FSE

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CHAPTER 4

BET

With one final grunt of effort, Frank unceremoniously dropped the table onto its place in the middle of the kitchen. "Son of a bitch," he said into the empty room. Three now. That meant that this was a reoccurring dream. This one. Not the one where he got to win a martial arts tournament. Not the one where he was on tour as a musician. This one was the one that kept happening. Excellent. Leaning one the table, he turned to check on Kane. "And how are you doing, buddy?" Use me! Take me from this prison! Return me to the great mother! "That's great champ."

Already tired of Kane's antics, Frank stood up and went to leave his room. Frank grabbed the handle and attempted to turn it. No dice. He took a step back and looked the door up and down. Well, it was just a dream, after all. There was no harm in breaking it down. Taking a heavy step forward, Frank tackled the door with his shoulder. Since it didn't hurt, he was able to try for as many times as he wanted before he accepted that there was no chance of the door budging. This ephemeral vision of a door was sturdier than its real-world equivalent.

This was bullshit. It he was going to be trapped in the same dream night after night, at least give him more than a few square feet to roam around in. It had been almost two weeks since he moved into The Homestead, so he felt that he should have enough of it memorized for it to appear in his dreams. Either grumbling or thinking about grumbling, Frank moved back to the kitchen to see if he could get something to eat. Eating in a dream probably wasn't going to stop his stomach from grumbling, but it was nice to pretend that he could simply eat whatever he wanted without first figuring out if he had the budget for it.

Taking some yogurt out of the fridge, he set his weight against a cupboard and sat on the floor. "So," he said to Kane, "is this it?" Buzzing. "I mean, can't you do anything else? I've seen everything there is to see in this room, I think. Give me something else now. Give me a trip to the moon. Hell, give me a trip to the common room. At least that's something." Use me! Frank rested the back of his head against the counter. "Sure. Alright. How?" The messages continued, unchanged. Frank threw the spoon he had been using at the wall. "Help me! Give me some hint, goddamnit!" With no new information forthcoming, Frank could feel a fury building inside him. He walked right up to the spot Kane was trying to burrow through and punched it. Failing to provoke the strange creature or even make a mark on the wall, Frank started pacing the length of his room.

If Kane didn't want him to do anything, then he should simply let Frank be about his nighttime business. What was the point of bringing him to this room if all Kane was going to do was make him stand around for a while before sending him back on his merry way? It was better than dreaming about work, he figured. After three days, the monotony of stocking warehouses was already getting to Frank. At least he had a source of income, now. He was getting down to the wire, monetarily speaking, and his first paycheck couldn't come soon enough. He had stuck to eating only whatever had been on sale at the grocery store on the corner, which didn't even have as big a selection as the Target.

Thinking of the meals he would be able to make for himself once he had enough cash, he turned back to the fridge. Keeping an image of a hot lentil soup in his mind, he opened the fridge door and scanned the insides. Nothing but what had been there in real life. He tried the oven, the cabinets, and even under the sink. "You know, you could at least try to meet me in the middle on some things," he said to Kane. The fixed tone of Kane's buzz was the only offering. "Yeah, fuck you, too," said Frank.

Once he was dressed for work, Frank headed down to the common, hoping to talk with Sara. They took the bus together most days now, and she still seemed to be the safest person to converse with in The Homestead. She herself was pleasant enough, although she was something of a gossip, which led to him knowing quite a bit more about the personal lives of people he had never met than he would have liked. More important than the quality of the many stories she liked to share was the fact that she had no husband to come after him if he said the wrong thing. Neither did she make lewd remarks to try and get a rise out of him. Sara was really the only one in The Homestead that he was comfortable speaking to, besides Mary, but Mary had weird hours now that she was working again that made regular conversations an impossibility.

Frank did find Sara, but, unfortunately, she was already deep in conversation with Adrianne. Not wanting any trouble, Frank walked quietly to the front door, wanting to exit unnoticed. The plan was foiled when Sara delivered a cheery "Morning, Franky!" right when he was reaching for the door handle. Not wanting to be rude to the only person in the apartment who spoke to him on a regular basis, Frank worked up the energy for a convincing smile before turning to return the greeting. "Hey!" he said, "Sorry, I didn't want to interrupt you two. You seemed like you were in the middle of something."

