PlayerN

Lady Luck - short poker story: part two of two

2010-09-18T14:27:00.000-07:00

Continued... from previous post.

I had never seen her before, I kind of stared, she smiled even broader, and said, "All those chips..." All I could manage was “Oh.” She giggled and turned away walking out of the room. I quickly looked over the tough guys at the table to see if she was attached and if my luck just ran out. The only other guy beating the game like me was Jimmy Zees, who locked eyes and shook his head. I froze for a second. He smiled, "When you're hot... I guess you're hot, kid. That's our new waitress Dalia."

I played for as long as I could to make it seem like I wasn't hitting and running even though this Texas Hold em poker game was as soft as they come. I even gave some pots back to those losers when I had the best hand and just mucked. It was for my own security, to get invited back to games I had been crushing I took to giving a little back. I had to let them think they had a chance, but all I could think about was Dalia as I played on auto-pilot. Her legs walked through my mind a hundred times during that game, and that smile lit me up like a Christmas tree at midnight. Finally after one more small lost pot, I said this is starting to feel like online poker as though I wasn't mucking the winner and I had just got bad beated. That was my cue to leave. They still noticed I was leaving a winner.

I put them behind me, as I walked out front. The bar was just about settling down, with only a couple of friends of the establishment still nursing their last drinks when I stepped out of the game. The neon sign from outside glowed over Dalia with a brillant red aura when I saw her again. She was leaning over a table scrubbing nothing. I felt like I had taken a boot to the gut as I drank her in. I swallowed hard like a bluffer with his last dollar in the pot and worked up the nerve to walk up to... Dalia, that name danced through my brain.

She looked up and smiled, that wide inviting grin, that at once made feel at ease and at the same time gave me a cold sweat like I was flu-ridden. I blinked a few too many times, again like a guy trying to steal a pot with nothing, and returned the smile.

She said she had an extra beer and she was sure that Jimmy would let her share one with me before she closed up. I couldn't refuse, no way I was going to refuse, man was I running hot. She talked, I acted like I listened, actually, I did care what she said. Jimmy had already told her I was good folks not like the rest of the guys back there. Jimmy liked her, looked out for her, because she reminded him of his daughter he had told her. That made her laugh. Usually that was a bad line but with Jimmy it was true.

He had also told her I wasn’t the kind of guy to go missing for a week, or for a year, or forever. I was the kind of guy he'd want his daughter to talk to. While we sat, I don't remember what I said, but I do remember her laughing at my jokes, her hand dancing on the table top, and her slender fingers lightly brushing mine, first as if by chance and then with a light purpose. I remember her eyes opening wide, her pupils dilated, and a sweetness that drew me into her.

I couldn't even think about why she'd fall for a guy like me, I didn't consider her running an angle, or her running somebody else's angle. Instead I just soaked in the moment, every hair on my body prickling up, like I was watching an opera singer hold a note I couldn't dream of. I felt my heart started to beat at a weird pitch and I felt something I hadn't felt in years, not since I met my ex-us that first time, and then the cold sweat hit again. I knew what it was. It was love pure as the driven snow.

Then I could see in her eyes somehow she felt it too, a genuine love for a scamp like me, and every sensation doubled. I was drunk for her.

And then in my haze, a line from Sinatra that my daddy used to sing when I was a kid played through my head, "Luck be a lady, luck be a lady tonight." As we sat, I saw him singing it, smiling at me, and nodding his head at one of his vixens.

I shook my head and laughed half to myself half out loud.

"What's so funny?" Dalia asked.

"Lady Luck," I shook my head again.

Then I stood up, took one last long look at her, seering her face into my memory forever, doffed my cap at her, "I gotta go darling."

She said, "See you next week." Half as a statement, half as a question.

I half-turned only seeing those legs that made me chest thump, and lied, "I'll be seeing you," and walked out that bar, and I never looked back.

Dalia, was a once in a lifetime thing, a once in a lifetime lady, but unlike my daddy I knew and understood, lady luck or any of her sisters was the unluckiest thing that could happen to a gambler like us.

P.S. I'm still killing every game I sit in, I was probably the guy holding the stone cold nuts against you last night.

Lady Luck--short poker story part one of two

2010-09-15T13:40:00.000-07:00

I was ginning. I was on a rush like Darvin Moon at the World Series. Everything was hitting. You know players that say they haven't hit a set in months. I hadn't missed at least two sets in a session in over a year. They always held. The only sets over sets were the ones I was holding top set. I could see flops before they hit. I wasn't soul reading people I was telling the souls what they were going to be.

It was insane, it didn't matter if I was playing Texas Hold'em poker live or online I was simply crushing it. I didn't even know how to play Omaha and I always seemed to get there whenever I'd be forced to play. Double suited and I'd usually hit the flush on an unpaired board.

Play hi-low, hello wheels with every suit on the board. What a fun time. I thought to myself I'm the king of the poker world. I moved up from 3 -6 limit, to 2 - 5 No limit hold'em to 100 - 200 in about the lifetime of a fruit fly. I was winning online poker tournaments like I was a superuser. Yet, even as I would sit down to print money my real life was in a tale spin.

You know that saying lucky in love unlucky in cards? I was the opposite, I couldn't miss when I played a card game so I played all the time. Next thing I know the missus became an ex-us and took my new lexus that I missed even more then her. Still who needs women when you are winning. Or for that matter anything else. For the first time in my life, I couldn't lose.

I spent freely out of my bankroll because why not. I felt like I was on the opposite of a twilight zone episode, some cheery dream that would never end, but deep in my core I feared the moment it would come crashing down. As my broke daddy used to tell me with every new step mommy I'd meet, "Enjoy it while you got it son... you'll understand one day." I knew there was always a sad ending to any Midas touch story but I didn't see mine coming, or know it would hit me like a freight train.

One night, I was playing late in the local den of thieves, behind the bar of Jimmy Zees a connected man with some of the deepest, loosest pockets in the city. I'm killing the game as I always do. I was in auto-pilot with my bluffs not being called and second nuts forced to stack off to me when I held the best of it.

Then lady luck walked through the door. I was in a giant pot with two low lifes from the port, one who smuggled dirty things into the city, and another one who was the captain of the police there but could more accurately be described as number one’s employee. We were playing stud, I had hit a 10 high straight, it looked like the captain had a straight of his own to the 6 or so, and the smuggler easily had two pair but I knew he wasn’t sitting on a boat. Not the way I was running. I put the rest of my chips in the middle. I felt a person walk up behind me and the hairs on my neck stood up in excitement. The partners in crime both pushed their chips to the center, I turned over the winner and they both mucked in disgust.

As I dragged the pot, I laid eyes on what was waiting behind me and surveyed this tall of drink of water with lips you could use as life preservers. "Who was that?!?" I thought as I haphazardly drew the chips in. She noticed my attention and sauntered over to me, in the shortest, sheerest mini-skirt a woman could put on without getting arrested. She softly touched my nose with her forefinger, "Must be your lucky day," she smiled, her teeth perfect, gleaming white, and lips luminescent even in the darkness.

To be continued.

Silverback Issue Two Gulf Coast Poker Magazine part three

2010-05-23T12:15:00.000-07:00

My palms got sweaty and my shoulders got tighter with the anticipation of having to make a decision. It only took a half an hour for me to be on the spot. While they were dealing Texas Hold ‘Em Two Times bet the flop and then the turn as he always did, he shook the other two players out the hand, and only Silverback went with him to the river. This was the standard poker game for those two. Yet, it didn't feel standard at all to me.

Action on Two Times and he stared at Silverback’s cards and right through them, I knew he was waiting. Silverback had nothing, complete garbage, and was waiting to make a move if Two Times checked. I was frozen stiff I didn’t know who scared me more. Suddenly I was playing a game ofTexas Holdem in my mind.

Two Times eyes narrowed and then he scratched his nose and practically stared at me. Begrudingly, because I had to, I sent him a signal and as I did Silverback looked back at me, the look he gave me was chilling. It was a look I’d seen him do at the table. I felt like I was one of his opponents and he was staring into me reading my cards as though my eyes were a mirror.

Two Times checked and Silverback, holding his cards even more obviously, so everybody could see I could see what he held, bet. Two Times quickly folded.
Silverback slammed his cane into the table as though he was pissed he didn’t get a call, “I need a break. Kid, come with me.” I followed him to his office.

“Sit down!” he bellowed.

Did he know I had signaled, how could he?

“You think I’m stupid kid?” he put the bottom of his cane to my throat.

“No… No, sir,” I stammered.

“Good.” He pulled the cane away. “You did a good thing tonight. Him offering you money and bringing that thug in there to intimidate you, that took some balls to do what you did.”

Before I could question he lifted his cane above my head where a row of televisions lined the wall above the doorframe.

“I got cameras for two blocks, ain’t nobody rolling up on here to steal from our game that gets away with it. You made the right decision scratching your nose. I hate cheaters. Hate ‘em. You know had you told him I had a decent hand you wouldn’t be sitting in my office right now. You’d be headed to a swamp. Not fun to sleep in a swamp you know," he let that settle in.

Then he continued conspiratorially, “What you are going to do now, is start signaling the truth. See, there a few golden rules in poker, like you can give a man a haircut every couple of weeks or so but you can only scalp him once. Ole Texas Dolly likes to say shear a sheep or skin it, same thing. I prefer scalping, rolls off the tongue. Another rule is you can ride a donkey every day but one day you ride that donkey too hard that donkey’s going to kick back. Well, I guess I rode him too hard. I forgot that you got to give him a carrot every now and then. Donkey’s got to eat too.

“Well, tonight, the donkey gets his treat. In fact, he’ll get his carrot for three more weeks, and then he’ll play the biggest pot he's ever played, and then that cheater is going to get his. That donkey’s going to get put down. You follow?”

“You want me to tip him off to your cards?”

“That’s right, and then one night you are going lie just like you did tonight. You'll signal I’m bluffing with nothing when I have him.”

“What about…” again I was in a corner.

“What about nothing. I’ll show him the tape, tell him if he ever cheats again, I’ll show everybody another tape. Man’s a politician. A married politician who shouldn’t be running around with waitresses from bars like mine and he certainly shouldn’t be trying to push my employees around. Two timing son of bitch”

Silverback Issue Two Gulf Coast Poker Magazine part two

2010-05-16T12:01:00.000-07:00

He looked around the street then got out of his car pretty certain we were alone.
“Silverback shows you his cards doesn’t he?” He smiled the smile most men give to their mother-in-laws when the meal they’ve just eaten was barely edible. I remember thinking how does this guy keep getting elected? To me he was as transparent as they come. He was the type of guy if he saw your hole cards he wouldn't say and thing and just rob you blind. The type that would be a super-user on those online poker
sites.

“No…not really.”

“Not really, so he doesn’t show them… but you see them?” The smile some how got bigger, “Huh, kid?”

“Sometimes… look, I’m not…”

“Don’t worry kid, I’m your councilman after all, you can trust me.” He reached out what he meant to be a comforting hand on my shoulder. I had to stop myself from stepping back from it in revulsion. He whispered, “You know what he’s got on me?”

“Got on you…”

“How he always seems to win a hand off me. I can never beat the guy. Never! What’s he got on me kid.”

“I don’t know,” I lied. “ I just read the cards on the table to him, I don’t follow what he’s doing.”

“Don’t lie to me kid, I see you watching his hands! How much does Silverback pay you? Whatever it is quadruple it, and that’s what I’ll pay you. All you have to do is scratch your nose when he’s got a big hand and touch anywhere else on your face when he doesn’t.”

“I’m sorry sir, but I can’t.” I started to turn and the comforting hand on my shoulder turned into a death grip.

“I’m sorry but you can son.” As he said that two large men got out the backseat of his car, “This is officer Mallory and officer Simpson. They are my private security. They make sure that certain things go my way. Do I need them to make sure you scratch your nose when you are supposed to?”

“No.”

When I went in for my next shift, the bartender asked me what was eating me. I shrugged and got prepped for the evening session in a daze. The bartender saw me dragging my shoulders and said “Something’s bothering you kid, you don’t have to talk about it… but remember you’ll make that right decision, trust yourself you are a smart kid."

He continued, "If it’s some girl don’t worry she won’t be the only one to make you feel that way you’ll get over her and the 100 that come after her, believe me, if it’s your parents better to listen to them now then wake up one day and wish they could talk to you when they are gone, and if it’s something about the game, don’t forget that last boy that worked it ended up on a… milk carton.”

How could I forget, I thought to myself.

That night Two Times showed up with a pep in his step. He smiled a little too broadly at Silverback and even acknowledged me with a nod and a lingering eye lock. Tracking behind him was his friend officer Mallory who was sitting in the game too.

Him introduced himself as though we hadn't met and said "I normally like to play a good Sit and go but I'll try your game tonight." Silverback patted the man on the back in his welcoming way and then Mallory stuck out his huge paw toward me.

He shook my hand more than sternly and I tried not to wince as it felt like every little bone was about to break.

The night started out strange, on some nights I could see most of Silverback’s hands and on other nights he’d guard them even from me, but on that evening I saw every single hand. Two Times was all smiles despite losing some hands to the other players at the table.

To be continued...

Silverback Issue Two Gulf Coast Poker Magazine

2010-05-09T03:22:00.000-07:00

In our last edition I found myself becoming an apprentice to the man they called Old Grey Bear or Silverback (a name favored by a couple of young criminals that played in the game). He was a crotchety 80 year old bar owner who wielded his cane more like a billy club than a crutch, and played poker in marathon sessions with the most upstanding men in the city as well as the most wanted. The Texas Hold'em Poker games were legendary in the city.

