The house was on the east side of Sault Ste. Marie, on the banks of the St. Marys River, right next to the old golf course. It was a big house, one of those contemporary things, all windows and angles. Every light in the house seemed to be on, including a huge chandelier that you could see through the window over the front door.

“Why are we here again?” I said.

“To play poker,” Jackie said. “And to drink his whiskey, eat his food. Like I told you. And smoke his cigars.”

“Whatever you say.”

“There’s another reason, as well. It’s a little thing we do. When we get to it, just play along.”

“Get to what? What are you talking about?”

“You’ll see,” he said.

As we stood at the doorway, an evening breeze came in off the lake. We could have gone to the Locks Park instead, taken a walk along the edge of the water and then gone to the Ojibway Hotel, had steaks in their dining room. Instead we were here. When Jackie pressed the doorbell button, it didn’t just go ding-dong. It went through eight long notes, like church bells ringing the hour.

“Do we get to see the changing of the guards now?” I asked.

“Don’t get started,” Jackie said. “Give the night a chance at least.”

“Okay,” I said. “You’re right.” I liked playing poker, after all. Tonight, maybe it would get me out of my own head for a couple of hours. It might be just what I needed.

We heard a dog barking on the other side of the door. Then it opened. The man who opened it was bald. That was the first thing I noticed. He had that bone hardness that some bald men have, that extra tough bad-ass mystique. It makes you think of a bald biker who sits patiently at the end of the bar, waiting for the right time to stand up and hit you in the face with a pool cue.