Sara patted the seat next to her. "Nothing important. Come on, sit with us a minute. I just checked the bus app, and it says there's going to be a ten-minute delay." Struggling to keep his smile from turning to a grimace, Frank tried to turn down Sara's offer. "Don't be ridiculous," Adrianne interjected mid-refusal. "It's starting to get cold out. I'll tell you now, you won't get any breaks if you get sick. Those men in the warehouses work people like slaves. Besides," she added with a smile, "isn't it more fun to hang out with two cute girls?" She was doing it again. In front of Sara, too. Frank prayed that Mort wasn't the type to be interested in gossip, because he would certainly hear about this if he was.

With the feeling of a man walking to the gallows, Frank moved to the seat Sara indicated and took it, still trying to remain as far away from either of the women as could be polite. At least Adrianne was on a different couch. "'Girls', huh?" asked Sara with a quirked eyebrow. "I'm not sure you could call two women in their thirties 'girls.'" Adrianne placed a hand over her heart and shook her head. "I'm going to be a girl until the day I die. A maiden, even. Age has nothing to do with it." The two women shared a chuckle.

Adrianne turned from Sara to look at Frank. "What about you, hm? You still think I look young enough, right?" Frank coughed and turned his head away, blushing. "Enough for what?" he asked. Adrianne cocked her head to the side. The light caught in her green eyes made them sparkle like emeralds. "I wonder," she said. "Sara, what do you think?" Sara examined Frank with exaggerated seriousness, placing a claw on her chin and squinting her eyes. "It's a mystery," Sara said, still facing Frank.

Having flashbacks to the Q&A session with Ana and Mary, Frank stood up in a panic. "Hey, sorry, I forgot to grab something for lunch. I'm going to run out real quick," said so quickly that the words ran into each other. Sara ran a hand through the fur on her upper arm, what Frank had come to know as a nervous habit, and turned to look at Adrianne. "I'm sorry," said the fox. "Did we offend somehow?" Frank shook his head vigorously as he made for the door. "No, why would you think that?" He was still moving away from them. It was obvious that something was upsetting him, and he knew he was being rude, but he got the feeling that telling Adrianne that her husband was threatening him to stay away from her would be the best way to give Mort the impression that he had not been doing that. Feeling Adrianne's eyes on his back, he rushed out the door.

In the break room at the warehouse, Frank sat at a plastic table staring at the pre-made egg sandwich on a plain bagel that he had bought for his lunch. He had originally intended to skip lunch today but felt like he had to buy something after running out on Sara and Adrianne. He felt that, if he had to make excuses, he should at least make those excuses the truth.

He was glad that he had decided this, now that lunch had rolled around. He didn't have his forklift certification yet, so he was doing all the lifting by hand. Frank had never been the muscular type, so he was really struggling to adapt to physical labor. That worked up an appetite at the best of times, and Frank felt that he was far from those. He just wished he had thought to take a ketchup packet from the convenience store he had purchased the sandwich from. Or salt. Anything to add some flavor.

Due to carelessness on the part of his boss, Frank had had his break delayed twice, and now was taking it not even a full hour before the end of his shift. This seemed to be a common problem, as he heard complaints similar to those in his head being voice by two nearby coyotes, who were sitting across the room at a table identical to his. "He does it on purpose," said one, the smaller of the two. "There's no way anyone who wasn't brain-dead could make this same mistake three times in one week. What the hell did I ever do to him?" The other, more rotund, canine gave a deep-bellied laugh. "So, you assuming he can't be that stupid? You seen him talk. I swear, he comes in baked most days. Smells like it, least."

The first coyote scrunched his face up in disgust. "Shit, I never smoke. Never drink. Can count to ten without using my fingers. Make me the god damned boss, maybe shit starts getting done around here." He turned to stare sullenly at a lukewarm bottle of coke. He grabbed it from the table and took a quick swig, then seemed to remember something. "Hey, it's a Saturday, ain't it?" he says, a note of enthusiasm entering his voice. The heavyset canine's ears perk up. "Hey, yeah. That means I can finally get my damned money back from that punk Ozzy."

