26: DEATH BY KIBBEH TOMMY HAD JUST WON A BIG HAND AT POKER. KING HIGH SPADE flush on the turn, beating a guy with trips and another guy with pocket aces. They had chased him all the way, calling and raising, taking him for a mook. His first win yet, and it had been a princely hand. Those Iraqi police boys had been taking him for a ride all week; they were sharp players too, knew their odds, knew how to count cards. He couldn’t quite figure out how they knew so much about Texas hold ’em. Apparently it was globalization. Now, waiting in line for the postgame winners’ dinner treat, he replayed each bet, savoring his fellows’ reactions. The flushed face on the crop bearded Abu-Abu, his beady eyes flashing disbelief. The aces spilling from his hand…priceless. They had been forced to congratulate him of course, to own up at last that he, in fact, was the main man, the alpha dog, the captain of the ship. He didn’t quite know where this new tradition had come up from, of treating everyone to dinner, but they all insisted it was the rule, even his own squad mates.
