playing, Texas Hold ’Em. He was a professional poker player.

The dealer tugs his visor. He looks like that bartender on The Simpsons, Moe. Moe the dealer says, Bob needs a diamond for the flush. But his kings already beat Jack’s jacks.

Jack, you ain’t got jack! Bob laughs.

The smoke seems to get thicker. The light flickers as the dealer burns a card, then turns another over.

It’s a jack of clubs (J♣).

Jack of clubs? What the— You lucky little… says Bob. He squeezes his glasses. A stupid lizard lens pops out.

I now have three jacks. But Bob says, Doesn’t matter. One king and you’re beat. Any diamond, I win.

I tell him good luck. I scratch my lip. My mustache feels loose. I pull my Cincinnati Reds baseball cap farther over my eyes and adjust my cheap Wal-Mart sunglasses. Fagin points at his own upper lip like a madman.

Here comes the river, says Moe, the wrinkly dealer.

All the players lean in close. They root for Bob.

The cards in the middle are K♦ 9♦ 2♦ J♣.

My two are J♦, J♥.

His two are A♦, K♠.

The dealer burns one and flips another.

Everyone reacts.

It’s the jack of spades (J♠).

I say, Four jacks. Four of a kind. I win. I stand to shake hands.

Bob stares at the table. He can’t believe he got beat. He says, Any king, any diamond, any ace, I woulda won. That pot should be mine. Who let this kid in here anyway?

He stands. He’s two feet taller than me. He doesn’t stare at my eyes, though. He stares below my nose. At my mustache. It feels like it’s hanging.

He rips it off. He tears my hat off and throws it on the table. He pulls off my sunglasses.

"He really is a kid!" he shouts.

The dealer yells, This one brought him. He points to Fagin. Fagin’s toothpick dances in his mouth. Fagin stands, points at me, and says, "He’s an actor. Did you see Home Alone Six? He’s the kid from that. He’s researching a role for his next movie. Aren’t you, Jack? He was gonna give all the money back. Weren’t you, Jack?"

Bob says, Phooey. Hold him, boys.

They surround Fagin. If they get Fagin, I can escape. I can go back to Cincinnati. But how would I get there? Where am I anyway?

Fagin picks up his chair and starts swinging it.

Bob grabs my arm hard. It hurts.

Drop the chair, Phil, says Bob. Or your boy gets hurt.

Fagin makes up a new name at every game. He usually gives a professional poker player’s name. Today was Phil for Phil Hellmuth. Yesterday it was Mike for Mike Matusow. I don’t know Fagin’s real name.

Let him go, says Fagin, or, today, Phil.

Bob grabs me tighter, which I didn’t think possible.

Bob says, We’re gonna tear you both apart.

The other men get closer to Fagin. He swings the chair again. So much for me escaping. My only chance is to get behind Fagin and back our way up the steps. Then make a run for his Cadillac.

Bob, I say. Can I have my hat, please?

No. Quiet, boy.

Bob, I said ‘please.’

Shut up. C’mon, guys. So he hits one of you with his chair. So what? After he does, the rest of you grab him. We’re gonna teach these hustlers a lesson.

Then I’ll just get my hat myself, I say.

"Didn’t I tell you to shut— Yeee-owch!"

Bob can’t finish telling me to shut up because I’ve just kicked his shin as hard as I possibly could with my steel-toed boots. I was scared to do it, but I had to get away. He lets go of me and grabs his shin. The boots were Fagin’s idea. We picked them up in a Salvation Army store. I don’t know if Fagin paid for them or not. They make me at least two inches taller. I wonder if he’s a little psychic, like me. I mean, he can’t sense what cards are coming, otherwise he wouldn’t have kidnapped me, but I wonder if he thought a fight would break out and I might need steel-toed boots.

I’m doing a forward roll over the poker table to grab my Reds ball cap. I land on my feet next to Fagin.

He swings the chair and we back up the steps. The men follow four steps back. They’re shouting death threats.

I reach the door first. I could slam it on Fagin and make my escape. I’ve got fifty bucks from winning poker games this week. I could maybe buy a bus ticket. Do you have to be eighteen to buy a bus ticket? Better yet, I could call the cops. I begin to slam the door.

