texts: Bits and pieces.
labels: She's the best poker player you ever saw.  My father used to go to these Saturday night games and lose his shirt.  Finally, my mother gave him an ultimatum, either she gets a regular seat at the table or she locks him in every Saturday night. He squawked and so did his buddies but after a while they gave in and from the first night she sat down, she never lost.  She could read those cocky bastards like they were playing open hands.  And he bluffs?  He had sixteen levels of bullshit.  Her eyes, the tone of her voice, her bets, her jokes, the way she sipped her coffee, she was a master.  She won more money on shit hands than anyone in the history of the game. Every Saturday night, my father would lose two, three hundred bucks and she'd win it all back and then some. And I'd stand there, glued to her shoulder, from the time I was five years old, watching every hand, every move, studying how she did it.  That's why I'm such a good officer, I can look at a man's face and tell you exactly what he's holding, and if it's a shit hand, I know just what cards to deal him.