In his bar, it didn’t matter what your name was as long as you had the cash you could play. On that fateful day, I found myself being the old man’s eyes late at night when the smoke and the dim neon light from the beer signs made it hard for him to see because I had the guts to stand up to him and tell him what he thought he saw on the board wasn’t there. In some ways, that was my first mistake and in others that was my luckiest break.

I had a limited knowledge of the game and though it took me a while to learn the rules of stud, Pot Limit Omaha, and hold’em once I did, I saw that Silverback had this innate ability to bet when his opponents had nothing and get away from a hand when they had something. On his good nights, especially when he was running good, he’d dispense a piece of knowledge or a little kernel of truth about the game and I’d the application of it in the game.

One of the local politicians would bluff at a pot twice but never three times because he believed if a man could call him twice he’d have to have him beat. The others guys at the table didn’t catch on but Silverback did. He called the man Ol Two Times to his face and the man never realized the name was related to his poker leak. I’d watch Silverback call the first two bets with any two cards. If Two Times would bet the river he’d only play the strongest possible holdings, if Two Times checked Silverback would bet any hand he held regardless of how bad it was and win the pot.

Every once in a while Ol Two Times would fire a raise back at him, and sure enough Silverback would quickly move all his chips to the center of the table. It was fun to see him just own the man. No surprise that Two Times was the first player to approach me with an axe to grind with my devious boss. One early morning after my shift I walked out the bar and to the side street where my car was parked and his black Lexus crept up on me.

When I noticed it, I jumped as I thought I was going to get jumped. After a moment, he rolled down his tinted window smiling like a game show host, “It’s alright boy, just me. Your councilman.” I almost called him Ol Two Times, but I caught myself, only Silverback had that privilege.

“Tough break in there sir,” I nodded at him feeling sorry that the politician had lost a big pot when one of the more inexperienced players couldn’t get off a hand and caught a lucky river card to end his night.

“Yes, that seems to happen a lot these days, say kid, you want to grab a cup of coffee or beer somewhere,” he arched an eyebrow.

“I’m not… No, I’ve got to be headed home I’m expected… my mom…”

“Well, you got a second kid?”

“Okay..." This was starting to feel a bit menacing. I visualized the bad actors in a reactment of me marching off to my death. Still, running was a bit out of the question despite how much I the flight response was firing in my neurons.

To be continued...

Do You See What I See (Part 2) Gulf Coast Poker Magazine Issue 1

2010-03-27T11:09:00.000-07:00

“What do you see on that table, son?” The Grey Bear pointed to the five cards face up in the middle of green felt. “ I say that’s two clubs and a spade. They say that’s three clubs,” he hissed at me. “What do you see?”

One of the gangsters looked at me menacingly.

I hadn’t played much cards but I knew the suits at least or so I thought. Now, being asked this question I forgot everything. If somebody needed a poker school it was me. I peered at the five cards on the table, and got my bearings. That’s a heart, yes what else could it be, I thought to myself. That’s an Ace of… diamonds, definitely, that’s a 5 of clubs, an 8 of clubs… clubs right, spades look like shovels, yeah, clubs look like clovers and that’s a 9 of… clubs.

I turned to the old man about to answer and he put a giant paw on my shoulder and said, “Now, remember I said two clubs and a spade. “ He paused and seemed to grow taller and bigger with each passing moment. “They say three clubs. And, think real carefully about what you are about to say, son.” His breath was heavy with bourbon, his eyes bloodshot, but his voice didn’t waver and his grip was unflinching.
I looked again at the table, everybody looking at me, “It’s… three clubs.” I braced myself for a smack and told myself to roll with the punch if it came, I could probably make it to the door before he could get his cane on me, I plotted out how to elude the bouncer and thought I might just be able to make it out alive.

The smack didn’t come.

He paused, red with anger. He lifted his head and pounded the furthest card, the 9 of clubs with his cane. “Fine,” he grimaced. The table waited with me, and then the politician began to nervously laugh, the others followed suit. The old man turned even redder and then started laughing too. “It’s a good thing you mothertruckers aren’t cheating me in my own place. Kid, push this to that man over there.” He flung some hundreds to the table. He tucked another in my top pocket, “Now, get me a bourbon and branch, and get comfortable we’re playing some cards. You just became my eyes…”

“Your-your eyes?”

“Yah, so you better get that squeak out of your voice, so I don’t have to get somebody else to be my ears .”

I was dazed.

“Get moving!” he bellowed.

I did as he asked and walked out toward the bartender for the Bourbon and Branch.
I told him what happened, “You did good kid,” he nodded.

“But he lost the hand.”

“Right, and you had the balls to tell him that. And truth is he didn’t care if he lost the hand, he probably knew that he lost the hand, he just wanted to make sure you were honest and more importantly not a coward.”

I still wasn’t getting it.

The bartender laughed at my ignorance and continued, “Now… he knows if you can stand up to him and you and can tell him the truth, he won’t have to worry about one of those thugs getting to you and one day you lying to him about a river card in the future. Course, he could have just told you about the last kid that did that.”

“The last kid?”

“Yeah, the last kid that told him what the cards were and was dumb enough to lie about a river card. You can only find him on a milk carton.” He let that sink in. “See why I told you not to go back there? Now get him his bourbon and branch before he gets any angrier.”

Do You See What I See (Part 1) Gulf Coast Poker Magazine Issue 1

2010-03-26T11:06:00.000-07:00

Do You See What I See?

The old man beckoned me into the back room with a hurried, flippant wave. I had been cleaning tables and bar-backing for a week and he barely did more than grunt at me when I had done something right, and he just fired me evil glares when I mis-stepped. I wasn’t worried about being fired when I spilled a tray of beer bottles I was more afraid for my life. I had seen the old man come out the smoky back room and splinter two wooden canes on the door frame and rattle off a string of expletives that would make a porn star cringe, but somehow I had escaped his wrath. Fortunately to that point I answered to the bartender and just avoided the man they called Old Grey Bear.

I had seen the men that filtered in and out of that room throughout the night, they came when the bar was open and when the bar was closed, and they were the type that scared most people and I could tell he scared them. The Texas Hold 'em and Omaha poker game never seemed to stop it only ebbed and flowed, and it wasn’t unusual to see a guy walk in on my Tuesday shift and walk out when I returned for work on Thursday. The bartender told me the old man wasn’t so much a bar owner, as he was a guy who owned a bar so he could play poker and that’s all he did.

But I only watched the comings and goings, from a distance, as the only piece of advice I was given by the bartender was not to EVER go in there and the knowing look he gave me when he said it was chilling.

So, when the old man sternly stomped his cane and saw me pass by the half-closed door I froze in my tracks. He looked over his reading glasses and peered at me like a big cat in thin cover eyeing a limping member of the heard.

It got worse, “Boy! In here. Now!” he bellowed.

I swallowed hard, stole a glance back at the bartender, who shrugged helplessly, and I walked into the back room. The acrid cigarette and heavy cigar smoke hung like a fog over the room. It wasn’t so much poorly lit, as it was just the smoke captured the light in its thickness and made it feel like the last intact room of a house ablaze.

The old man flipped his cane upward, grabbed its base, whipped it behind him and in one quick motion captured a wayward chair with its hook, and pulled it to him. He pounded on the chair with the shaft and glared at me, “Sit.”
I tried not to look at the other men, but all eyes were on me. A well known local politician nodded like I was holding a baby for him to kiss not like I was spotting him sitting with the other thugs at the table. They included several guys who looked like they had gotten their fortune from pharmaceuticals, but weren’t pharmacists, and they eyeballed me with disdain. I scanned a couple of other familiar faces, I couldn’t quite place, and before I could look any longer, the old man pounded the chair again, “I said SIT!”

I did.

I had never said a word to the owner, this old man, a combustible pitbull of rage, who could probably take most 20 year olds in a fight even though he was 80 something, and suddenly I was seated next to him in a game that featured stacks of hundred dollar bills, more money than had ever passed in and out of my pockets in my lifetime.

What's Cracklin below (follow up to What's Cracklin')

2010-03-02T11:13:00.000-08:00

Jackson, from Jackson, studied each of our faces, we leaned in like kids on our first camping trip the wind picking up at just the right moment, whistling in Jackson's pregnant pause. Jackson, glanced a steely gaze at the corporal, "Kegs of beer.... a whole mess of monkey spiders." He started laughing busting our balls again.

Tony, who preached patience in poker but most needed poker school out of any of us to learn it, spoke "No there's not. It's full of experiments."

The volume lowered to conspiratorial again and everybody edged toward Tony. Jackson was disbelieving, "Experiments?' pointing a knife my way, "You've been reading too many of his books..."

"No, I did go into the hatch last week," Tony pulled out a key chain, "turns out the key to the sheds works on the lock on the hatch too."

We looked at the Corporal, he shrugged it was true.

"Well, what did you see?" Jackson pressed, "Out with it private. Experiments on what? People?"

"No..." he shook his head "They figured out how to turn steel into gold."

"What's that... Alchemy?" the corporal asked.

"I guess."

"No," I had to interject "that's impossible, alchemy has been a pipe dream for centuries, and besides the belief was that you'd transmute an element close to Gold on the periodic table into gold... not steel, maybe platinum or even better lead. True, Persians did attempt this, and as a side effect created modern chemistry but alchemy has been debunked"

"Listen to Professor smarty pants" Jackson mocked, "You learn that in college too where they taught you how to unhook a bra, do a keg stand, and add two plus two?"

"I read a lot. Matter of fact, I'm reading a book on alchemy right now, which is where Tony probably got his inspiration for this ghost story, huh Tony?"

"I don't know what book is your foot locker, I don't have a key to that," Tony said. "But I do have a key to the hatch." He held in it the air and we got quiet again. As we did the wind grew louder and it swayed the key tempting us.

Slowly, we all looked at the Corporal, even disbelieving me.

He shifted uneasily from side to side, "Well, alright boys," he seemed inspired. "See what I'm going to do is call an end to this little poker game right here. And you see this pot right here, I figure you all forgot to ante an extra $20, and since I'm winning this pot without a showdown, I'll just take it and head to bed. Know what I mean." He started pulling the money from our stacks.

"No way partner we don't got no extra ante," Jackson stood up "and even if we do I got Kings full. How you going to beat that Corporal." He flung his cards to the table.

"That's a nice hand but see I got a royal flush and you can believe me and you can award me the pot and go into that hatch without me showing or "knowing" what you are up to... If I have to spell it out to you, you can also not believe me that I have a royal flush and I'll fold, you'll win the hand without these antes and we'll play poker all night instead?"

Jackson fumed getting it, "That's a big pot."

Corporal nodded, "It is."

"Maybe you should just keep the extra antes. Sure seems like you are asking me to give up a lot more than these guys... Know what I mean."

"That is true. But that's poker. Sometimes you are the fire hydrant and sometimes you are the dog. Look at it this way, Jackson from Jackson, sounds like there is a bigger pot down below. And in case any of you guys bring anything back I want my share too. Know what I mean?" The corporal swiped up his money and stood eyeing each of us.

We nodded. As soon as the Corporal was out of ear shot, we all quietly got up and followed Tony toward the hatch. When we first made camp months ago nine tanks sat in a perimeter around the hatch with one turrent facing every direction, but now after months of inactivity and apparent disinterest from the Iraqis, only one tank remained, and the rest were sent elsewhere. We knew the crew inside was probably sleeping or playing poker too.

The perimeter had long since stopped looking outward and they damned sure weren't going to start looking inside the facility so we walked pretty freely toward the hatch. I immediately noticed the sand that had built up on the hatch since we'd been there was displaced and only a thin film of sand sat on it now. Tony or somebody else had definitely been in it.

He slotted the key into the lock, turned it, and eased the massive lock open. It clanged loudly agains the hatch. We all warily looked to see if anybody had heard.

"Wait til you see this guys," Tony smiled.

He pulled the hatch open and clicked on his flashlight, we followed suit and stepped down into the long dark, damp flight of stairs.

I Hate Big Hands

2009-04-20T20:47:00.000-07:00

I hate big hands. Not AA or KK because I love those starting hands. And sidenote, I hate those idiots that complain about big pairs and then never draw a profit from them. No, I'm being literal. I hate big HUMAN HANDS. You know those big giant hands with fat frankfurter fingers crowned by thick calloused fingernails that are as wide as postage stamps always yellow and blocking any light from reflecting off of possible cards underneath.

In live play, you look at those Ogre hands and you never know if it's your turn to act or if the guy has got a pair of cards buried under there and he is contemplating monosyllabically in his head. "DO... I... CALL? DO... I... BET?" You can hear the thought pushing the pea-sized brain about his matching Easter Island skull like an Astronaut farting his propolsion in a space-station. Anyway, sorry to get off on a tangent, but Astronauts have been known to eat an extra batch of freeze-dried Boston Beans just for the fun of bouncing around the station powered by toots. Come on, you know that sounds like fun.

Back to my anger inspired by big hands. When I see massive hands I make a mental footnote, which is a lot like a real footnote, noticed when first thought about but never returned to, that I need to follow the action a little more closely. And I need to see if the guy folds or not, but my ADD always sets in when he's involved. It's like an observational blind spot. My mind is off thinking about farting astronauts when it's his turn to act and the pot is always pulled in before I can see if his chips have entered it when I do remember about that little mental footnote.