That’s when I hear Fagin’s voice in my mind: Shut that door on me and you’ll never find your father.

Whoa. First of all, he didn’t speak those words. I mean, he didn’t move his mouth. I heard his voice in my mind. How did he do that? Second of all—my father?

What do you know about my dad?

Not now! Open up. I’ll tell you in the car.

I take my hand off the door. Fagin bounds through it. We’re now in a toy store. It’s a small shop, and the poker game was in the basement. The storefront window reads in big silly letters: Bob’s Toys and Games. I look at all the board games on a shelf. Those are the games I should be playing, not poker in the basement.

Fagin slams the door and braces the knob with the chair he’s been swinging. He slides a cheap chain lock over the door.

You think that’ll hold them? I ask.

No. We’ve got about ten seconds to get in my car and scoot. But wait. Hold the door for a sec.

I push against the door with everything I’ve got. What are you doing? Let’s go!

He says, I ain’t leaving here with nothin’. He talks like he’s from Kentucky. I hear the cash register drawer open.

"A roll of quarters! You gotta be kidding. Let’s go, Jack. Move!"

I don’t argue. I move.

We run for the toy shop’s front door. Before we open it Fagin grabs a box of old Yu-Gi-Oh! cards from a shelf.

This oughtta be worth something, he mutters.

I push the door, expecting a rush of cool night air and the bells on the door to jangle. The door doesn’t open.

The men burst through the basement door.

"Turn the lock!" shouts Fagin.

I turn it. We’re out but not free. Not yet. We run to the alley where Fagin left his car. The poker crowd is coming out the shop door. The bells on the door clang.

Where’s my car?

Is this the right alley? I ask.

I parked it right here!

I point to a No Parking sign. Fagin points down the street.

There it is. Getting towed! C’mon!

We run. Fagin is behind me, and the rest of the crowd is farther back. Old men can’t run. Especially old men who smoke and drink.

Fagin’s car is hanging from an old rusted tow truck stopped at a red light. The Cadillac’s front window is rolled down on the passenger side. Fagin had told me to roll it up, but I didn’t. Did I know something like this would happen? Probably not. I just didn’t listen to Fagin.

With the front end of the Cadillac elevated by the old tow truck’s chain, the bottom of the window is level with my chest. I leap, get my forearms and elbows inside the window and hoist myself in.

Fagin reaches the car when the truck starts moving. I look out the Cadillac’s back window and see Bob and the gang getting closer. This is another perfect chance for me to escape. Fagin’s hands are inside the doorframe as he runs alongside it. He throws the box of Yu-Gi-Oh! cards in the backseat. I could kick his knuckles with my steel-toed boots.

Don’t even think about giving me the boot, he mutters. You wanna find your daddy?

He’s panting. The truck accelerates.

I reach to help him. I want to know where my father is. I haven’t seen Jack Texas Holden in three years. My mother said he’d come back someday. Maybe Fagin can help me find Dad and Mom.

Fagin is halfway in the car, legs kicking in the night air. I pull him by his arms and he’s in. He’s still chewing that dumb toothpick.

Fagin acts all cool and says, Smart move, kid. Now duck down in the backseat. As soon as the tow truck driver releases my Caddy, we’ll bolt.

Why not lay low for a while? I ask.

That’s why, he says, pointing out the back window.

Bob is driving a station wagon full of angry men. They’re yelling and braying like donkeys, like in Pinocchio, like they transformed. But I think they were asses to begin with.

I don’t need ESP to know that when the tow truck stops again, we’re dead.

Chapter 2

Fagin slinks into the Cadillac’s driver’s seat. A rabbit’s foot dangles from the rearview mirror. Sitting in the backseat, I notice Fagin is pretty old, at least forty. He seems familiar, but I can’t figure out how. That’s what got me in this Cadillac the first time. I felt like I could trust him—the way he said he was a police detective and he needed to ask about my mom.

When I first discovered my mom wasn’t home, I called the cops that morning before school. I had snuck out the night before for a few hours to play poker with friends. I tiptoed back in the house and went straight to bed. Next morning—no Mom. The police said she wasn’t technically a missing person since she hadn’t been gone long enough, not to worry, and they’d call back to check on the situation. So after school, when she still wasn’t home, all I could do was worry. For her. For me. I stayed shut in the house. Went through everything looking for a note, a clue. Played Internet poker. Watched TV. When the police telephoned to make sure things were OK, I lied and said she was back home. They asked to speak with her and I did an impression of a woman’s voice. It didn’t really sound like Mom but they didn’t know that. They bought it. I thought if I said she was still gone they might keep me at the jail or make me a ward of the court or whatever since I don’t have any relatives.