The small coyote puts a palm to his face. "Aw, you can't be serious," he said, sounding exasperated. "You never win against Ozzy. 'Sides, who's going to be the fourth man? No one around here's stupid enough to play him other than you or me." The bigger man's face slowly morphed into one of great concentration, seriously considering the problem. Scratching at his cheek, he swept his eyes lazily about the room. He seemed to be looking for nothing in particular, just staring at random points on the wall as if the solution had been scribbled on to the bare concrete walls of the break room. Eventually, his gaze settled on Frank.

The big man got up ponderously and walked over to where Frank was seated. "Hey, I'm Big. That's Vic," he said, jamming a thick thumb in the direction of the man he had just been talking with. "You play cards?" Frank was somewhat taken aback. This was the first time that a coworker had come up to talk to him about something that wasn't work related. Not just here in Wichita, either. Briefly, Frank wondered if that was because he was hard to approach or if he had just never made the effort. Maybe this casualness was a southern thing.

After some introductions, Frank got a basic story, told by Big, with occasional corrections offered by Vic, about how Big had lost over a hundred dollars over the past month by playing poker with a man by the name of Ozzy. Sure that his luck was turning around, Big had invited Vic, who had also lost a fair amount to Ozzy, and a third man, who had unexpectedly caught sick. Ozzy only played poker with a party of four or more, claiming that it wasn't fun with any less. The game being postponed was unacceptable. Big's luck had turned around, he was positive, but who knew how long it would stay that way? He needed a big win today. To "build momentum", he said. Once he broke Ozzy's winning streak, he claimed, then it would be him, Big, who would be raking in the cash. Frank merely shook his head. "I'd like to, really, but I've got no cash. Besides, I suck at poker."

"You can't be as bad as Big, here," said Vic, poking his head around his appropriately named colleague. Big gave a snort of dismissal before Vic continued. "You won't be losing big cash, either. A round goes from, like, two to five bucks. Even Big's never lost more than $40 in one night, and he's terrible. Really, even if you won, you'd have enough for another drink or two when you went out. It's all just fun."

Frank considered that for a moment. A drink or two would be nice. Even being cheaper down here than it had been in Delaware, alcohol was too low a priority for him to justify the expense. He was being modest when he had said he'd sucked at poker, too. He had played around with a few of his dad's friends occasionally, though without any money on the line, and he'd won often enough. And those guys had been playing for decades. Maybe, if these two weren't expecting it, he could take a few dollars off their hands.

Figuring that lowering their expectations for him was the best plan, Frank hemmed and hawed for a moment before agreeing to join in. Big gave him a smile and a nod, officially welcoming him to the Wichita City Poker Club. "It's a club?" asked Frank. Vic tilted his hand back and forth in a "kind of" gesture. "Don't worry about it," said Big. The large coyote dug his phone out of his pocket to check the time. "Finish your thing," gesturing to the bagel, "break ends in five. Oh, and give me your number; I'll text you the where and when."

"Where" turned out to be a dingy Mexican-style bar about a block away from the warehouse. "When" was less than twenty minutes after the end of Frank's shift. Vic was already at the bar when he got there, still dressed in his work clothes, waving at Frank to take a seat at a beat-up looking table towards the back. The table was covered with a stained green tablecloth, a poor man's imitation of a poker table. Standing next to the table was a hand-painted mural depicting a lizard wearing a suit and sombrero, carrying a tray of fresh baked pastries to a waiting group of diners. In contrast to the cheap look of the rest of the bar, the colors here was vibrant and fresh, seeming as if it had been painted only last night.

Frank tried to strike up a conversation with Vic, with limited success, sticking mainly to work in the warehouse and why it was awful. Any attempts by Frank to steer the exchange to anything more personal, even basic stuff like movies and music, were met with clipped non-answers. Luckily for the both of them, Big walked in with a thin yet well-muscled hyena, dressed in a jacket of a sickly green hue and a black tank top. Big introduced the man as the final member of their party.

Before his introduction was through, Ozzy had already taken the seat next to Vic and across from Frank. "Before we start," Ozzy said in a voice that managed to be both melodious and scratchy, "how about we get some drinks?" Big raised a meaty paw to grab the attention of the only serving girl, a wispy spaniel in her middle years, fur and dress fraying at the edges. Vic passed the drink menu to Frank, who quickly scanned it to find the cheapest option available. When no one spoke up to order, he realized with a bit of panic that they were letting the new guy go first. Staring blankly into the server's eyes for a moment, he felt contents of the menu he had just read slip from his mind and said the name of the first drink that popped into his head. "I'll have a mojito, please."