The dealers rarely point out if there are cards under the penis-fingers. Sure enough, like the opposite of Schroedeger's Cat, whatever action you decide to do determines the exact opposite to be true. If you bet, he's deliberating: "DO... I... EAT... TO... NIGHT... WAIT... I... GOT... CARD... S." If you don't bet, there's nothing but air under those Troll palms.

So yes, I hate big hands. F'ing Giant hands possessed by Poker Donkeys, frickin' mules packing up the mountain in a Sysphian quest to win with the worst hand whenever possible and only getting bounced down the mountain and out of the tournament after they've suicide bomber eliminated the best player all but drawing dead but hitting their miracle. You know the guy. He sends you to the rail and he's got a mountain of chips but somehow he beats you to bathroom.

You chose not to pee next to him because if his hands are that big... Yeah, admit it, just like farting your way to an Earthrise on the portal window, this thought has creeped in your mind too.

Still, next time, you see the best player at your table (those rare times it isn't you) get bounced like a check written by Ed McMahon by Giant Hands get ready to reap the riches because Giant Hands luck has run out. If he could put together sophisticated thought, he might question why his luck runs out just after busting the local Phil Hellmuth, but his pea brain can only muster so many thoughts, and it must get tired bouncing around his inner cranium.

But fear not, he'll be there next week to do the same. Try and watch his hands and his cards OR just play some online poker and not see the guy mashing his mouse with brick hands.

www.gulfcoastpoker.net

What's Cracklin'

2009-03-29T22:26:00.001-07:00

"Name of the game is Texas Hold 'em..." Pete dealt the cards slowly to each of us. He gave the same introduction every week, every single week for a year, and we always played the same game, Texas Hold 'em. "You get two cards, there will be a flop which consists of three frags of hope, a turn, which only make some of you knuckleberrys even more hopeful, and then that river which will win me the pot."

Tony rolled his eyes at the Sargeant as he always did and Corporal Timmons shot him a glare... as he always did.

I hoped I'd win, as I usually did.

Marks sweating like a call girl in confession, told us for the 5,000th time he was "Burning up. Dang. This is fucking hot."

Iraq is hot. Steaming, burning insufferable heat. You could taste the sand in the wind and we were located in the most wayward, godforsaken corner of the desert any troop could hope to be. We called ourselves the Lost Guardsmen.

We were entrenched in a large camp, basically guarding a hatch in the ground. A couple of men from DC, CIA surely, had dropped in and taken a look, left and then six months later nothing. Still we guarded it.

Day after day of nothingness. Not that we'd complain. Plenty of guys we know elsewhere dealing with road side bombs and citizens who wave at them one minute shooting at them from a window the next. No in terms of Iraq, despite the boredome we had it pretty good. Most of us had already gotten enough of a taste of action in Afghanistan to know it was all it was cracked up to be.

If whatever we were guarding was valuable the Iraqis hadn't figured it out yet. We didn't feel like soldiers or guards we felt more like inmates. Every couple of weeks a copter would fly in with supplies and fresh decks or cards and we basically played poker and traded our salaries around like it was gold.

That's what Marks thought was in the hatch. Gold. Babylonian gold.

We tried to talk the officers into letting us peak in the hatch but no dice.

Somebody said that they were actually chemical weapons. A warehouse full of anthrax or something.

Others said if it were gold or munitions some warlord would have come looking for it. But nothing.

So we waited and "guarded."

Every night when it got cool and not too windy we played poker. Jackson, from Jackson, Mississippi, had somehow gotten some Makers Mark into camp and we were sipping it. I no longer bothered keeping track of where my rifle was and I thought of a TV show my dad got on DVD recently, Sgt. Bilko.

As we passed around the cards, Pete went through the texas hold'em rules again, and we kept sipping the Makers Mark and talk shifted to the hatch. Jackson spoke first in a quiet whisper, "I've been down there you know..."

"Down where?" The corporal asked.

"Don't get all narc on me, but I've been down the hatch... went last night," I couldn't take it no more.

"You went down the hatch?" The corporal swelled up.

"Yeah, and if you want to know what I saw, you'll agree to shut the fuck up, right?"

"Corporal you can keep it quiet right?" Tony got real close to Corporal Timmons.

The corporal wilted, "If the sarge is fine with it..."

"Of course, I'm fine with it. Now, Jackson, from Jackson, what's in that hatch of ours?"

www.gulfcoastpoker.net

Cut-Day

2009-03-03T22:37:00.000-08:00

"I can't go for that, no-o, no can do," she smiled with a glint in her eye.

We had spent half a day together, a long reckless day, driving 100 mph on the interstate in a beat up Honda that looked like it would struggle to go 70. Already that morning we took a dip in a fountain in a public park. We split a beer and then she came up with the destination.

We were cutting school. Anything went. Where we were supposed to be it was lunch time, b lunch, the second of three, yet we were far from the cafeteria. I could only imagine the stale baked ziti on a tray.

I watched her struggle to reach the volume knob on the radio. All she had to do was sit up, but for the last half hour she was leaned back as far as the seat would go, her legs perched up with her feet hanging gingerly out the window. She giggled when she finally adjusted it.

She slid a cigarette out of the box on her purse in between us, a Camel lite. As she reached for her lighter, I started to laugh and grabbed her hand.

"I can't go for that," despite doing 90 and weaving through the sparse traffic on I-10, I managed to make eye-contact with my most disapproving look.

"No-o?"

"No can do."

She wrangled the lighter from me, and laughed some more.

"No!" I said.

"The window's open. Don't worry."

"No."

"Com'n it's not like your mom's going to know."

I shook my head.

"The WINDOW'S OPEN!"

I shook my head defeated. I didn't have to say it, she knew I relented. With her I always did. She always got her way. Where has that ever got me I thought to myself?

She smiled her little Meg Ryan, self-satisfied cute as hell smile, and I stopped caring. I just wanted that smile to never go away.

I had agreed to go to the casinos on the coast with her, on our cut day, but on one condition and that was not to smoke in my Mom's car. 30 miles to go and she was doing just that. But she was smiling.

She giggled as she breathed in the cigarette, she made an exaggerated effort to blow it out the window and I appreciated it. I watch the smoke disperse and stared at her long, tanned legs. They shined in the sunlight. I forced myself to look back at the road.

"We won't need I.D.?" I asked again.

"As long as you don't break the bank we'll be alright," she cooed, "just don't hit the jackpot on the slots or anything like that. Would suck not being able to keep it."

"And your sure, Tracey will mark us as not absent?"

"Don't want to ruin your perfect attendence? Jeez... you are already accepted in like five colleges."

"I can't be marked as absent..."

"Yes... It's okay. Stop worrying. You'll perfect attendence will be intact tomorrow. She's fudged plenty of cuts for me. She's the one that collects it and proofs it every day."

"... okay, and she's a space cadet."

"Chill. It's okay."

I sighed. I had never cut school before. In fact, I had never had a beer before, never hung out socially with HER before, but today as I was driving her to school she insisted we go right past it. I always thought she was just being nice to the neighbor boy who drove her to school, but now I didn't know so much. Maybe she liked me... like I liked her.

"And don't worry, we'll go play poker or something, they won't card us," she pulled her seat up and leaned over to me. As she got closer, my heart either stopped, jumped up into my throat, or sped out of my chest. "Don't worry," she lightly flicked my earlobe with her tongue and giggled, "besides, I think poker players are hot." Wow! What a day. "You going to wear these?" She took my sunglasses in her hand and twirled them before me.

"Am I going to be on TV?" I tried to find cool, I didn't really.

"No," she riffled the hair on the back of my neck with a gentle blow.

I re-adjusted my hands on the wheel trying not to lose myself. Our first moment. I took stock of it. Going about 87 on I-10 East with Florida in the rear-view mirror. One day I'll tell our kids about it, screw that tomorrow I'm going to tell everybody about it. "I don't think I'll need them."

"What if I want you to wear them," she was trying to distract me. The hairs all over my body stood up as she put soft lips to my neck.

I swallowed hard.

Her hand found it's way to my hair and she was almost in my seat.

"I want you to wear them," she said huskily.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Well, I may need a little more convincing?"

"Really?" More laughing. "Let's see how the poker goes."

She pulled away, and then slid the sunglasses on my face, gently.

That was living.

http://www.gulfcoastpoker.net/

Folding Pocket Twos

2009-02-07T12:12:00.000-08:00

It hesistated as if stuck for a moment and then wandered in chaotic fashion downward. I could not help but idly stare at the first rain drop that thunked on my window. The noise had drawn me to it. I waited for others to follow it but they did not come at first. I had only the trail of the drop to divert my attention from the computer, and the darkening of the skyline behind it.

I waited, and waited for the next raindrop to hit. A gust rattled the drainpipe on the side of my house and shifted even the sturdy oak in my front yard but no more drops. Still, I waited for the second rain drop. I looked for darkening mositure on the street but it did not come.

My computer beeped, it was my turn to act. The screen for bwin's online poker site blinked before me. As I looked down, it was just then the rain pittered and pattered on the sill and the window. A wave of wind pregnant with water swept across the street.

"Pocket 2s under the gun," I said as I fired out a bet hoping not to get reraised. Sure enough the agressive player in seat 5 put in a raise. Against him I might be good. The clever player on the button raised over us both. Re-steal.

I thought about making a move myself. Lots of money in the pot. The rain attacked the window with each fit of wind. Should I just shove. The blinds folded. The drainpipe rattled against the gutter it was anchored to. Hmmm. I have but pocket deuces.

I dejectedly hit the fold button. I made it more of decision then I needed to. Even if I was right I didn't need to get involved in the hand. We were on the cusp of the bubble.

I went back to window watching, the rain blurring the dull surroundings out my front door. Bubbles of water coalesced then ran haphazardly down.

This morning my boyfriend walked out angry. I tried his cell, but he hadn't answered. He didn't like me grinding all night on the computer. He hadn't liked his girl, spending more time with a poker site than with him. "Well you should have never transferred money to my account," I snorted to myself, "You should have never got me started. You should have never asked if I wanted to play online poker."

The truth of the matter, James was jealous, I had turned his modest gesture of keep you busy money into a bankroll. I had conquered one level after another and was turning into a deadly force in multi-table tournaments, and poor James tilted away reload after reload. Unlike James I knew how to walk away from pocket deuces, I knew how to get away from something I should have given up long ago.

The screen blinked at me, and I looked at 72 of clubs in the big blind. I noticed the wild player had half the stack he had the last hand. The clever button now had more chips. Maybe he didn't resteal.

The loose player shoved on my blind. Oh well. He can have it. Then I smiled when the clever player called. In a second the rashness of tilt shove was confirmed. The autofold of me and the small blind zipped us into a showdown. Clever player held QQ and Mr. Wild held Q9. J107 came the flop. I snickered again as an 8 came on the turn. I wished for a K or a 9. It didn't come.

I autofolded my 36 from the small blind.

Across the street Mrs. Fischman stood on her doorstep using the paltry cover of her screen door to brave the rain. She called for her cat. I could see it squatting under her house glaring at the rain and ignoring her owner's beckoning.

James and I had steadily drifted apart. Yes, I had become a wife to a computer, poker had become my preoccupation, indeed, my very occupation. I was making far more online than I did waitressing. I had a knack for the game, I had to play poker online.

James was very jealous.

I raised with J8 on the button and collected the blinds and antes.

I raised again with 56 and got a caller from the clever player. Flop came 6104. I bet half the pot. He raised me. I fired back. He folded. One more player until the money.

The wind snarled and whistled and I worried about a power failure. My chip stack would guarantee me an in the money finish but I liked my chances today. Several bad players were sitting on big stacks.

Was James out in this? James packed up his iPod with a little bag of clothes. I assumed he was heading to the beach to gather his tilted thoughts. I didn't like this weather, but he was the type to obsolently sit in a lightning storm... if he was set on a day at the Beach. Far be it for weather to get in the way of what he wanted to do. Part of me thought I should let the worry go, I caught myself think the words... let him go.

"Really? Let him go?" I asked myself. There was a lot to be said for James. He was going places. He had a good head on his shoulders and his father's construction business was booming. Every girl did a double take at his rugged looks and for the most part he treated me great.

I folded a mediocre holding and watched the now thick rain pelt my window.

His failures in poker weighed on me. His frustrations at not being able to let a losing session go. His unwillingness to pitch a hand. I told myself not to judge a person based on poker and I knew I only had to look at some of the awful people that were successes at this game to know it indicated nothing, but still James' failures at the game weighed on me.

Maybe I shouldn't tell him to fold when watching him overplay a hand from behind. It only encouraged him to do opposite. Perhaps, I smothered him by outperforming him, and then sharing my triumphs with him... of course he resented me. Maybe I was the cause of his struggles... of our struggles.

The cat had had enough and with lightning speed slinked through the rain up onto the door step. It got onto it's hind legs and scratched at the door. It demanded to be let in.

Bwin blinked at me again. I folded. I had made the money.

The storm whipped around a lawn-chair from my neighbor's yard and pitched it down the street, the white plastic bouncing onto the road with vigor. The cat was gone. Must have made it in.

Where was Jim? I expected him to knock on the door. To whisper his apology and to work on things. He would come in out of the rain. I would let him back in. I realized, for the first time that day, I had thought it. I would let him back in. I said it, so I knew it was true. I didn't need to give up on us.

The rain slowed. I smiled thinking of Jim in a wet shirt. He wasn't all bad.

There was a beep. I looked at my bwin table and saw a hand still in action. It was my blackberrry. It's red light blinked, I had a message.

