Table of Contents:

Excerpt:

     The urgent thing was to settle the track dust from his mind. So Castle Frazer set his beer on the bar, hiked his pants, breathed in the day he’d had at Churchill—and breathed it out. Nothing for the record books; still, he’d read the track, the weather, the jockeys. He’d found the news: Who was held back, let out. To the tune of … but money wasn’t the issue. Not entirely. Being in tune was. Being right. The point was, horses were magic. Horses were religious and beautiful—if you understood, if you had conversations with the right trainers, jockeys. And tonight! All the right seats were reserved for the poker game. Castle felt like he owned the world. Well, close. Even if, unmarried and without heirs, he owned it by himself. 
     Castle gulped his beer, looking around the dark insides of Frog’s Pool Palace & Emporium. Then the boy appeared and Castle heard, “Hi, Mister Frazer.” 
     He looked down, recognized the kid from Cropper. Somebody’s son. One of the Pollards’. Ah yes, Jack Pollard. Cruel and stupid Jack Pollard. “Day off from the farm?” Castle said. He smiled down.
     “You remember me?” the boy asked. “Shaking my hand?”
     “I do,” Castle said.
     “Remember telling me you like the way my eyes fit in my head?”
     “I remember.”
     “When?” 
     Oh, so now the kid was testing Castle. Brighter than his father, obviously. “Well, dates are a bit like water for me. They evaporate so quickly. But a horse-bettor always remembers the name. Because you need the right name at the window. You’re Earl.”
     The kid smiled like he’d drawn to an inside straight. “Rich, sir,” he said.
     “No, I don’t think so.” Castle winked. “I always remember the name. I think it’s Earl.”
     “Rich,” the boy said.
     “You’re not Jack Pollard’s son? You’re not Earl?”
     “Am—except I think of myself, most times, as Rich.”
     “Oh! Right. Got you.”
     “My folks calls me LeEarl.”
     “Making you French, I guess.” Castle grinned. 
     “But I decided to call myself Rich. I liked the name. Rich Stillman.”
     “Because you’re planning to grow up and be—”
     “Rich,” finished the boy.
     “And a Stillman as well, I guess. Whatever a Stillman is.”
     “Right.”
     Castle smiled. Here was a boy better than the poor harsh people who had reared him.
     Rich smiled. Nodded. 
     And there they were. The man and the boy. Two people who, if the background hadn’t been a bar full of gamblers, could have been teacher and student, father and son.
     Castle had a knack for friends, recognizing red-headed Pete from Indiana when he ran into him again at an Ohio track. Kids, though ... Still, he remembered this boy; something about him had stuck, for some reason. Wouldn’t have minded a boy like Rich for his own. He liked ambition. Determination. Dreams. Dreams were things you could always work on. Turn out.
     “Nice tie, Mr. Frazer,” Rich said.
     “Won it in a bet.”
     “Nice suit.”
     “One hundred percent wool. You want it? Think it will fit?”
     “You dresses nice, Mr. Frazer.” 
     “Thank you.”
     Castle stretched, filling his custom suit. “So, day off from the farm?” he asked again. “What’re you doing in a pool hall?” 
     “Sweeping,” Rich said.
     “I see. If I were an observant man, I would have known that. Sweeping.”
     “I sweeps, sir.” 
     “Sweep,” Castle prompted.
     “Afternoons. For Mister Frog.”
     “Enterprising,” Castle said. “I like that.”
     Rich’s eyes stopped, such that you could almost hear his brain behind them. “Enter—?”
     “Enterprising. Means you want something, you go after it,” Castle said.
     “Oh,” Rich said. “True.”
     “So, what’re your goals, young man, besides rich?”
     “Well—”
     “Saving up for something? A bike? A fishing rod? Frog paying you enough money?”
     “Mr. Frazer, sir, I don’t get paid.”
     “Sounds like Frog.”
     “That’s not why I work here. Mr. Frog and I have an arrangement.”
     “I’m sure it’s Frog’s arrangement. You sweep this swamp up for Frog—for free. You sweep; he? …”
     “Mr. Frog lets me sweep.”
     “Oh! I see. And in return, you let him—what? Watch you?”
     “I gotta go, Mr. Frazer. Do my work. Mr. Frog says to keep busy. Good seein’ you, sir.”
     Castle watched Rich walk away, shoulders free-swinging and without wasted motion. Like a racehorse in the winner’s circle. Castle blinked, brushed his hair back with his fingers, held it, then turned to another regular railbird. “Kid there tells me he’s sweeping for Frog, but not getting paid. What do you think?”
     “Frog lets him practice,” said the railbird.
     Castle tugged his hair again, squinting. Something in the picture was missing.
     “Pool,” the railbird explained. “Frog lets the kid practice pool. Whenever it’s slow. Kid’s damned good.”
     Castle nodded.
     “Fact, he’s natural. I think someone’s been working with him. Turned him out,” the railbird said.
     “How old do you think the kid is?” Castle asked. 
     “I overheard him say his mom’s not sure, but she thought he was eleven.”
     “Looks right.”
     “Eleven … twelve.”
     “Could be thirteen and look young.”
     “Could be ten and look old.”
     “Deal working? Frog’s? I mean, for the kid? He play a lot? You say he’s a natural. How good?”
     The railbird smiled. “Hang around,” he said. “You’ll see.”
     Castle had no appointments until poker. He paid for another Millers and moved to an observer chair, thinking he’d begin settling the day’s dust. He reached to pull up the chair, stopped, stood, watched the boy. Just a small ratty broom, but Castle was impressed with the care the boy took—each stroke, his tidiness, his precision, how his sandy hair was neatly trimmed and his jeans and T-shirt were as clean as they were, though a little frayed. Interesting, given the kid’s home. Given the kid’s family.
     Castle watched; Rich swept. Something about the boy’s eyes, Castle thought. Serious. Like ice. Or fire. Or both. Something special. No wasted motion. Castle thought again. Hands as well. The broom—under the observer chairs lining the walls around the twelve pool tables. There seemed destiny in it—crazy word, certainly, for a barsweep. It wasn’t the job, really, nor young Rich’s sweeping. It was more … style. The boy’s sense of himself, of what had knocked him down in his life, and knocked him down again. And of what was possible. He was the kind of young man Castle might teach, might take under his wing, turn out, then … Hell, he’d known the kid for only ten minutes. What was he thinking?

Description:
     Castle Frazer is a 27-year-old gambler and "steering man." Rich Stillman is an 11-year-old poolshark. The two meet in Kentucky in the early 1940s and, under Castle's tutelage, little Rich quickly graduates from pool to poker (and later, money gin games), for which he has an exceptional aptitude. 
     Castle guides Rich, and his team of kid card players, into games with police, priests, moonshiners, high rollers, even the mob. As Rich evolves from a small-time take-off artist to a wizard-like games master, the stakes get bigger and bigger. 
     But there's a price to be paid in the end. 
     Keeps is the story of the turning-out of a genius card player, a rare look into the dangerous world of a high-stakes hustler. And amazingly, it's all true.