Frank felt like kicking himself. He had already seen that the cheapest item on the menu was a corona, so why did he say that? "I didn't know you spoke Spanish," said Big. And now he was forced to deal with comedians. Great. It's no problem, Frank thought, I just need to win the price of my drink off these three. Easy. The mojito was only a dollar more, anyway. This wasn't the type of bar people came to when they were flush with cash.

Orders placed, Ozzy made no more delays in bringing a pack of cards out of the sleeve of his thin vinyl jacket. "So," he said, shuffling the deck as he spoke, "Frank, was it? You play often?" He placed the deck on the table and motioned to Vic, who cut it before handing the deck to Big to deal out. "I used to, but it's been a long while," Frank said, truthfully. He hoped he hadn't gotten too rusty in the three years since he moved out of his parent's place. Ozzy nodded, showing his teeth in a smile fit for a discount car ad. "Nice. I don't do to well with virgins. Always feel like I'm being too rough with them."

"You're too rough with us, dickhead," said Vic as Big finished dealing out the cards. Vic slid his cards over to his chest as peeked down at them, all the other players quickly following suit. Frank had a decent hand already, featuring three sixes. From a small cough that Big failed to suppress, Frank guessed that at least he had been dealt a worthless hand. Switching his attention to Vic, Frank could see some emotion hidden in the coyote's eyes but fell short of being able to make out which emotion it was. Ozzy was a complete mystery. His car salesman smile never left his face, but it never touched his eyes, either. The other two were easy marks, Frank could tell already, but the hyena would pose more of a challenge.

Big tossed a single into the center of the table. "Call," Ozzy said without hesitation. Frank and Vic called quickly, too, but Big hesitated a moment before throwing his second bill in. "Raise," said Ozzy. With a click of his tongue, Vic folded, throwing his cards on the table. Well enough he did, because Frank saw no way he could have done anything with that hand. Frank made a show of biting his bottom lip and considering his cards for a moment prior to calling. There was thirteen dollars in the pot when everyone showed their cards. Big had a pair of threes. Ozzy had nothing.

Spreading his hands magnanimously, Ozzy gave a quick snicker. "Beginner's luck," he said. "I told you," Frank said with his own toothy smile, "I'm not a beginner. Just a bit rusty." Vic shook his head. "Christ, it's like there's two of him, now. Your turn to deal, horns." It took a second for Frank to realize that he was the only one at the table Vic could have been talking about. Frank doled out the cards and mentally prepared for the next round.

Noticing how Big's eyebrows shot up when he saw his hand, Frank decided that he would be folding this time around. In a few more turns, Frank had also learned the difference in the way Vic looked at his cards depending on whether he had a good hand or not. Ozzy, with his permanent smile, remained an enigma, but with two out of three figured out, Frank's winnings multiplied in a flash. In less than half an hour, he made almost $40. Much better rates than his actual job.

When it was Frank's turn to deal again, he felt like his smile would grow so wide his face would split in half. Vic and Big might as well have been open books to him now, and Ozzy, while certainly enigmatic, had so far shown that he was a mediocre at best poker player. "I'm glad you invited me. I'd forgotten how much fun this game was," Frank said, feeling invincible. Ozzy gave a murmur of agreement, still appearing as happy as could be despite being a few bucks in the hole. He was in the hole, though he had contributed less to Frank's winnings than either of the other two.

"I'm glad Big invited you, too. Always nice to make new friends." Frank though he detected a hint of annoyance in Ozzy's voice. "You know," Frank began, now radiating an aura of smugness so intense that it would have given the Elephant's Foot cancer, "we could stop if you guys want. It's just that beginner's luck is on my side tonight. I wouldn't want that to be the reason I dried you all out tonight. I can do that some other night." Big gave a good-natured laugh, happier to play than he was to win, and Vic gave a snort as he snatched up his cards. Ozzy tutted before doing the same. "You're not a beginner though, Frank." He leaned forward on his elbows, smile somehow growing even wider. "You're just rusty."

Frank returned the smile, tossing a dollar into the middle of the table. "Whatever you say, man." Frank switched out one of his cards and was rewarded with the material to make two pairs of two. He was already celebrating his next win in his head.