I looked at it... James... "I thought it over. We are a bad fit. We can't stay holding on to something we should have given up a long time ago. I'm sorry for the way I've treated you but we need to let it go. I'll get my things tomorrow."

http://www.gulfcoastpoker.net/

Okay, there's a card in there...

2009-01-20T22:19:00.000-08:00

It is through the corridor of trees, rangy oaks swollen with Spanish Moss and made languid by the breeze, that I rush toward Oglethorpe’s home. My feet burned with wear and cold and now the shoe leather no longer protected instead the jagged edges of holes turned inward cut and scalded against the base of my toes. The furrows of departed wagon wheels, mud tracks hardened into permanence, and their intertwined serpentine ridges made agony of my ankles, but still I looked forward and not downward, as the once muddy but now frozen drive rose higher with just the wisp of sated smoke from his chimney visible in the distance.

Behind it, grey bounding clouds slowly bellowed a storm, darkening like nightfall even in the afternoon. Weary or not, close to my goal or far from it, I would have edge to my step as I could feel the weight of the front baring forward. I leaned into the thicker air and anticipated the whipping winds and slanted bullets of sleet. A rolling, rumbling grumble tumbled across the sky, and the branches splayed outward caught in the new pressure’s fury. The moss and leaves spiraled upward into a dark cluster of twilight confetti.

I quickened my step even more. The gaps between gusts shortened with each bluster and through the last of the pauses, as the branches unbowed and the leaves and moss settled, the house encompassed more with each step on the hardened mud. As I ascended the rise, it loomed, like the storm at its back, rising bigger and broader with darkness.

A wooden rickety mess was what I expected, surely this home, this frontier manor could barely have had time to grow and age as this house had, but the stripped paint, and weathered ballastrades grew visible. Harsh jagged angles, slits for windows, and destitute annexes accosted me as the wind indeed whipped anew.
The once languid breeze now a combustible gale under an explosion of frozen rain, a bitter jarring spittle so thick I could barely see one foot for the other. In it I had no more time to absorb the audacity of the structure, this somehow sturdy monument of disrepair and its contradictions, was all the more closer yet I could barely make it out.

Directly, I found myself on the threshold and though an overhang cast a long sillouethe of protection it was false one, as still fiery sleet found me even as I clung to the door for cover.

An iron knocker as pitch black as the door raked my temple as I tried to envelope my head in my jacket. At once, I grabbed the knocker and punched it’s barrel into the door time and time again. It was the frantic knock of a hurried child and I decided weather excused my failing in decorum.

The storm absorbed the house, the sleet and ice now hard falling thick snow. It was no feathery respite instead the temparture had dropped at least 10 degrees and the accumulation was absorbing my ankles. The cold was all I knew. My feet burned icily.

I had been at my goal only moments and already the singlemindedness of my journey was replaced with a new solitary thought, I needed warmth.

I couldn’t believe that mere moments before this jarring weather was an impossibility. And now I felt the the cold whispy breath of death chilling my marrow.

I took from an inner pocket the weathered playing card, the Jack of Cups that would be my introduction and I felt myself trembling. It was hard to tell the trembling from the shivering but the sudden fury of nature weakened me in fear. My teeth rattled in an uncontrolled spasm.
F
irst my fingers, then my palms and quickly even my wrists numbed.

I wiped snow off the card.

I submitted to the weather and leaned into the door ready to fold into a ball to contain my fleeting heat.

Then, the massive door opened with answered urgency and I fell twisting backward into the house.

From the floor I could see candles and gas-lights flickering up along a thick staircase behind me and worse I could taste the mildewed tufts of the worn dark carpet and somehow my frozen nostrils still could find a scent of rotted leaves and wet dead animal.

I looked up at two narrowed eyes on the outer halo of a candle parting the darkness peering down at me.

The candle moved upward bringing the lower face into view.

Yellow teeth parted and thin lips pursed a single word, “Move.”

“I’m… I’m Edgar Aames, I’ve tr…”

“Move!”

The candle lowered toward me, and a large heavy hand grabbed my coat and dragged me from the threshold. I slid on the worn carpet toward the stair cast like a fishing lure spinning farther into the dark house..

I heard the door close resolutely and the noise of the hammers of its lock falling in a jarring twist.

The air was barely warmer inside then outside. But it was warmer.

I start to push myself up.

Suddenly, a thick boot jammed into my chest, expelling my breath and winding me, and compressing me against the floor. I struggled for air and as I coughed the boot pressed harder. It felt like my lungs were imploding.

The mouth of my greeter slowly lowered into candle-illuminated view and I barely made out the reedy eyes glare at me as I might a stray dog whose intentions for trespass were unclear.

“Edgar Aames? Means nothing.”

I swallowed and reached for air trying to pull it in.

The boot pressed harder.

“Back to the blizzard?” the thin lips hissed.

I felt the wilted edge of the card in my hand and as I struggled to breathe I brought it into the candle-light.

The eyes peered into me.

I was light-headed and felt a thousand tiny blades surging to my bloodstream from my depleted lungs.

Fingernails scrathed into my palm as my captor grabbed at the card. He hurriedly turned it over.

“Jack of… Cupsss,” the final word slithered into pause.

The boot’s weight slowly, absentmindedly abated, and I watched one hand holding the candle move closer to the one holding the card. I caught half a breath and shook my head slowly to steady my consciousness.

After a moment of his study, his thumb rubbed across its face a yellowed claw digging into it.

I gathered my breath and at once I was pulled upward. The warm fetid breath washed over me as he intoned, “Who are you… Edgar Aames?”

www.gulfcoastpoker.net

Speed kills...

2008-11-29T21:27:00.000-08:00

Thoughts of a bad-ass poker player v. 1.

I looked down at pocket 5s, I wanted a cigarette pretty bad, but I had a feeling about the hand. A pretty flop of A59 rainbow played out in my head. I scratched my temple. Might even raise this bitch I thought to myself.

I spat out two the big chips spinning them in the air and them coming to rest on one another. I half-laughed half-sneered and leaned back eyeing the idiots at my table. I licked my lips in anticipation as one after another called me down thinking I was overplaying another shitty hand again.

I tried to run my fingers smoothly through my hair but they caught on the dirt and tangled curls so I just scratched the back of my head. The lady in seat two caught my awkward movement and I tightened my eyes into a glare. She looked away.

The dealer, another jackass with a rap, the same one, over and over again, put the flop cards down, and teased us before turning them saying his catchphrase, "Wait for it..."

I didn't even bother looking. I fired out a bet, confident my set was there and lost one of them callers. The two other fools hadn't had enough though.

A tall guy in seat 8, studied the board waiting for the turn. He was on a draw, that was clear enough to see. I smiled, "Chasers, never learn."

The turn looked like brick city to the guy in seat 8. I fired a larger bet without even thinking. The guy in the middle called and seat 8, despite a good price, but not quite the right price folded. See you meat, I muttered.

I decided the board was irrelevant. I eyed the dirtbag in the 5 seat. He had a mullet, a couple of Phil Mickelsons (man-boobs), and ability to call you down with rags. He was good for the game.

The dealer said, "Wait for it" again. I tilted my head at him and he saw I was irritated and fired out the river.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched seat 5 try and check out of turn. MORON.

I don't need to play a board, I don't need to see my cards. "All you can handle," I pushed my stack in toppling the chips.

The dirtbag turned to me with a straw in his mouth, " I was hoping you'd say that."

He turned over A2.

I showed my 55.

The dealer smiled and said, "Wait for it" one more time. Then pushed the pot to the dumbass.

"Pocket 5s, you a stupid shit aren't you, speeding with that mess,"

www.gulfcoastpoker.net

Quick Note

2008-08-27T07:13:00.000-07:00

I think at times, it is good to step back, and recognize these works of fiction as just that. They are fictional accounts. Nobody here condones, endorses, or supports cheating or collusion or any of the tactics used by the characters in these stories. In fact, part of writing about them is to expose their methods to a broader base of poker players. The material for these stories were heavily influenced by a couple of books written about how to protect yourself from card cheats. We encourage our readers to research these topics to better protect themselves when they play a card game anywhere. Many of the episodes that were to come were going to deal with signaling, mechanics, and methods employed by cheaters. We hope these stories are infomative and educational as well as entertaining. Just like a movie studio doesn't endorse the violence of its characters nor do we endorse cheating.

Pitch’n Cards

2008-08-26T07:58:00.001-07:00

"Moral of the story," seat 9 a drunkard from out of town said dramatically, "don't chase, because you might hit," his cards were almost at the center of the table, he slowly turned one over and then next, "...and still lose." He cackled and nobody joined him.

"Good pot," I say. The jerk in the nine seat wins again. A $500 pot and he tosses me a single. Generous.

His opponent, Gene D, a regular wearing his hoodie with his website, www.gulfcoastpoker.net emblazoned all over it, is irate. He turns red and lowers his sunglasses to glare at seat 9. Gene D does not like to get slow rolled.

As I go to the shuffle machine I meet eyes with Gene. He shakes his head in anger. I nod. I understand completely.

When I'm pitching cards I do little things to keep it interesting. I'll try and land them under a player's hands if they are resting on the table, I'll try and topple a chip stack if it's close to the action or I'll make a complaining player have to stretch to get to them. The nine seat has had to do a lot of stretching to get to his cards. He's been on a 5 hour heater and is weighing down his side of the table with redbirds and yet he's barely thrown us dealers a bone. Plus, he's slowrolling like his a 9th grader playing cards for the first time.

At the dealer change, Janie told me to beware and she wasn't kidding, Seat 9 is a no tipping asshole.

Assholes that don't tip deserve to be fucked with. I'm not obvious about it as sometimes the nice people that actually do tip, tend to take sides against a lippy dealer. But if they really push me, like this guy has done a couple of times, most people will side with the dealer.

It's tough being liked when you are pitching cards. Only one person can be happy per hand. And per revolution that means I've made most of the table mostly unhappy. The idiots don't seem to grasp they are only "entitled" to win one hand in 10. If they have any talent they might be able to drag 2 or 3 out of ten or win huge pots instead of small ones and turn a profit. But the way they see it, they want to win 10 hands in 10.

Sure I say the sarcastic "thank you" when they give me nothing, but with a jerk like this one it means nothing. Right over his head. Or sometimes they'll catch it, as he did a hand ago. "I've tipped you already," he bitched. "You want all my profit? This rake's killing me anyway. Moral of the story, just do your job, deal the cards, and be thankful you found somebody willing to give you a paycheck. Or go to college and get real job." He winked too. I hate fucking winkers. Moral of the story?

Sometimes, I make a face when I push a pot and nothing's pushed my way. On this guy, that would be worthless, so I just join the other 9 players in hating him and in wishing bad karma on the dude. Problem is it's not coming.

On top of that the rest of the table starts to get mad at me because this guy's winning so big. Like it's my fault. Like we dealers want the dipshits that don't tip to win all the pots. Like we want to piss off the regulars in seat 1 and 2 that "over" tip on a good night. Like we want more of this guy's abuse.

I subtlety try to clue in a couple of the familiar faces I'm pulling for them. They don't get it as they angrily throw their cards to the muck.

Another pot to him and he informs the table it's like taking candy from 9 babies. He's got a table on tilt. Sweet.

Seat 1 gets involved in a big hand. Seat 1 is a tight ass. He's not going to showdown without second nuts at a minimum. I fear that's all he'll have though and seat 9 will have the nuts. The way the night's been going of course he will.

At the river, the board gets paired and suddenly the flopped flush is in danger. Looks like seat 9 just got lucky… again. He's bellying up to the table, "What you got?" he says to seat one. My dealer shift is over after this hand. Phuong is waiting behind me, I give him the look and he knows just what kind of person seat 9 is.

All the chips were in at the turn. Seat 9, the slowrolling asshole pushes his cards forward just a bit. It's the dramatic flair the dick employs, "I ain't got much…"

Seat 1 knows he's beat and shows the flush fully aware he's about to get slowrolled. Seat 9 "Wow, ace high flush." Just like he did to Gene D, he further pushes his cards face down toward the center of the table as though he's beat. I wink at seat 1. And as quickly as I can, before the speech starts, I sweep up seat 9's cards with a no-look motion and put them into the muck.

Seat 9 is enraged. "You pushed them to the muck, sir." I sweep the huge pot to seat 1, eye Phuong again and quickly leave.

Moral of the story asshole, don't fuck with the dealer.

Shark Chum LuAnne IX: Who Guards the Guards?

2008-08-18T23:09:00.000-07:00

Randall followed Cuba on a smoke break. It was going according to plan. All the players were in place. Temptation in a low cut dress was one seat change away from working her magic on Tran. As he walked he thought about how the kid had been playing.

Very solid. He was picking up on the same soft spots Randall had identified. He was betting with impunigty at just the right times and folding when he was narrowly beat. He had a real talent for it. He got into a bit of trouble only once or twice when his opponent hit river cards and so cheaply bet the kid had to call with losers but other than that he was good.

Cuba interrupted Randall's thoughts, "Hey, man you know anybody in Mississippi that can unload some laptops?"

Randall had been out of the unloading game for some time but his curiousity was piqued, "Laptops?"

Cuba grinned, "Yeah, we've been running the metal plate polka."

Even to Randall this was a new one, "Refresh me."

"Well, with all these long lines for security these days we run a variation on an old hustle," Cuba looked left and right even though everybody walking by was focused on something else and the slot machine chatter was drowning out the conservation even two feet away. "We buy a plane ticket for say 10 pm and get to the airport there at 10 am. We wait until we see a guy with a laptop bag and get in security in front of him. When we are about to get waved through the metal detector we stall until the laptop gets into the machine. Once it's in the X-rayer the first guy goes through. Then the second guy, lights up the metal detector like it's christmas. Oops, I forgot this huge belt buckle I'm wearing. Did my key chain do it this time? Did this metal pen I got from work do it? And finally, you know what, bossman, it must be this metal plate I got stowed in my pocket."

