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Il Mancio surveyed the scene. Just three remained at the table, now that Wenger had thrown in the towel, satisfied with his usual meagre haul. The dealer shuffled the deck one more time, just to make sure, the noise of the cards finally breaking the silence. Then the Madman spoke.

"No, Mother, not now! You know we like sugar on it, powdered sugar mind, or honey!"

Rednapp twitched at the sudden outburst, and let out a little sigh.

"O'Neill, you crazy Irish sod, your mother ain't 'ere! Ante up, fer crying out loud!"

O'Neill whimpered a little, and threw a poker chip into the mix. Mancio had been warned about these two. It was "The Eyebrow" who tried to give him advice, tried to tell him not to get into it with Redknapp and O'Neill, but it was easy for Capello to pontificate from his lofty position. Anyway, Mancio already knew enough about his adversaries across the baize, he knew their reputations. Mad Martin O'Neill was infamous in the West for his unique ability to be both utterly predictable and yet absolutely certifiable - a dangerous combination in this business. Rednapp, on the other hand, was a different kind of shark altogether - his avuncular appearance, coupled with a comical nervous tic and a ready wit made the Londoner seem quite harmless, but Mancio was not fooled. "Razor" Rednapp was the moniker that some used, the ones who really learned the truth, but he was 'Appy 'Arry to those who took him at face value. There was talk about the poor towns he had plundered all over the area, conning and charming every last dime out of those least able to afford it. How he stayed ahead of the Marshalls and the angry townsfolk who craved vengeance was a mystery, but that was Redknapp - just as slippery as the jellied eels he imported from the East End.

Mancio eyed the stack of chips in front of O'Neill. Not bad, but not low enough for the Italian's liking. What was impossible to ignore was the ludicrous pale blue and claret outfit that O'Neill sported, topped off by a matching stetson with eagle feathers tucked into the brim. Il Mancio shuddered, and fingered his own hand-stitched lapel for reassurance. The town he found himself in was full of colourful characters, but few could compete with these two. Rednapp was more restrained, more conservative in his dress, but Mancio's sharp eye for detail could spot a cheap suit anywhere. There was nothing cheap about the mountain of chips to the side of the man, though - he held the advantage there, of that there was no doubt. Mancini gaze returned to O'Neill, who by now had lit cigars hanging from his ears.

Cards were dealt. It was Rednapp's bet.

"I'll go thirty. You're next, Marti...WHAT THE 'ELL ARE YOU DOING YOU MADMAN! YOU'VE GOT BLOODY CIGARS IN YER EARS!"

O'Neill giggled and threw thirty into the pile of chips. Rednapp twitched prodigiously, and his saggy face grew red at the sight next to him.

Mancio considered his first three cards, trying to block out the circus across from him. A Stevie Ireland, a Patrick Vieira, a crocked Shay Given. There would be a time for bluffing, but this was not it.

"I'm out", said the Italian calmly. It was up to 'Arry now.

Rednapp adjusted his position, and took another look at O'Neill. "Mad as a bag of stoats" he thought, and threw his hand into the table.

"Mr O'Neill wins, next round please gentlemen", said the dealer. O'Neill clawed the chips into his pile whilst cigar ash dropped on his claret shoulders.


ACT TWO - THE BIG PLAY

The sun was beating on the dusty cracked windows. Manco slid the gold pocket watch from his silk waistcoat - it read eleven twenty-five in the morning, the three men had been playing for nearly twelve hours. The advantage had gone back and forth many times, but none had been able to capitalize on the others mistakes, and Mancio was tiring, losing his edge. The other two showed little sign of fatigue. With his hang-dog features, it was impossible to tell if Rednapp was struggling to last the distance, and as for O'Neill, well, no-one could be sure if the guy ever slept at all. It was now or never. Three more hands to play, time to go on the attack. The Italian had had little luck, but surely now he was due an upturn in his favour - the cards had been less than kind. Sure, he had won some big hands, made some good money, but there had never been the sustained run of fortune that Il Mancio had become famous for. As he pondered this, the door to the room opened and a young woman asked the players if they would care for a drink, or maybe something to eat. The open door allowed music from the main part of the saloon to creep into the smokey space, the cheerful trill of a piano mixed with laughter and the clinking of glasses.

"Whiskey, straight", said Redknapp. Clearly there was still life in the old hustler yet.

"Make mine a double", Mancini added. The last thing Mancio wanted was another drink, but he couldn't appear weak, not now.

The waitress looked at O'Neill. "And for you, handsome?"

"I'll take some milk, but bring it in a saucer - oh, and don't forget the celery".

The woman looked puzzled momentarily, but nodded and left the room, closing the door. Silence returned, and with it Mancini regained his focus. What would Sven do? The Italian tossed a chip into the pot, and made his move.