Vic called, a heated scowl now showing his determination to take Frank down a peg. Ozzy considered the two dollars in the middle, peeked down at his cards, then threw a bill onto the table. The bill was a five. "Raise," he said. Vic rocked back in his seat as if someone had hit him, giving a low groan in the process. Big gave a chortle, mumbling about how the game was finally getting interesting, then threw in a five of his own.

Frank stared at Ozzy's face for a minute, trying to gauge the hyena's confidence. He had a decent idea what was going on here. Ozzy knew the cards had been on Frank's side tonight. Getting frustrated with the cards he had been handed, Ozzy was trying to make his own luck with this bluff he was pulling. It was likely the best move he could have made, if the cards in Ozzy's hands now were as poor as they had been the last two rounds. If one looked at it that way, this stunt was almost as good as admitting that that was the case. With a smirk, Frank called.

Vic had to deliberate for a moment, but his pride wouldn't allow him to back down from a direct challenge. Frank kept his focus on the hyena, convinced that he would back down after having his bluff called. He did no such thing, opting instead to take his jacket off, placing it on the back of his chair, and roll his shoulders casually. Frank's smile wavered for a second as he considered his hand. Two pairs was towards the bottom of poker hands, so, if Ozzy did have something, there was a good chance it would beat out Frank. Not that it mattered now. It was too late to go back.

When the cards came up, Frank saw that Ozzy would be taking the pot with a three of a kind, just barely beating out his own hand. "Too bad," Ozzy said consolingly. "You were on a real hot streak, there." Ozzy stretched out his back, then coolly swiped the money. "It's getting a bit late. You in the mood to keep going?" Frank did his best to hide his indignation. So far, he had only lost one round. Was this ass trying to tell him he should give up after that? With a grimace, Frank passed the deck to Vic. "Let's keep at it. I'm having fun," Frank said. "Me, too," said Ozzy, taking a sip of his beer.

Vic deftly tossed out the cards, then set the deck down to look at his hand. Big and Frank did the same. Ozzy was still working on his beer. Vic tossed a dollar on the table and turned to Ozzy. "Well?" he said.

"Call," said Ozzy, resting one arm on the back of his chair. Frank raised an eyebrow. "You're not going to look at your cards?" he asked. Ozzy waved his dismissal as he returned his drink to the table. "I'm sure they're fine." Frank turned to Big, who shrugged as he put his own dollar into the pot. What was the point of avoiding your cards when you had as good a poker face as Ozzy had? Swapping out two cards, Frank had to suppress a smile that would have caused all the other players to fold on the spot. Now he was the one with three of a kind.

Frank made a show of considering his next move for a moment, then raised to three dollars. Ozzy, when his turn came, turned to rifle through his jacket. The tearing sounds of velcro straps being opened was the only sound in the nearly empty bar as the other players waited patiently for Ozzy to find whatever he was searching for. "Oh, here we are," Ozzy murmured to himself, tossing the item he had retrieved into the pot. A wrinkled ten-dollar bill. "Raise," he said.

"Not happening," said Big, throwing his cards, face-up, onto the table. He had three of a kind, too. Frank shot big a sideways glance, not sure why the man had done that. Ozzy still hadn't looked at his cards. This was an obvious bluff, hoping to capitalize on Frank being shaken after his first loss of the night. Only, he wasn't shaken at all. With all the confidence in the world, he took $10 dollars out of his winnings, staring Ozzy in the eye the whole while, and called. For the first time that night, for an instant, Ozzy's smile touched his eyes.

Frank could feel the corner of his mouth twitch. What was that? There was no way Ozzy had a chance to pick up his cards and look at them, not without the others noticing. He had no reason to believe he had anything at all, let alone something that could beat Frank's three of a kind. And yet...

"You sure you don't want to check your cards?" asked Vic. Ozzy turned his hands up, then returned to his beer. A sneer appeared on Vic's snout. "Alright, asshole. I see what you're doing," Vic crooned menacingly. "How about this, then? I raise." Vic threw an extra five dollars into the pot, locking stares with Ozzy as he did so.

Calmly, Ozzy reached behind him once more and produced a second ten from his jacket. "Raise," he said. Frank felt a trickle of sweat form on his brow. There was no way Ozzy could have looked at his cards. It just wasn't possible. But there was no way that this man would put $20 on nothing more than a prayer, right? That was, after all, more than triple what he had lost so far this night. Why would such a conservative player suddenly go so far? And what had been that flash Frank had seen in his eyes? Frank licked his lips, which had abruptly gone dry, and tried to work out if he was willing to risk half of what he'd won to find out.