"Right. I get it," Randall nodded. "Meanwhile your buddy is making a U-Turn out the terminal with that guy's laptop. Not bad. You can pull off what three or four a day? Each terminal and maybe a shift change or two."

"Actually, a little better. We got a ton of busted laptops that we switch out. It used to be better when they didn't make people take their laptops out of their bags. We'd be able to switch it out with a comparable weight, and nobody would know until they were 10000 feet up. Now, we need to match laptops. We'd pull that scam 10 to 20 times a day the old way. Now 6 is pushing it. Kind of like that story you told me that one time about Chuckie D, in Austin," Cuba's eyes gleamed. "Sometimes the easiest place to steal something is where the people are too busy protecting something else. Didn't you used to say that."

"Chuckie D in Austin?" Stacey walked up. Randall still couldn't get over her dress, "Do tell..."

Randall looked back toward the table.

"I'm third man walking sugar, " Stacey said. "Hi Cuba, eyes up here please. Randall, the kid's not going anywhere. The four seat is tilting and Tran's just dying for a hand to snap him off again. Tell me about Chuckie D in Austin."

"Alright," Randall relented. "Short version. One night after a game of cards Chuckie D was showing off this gold plated pistol. Real James Bond Golden Gun shit. I knew Chuckie D didn't have the slightest clue where to buy something like that. He could afford it but it's not like he'd be getting something special made. He had to have stolen it. He starts claiming he killed a Vietnamese general during the war and took the gun then. People were eating it up.

"For whatever reason, maybe it's because Chuckie D's such a snake, I decide to mess with him a bit. I tell him he didn't and that he was lying. And you know how Chuckie D hates to get called out. He says, if he's lying I got to prove it or else I was getting a golden bullet to the skull. I bet him $5,000 grand I could prove it in three days. And since it was stolen, not only would I be able to prove to everybody it was stolen and I'd also steal it from him. I think I said because I didn't trust him, I'd bring the gun myself. Something like that. Anyway, when he'd show he'd give me the five grand and I'd give him the gun. To sweeten it, if I didn't have the gun he'd get 5 large regardless."

"Stealing from Chuckie D?" Stacey's eyes lit up. "No wonder you never told me. That's not the brightest thing you've ever done."

"I didn't steal from Chuckie D," Randall grimaced. "I stole from the police."

"Stole from the police..." Stacey shook her head. "Now, you are sounding like Chuckie D.... Go on."

"Tell her whatcha did," Cuba said nearly giddy.

"That's what I'm doing. So, before Chuckie D left that night, I call my friend at the force and ask him if anybody's 'lost' a golden gun. Sure enough some rancher had been burgalrized while he was at a card game across town. So, I tell my buddy to send somebody to the parking lot out back, to wait for a gunshot and they'd have their crook. 30 minutes later I get to talking to Chuckie D again and tell him the gun's a fake and it probably doesn't even fire. Within about two minutes he's shooting a round off in the parking lot and the troopers pull up."

"So he's in the tin and the gun is in the evidence room. Next morning, around the same time he was making bail, I had his golden gun in my hand. Had my partner at the time from El Paso walk right in there with a FBI badge and a fake warrant connecting the gun to a crime in L.A. Sure enough, Chuckie D came back three nights later fully aware everyone knew the gun was stolen because he got arrested, but confident he'd still win the bet because I wouldn't have the gun. He loves his technicalities. I gave him the gun and he gave me the 5k. Course, I made myself scarce around Austin for a while after that. Just to let him cool down."

"The easiest time to steal something is when everybody there is too busy protecting something else," Cuba inhaled deeply on his cigarette. "Now, let's get back to the table folks."

Shark Chum LuAnne VIII: Queens are a comin'

2008-08-04T22:41:00.001-07:00

Randall bided his time. He knew Tran would put in a long session and it was later that it would be time for the cleavage to close the deal. In the short run, Randall and Cuba focused on breaking Tran's brother. They'd want the geek to themselves and the wannabee hustler had to be out of the picture for that.

The kid was good, he barrelled through opponents and showed a lot of moxie. Of course like a lot of chip bullies he had a pretty good tell. Like a dog fixing for a fight raising his hackles, Randall noticed the kid turned up the volume even higher when he didn't want a call. When his holding was marginal he'd intimidate his opponent even more.

Still, the tell wasn't 100% on a couple of players he'd just up and check it down. Nonetheless, Randall was going to goad him a bit. After getting him off the table, he'd goad Tran, and then if he past his tests, it would be time for temptation in a dress.

Tran's brother got in a big pot with Cuba. On the river Randall saw him flinch almost imperceptibly when a 10 of spades hit the board. He had been gabbing preflop to river but suddenly quieted. Cuba had correctly been calling him because he was weak, but now the 10 had to help. No flush draw... what did he hit. A gutterball. Cuba lifted his chips thinking about betting and Randall eyed him and ever so slightly shook his head.

Cuba, paused and thought about it. He stared at the 10. How could that have helped the kid. Randall waited for his former partner to get it. Cuba laughed and said, "You got that gutterball on me? You bet me all the way to the river with a bad draw, and you land that gutterball. I'm going to check to you but I ain't giving you another cent."

Tran's brother laughed heartily,"Yeah, I hit that straight." He threw his cards onto the table and forgoed betting the nuts to show off his hand. Randall, now watched as Tran slightly shook his head.

A hour later after the four of them had cleared off the table with everybody but the nit a new face, Randall and Tran's brother locked horns with their Big Stacks. Randall held two black jacks and limped into the pot. Tran's brother, as he did with a multi-way limp fired a bet into the table, and challenged people to call.

In his head Randall immediately went through the range of hands the guy could have. He was we7ak but he something to mix it up with. Maybe A9, A10 or a low pocket pair. This was pretty good situation for him. He called after a moment of thought.

"Watch you got George Clooney?" the kid asked him. "You got something to play with? You got Queens or something?"

"Yeah, Queens or something, one of those two. What you got? A9?" Randall asked.

The dealer flopped a j87 rainbow board. Top set. Randall checked and started his prayers for an Ace to come. Tran's brother led out with another ambitious bet. Randall called.

The turn was a brick 4 of clubs completing the four suits. Randall checked and Tran's brother stewed.

"You got Queens? You trying to trap me? You want me to bet out? Well, I'm the mouse coming after the cheese!" He pushed in half his stack and stood behind his seat. Randall stewed. The kid kept talking. He wanted the kid to think he had a chance to buy the pot on the river. He went into acting mode but tried not to over-do it. The kid was good enough to spot a poser.

Randall called and looked toward the center of the table with just the slightest bit of consternation. The river was a glorious Ace.

The kid zipped up. Randall acted quickly, "I'm all in," and prayed the kid would call without thinking it through...

His plan worked as he got insta-called and the kid almost fell over his chips putting them in the pot. He showed his losing hand first: A8, two pair. Randall show his set of Jacks and scooped the pot.

For a second Randall thought he caught Tran glare at his brother. Interesting, Randall thought, maybe there was more to the family dynamic then first appeared.

Tran's brother quickly rebought for 600 although his roll looked like it was about spent.

Randall eyed his female co-hort a table away. Time for her to request a table change. If he or Cuba could felt Tran's brother soon the real action would start. Time for the needle.

He raised his eyebrows at Cuba who gladly played the part.

"Oh, you got another 600 to piss away?" Cuba smiled at the kid, "It was obvious to everybody but you he had you crippled." The Alabama cowboy let out a big chortle.

"You think it funny? You laugh. I tell you what you play a hand with me. I take your money every other weekend Cuban, I'll take it again tonight."

"Really, not if you going to call off you chips like that. You feeling sick? Kind of like you are homesick but instead of missing home you miss your chips. I call you chipsick. It's okay there they are, in front of... George Clooney. Maybe he'll let you visit them." The table got behind Cuba. "If you walk away from the table you can probably call them. Seems like only a minute okay you had them but they grow and go so fast these days."

"Don't worry they'll soon be back. And I'll have some of your orphans too."

"The prodigal sons will return?" Cuba laughed. "Why you'll only give them away again."

Tran's brother looked at his first card and quickly said, "Yeah, I'm all in."

He's got an ace Randall thought. The dealer reminded him he was betting out of turn.

"Don't matter, it's binding, I'm all in."

Alabama cowboy was first to act and limped. When it got to Tran's brother he shoved never looking at his second card. Randall had a mild decision to make as he got pocket 8s. Something about the cowboy's limp threw up a warning flag. He folded and sure enough the cowboy called and turned over two red queens.

"There's your queens," Cuba laughed.

Tran's brother showed his Ace then slowly peeled off his second card a seven.

When the flop came out 779 he jumped up and exclaimed, "That's what I'm talking about!"

The cowboy was crestfallen, so was Randall inside. His night was about to get much longer.

Then on the river the Queen of Spades brought chaos and turned the hand upside down all over again. Tran's brother couldn't believe it.

"Fuck that!"

"Sir, no cussing... you know..." the dealer spoke up.

"Yeah, fuck that, I'm playing some black jack."

"Okay... Player out."

On the inside Randall smiled.

Shark Chum LuAnne VII: Cowboy Bet

2008-07-21T14:07:00.000-07:00

Randall pretty quickly finagled a seat where Tran would be placed by slipping the floor man a c note. Within a couple of minutes Randall bulldozed over some passive players and started to build a bit of stack. He had bought in for half the big stack and with some disappointment looked at a nit sitting behind it that he had played with numerous times before. Cuba Perrilloux sat down seconds later and rolled his eyes at Randall when he saw who the big stack was.

The nit, an old former navy man, was as tight as they came. He had 5 carefully manicured chip stacks in front of him, with the borders of each chip matching one another and each forming tight columns. He was an old man that took his time making up his mind, but was agitated easily when others took the same time to ponder. Randall imagined him in the slow lane of the highway mad when the car in front of him was going slightly slower but ignorant to the slow-downs he'd cause himself.

Randall didn't know how he'd get that the nit's money into play but spotted some other targets that weren't just sitting around waiting for the best hand. A kid in early position called a pot all the way down with second pair. He lost to top pair top kicker. His play wasn't what made Randall recognize him as a fish, but it was his play verse a specific an opponent.

The opponent was the nit, who raised with AQ and bet the Queen high board all the way. Kid, called off half his stack, with pocket 10s. He said, "I thought you wuz bluffing." Randall thought to himself, that guy forgot how to bluff years ago, probably when the Titanic went down.

Randall made a point to see flops with both these guys. He hoped the nit would get a huge overpair and he could flop a set or something. He started to get a feel for the rest of his table and only one or two guys worried him slighty.

Still, despite the action making his blood flow, his focus wasn't solely on the game. He could beat these nine in his sleep, and if not for them occasionally chasing when they shouldn't and catching on him he felt confident he'd bowl them over.

As he waited for Tran to hit the table, in between scooping a pot with two pair and ordering a drink he watched the humble Tran practically sinking into the garish scenary. He was easy to miss as his brother was so emphatic in his gesticulations, and at that moment, Randall felt a different kind of action buzz. This kid could make him a lot of money. Nobody would see him coming or going, nor suspect him being in on fleecing the game. He imagined the kid dragging a huge pot with LuAnne driving up the action and all the local sharks trying to call her down.

He hoped the kid was as good as Cuba claimed. Then he realized in a moment of introspection, part of his excitement was the potential challenge the kid would bring to the table. Randall, was about to play some serious poker with a new opponent, one that supposedly would outclass the field as easily as he. He eagerly awaited the dealer to whisper into the walkie talkie, "Seat open." When the old man nit flopped a set of Aces and busted two tourists, Randall heard the magic words. He watched the floor man point to Tran and his brother, and he felt the hairs on his arm raise a little bit.

Sure enough Tran's brother came to the table brashly proclaiming, "How many suckas we got here today? Looks like 9 of them."

Tran smiled briefly and adjusted his glasses. His brother threw down a wad of 100s on the table in a flourish and Tran quietly pulled the same amount from his wallet. A couple of the regulars eyed each other and Randall knew there would be some more open seats in few moments. So much for learning the table.

Tran played solid poker, and kept chipping up in small pots. When he wasn't involved in the hand his eyes slowly circled the table studying each player. Randall, put on a pair of reflective sunglasses so he could solely watch the kid without being obvious about it. He watched Tran's eyes linger a little longer on the lesser players and then a few hands later he'd watch Tran outplay them, either value betting a marginal hand and getting a call from a worse one, or probably betting a better hand out of the pot. On one such hand, a guy with an Alabama drawl and a cowboy hat said, "That's a little bit too much for me to play this hand with... when you pretty obviously hit your flush. Good hand kid." The man showed KQ on a Queen high board. Tran smiled politely and dragged the pot.

His brother turned the needle for him. "You folded KQ, you had a pair of queens with king kicker. YOU PLAY TOO TIGHT! You think that kid had a flush. He didn't have nothin'. You should have showed that bluff," he said to Tran, "I would have showed the bluff. I would have bet you off that hand, cowboy, with Seven Deuce offsuit."

"If you had bet son," the Alabama cowboy stared him down, "I would have put all my chips in the middle. You play crap. That kid knows what he's doing."

"I play crap?" the brother laughed. "I wouldn't have folded to the "flush" he didn't have if I were you, betcha you he had pocket 7s or something."

