Pocket Aces Quotes

Every man carries within him through life a mirror, as unique and impossible to get rid of as his shadow. A parlor game for a wet afternoon – imaging the mirrors of one’s friends. A has a huge pier glass, gilded and baroque, B a discreet little pocket mirror in a pigskin case with his initials stamped on the back; whenever one looks at C, he is in the act of throwing his mirror away but, if one looks in his pocket or up his sleeve, one always finds another, like an extra ace.

She rooted around her pocket, pulling out a tube of lipstick, the gun and the silk mask, All the girlie necessities, apparently.

She'd walked into the Deadman District and emerged a lord. She carried poison in one pocket and a gun in the other. She was a blade disguised as a girl.

I was crazy about goal keeping. In Russia and the Latin countries, that gallant art had been always surrounded with a halo of singular glamour. Aloof, solitary, impassive, the crack goalie is followed in the streets by entranced small boys. He vies with the matador and the flying ace as an object of thrilled adulation. His sweater, his peaked cap, his kneeguards, the gloves protruding from the hip pocket of his shorts, set him apart from the rest of the team. He is the lone eagle, the man of mystery, the last defender. Photographers, reverently bending one knee, snap him in the act of making a spectacular dive across the goal mouth to deflect with his fingertips a low, lightning-like shot, and the stadium roars in approval as he remains for a moment or two lying full length where he fell, his goal still intact.

Abracadabra," Roarke stated, and opened it. "Now that's more like it." Hunkered down beside him, Eve studied the neat stacks of cash. "This is how he stayed out of a cage so long. No credit, no e-transfers. Cash on the line. And a file box, loaded with discs and vids." "Best of all." Roarke reached in, took out a PPC. "His personal palm, very likely uninfected and chock-full of interesting data." "Let's load it up, get it in." She pulled out her memo book. "What're you doing?" "Logging the entry. I better not see any of that green stuff or those baubles go into your pockets, Ace." "Now I'm offended." He straightened, brushed at his shirt. "If I nipped anything, you can bet your ass you wouldn't see me do it.

I got my grade back.” I slip the paper out of my pocket, holding it up. “I aced it.” And for the first time, I say out loud, “I’m valedictorian.” Logan gazes at the paper for a long moment. And when he takes it, I feel the brush of his finger against mine. “Look at that,” he says with awe. “That’s brilliant. Smart girl.” His large hand moves to my shoulder, squeezing. And I feel it everywhere. Warmth tingles through me, from the top of my ears to the tips of my toes. "Congratulations, Ellie." My mouth stretches so far into a smile, tears spring up in my eyes. “Thanks. I just . . . I wanted to tell someone.” Him. I wanted to tell him. "I'm glad it was me.

This brings us to the crux moment in the supposed 'Show Trial' melodrama. Employing the confusing and confused testimony of Jude Wanniski (who he also describes as a political nut-case, if not a nut-case flat-out, and to whom he introduced me in the first place) Blumenthal suggests that I concerted my testimony in advance with the House Republicans, notably James Rogan and Lindsey Graham. Feebly bridging the gap between sheer conjecture and outright conspiracy, Rogan is quoted as saying: 'Hitchens may well have called Lindsey..' I did not in fact do any such thing. Why should my denial be believed? It's not as if I care. I probably should have colluded with them, if my intention was to land a blow on Clinton (which it was) let alone to plant a Judas kiss on Blumenthal (which it was not). But every other fragment of Blumenthal's evidence and description shows—even boasts—that Congressman Graham was essentially punching air until the last day of the trial. That could not possibly have been true, especially in his cross-examination of Blumenthal, if he knew he had an ace in his vest-pocket all along. Only a tendency to paranoia or to all-explaining theories could suggest the contrary. I'd even be able to claim for myself, I hope, that if I'd truly wanted to gouge a deep or vengeful wound I could or would have made a better job of it.

There were four ways out of Nickel. One: serve your time. A typical sentence fell between six months and two years, but the administration had the power to confer a legal discharge before then at its discretion. Good behavior was a trigger for a legal discharge, if a careful boy gathered enough merits for promotion to Ace. Whereupon he was released into the bosom of his family, who were very glad to have him back or else winced at the sight of his face bobbing up the walk, the start of another countdown to the next calamity. If you had family. If not, the state of Florida's child-welfare apparatus had assorted custodial remedies, some more pleasant than others. You could also serve time by aging out. The schools showed boys the door on their eighteenth birthday, quick hand-shake and pocket change...Boys arrived banged up in different ways before they got to Nickel and picked up more dents and damage during their term. Often graver missteps and more fierce institutions waited. Nickel boys were f***** before, during, and after their time at the school, if one were to characterize the general trajectory... Three: You could die. Of 'natural causes' even, if abetted by unhealthy conditions, malnutrition, and the pitiless constellation of negligence. In the summer of 1945, one young by died of heart failure while locked in a sweatbox, a popular corrective at that time, and the medical examiner called it natural causes.

The great players don’t play that way. It’s too draining, and it makes you too much the victim. And the victim doesn’t win. Bad table draw? It’s a challenging table that will force you to play well. You can’t change tables, so you may as well call on all your inner powers to play the best version of your game. See it as an opportunity to learn. Card dead? No one knows that. If your face reads card dead, everyone will walk all over you as you meekly fold. If you decide to take the opportunity to cultivate a conservative image and then make a well-timed move, suddenly you have the upper hand. The best players don’t need pocket aces to win. Everything is in how you perceive it.

ACES they called them. Adverse Childhood Experiences. Iris has a pocket full of ACES.

When I spoke to Laura Siahaan, business IT data scientist and team lead at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory, she explained that a key aspect of her job involves communicating analytical findings to a non-technical audience. Hence, when interviewing data scientists, one of the main skills she looks for is the ability to explain complex data science concepts in a simple and precise manner. She highlighted the ability to tell a story using data as a differentiator among candidates.  Translating complex findings into actionable insights can be a daunting task at times, but having this skill set in your back pocket will make your work rewarding.

You’ve got a hot tip on a pony in the fifth race at Belmont and you’ve got an extra two bucks in your pocket and you wonder where to go. In Los Angeles you go south on Grand to Eleventh and straight across the street. On the corner, extending about sixty feet on down Grand, is the Ace Joke Shop. It seems a little big for one of those novelty stores, but you can buy matches that explode when you strike them, chair cushions that go pffffft, horribly, when you sit on them, and about nine hundred other gadgets to either enliven or ruin a party depending on your sense of humor.

Rehab?” Ace’s lips ease up, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I told you I’d always fix it—even the hard stuff.