Frank placed his cards on the table. "I fold," he said. Vic's head whipped to stare at Frank, then turned to Big, then Ozzy. He kept switching from one of the players, to his cards, and then to another player. Frank felt that the slimmer coyote had stared bouncing his leg beneath the table. With one final glance at Big's three of a kind, he threw his cards on the table with a "Goddamnit!" Ozzy finished off his beer before reaching in to take what he won.

"Hey, wait," said Frank. "Show us your cards." Ozzy chuckled. "Does that matter now? Y'all folded, right?" Frank folded his arms, not wanting to be meek in the face of defeat. "You win. I'm just curious." Throwing his hands up in mock surrender, the hyena began turning over the cards, one by one. Garbage.

Vic pounded a fist on the table. "Son of a bitch!" Frank shared the sentiment. He couldn't believe he had lost to nothing! This Ozzy guy was showing himself to be as crafty as the used car salesman Frank had initially been reminded of. Twice in a row, this man had gotten the better of him. He wouldn't be getting a third. "The last bus'll be soon. You guys up for one more round?" Ozzy asked, relaxed smile still plastered on his face. He was looking right at Frank as he said it. Did this dick think he had Frank figured out just because he had won two rounds?

Feeling his face grow hot, he shot back an answer. "Damn right!" he nearly shouted. Ozzy gave a short bark of laughter and began dealing. That was fine. Ozzy could laugh all he wanted right now. Frank was sure he wouldn't find it very funny when he lost this next game. It was a herculean effort not to laugh right back at the hyena when Frank saw his cards. All diamonds, without even trading anything. When his turn came, Frank decided to pull the same stunt Ozzy had. "Raise," he said, tossing ten dollars into the pot. Ozzy cocked an eyebrow, obviously amused, but said nothing, smile remaining steadfast on his face.

Vic called, though not so quickly this time, and alternated between staring at Ozzy and Frank as if he suspected they had guns hidden on them. Ozzy took twenty of the dollars he had just won and laid them in front of him. Big smiled and shook his head, once again throwing his cards down. "This gonna be funny, I'm thinking," he said as he readjusted his seat to better enjoy the show.

Wondering how Big might have meant that, Frank stared at the money sitting scant inches from his hand. He could just reach out and take it. He would. "Call," Frank said. He wasn't going to fall for the same trick twice in a row. Whatever Ozzy had, if he even had anything, wasn't going to beat his flush. He may be cool outside, fanning himself with his cards seemingly without a care, but Frank was sure that the thin man sitting across from him must have been sweating bullets on the inside.

Vic called, too, and then all eyes were on Ozzy. "I guess we're doing this, then," he sighed. Frank laid his cards on the table. He felt a shiver of satisfaction as Vic failed to bite back an expletive, slamming his cards down with a slap. All he had was a pair of twos. Ozzy also put his cards on the table, although much less violently, to reveal that he also had two twos. And three threes.

Sagging in his chair, Frank gave a weak "Fuck" as Ozzy stood up. As the hyena began scooping up his cash, he regarded Frank. "Let me give you a tip. From an old pro," he said, slipping his gross-looking jacket back on. Frank felt his blood boil. It wasn't enough to take his money; apparently the hyena also felt he had to insult him. "You're only a winner until the instant you lose," Ozzy continued. "You should have taken what you had and ran with it." Stopping to pat Frank on the shoulder in a consolatory manner, Ozzy headed for the exit. "Let's do this again next week," was the last thing he said as the door shut behind him.

"Next week," Vic said in a mocking tone as he, too, got up and made for the exit. Big followed with a yawn. "Don't take it personal, horns. Everyone who plays with Ozzy gets fleeced. Erm, no offence." Frank sat there for a minute after the others had left staring at the painted lizard with the sombrero. He counted the money he had left, which was easy considering how much Ozzy had taken. With the price of the mojito subtracted from his winnings, he had made a startling $1.89. Not enough to completely cover the price of the bus. Sighing, he got up and ran to the bus stop.