"I'll betcha 5 dollars, son, he didn't have pocket 7s."

"Make it 20 and I'll do it."

"Deal," the cowboy and Tran's brother stared at Tran.

Ahh... A morality test. Randall welcomed the opportunity to watch this play out.

Tran looked from his brother to the man. He seemed genuinely uncomfortable. Randall just like the brother, was willing him to "Say pocket 7s, say pocket 7s, say pocket 7s."

The cowboy came to his senses or to his latent racism, "Wait, a second, you two will proably stick together on account of..."

"On account of what?" Tran's brother stood from his seat.

"On account of... you guys probably knowing each other," the Alabama cowboy backed down a bit.

"You want the bet or not. You already agreed, what are you racist? Saying just because we are Vietnamese he'll lie for me?" He's going to chase a fish away, Randall grimaced.

"No... not that, but you guys are probably friends, I'm not from a round here, I don't know who knows who."

Tran spoke up, "I won't say what I had but I will say it was suited." Randall painfully listened to his potential prodigy play the honest poker player and thought about getting up. Lie for $20 kid, He had to stop himself from shaking his head in disappointment.

"IT WAS SUITED! Couldn't be a pair. Unless you guys are using fishy decks. Pay up son, I knew he had the flush."

Tran's brother shook his head and tossed four red chips across the table, "He might not have had sevens but he definitely didn't have the flush. I at least know that, Cowboy."

"Oh yeah, I'll bet you on that, too."

"Hundred dolla," Tran's brother flashed another c-note.

"Double or nothing," the Cowboy hedged.

"Hundred dolla or nuthin, unless you scared, you know I right! That too much for you," Not bad baiting, Randall thought.

"You're own." What's this, Randall thought to himself. What's this indeed.

The pair stared at Tran again. Waiting for an answer. Tran looked from the man to his brother and displayed deep discomfort.

"No, I didn't have the flush," Tran said sheepishly. Randall thought the kid was telling them truth but was still delighted to hear it. Cuba's eyes lit up when Tran said it and locked in on Randall. Randall nodded his appreciation.

The Alabama cowboy was floored, "Well, how do we know he's telling the truth. I need to see the cards."

"Uh-uh, bro, you had no problem taking my money without seeing his cards!" Tran's brother replied quickly. The rest of the table nodded in unison and after a pause the Alabama cowboy tossed the kid a hundred dollar bill buckling to the silent peer pressure.

"Just a hundred anyway, even if you did cheat me," Then he muttered, "We should have turned that jungle into a hole."

Tran and his brother ignored the comment.

Randall liked what he just witnessed. He thought it might be a hustle. He hoped it was a hustle. He prayed it was a hustle.

Shark Chum LuAnne VI: Tran the Man

2008-07-06T12:57:00.000-07:00

Tran led a group of five Asian kids into the poker room. The floorman recognized him on sight and was already inputing him into the system. He knew the hangers on too and was typing quickly to get them on the list.

Tran had the hip hop aesthetic down pat. His hat cocked a bit to the side, tight flat bill, and a logo that was an Asian character. The same letter hung from his neck glittering in diamonds. His pants hung low on his waist, but his track suit jacket two sizes too big hung even lower than his belt line. He wore tinted glasses, that were neither obviously perscription or sunglasses, because the tint was so light. Randall couldn't tell if it was for effect or not.

He made a mental note, of the entire room eyeing Tran's entrance. Not exactly a complete unknown. He watched the reaction of several players, old salts that have seen everything, and the rolling of their eyes at Tran's arrival was a bad thing.

Cuba nodded at the kid as the group moved by in one racous movement, and Tran smiled, "What up skinny man." Randall slowly eyed the player from top to bottom. He didn't like three things from the jump.

"What's the problem with his tooth?" He whispered into Cuba's ear.

"Problem what do you mean?" Cuba asked. "Does he have summer teeth or something? I haven't noticed,"

Of course, you haven't Randall thought. "No, it's.. it's..."

"You know sum-er here, some are theer, summer teeth" Cuba cracked.

Randall ignored the joke, "No, his right canine... it's..."

"K-9?"

"His tooth it's... blinged out in diamonds."

"Yeah," Cuba equivocated, "That's kind of his thing. His look you know."

It wasn't his front tooth, so that made it slightly better, but still a canine drench in diamonds was going to attract attention. Randall thought of all the good grifters that insisted on getting tatoos and instead of being inconspicious made themselves walking targets. Already, Tran stood out, what would happen if and when Randall put some real money in his pocket.

"I guess teeth can be pulled, huh?" Randall raised his eyebrows. Cuba seemed taken aback.

"You are going to pull his tooth?"

"No." Randall stewed. "Not yet, anyway."

The second thing that bothered Randall was Tran's bluetooth earpiece. Like the group he traveled with it indicated this kid was easy to access and had a wide traveling party. People in Randall's line of business needed to have streamlined personal lives. With each person in the inner circle there was an exponential increase of risk. It was much easier when a potential horse or cohort was a loner, even better a loser with a silent I hate the world attitude. So much easier to train. This wasn't going well, Randall thought.

The final thing that bugged Randall and would figure into his assesment of the kid, wasn't his cocksure confidence, good players have a little arrogance so that could be overcome, but it was his inability to conceal his intentions. He made a show of studying the tables to look for the soft money, he made a spectacle of himself as surveyed every corner, and the players didn't like him, that much was obvious. Not because he was good, but because, as Randall realized... "He's a bit of a prick, huh, Cuba?"

Cuba turned and looked at him with a smile, "Yeah, that kid is a prick."

"Okay, so let me obvious question," Randall spun on his stool facing Cuba fully, "How does a prick, that clearly has pissed off most of this room, who travels with a posse of wannabe gangsters, have a conscience? My first impulse is this kid may be too much of a live wire and untrustworthy, hardly the kind of kid we need to talk into a con, he looks like he's on the make right now... so fill me in."

"Because... I said there's Tran. I didn't say that kid was Tran. That's his brother... Johnny. The geek in the back, the guy you probably didn't even notice. That's Tran. That's our man."

Randall's eyes went from the flashy leader to the pack behind him. Four out of five were wannabes, duping the leader's gait, flashing some bling of their own, and kind of making asses of themselves. The fifth blended into the scenary. He had small glasses, a black sweatshirt, and jeans worn like they were meant to be worn.

Randall, for the first time in a long time, was surprised.

Cuba's eyes sparkled, "Yeah."

Shark Chum LuAnne VI: Cold Cuba

2008-06-28T08:09:00.001-07:00

Walking into Hart's Casino poker room in New Orleans, was a surreal experience for Randall. To the unknowing, the room looked like a cross-section of America. Conventioneers, tourists, businessmen, sometimes local politicians, and generally good folk sat elbow to elbow in usually cordial games. To Randall who knew by reputation or face the seedier players in town it was like he walked in with a special pair of goggles. He'd instantly spot the partners running signs at one table, a team of three or four at another table, and the grifters, sharps, lowlifes, "reformed" criminals, and degenerates spread throughout the room. Everybody else was blissfully unaware.

On one table, there was a thug who Randall knew was responsible for killing at least two people sitting next to a doctor from Peoria. On another table a bad card sharp who dealt seconds in a bar game sat next to a large women tourist. Some of the cheats even wore Mardi Gras beads like they were from out of town. And sprinkled through that lot were the local pros that somehow managed to make a living even with the minefield of deep-pockets chasing flush dreams on every hand, and crooked players attempting squeeze plays or whipsaws at every turn.

As Randall surveyed the 28 table room, looking for Taun and getting a lay of the land, the smell of stale smoke overwhelmed him, and a raspy voice whispered into his ear, "Who you looking for Randall... the next you?"

He turned and and immediately felt the hand of Cuba Perilloux slide into his own. "Where you been stranger?" Cuba's eyes sparkled. Randall took in the cartoon of a man. A cigarette defying physics hung on his lower lip, a dirty painter's cap sat slightly askew on a nest of stringy brown hair, and out from his t-shirts and shorts sprouted four un-toned tubes of flesh that were his arms and legs. His grip indicated a surprising sinewy strength and Randall returned it.

A necessary evil he thought and turned on the charm, "Cuba, Cuba, Cuba, how's life?"

"I can't complain," he took a satisfied drag from his cigarette and blew into the faces of a group of tourists walking by. "Course it'd be better if this was still a smoking room. You know I missed a jackpot 6 months ago coming to the rail to smoke."

"Smoking will kill you."

"Nah, Randall, not me, as you always said something else or somebody else will first," Cuba never lost his gallows humor, and laughed at his own wit, "Right?"

Randall, nodded and watched Stacy enter the poker room and put her name on the list and sit at the bar,"So How's ya mamma?"

"She ain't too bad, look the kid ain't here yet, he will be. Give it a couple of hours. There's a soft game on table 8. Maybe we can trap those tourists in seats 8 and 9. Like old times."

Randall squinted and studied the table. Running squeezes and passing signals with Cuba was not anything he was looking to get involved with at this time. Within seconds he was laughing to himself. The "tourists" in 8 and 9 were running their own traps working with seat 3. In fact, they were whipsawing the player in seat 1 as he watched. He grasped their system within seconds.

They weren't using the most common system of placing chips on different spots on their cards to signal to their teammates the strength of their hands but they were using a variation. He could probably break the code fairly easily but he already knew it had to do with the position they placed their cards after looking at them and the number of chips they played with in their hands or riffled on the table after doing so.

In one way Cuba was right, they would be a soft table because Randall would know their cards
every time, but he had other things on his mind. "Let's get a beer, Cuba," Randall pointed to the bar.

"This game's so soft though," Cuba raised his eyebrows.

"Let's get a beer."

Randall led them to side of the semi-circle bar Stacy wasn't on and ordered quickly, Cuba getting a Bud Lite and Randall an Abita Amber.

Cuba, had tipped off Randall about Tuan, he was kind of Randall's scouting service for Hart's casino. If Taun played as well as Cuba promised, Cuba would get a nice little finder's fee. Randall had worked with Cuba for many years, and kind of outgrew the scamp, but still fed him small tasks like this one as he was a likable rogue.

Cuba, tried to make his mark by dealing seconds and wasn't half bad, unlike Lazy though he lacked the grifter's innate sense of timing. His problem was juicing his customers too much. In fact, Randall found Cuba when the kid tried to cold-deck a room full of deep pockets in a game they played on the West Bank. Randall, of course, was setting his own trap with a more subtle game plan, when Cuba and a buddy slipped a cold deck into the game.

Randall spotted it immediately. The first mistake was Cuba snapped his fingers at a girl and in a raspy voice said, "It's Bloody Mary time." It felt out of place, and Randall had long ago cultivated a feel for when things were out of step from what they should be. The girl brought out his bloody Mary drinks on a platter and placed the platter half over the table. Randall eyed Cuba as she did it and spotted the transition that was fairly smoothly done. Under the tray was a sleeve, that held a deck of cards and with Cuba's turn to deal he quickly slid the deck out that he was using for the new one. Everybody's eyes of course were on the waitress above the table and not Cuba's hands below it. The near spill of the Bloody Mary was an obvious and needed touch that even the players not eye-cornering her cleavage had to focus on. Except of course Randall.

Randall's scam was slightly more sophisticated but he determined to see how Cuba's cold deck would play out.

Cuba turned to the player next to him and ask for the cut. As the idiot had done all night he just tapped. A small smile started at the corner of Cuba's lips. Must of have known the player to his left was a tapper, and planned on his seat placement Randall thought. Not bad.

They were playing seven card stud. When Randall got his hand he felt conflicted emotions. Wow, it's funny, he thought I was a target, kid has no clue. His top jack was matched by two more underneath. Though funny this kid had thought Randall a mark this was also troubling. This attempt looked like it was going to be a ham-fisted scam. Randall looked on with dismay as the players showing an A and K, his two targets, couldn't contain their happiness.

The cold deck, so called because, an older used deck is swapped out of play, for a deck that has been preset with cards in a certain arrangement got it's name because the cards from the new deck would literally be cold. The friction of playing a deck of cards heated them, you put a new deck into action and there was a notable absence of heat. As a result, getting coolered or cold decked also referred to having a huge hand lose to one of the few hands that could possibly be higher, because cheats would prearrange for these monsters to go to toe-to-toe in huge pots.

Randall's, anger grew as the first round of betting played out. The targets showing an A or K weren't born yesterday, and if Cuba's cold-deck, which apparently was going to consist of three or four huge hands losing at showdown to his straight flush, or low quads, played out the targets would get wise. Once the game was suspicious of foul play Randall would never be able to run his play later in the night.

He made a snap decision. When Cuba put the deck down, Randall elbowed the Bloody Mary right onto it. Cuba's eyes went wide with horror. "What the Fuck--man!" he screamed at Randall. Even better. Randall would have an excuse to take the kid outside and be alone with him.
The table leaped to help. Randall, made it worse as he "fumbled" the glass and dumped the full Bloody Mary all over the cold deck. No chance those cards would play.

He acted weak, "I'm... I'm... Sorry."

Cuba took the bait, "You fucking idiot!"

The players needed a distraction from their own big hands, they were about to get fleeced with, because they were going to be angry too. And Randall determined that distraction would be him taking Cuba outside. Plus, they knew Randall didn't take to being called a fucking anything.
Randall turned from the cards throwing his three jacks into the muck and jabbed his forearm into Cuba's throat. All 170 pounds of Cuba backtracked gasping. With his other arm Randall kept him up and pushed him out the door.

"Call me... Call ME a fucking idiot? You'll be lucky I don't kill you kid."