So when Fagin showed up pretending to be a detective, I was even more worried. He had said he knew my mom still wasn’t home because he’d been watching the house. I felt relief though. Like this was my chance to come clean and actually help find my mother instead of just being concerned with what was going to happen to me in foster care or whatever. I sensed I could trust him. It was like I knew him. But he hasn’t spoken about my mother since. When I ask him about her, he tells me, Things will reveal themselves in time, and then falls silent. He’s never spoken of my dad, though. Not until tonight. I look out the rear window of the Cadillac. Bob and company are still following in the station wagon.

So what about my dad? And my mom? You know where they both are? Are they safe?

I told you. Things will—

I know. Things will reveal themselves in time. Now, don’t get all quiet. Talk to me, Fagin. How do you plan on getting away? They’ll surround us when the tow truck stops. We’re dead.

Fagin reaches into the glove compartment. For a gun? No. A fresh toothpick. Wrapped in plastic. He unwraps it and puts it in his mouth, spits the old one out the window. Not only is he a kidnapper and a thief, he’s a litterbug, too.

We wouldn’t have to worry about getting away if you could keep your mustache on. I kept pointing at my face, but you didn’t get it.

Sorry. Why am I apologizing to this geezer? We pass a bank. Sign out front flashes one-thirty in the morning.

Forget it. But you’re right. Those guys are gonna be on us as soon as we stop. I’ve got a plan, though.

Good. What?

We drive away before we stop.

Fagin, we’re hooked to the truck, genius.

Yeah, I know. You’ll get out, jump to the truck, then push the button that lowers the hook.

That’s dumb. What if I miss? I’ll be roadkill. No way.

You can do it.

What if I die? Did you kidnap me so I would die?

Can’t you look into the future and see if you make it?

It doesn’t work that way. Just with cards. But not all the time and not perfectly. I don’t even understand it.

Fagin says, That’s why we’re practicing.

I look behind us. Bob is so close I could spit on his car.

Nice move back there, by the way. You were smart to help me in the car. You need me now and you know it, says Fagin.

"No I don’t. I just want to know about my parents. If you even know about them. I can get back to Cincinnati alone."

Right. How? Steal a tricycle?

Funny. I don’t steal, though. Not like you. I look at the box of Yu-Gi-Oh! cards. I used to collect those. Now it’s Texas Hold ’Em in smoky basements.

Stick with me. You’ll find out about your mom and your dad. I promise. Fagin removes the toothpick and points it at me when he promises.

Yeah, right. A promise from a kidnapper. I try to read his mind. Nothing. It’s like hearing static on a cell phone. I can’t tell if he’s bluffing. My talent only works at the card table. I ask him how he talked to me with his mind.

Don’t know exactly. I don’t really have powers anymore. Not like you, anyway. But I think you can read minds under stressful situations. Stress must amplify mind signals. Like guys thinking of ripping my head off or guys thinking about cards and money. That’s all I know. That’s how it worked with me. And certain family members.

So you, like, lost your power? What family?

Bob’s station wagon hits the Cadillac’s rear bumper. Fagin doesn’t answer me.

Fagin says, Now he’s gone and done it. Time for plan B. Man. I love this car, too. It’s a shame.

What’s plan B?

Put your seat belt on. This baby’s got rear-wheel drive.

I don’t know what this means, but I buckle my seat belt. Fagin puts his belt on and turns the key in the ignition. He has a rabbit’s foot on his keychain, too. Fagin pulls the gear selector to R. Reverse.

Hold on.

I grab the seat belt. I look out the window and watch us pass car lots with streamers swaying from wires suspended above the rows of vehicles for sale. No other cars are driving on the road except Bob’s. He’s pulling to our left now. The guys from the poker game are throwing beer cans at the Cadillac and shouting. I stick my tongue out at them to hide my terror. As I wonder what the tow truck driver thinks, we stop