“Queen bets,” Bennett said. “That’s you, Kenny.” He let that one hang for a few seconds before realizing what he had said. “I mean, you’ve got the queen, Kenny. Your bet.”

Kenny gave him a look that was nothing but cool, and then slid a buck into the pot. “The queen bets one dollar.”

“I’m doing this house over in Canada,” Vargas said. “On St. Joseph Island. You wouldn’t believe what I’m putting in that kitchen. The floor alone, these tiles from Mexico. Problem is, they got these guys at Customs. Big old dumb Canucks sitting on that bridge, they’re basically paying them to be in a bad mood all the time. See me bringing a refrigerator over, they take it personally. Like I’m taking jobs away from Canadians by bringing in an American refrigerator.”

“Duty on durable goods,” Bennett said. “Is that what they call it?”

“That’s what they call it,” Vargas said. “They should call it bend over and grab your ankles.”

“I thought it ain’t so bad anymore. You know, with this NAFTA thing.”

“They don’t worry so much about the small stuff now,” Vargas said. “Up to a hundred dollars, something like that. But the big ticket items, hell, they still stick it to ya.”

“The customer’s gotta pay for this, right?”

“Yeah, I think it’s safe to say that, Bennett. It sure isn’t me.”

“Who are these people?” I said. “Who’s got this kind of money to spend on their kitchens?” I shouldn’t have asked. I should have just shut up and played cards and drank the man’s whiskey. That’s what I should have done.

“There are a lot of people building houses in Canada,” he said. “You’d be surprised. Of course, that’s not where my bread and butter is…”

“Where would that be?” I said.

“Bay Harbor,” he said.

The words went right down my spine. Bay Harbor. He might as well have said Sodom and Gomorrah.