The other players forgot about the hand and followed them out the door.

Randall winked at his partner to let him know he hadn't completely flipped his lid.

Cuba took two hard slaps to the face, they landed like punches. His testosterone melting under Randall's ruthless slaps, he slumped against the wall. Randall kneed him in the stomach taking his wind. Cuba grasped at air and fell to the pavement.

Randall waved the onlookers away, he had done his damage.

Then he knelt and whispered into Cuba's ear, "You pull that cold deck stunt again, they'll be fishing you out of Lake Pontchartrain. Listen to me very closely you fucking leech. When we get back in there you tell that little waitress of yours to get lost with that tray. And you deal the rest of the night honest, and me and you will have a little conversation later. You do those things and I want need to lay another hand on you. You don't... and I'll drop you off the Causeway myself, tonight."

Randall, let Cuba roll on the ground and went back inside to do damage control. Before the two targets could start whining about their trip Ks and Aces they had to give up, Randall commanded the spotlight. "Now, let's get this shit cleaned up. We're playing Hold 'Em now. And I'm so god-damned pissed I don't want to hear another peep from anybody for two hands."

"We can't talk for two hands?" Randall's partner, thankfully, asked the obvious before someone else could.

"That's right, you say another word you'll be lying in the gutter with that guy," Randall menacingly eyeballed his secret buddy.

The other players didn't take to being talked to that way either. But they knew Randall well enough to give him a couple of hands to cool off. And Randall broke the silence quickly enough mid-way into the second hand with a long, tale that meandered over a couple hands, and soon the trip Aces and Kings were forgotten.

At the end of the night, Randall took Cuba on a drive and he took the kid under his wing for a bit. The first lesson he taught the kid that night was never underestimate your marks or anybody for that matter. "Don't make it obvious going for a big score all at once," he had said. Sure enough the kid was going to beat four sets of quads with a straight flush. Fucking idiot Randall told him. He made sure the kid got the picture that Randall probably saved his life by kicking his ass. Problem was Cuba never could stop being sloppy or figure out how to conceal his angles. Randall had to cut him loose at one point, but kept him around for harmless jobs like this one. Some people never change and Cuba was one of them, he was a guy that could never see the big picture even now.

Randall listened to him drone on about stealing big chips from his table mates. He'd risk getting banned from the casino, that he made his livelihood, in over stealing a couple of black-chips. Kid just didn't get it. He refrained from giving Cuba another lecture, that time had long since passed.
Then Cuba, very obviously jumped up from his seat, and pointed to a group of Vietnamese kids walking toward to the poker room, "That's Tuan."

"That's subtle," Randall thought rolling his eyes.

Shark Chum LuAnne V: Troubled Water

2008-06-23T12:48:00.001-07:00

As Stacy's rickety truck shook from the temporary bridging of the twin span riding into New Orleans, Randall was lost in thought. The ride had been one of long silences and trivial conversations. They were almost there but there was much to be resolved. Or would it just linger longer, Randall thought as he eyed her toned calves.

A old Paul Young song came through on the radio. They didn't realize the lyrics until too late and the silent mood worsened. "Every time you go away, you take a piece of me..." Randall rolled his eyes as he turned to look out the window. This was going to be brutal. As it played on, he recognzied that Stacy couldn't and wouldn't change the channel because then it would be her acknowledging the sentiment.

He contemplated turning the radio down and discussing Tuan or the plan, but he worried doing so would be him acknowledging it. So the song lingered, trapping them. He didn't like ballads and he liked this one even less. Syrupy, he thought.

Stacy picked up the speed a little bit, as if she could fast forward the song, by passing cars.

Finally, she spoke, "The new twin span is coming along. Should be an impressive bridge." A line of cranes and concrete poles in the water flittered by. They looked promising. They looked new. That was good to see.

"Two years after Katrina," Randall replied, welcoming the interjection "and still not finished."

"Bridges take a long time to build," Stacy muttered absently.

"Yeah." Ugh, he thought to himself.

The silence returned. They knew nothing more to add to the bridges conversation.

The water lapped at the concrete stantions. As they rode it looked almost tranquil and serene with hardly a whitetop. The concrete stantions looked like giant spears coming out of the water and contrasted the still blue sky. Construction workers milled around atop each one. They didn't seem to be in a hurry. Randall searched for something to interrupt the song's lyrics.

He was going to comment on a dark mercedes with tinted windows speeding past but the Paul Young tune mercifully abated. A temporary reprieve at best as the intro of "She's Gone" by Hall and Oates started. Randall, quickly turned off the radio, "I'm tired of the 80s. So... what's your approach?"

"What's my approach? You want me to run it past you?" Stacy had a little venom to her tone as she passed another SUV.

"Never hurts to practice."

"Like run lines? I don't think so," She realigned her grip on the steering wheel, "I'm going to sit down next to this kid, flash my bankroll, flash my cleavage, and take an interest in all things Taun. I'll shower him with compliments, I'll let my eyes promise more than I'll deliver, and after a couple of hours of being impressed with his play, and doing some heavy flirting, I'll offer to bankroll him in a couple of the bigger buy-in circuit events coming in a couple of months with an extremely generous split for him. It's a piece of cake. We've done this a 1000 times."

"And.."

"And... Of course," she testily eyed him. "I'll get his number and then I'll call him and tell I want to put him in up in the private game next week. Kind of a trial period, then we'll get him in LuAnne DuBois' game and the plan will unfold."

"You are a pro, this is just like the time..."

"No, Randall, we aren't going to share war stories," she interupted. "We can avoid discussing "us" all you want but this is a one time thing. It's LuAnne DuBois and that's it. I'm not coming back in the fold. I'm doing you a... no, I'm doing myself a favor."

"A favor? You need some new statues?"

"No. College tuition ain't cheap. I got all I need. Statues...," she allowed herself a laugh, "But I want to keep it and have some left over for my son."

"Look... about...,"

"About? Wow, that's loaded. No. Randall, no," She spoke resolutely, "We'll discuss it... but we won't now." No we won't. He thought.

"It," he thought to himself. He had bad car rides but never with something so heavy hanging over him. It was like going to a funeral of a guy who died only because he knew Randall. He had been to a few of those, but this was like riding with the corpse to the funeral.

As they finished driving over the last of the twin-span he went back into internal thought. He pondered things that normally never filtered into his consciousness. He didn't think he had ever loved anybody. He was always focused on the current hustle and the next hustle, and living in a seedy business as his, he never trusted anybody until the money was doled out and he was a 100 miles out of their lives. Double crosses and after-the-money-split hold ups were like traffic accidents and your house. Most accidents are within 5 miles of where the person lives. Same with "third-party" hold-ups which are usually just friends of your partner, they usually take place 5 minutes into a drive-off.

Stacy had never crossed him. He was never pulled over by masked men with shot-guns after his take. She had never taken up with a younger better Randall. He always thought he meet that guy after a job, under a ski-mask and a too itchy finger, but it never happened. Stacy could have. She was dangerous as they came. She pulled emotional strings with detachment but like a sociopath she could fake any emotion and convince you she cared about anything especially you. He always wondered if she was playing him from the start. If she truly cared about "It" or it was just emotional capital. Certainly, she got a bigger take because of her leverage.

He wondered again, if he was right when he thought for a while she was as empty and bankrupt as he was inside. Yet... her love for her son seemed sincere. He hoped it was and recognized it was the first time in a long time, he hoped somebody else had a decent honest emotion just for them and not because it helped out some angle he was playing.

He wondered if he was denying that there was always something tugging them both to each other. Most people were simply pawns to Randall, they had to be, he couldn't survive or do what he did if they weren't. It's a fools fault if you fool them, was his code, and everybody's a fool. Once you care about the fool, you're the fool.

Had he made her this way? He had let her fall for him when she was young and simply eye-candy, and then he pushed her into situations like a pimp. Pimp, the word she called him in Reno. Then, he saw she was quite devious, her assets weren't solely physical and then when he continued to step on her heart, she became calloused. Of course, she fell for a target or a recruit every now and then, yet she never double-crossed Randall. He expected to her too, but she didn't. Not once.

He didn't know why she was so loyal. And it was that loyality, touched at something in a space he long thought vacant. He prayed they wouldn't discuss "It."

As the city beckoned Randall spoke again, "I am going to test him though."

"Test him?"

"See how the pressure affects the kid. I'll be playing too. I'm going to be gunning for a win... of course but at the same time, I'm going ride that kid like he's Secretariat. The heat is coming."

"The heat... Oh, jeez," Stacy smiled again and arched that eyebrow.

Shark Chum LuAnne IV: Spear Fishing

2008-06-22T21:18:00.000-07:00

Lazy and Stacy studied the faces on the screen carefully. They were humoring Randall but were getting something out of it. They never doubted his methods because his results were always lucrative but he did take things a bit too far. This was a war-room and most of the faces were familar to them. They knew who they wanted to fleece and who they needed to fleece."

"This is Tom 'Lead Foot' Givens, from Huntsville, former nightclub owner and sleaze peddler, now a poker player that plays the big club games in Atlanta and Birmingham, including some legit ones where the dealer isn't on his take, and plays them well," Randall flicked through slides keeping an eye on Lazy as he was keeping an eye on Stacy. "He'll be here. He'll have a lot of money. He's a principle target."

"This feels an awful lot like school," Lazy drawled.

Stacy laughed.

Randall didn't mind the comment but did the reaction. She was bordering on flirting with Lazy. Randall knew why. He chose to ignore it for the moment. He waited.

They comported themselves and Stacey broke the silence, "Lead Foot?"

"He gives out multiple reasons for the nickname," Randall answered. "Sometimes he lies and says he used to drive stock cars. He'd probably tell you that. He didn't. Though his Granddaddy did, like most of the moonshiners. Lead Foot also plays fast, lives fast, and acts fast. Just about the opposite of the one and only Lazy."

"No call for that..." Lazy feigned hurt.

"What are the other lies?" Stacy asked.

"One. His foot's a prosthetic and made out lead. War injury. He might tell that one to you, Lazy. It's not. He never served. He does have a club foot and once wore a protective boot. Never was lead though. Two, and this one has many variations but essentially boils down to giving people the lead foot when they cross him made famous by any number of incidents he'll make up. Anyway, he's a steady cautious player that usually only puts his money on the line when he has the nuts or an edge. He's not afraid to make sure he has the nuts or an edge either. Course when he's in a hand he's pushing on you hard. Giving you the lead foot."

Randall went through some of the other targets but didn't invest too much time covering the material. The meeting was lacking the key player and that was the real object of this meeting deciding who that would be. After picking him they'd review their targets more carefully. He would be the player who would scoop the biggest pot, the player nobody would see coming and nobody would know was leaving. Randall needed an unknown. He almost wished Lazy wasn't his sleeper and his player, but reminded himself only Lazy could pull off his job.

"Let's get to the candidates," he said. He toggled up another slide on the laptop projector, it was a Vietnamese kid who looked all of 15.

"This is Tran Hung Dao. He's from New Orleans. He's gifted. He doesn't realize how gifted he is. Him finding a backer to get him into a game is plausible."

"Can we trust him?" Stacy asked.

"Can you gain his trust is the more important question," Randall left it there and waited. Stacy didn't show her ire, but he knew she didn't like recruiting and as she got older and her recruits stayed the same age it bothered her on a couple of different levels. He suspected her son's ascension into young adulthood was one of them. She was a pro though, she'd get it done.

"Tran Hung Dao..." Lazy repeated. "I've dealt that kid. Tran Hung Dao. Interesting name. That's the name of a famous Vietnamese general who stopped Khubla Khan's armies."

"How do you know these things?" Randall asked.

"What is most interesting," continued Lazy, "besides probably creating hit and run military tactics, this guys' most successful victory involved what I guess you could call a con. In the battle of Bach Dan River General Tran's men in small boats baited and lured the larger Mongol vessels to follow them in successive skirmishes until they got to a shallow part of the river. As the Mongols prepared to overwhelm them, the tide went out and their boats were crippled as they sank and ran aground because of the spears Tran's army had placed in the riverbed. So the kid is named after a con-man. Oh, he was also a poet and unoriginal as the same ploy was used against the Chinese two centuries previous. Still, a con's a con."

"Again, how do you know these thing?" Randall asked.

"I read A... lot. Who's the other candidate?"

"Will we get another lecture with him too?" Stacy teased Lazy. He smiled in return. Stacy accepted it with one of her own barely glancing at Randall through the side of her eye.

"Depends on the name. Patton... yes... Rommel... certainly..."

"How about Beau Broussard?" Randall interrupted as Tran's slide came off the screen.

"Beausoleil? Because yes, I got quite a bit on a Beausoleil Brouss..."

"It's just Beau," Randall clicked the slide to show a rail-thin LSU student, "He's better known as BB2Cartman on Fulltilt, as BBCuNRaZU on Stars and BBustnDOnkeys on absolute account. I didn't think he was real, and maybe an online scammer because he can mulit-table 25 hands at the same time but he is real. He's lethal. Only problem is he's never played live."

"Do I get to woo this kid too?" Stacy arched an eyebrow, angrily but seductively. She was channeling a black and white film star.

"No. That's another problem. I think he's gay. He's been rumored to have a relationship with an Italian pro, the flamboyant one."

"Aren't all the Italian pros flamboyant?" Lazy asked. "It's in their DNA. Like Alberta Tomba."

"Silly," Stacy whispered, "Tomba wasn't gay. But... how may Italian pros are there, I can think of two the pirate looking dude and that scarf wearing kid, though I'd have to call them both flamboyant. Is one of them..."

