Remembering he gambles, I tell him I have no interest in immoral games. He laughs and sits up. “You don’t bluff well enough for poker. Faro it is,” he says, unfolding a felt cloth, spades lacquered smooth from Ace to King. Diamond rings flash on his fingers as he shuffles and I can barely follow the cards lift and cross. Do this eight times, Fitzgerald winks, and the pack returns to its original order. (Whorticulture)
