One Cup Chronicles. Tales Within a Tale of the Russian Underworld. Vladimir Ross

to him.

      “Alex, right?”

      “Yes, hello. I came to return my winnings.”

      “I see. Come into the house. We shall discuss matters there.”

      The guest was seated in a plush leather chair. The friendly gentleman puffed a thick cigar, poured a cup of coffee, and stated in a serious tone, “Your behavior does you credit, but does not honor the spirit of a player. You were, as I understand, making a claim to this title?”

      Lyoshka, burning himself on the hot bitter liquid, nodded proudly.

      “Good. In that case I will not accept your money.”

      “Why not? Here is everything, down to the last cent.”

      In the doorway, Sucker appeared in tears.

      “You do not understand, boy,” said the mustachioed man, staring down his long nose at Lyoshka. “It is not about the money, but about the concept of duty. Those men who are not able honor it are called fools, and such a label, to any decent man, is a lasting disgrace. I can only rejoice in the fact that that numbskull,” he nodded to Sucker who stood in the door sobbing pitifully, “had the sense not to play any longer. In short, it is not our money, but yours. It is my only wish that it is spent wisely. I heard that your mother is sick. I don’t think the extra money will hurt.”

      “My mom doesn’t want the money.”

      “I will call her and explain everything.”

      “She’s in the hospital,” explained Alexei.

      “Then I shall write to her immediately, and to the chief physician. He will prepare a list of the necessary medicines.” Contemplating the subject, the man disappeared into his office, dealing his son a heavy slap upside the head as he passed by.

      Shortly after that, Alexei’s mother died, and he was left on his own. His life changed completely. A problem arose – how was he to earn a living? He was forced to leave school and take up odd jobs, but he didn’t always have luck with that. One such day, while attempting to fend off the eternal hunger pangs, Alexei found the list of debtors in his father’s book bag and timidly dialed a number.

      “Who is this?”

      “Big’s son.”

      “A-a-a…,” The line was silent for a while. Don’t rush this Alexei. “Well… what do you want?” The owner of the gravelly voice was clearly nervous.

      “I need to meet with the right people. I want to play. Perform this service, and we’ll settle your accounts.”

      “With no future claims?”

      “Do I sound like I’m bullshitting you?” Remembering the lessons of his father, Alexei turned the tables in his favor.

      “Alright then.”

      And so he took his first step onto the slippery slope.

      Freedom soon gave way to dependency. The next year passed imperceptibly. After becoming accustomed to the drab existence of camp life, Lyoshka accepted the zone as a second home. Over time his desires became realized – the money, the influential friends, and above all else, there was the game. Every conquest spread the name “Lyoshka the Great” further and further to more and more influential ears. Men of reputation and renown specially arranged long-distance visits to see the master and face off against him. Although suffering the loss of their fortunes, they did not truly feel defeat, for the honor of challenging the best was worth more than any material asset.

      Alexei had long since ceased to sit at a table with amateurs. In Moscow, his patience had won him a mansion. His second year put a Mercedes 500 under the roof of his garage, begging to be driven. In a discrete, well-established Austrian bank lies one of his larger prizes, which was the result of a rather serious game with a handful of Swiss grifters that had upset more than one casino. The only thing missing from his lifestyle was family.

      The fame of the wizard traveled all of the way to the remote areas of the Urals. A frail old man, dragging behind him a suitcase that was a little worse for wear, bought a train ticket, and left to meet with the Great, who had recently become available for a few days.

      The best players from all over the commonwealth had come to meet for the games. Foamy champagne surrounded guests under the blast of fireworks and other means of extravagant celebration. In the very midst of this elegant, well dressed crowd, squeezed the wizened old man, asking for an audience with the Great. The authorities were taken aback and made way for the strange man. Alexei threw a momentary glance at the fellow and held his tongue as he passed right by him. A steady voice at his back made a snide comment, causing him to stop in his tracks.

      “Sure, the Great is not as disgusting as his painting, but most people see a king where I see a stable hand.”

      Time seemed to stand still. Everything else in the room seemed to fade as the man looked with a challenge at the Great. The piercing silence only increased the tension in the room, and everyone was waiting for Lyoshka’s reaction, hoping he would defuse the situation with dignity.

      The Great slowly turned around and looked over the old man’s hands, examining his battered jacket with a glance, and finally met the stare of the impolite elder. For the first time in many years, Lyoshka felt uncertain and anxious. He did not recognize the sound of his voice as he spoke.

      “Perhaps you would like play me and put your money where your mouth is, old man.”

      “What are the stakes? The balance of the treasury?” The old man replied quickly.

      “I accept all bets.”

      The old man slid briskly over to the Great with a brazen grin.

      “For all that you have.”

      The crowd buzzed. Someone suggested they simply give the old man a good thrashing for being so stubborn. Others openly questioned his sanity. A voice in the crowd stood out from the others.

      “And what do you bring to the table other than your shoes, grandpa?”

      Alexei, dissatisfied with the situation raised a hand to stop the fidgety old man, but he was too late. He snapped open the locks of his old-fashioned suitcase, lifted the lid, and with a flourish presented a sea of green US dollars. His dramatic display intrigued the crowd and brought forth the desired response.

      “Cards!” Alexei chose.

      Soon the best room of the nearest Hilton was packed full with a buzzing crowd of people. The players stipulated the rules, cards were dealt, and the game began. The match lasted six intense hours. Usually, in serious games, all sorts of banter, friendly or otherwise, can be heard – distractions, obscenities, threats. But this time it was different. For six whole hours, neither player uttered a sound.

      Finally it came down to the last hand. The old man raised the cards from the table and waited for the word from the Great. Alexei did not rush; he had a complete set of no trump in hand. He slowly reached his hand into the pocket of his jacket, and produced a bright talisman – two dice, cracked and split by time. Calmly glancing from the cards to the dice to the old man, the Great spread his hand on the table and declared, “Full, no trump.”

      The old man, without showing his hand, chuckled.

      “You lose.”

      His cards remained facedown, yet some diabolical force made everyone believe his words. The old man, scratching the back of his neck, coolly suggested, “I will play to let you recover your losses. The dice. Roll higher than me, and win everything back. Lose, and you can never play again. Shall we?”

      The stringent terms upset the already unruly crowd. Alexei’s closest friend and partner in the game, Jack, cursed loudly and demanded the old man be thrown out a window immediately. But the Great silently took the dice and rolled. The approval of the crowd seemed to shake the walls.

      “Six-five!”

      The