"Gentlemen, perhaps you would like to make the game a little more ... exciting. I propose three more hands, winner takes all. Unless, of course, you prefer to play until, how-you-say in Inglese, midnight? Signor Redknapp?

The Italian eyed the old fox. For a moment, Mancini thought he saw a tiny reaction of fear or anxiety on the drooping face of his adversary, but a hefty tic put pay to that, and Redknapp replied confidently,

"Triffic idea Bobby. Let's do it."

Both men turned to O'Neill. The cigars and stetson were long gone by now, but they had been replaced by a pair of James Milner underpants, pulled tightly over the Irishman's head.

"Aye, I'll have some o' that. Woof!"

So this was it. Mancio had made his choice, and now it was up to him to deliver. Three more hands of poker, twenty-five minutes to High Noon. The dealer shuffled the deck, and shuffled again. He reminded Redknapp and O'Neill to add to the pot, and clarified the rules before going on.

"Gentlemen, let's be clear before we continue - you have all agreed to play only three more hands. This means that you must gamble everything on the table at some point in those three hands - are we all ready?"

The three men nodded. the James Milner underpants slipped forward and rested on the bridge of O'Neill's nose, one beady eye glinted through the fly-hole.


ACT THREE - EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED

"Very well Gentlemen", the dealer proceeded to deal three cards to each of the protagonists. It was O'Neill's bet. The Irishman lifted the edge of his cards and took a peek, his wild eyes were now framed by the leg openings of the claret and blue Milner Y-fronts. Mancio, a master at reading a man, looked deep into the face of O'Neill, searching for a tell, a clue, anything to gain an advantage. But there was nothing, only the insanity of absolute certainty. O'Neill, however, was pleased by what he saw, not that he felt pleasure or happiness like most do. His cards were strong, perhaps too strong for the others - an in-form Carew, a solid and consistent Petrov and, most satisfying of all, the impish visage of Ashley Young, desperately trying to book a seat on the airplane to South Africa.

"I bet two hundred. F'nar Ping Ping, no Mother, not again! Not the coal-hole!", cried O'Neill, pushing the chips into the centre of the table.

It was Il Mancio's turn. Cautiously, he picked up the three cards, shielding them carefully from the shifty eyes of Redknapp. The faces of Vincent Kompany, Gareth Barry and Nigel De Jong stared up at him. Good cards to be sure, but not the kind guaranteed to win a big hand like this one, but what choice did Mancini have? There were no Gourcuff's. no Lampards, certainly no Messi's available to him, and it was coming down to the wire. Now was the time to bluff.

"I'll match that bet", said Mancio. He had to keep calm, he knew that Redknapp could smell fear from a mile away.

Rednapp eyed Mancio warily. The Italian was renowned for his luck in adverse situations, but 'Arry knew how to get out of a tight spot himself, and as he slid the cards up to see the hand dealt, Redknapp tried to keep a smile from lightening his forlorn features. There before him beamed a consistent Dawson, the rejuvenated Gomez and the returning Lennon, certain to be fit-as-a-fiddle for the City game. Not to mention the Gareth Bale card that Razor Redknapp had up his sleeve, just in case. There was no further hesitation.

"Two hundred sounds triffic", said the Spurs man, as he eased the chips into the growing pile.

The dealer slid two more cards to each of the players. Mancio was beginning to perspire a little as the noonday sun began to warm up the old saloon, or at least that's what he told himself. Luckily, the sky blue and white silk cravat that had become his trademark remained cool against his skin, and hid the lump in his throat that seemed to grow larger by the minute. This was it, two cards to turn in the first of three final hands - a win now would be of vital importance. But first it was O'Neill's turn to play. The eccentric Irishman took a peek - it was mixed news. Joining the other Villa cards were Emile Heskey and Steve Sidwell, not the best result O'Neill could have had - so much for his lucky underpants. Nevertheless, O'Neill forged ahead,

"I'll go another two hundred!", and with that he burst into a rendition of "C'mon Feel The Noize" by Slade, his favourite band.

Now Mancio turned the cards. Tevez and ....what was this? He couldn't believe his eyes.... was that Joe Hart? Had his luck changed? Or was it Fulop, the flop from Sunderland? Just as the City capo was about to make his bet, the door swung open in a cloud of dust. The odour of stale refried beans and sweat began to fill the warm air of the room, he heard a loud gutteral laugh and the sound of women screaming somewhere in the saloon. The large silhouette of a man filled the doorway. He stepped forward into the light, and with that Redknapp's fleshy face tightened at the sight and smell, while O'Neill fumbled for his dummy.

"Surprise, amigos! Let's play a leetle poker, eh? Hahahaha!

It was El Gordo.....

TO BE CONTINUED