The whole ride back to The Homestead, Frank replayed the events of the games he lost in his mind, trying retroactively to pick apart Ozzy's poker face and find how he might have won those last three rounds. He kept coming back to the brief flash in the eyes, wondering if that was a tell and, if so, what he could have learned from it. He was still thinking on it when he walked through the front doors of the apartment to find Adrianne sitting on the couch and watching T.V.

She sat there in the same spot she had been in the morning (did she have a job?), cuddling with Mort, seated next to her. She gave him a wave as he came in, and Frank had to prevent himself from cringing. He hoped Mort didn't take that some way. Mary, sitting on the ugly plaid couch directly in front of the T.V., nodded to him upon noticing his entrance. "Hey," Mary said, "How was your day?" Frank gave her a clipped response before stalking off towards the stairs. "What's up, Frank?" asked Adrianne. "Are you still mad about this morning?" Mort turned to face Frank and narrowed his eyes. "What happened this morning?"

For Christ's sake, thought Frank turning on a hoof to answer. "Nothing!" he said quickly. "Nothing happened this morning. I'm mad about...something from work." That was technically true, but he'd rather not admit he had been out gambling when everyone knew he couldn't afford it, even if he had come out ahead, barely. "What happened?" said Adrianne, taking on a motherly tone. "You know you can talk to me, right?" Right in front of her husband? Mort had gone back to watching the T.V., but Frank still stared at him nervously ahead of answering.

"It really isn't anything. I met this guy at work, and he treated me like a real dick. Not someone I'd like to run into again soon, if I can help it." Bored with what was on, Mary instead looked to local drama for entertainment. Sliding over nearer to Frank without getting up from the couch, she craned her neck over the back of her seat to ask for more details. Frank fought against a grimace, trying to get through the rest of the day with at least a bit of his dignity left over. "Why do you want to know?" She shrugged in response. "You're a fun--" She caught herself by pretending to stretch out a kink in her neck. "An entertaining man, Hale. And I'm sure whatever happened to you was equally...entertaining." Mort was still facing the screen, but Frank could now see that he was sneaking glances in his direction and trying to hide a smirk behind his hand. Frank lost the fight with the grimace.

"I went out with some guys after work. We played a few rounds of cards. One guy was playing unfair, but I didn't realize until I had already lost some money. Very entertaining." That wasn't true, exactly, but Frank felt like it was. "That's terrible," said Ozzy. "What'd this guy look like?" Why did they care? Frank felt a torrent of anger threatening to wash away the little calm he had left. "This guy," he said, already feeling his collar begin to rise, "This god damned--" Frank stopped with a strangled noise and turned to face source of the scratchy voice.

"Hey neighbor," said Ozzy, poking his head up from where he had been lying on the green couch that faced away from the entrance. He had been totally hidden from Frank's view as he entered. "If you find this guy who, uh, 'cheated' you, you let me know. Room 203, right next door to you." Mary started laughing hysterically at the emphasis on "cheated". "Sorry," said between fits of laughter, "but that's a tip me and Ana should've gave you. Don't bet against Ozzy." Mort was laughing too, trying to hide it behind his hand. "It's like an initiation. Everyone here's lost to Ozzy at least once. Although, I think three times in one night might be a record!" Mort pressed his hand to his mouth harder to suppress a snicker.

Frank stared up at the ceiling, exasperated. Ozzy had already told everyone, and here he was, already exposed as being sore about it. He could at least have waited until tomorrow to tell the whole apartment. He lowered his head in time to catch Adrianne punching Mort in the arm. "Don't be mean," she said. "It's nothing to feel bad about, honey," Adrianne stated as she shifted in her seat to look at Frank, leaving Mort to rub at his bicep and grumble. "Like Mary said, it's happened to everyone here at least once. Ozzy's magic with cards; there's nothing to be done about that. Just don't try him again if you want to hang on to your money, okay?"

Frank nodded wearily. Satisfied that he understood, Adrianne resumed her cuddling session with Mort. Tromping up the stairs, Frank headed to his room with the intent to sleep. It was not yet nine o'clock, but he felt that he'd have no trouble passing out. On his way to his room, he passed apartment 203. Living with that dick, huh? Whatever. Weird dreams, shit job, a neighbor thinking he was hitting on their wife. He was quickly becoming a collector of sorrows, like some people collected baseball cards. How would the collection grow tomorrow?