It was Wednesday now, Eleven in the morning. The game, like an endlessly circling bird, moved with a slow inexorable pace towards the center pot of money that grew magically with each dealt hand, revolving hands of cards, accompanied with a musical comment of silver upon silver tossed into the center of the table as the chant was heard, so soft as to be a litany calling on ghostly assistance and deliverance.
The Cincinnati Kid
Richard Jessup
1963
1963
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