Dead-man's Hand

“How about we have ourselves a little wager, Mr. Marshall? A side-bet if you will.” Mr Kirkland spread out his palms, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. Above, a light swung back and forth, flickering. “If you win, you're free to go. No harm done and we'll forget this whole thing.”
The room was filled with the sound of clinking chips and ice settling in glasses. Smoke wafted from one player to the next in a haze. Kirkland sat across from him, his cards face down.
“And if I don't?” Marshall asked.
“If you don't,” Kirkland snuffed the stub of his smoke out on the edge of the table, “well things won't change much for you, now will they?”
Marshall could feel the barrel of a .44 pressing into his side. The man beside him was drunk, but his hand was steady enough. There was nothing worse than being under the gun.
Kirkland poured himself a shot, eying Marshall. “You see, you're good. You're real good. You didn't swindle my casino, I can see that.” He swirled the glass in his hand, watching the liquid slosh up against the sides. “But when a man, any man for that matter, sits across from me at my table to challenge me to my game, well the man's got to be one of two things.” Kirkland slammed the glass on the table, scattering his chips. “Either real damn good or real damn stupid.” Throwing his head back, he sent the whiskey home. “And I intend to find out which of those you are, Mr. Marshall.”
Marshall feigned interest in the new wager. Ways of getting away from the man to his left were all that was on his mind. A game of Hold'em couldn't last forever. He looked at his own stack, and then at Kirkland's. The way things were going, it would be over sooner than he wanted.
“Now,” Kirkland said, “what you're going to do is slide the rest of your chips into the center there and tell me, ever so kindly, what two cards I got right here.”
Marshall closed his eyes. No action pre-flop. Ace and eight of clubs in the hole. Flop gives him two pair and the queen of hearts. He bets hard, folds round, eyes are on the button. Kirkland raises big. Blinds fold and he calls. Turns a blank. Check, check. River comes and it's the one-eyed Jack. Heavy action. He rubbed his temples. The man played recklessly. Most rich folk did after all. Each time he had a hand against Kirkland, he always seemed to come out on the losing end. The chips he had, he had taken from the other men in the game.
Kirkland rapped the table; Marshall could feel his eyes on him. The gun in his side had grown lazy. The man was barely conscious, let alone paying attention. Marshall's only hope rested with the lackey being too tired to react in time. He would pull his own gun. Shoot his way out.
“Now I am a patient man,” Kirkland said, “but I am also a busy man. My hand, if you would.”
Something clicked in his head. He remembered the first thing he was taught about poker. If you don't know who the sharks are then you're nothing but another fish. He was being played. It had been that way the entire time. The other players were just there to keep the game going between the two of them. Kirkland wanted to embarrass him.
Marshall downed his drink and slammed the glass on the table.
“When it comes down to it, you have one of two things.” he said. “You either got a busted nut, or fished out a gut-shot to Broadway. That's how I see it.”
“A gut-shot to Broadway?” Kirkland asked. “Now you are clever Mr. Marshall, mighty clever. So tell me now, what does your gut think?” He leaned forward, folding his hands in front of his cards. “Does it think I can beat a dead-man's hand?”
Marshall made his move and drew his revolver.
The sound of chips clattering to the floor was muffled by the sound of the .44 going off. He stood, his own gun still smoking, as Kirkland lit a new cigarette. Three of the men had drawn, waiting for the cards to hit the table as the drunk slumped, a fresh hole in his temple. Marshall thumbed the hammer and threw his cards into the pot. “It thinks the game's been rigged from the start.”