"His boyfriend is irrelevant because he no longer has one... which makes things easier... however, his sexuality is relavant because that presents a bit of a problem. We'd need a different tactic with him then just Stacy's considerable charms."

"What's wrong with the Asian, again?" Lazy asked.

"He's got a leak."

"What a coke habit? Everybody's got a leak," Lazy rolled his eyes.

"He's got a conscience."

Shark Chum LuAnne III: Fish Spice

2008-06-07T12:50:00.000-07:00

Randall realized a phone call wasn't going to do the trick. This hustle was going to require Stacy, and unfortunately Stacy would require a visit. This was going to be easy.

As he pulled up the shell driveway, he eyed Stacy's ramshackle, rambling house. It one long series of additions, and far enough from the coast to survive the storm despite it's rundown appearence. Like Stacy's life itself, its add-ons sprawled across the property in fits and starts, that meandered everywhere but at the same time nowhere at all. From the outside it looked a do-it-yourselfer mess, but the inside was a different story.

She had learned to not show her ill-gotted gains ostentatiously from Randall, her beat up pick up truck parked on the grass with it's lifetime of miles was testament to that, and so too was the house. However, just because she didn't show them didn't mean she didn't have them. The first room to the house, a kind of trailer park family room that was the white trash mess of shag carpeting it should be was for prying eyes. The dogs barking like mad that rushed the chain linked fence around the back of the house took care of the other windows.

Most people hide their mess in the back of the house and greet their guests in a formal room that represents a way of living nobody lives. Stacy's did the opposite. One door led to the rest of the house and it was always closed. But opening it led to a tacky luxury of lottery winner from West Virginia. Only a few people saw past that first room. And those did were suprised by marble floors, Italian statues of woodland nymphs cavorting in the nude, a center fountain, and woven tapestries everywhere. It was Stacy's best guess of what a rich person's house should look like.

Stacy was the inverse of house in one way as all her upgrades were on the outside. And only in the inside were the vestiges of the white-trash cocktail waitress Randall had picked up all those years ago. But her outside was malleable and like the calculated messiness of her greeting room, she give her face and posture the polish of society dame or take on the baring of a butch lesbian. Randall always thought if he needed her to play a man she could pull it off even if she had to piss on a fence with their targets. Her body was her palette and her looks were always a perfect representation of who she was playing.

When she opened the screen-door, the recogntion of Randall was instant, her icy blue-gray eyes burned into him. Today, she looked like a hot housewife. A really hot housewife.

"I didn't expect to..." she started. Then she stiffened, "No, no, no."

"You haven't heard me yet," Randall said. "You don't know."

"I do know. Just like I knew in Reno. Just like I knew in Tunica. Just like I knew the last time in Pensacola, I know." Randall couldn't help but notice Stacy's ample chest as she shouted at him, she had gone up a size, she was pushing not be able to pull off classy. His eyes lingered as his mind forgot the hustle for a second. He always liked a fiery girl. He always liked Stacy. He liked Stacy a lot.

She was still protesting, "I don't do this anymore... What are you looking.... Get your fuckin' eyes up! You gave up your looking privileges a long time ago, Randall."

Randall nodded like a sheepish school boy then couldn't help himself and muttered "You don't wear that shirt if you don't want 'em looked at."

"Randall get the fuck out of here."

He smiled, it always used to melt her. It didn't.

"Alright, I'm not looking.... but, yes, you can do this."

"No I was serious when I told you the last time we were done," she spitted it out.
"We ARE done everything. Done working. Done everything. I can't this time or any time"

"You always can," Randall said, "It's what you do. And you are the best," a little flattery, she always likes flattery. But it was true. She was the best.

"No. I got... I got my son."

"Oh," Randall frowned for a second, "Call his dad."

"No. Not call his dad. Get the fuck out here." She pushed on the screen door and leaned into him.

Randall held up one finger, "You won't be saying that in 3o seconds. Call his dad."

She tilted her head exasperated, "His dad's dead. My son lives here now."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that," Randall lowered his head, "Well.... call his babysitter."

"Jack is 15."

"How old?" She couldn't possibly have a 15 year old. Were they that old?

"He's 15. He doesn't need a babysitter."

"Good." Randall smiled, "Let's get going we've got a lot to talk about."

"We do have a lot to talk about. . . but I have a feeling that's not what you want to discuss. Look, I can't do this anymore. I have to be here. I swore I'd never let you in my life again and now I don't even have to think about it. My first obligation is to Jack. Randall please leave."

"This one's different..." Randall kept her from closing the screen door.

"There's not a thing you can say Randall. The answer is... No!"

"It's LuAnne Dubois."

"..."

"I know..."

"But you'd need a..."

"Lazy Eddie been at the Belle for six months..."

"He's dying..." Then it hit her. "You motherfucker! Of course. Of fucking course."

"So... let's go."

"LuAnne Dubois?"

"Yeah."

Shark Chum LuAnne II: The Sleeper

2008-06-06T12:17:00.000-07:00

Randall Breaux's first phone call was to Lazy Eddie, a dealer at the Belle Riveria, and the most important piece of the hustle. Lazy, contrary to his name, was one of the hardest workers in the business. He grew up in a family of grifters, and after his dad had shorted him one time too many he took his grift on the road and became an "entrepreneur." He started out as a pool hustler and then moved to cards before he started to become too well known. He had talented hands and found manipulating a deck as easy as a making a combination shot on a crowded table

On his own, he'd work a city over in a couple of months. When focused on poker, he'd move into town, find the best game, usually at a country club or in back of a bar and fleece everybody one crazy night. He had a knack for slowly walking away with everyone's money. Then he'd be gone. Then he'd be just a story, the guy that had the run of his life the other night, then it was that one guy last week, then it was this dude a month ago, and then it was remember that one guy that one time who talked real slow, moved real slow and got run over by the cards. He'd never wear out his welcome but when he'd disapear he'd be on the cusp of it. Still, there were always a few players who'd never forget his face.

Rumor on the coast was that six months ago when Lazy came back into town he had gone straight. He had never been prosecuted for cheating or been arrested for anything at all but even as careful as Lazy was, people knew he won a might too much for just a poker player. Other people traveled the same circuits he did, and heard the same stories repeated time and time again. Only so many times can the same guy leave town with a bulk of the locals bankrolls before the rounders learned they had to get to town before Lazy not after him. Lazy might have been discreet, but he was by no means anonymous to the other rounders. In fact, he bordered on legend status.

So when he came to Biloxi, at first no pro would ever sit in a game he'd deal but plenty of idiots would. A room manager that owed Randall some favors and quite a bit of football money hired Lazy, and after six months of constant surveillance Lazy had proven himself even to the manager who thought Randall was running some sort of uber scam. Even the locals who knew to be suspicious saw nary a wrong move now remained seated when he came to deal at their table instead of taking their customary 30 minute walks. Lazy, actually did quite well as an honest man, he was well liked as a dealer, his patter was sharp, and the players tipped him well because he never made a mistake and could take all the grief even the worst drunk could dish out.

His best skill was cultivating his likable persona, he did everything slow except of course his job, he dealt the cards as quickly as anyone. When he talked he had the effect of putting his listener on the edge of his seat just because they were forced to wait for the every word to come. Lazy remembered everybody's names, and winked at the players when they ran a bluff. He never misread a hand and the right guy always scooped the pot. Course Lazy would always talk about what he'd rather be doing and would walk between the tables as if going the wrong way on escalator; slowly, awkwardly, making little progress.

Before his first day, a story circulated that Lazy was in fact sick, and he had gotten a steady job to pay for his hospital bills. His weekly trips to New Orleans supported that belief, so too the hospital wrist bands from Oscher's cancer ward he'd sometimes forget to pull off. This helped his tips, and even the most grizzled rounders now thought Lazy was on the straight and narrow. Lazy's weight loss was the most telling indicator that he was not long for life. There was a certain pity that the shark was now forced to give up his freedom just to fight death.

Randall smiled when Lazy answered the phone, "I only got two minutes right now... and maybe, 5 months for a future... so make it... snappy." People were laughing in the background. Randall could tell Lazy was at one of the beach bars.

Randall spoke but six words, "LuAnne Dubois. It's on. Next weekend."

"See, you got... the wrong number.. and for a guy that ain't got much time, that's a terrible thing... to do," Lazy replied, "Besides, I don't work on Fridays... bossman." More laughter.

After the click, Randall smugly thought about how carefully he had placed his sleeper in the casino and how stellar an asset Lazy was. It had been a while since he had used a sleeper but it was going to be one of his bigger payoffs. Randall and Lazy had worked a sleeper scam once before, in Berlin, Germany of all places, where he set up his horse in a fake office with a fake secretary, an ugly one who scared away even the most committed salesman or snooping local, and paid him to sit tight for six months. That was the toughest part for a sleeper. Randall had tried that gambit other times in the States only to have an action junkie or a less professional grifter cost him a lot of money by playing in town thinking a venue away from the hustle was safe. It never was. The community was too small.

With Lazy, Randall had found just the right sleeper, in Berlin he was content to "work" his 9 to 5 every day and lay low. He was an awkward looking prodigy who looked like a Lynard Skynard roadie, but for the Berlin hustle Randall had him looking like a stockbroker. Randall found him when he was still mostly a poker shark, working over yokels in a Delaware beach bar on his way to Atlantic City and the kid was almost unaware of how gifted he really was. They formed an uneasy and temporary partnership. Lazy knew in his business he couldn't even trust his father, and though that wasn't his father's intention it was a valuable lesson he learned by shorting the kid so much. Each time Randall gave him his weekly stipend, Lazy trusted him for seven more days. Randall for his part never trusted anybody especially his horses.

Randall took care of getting them passports, got the Euros they needed and they embarked on a bold plan. The Berlin scam was simple, every couple of nights they'd walk into the pool hall next door to their "office." Randall would make a show of losing money to his stud and would tell everybody how good the kid was but still be willing to put money on the line to lose to him. The bar catered to what remained of the U.S. servicemen there and sympathic English speaking Germans. He sold that the kid was the greatest pool player ever and he sold that he was dumb enough to keep wagering with him despite knowing that. He'd get drunk and yell how his guy could beat anybody in the room, of course, anybody watching would know the only guy Randall's horse could beat was Randall.

They'd also note Lazy didn't drink and sometimes would return Randall's money! He'd also always refuse a game for money from anyone else because as he'd slowly tell them he didn't gamble to make money but just to have fun with his partner. Firstly, he was a business man trying to make a go of international commodities trading, though Randall hinted they were involved in more cash friendly businesses. To everybody he met, Lazy was a square with just a little bit of talent. Some thought he was some sort of math nerd Randall was exploiting to build his ample bankroll, that bankroll combined with what looked like Lazy's average pool skills, and Randall's inflated opinion of them made them target number one in Berlin.

The real target was the bar owner. He was in the crosshairs for Randall and Lazy because he had a penchant for playing over his head for lots of money. After losing too much to a couple of gifted American army boys he stopped looking for games. He had his hands in a lot of questionable businesses, making his place a one-stop sin destination for the bored U.S. Army. As a result he had plenty of cash he didn't deposit in banks. He'd still play for huge stakes now, but only if he knew the player. He was the kind of guy, a sleeper scam would have to be used but the payout would be worth the months of laying in wait. Randall was happy to pay his cousin who was stationed in Berlin a nice finder's fee for the tip.

Six months in, Lazy, the international commodities broker, and Randall were being the usual obnoxious beasts, but this time they were celebrating and this time, for the first time, the kid was drinking. Randall was at his loudest and flashing money again. He couldn't help but brag about their huge score that day and it was no coincidence that just that night the owner was also playing. The owner who was finally ready to take the Americans' money and after catering to the less moral of the American he had adopted a bit of the European belief that Americans were arrogant and needed a to be taken down a peg or two.

He enjoyed putting them in their place and he made the loud mouthed Randall a proposition. If they played tonight he'd play for 5k a game. If they didn't play, he intimated they'd not be welcome back because the patrons and he himself had just about enough. Randall acted insulted and then lashed back they would play for 20k or nothing. This was music to the owner's ears, but he didn't think Randall had that kind of money. Randall smiled and went next door to the "stockbroker's" office. He returned with a briefcase full of Euros.

They had just completed the deal of their lives and had a lot of cash on hand. They moved to a private room and the game was on. 20 grand it was. The owner was going to take special satisfaction in finally beating down the idiot that was annoying his patrons every couple of nights.
Lazy, the drunk horse, lost the first one badly, even though the owner tried his best to make it look close. Randall doubled or nothing it, after paying out the cash. The owner agreed and Randall's guy seemed to get his barings straight. When the match was over. The owner knew he had given the stockbroker too much rope trying to make it look close to get another game and ended up hanging himself. Of course, when Randall giddy with the win and now fall down drunk taunted him for the contents of the case the owner was all too ready to play for it. Randall counted out 150k. Randall, told them he was going to double his money, but he turned the knife a little bit as this time it was he that questioned the owner if he had that kind of scratch.

The owner couldn't believe his ears. He had seen this guy for six months stink up the joint and now these idiots wanted to play him for 150k. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. He made all the phone calls he needed to get that kind of cash on hand, and within an hour it was there. So to was an extra 150k. He was glad to see the horse was still drinking and he overheard Lazy privately cussing Randall for setting up those kind of stakes. It was too much pressure, he didn't feel comfortable, he said and Randall dumbly assured him it would be alright. Fools, the owner thought, drunk fools. The owner knew this series wouldn't be close. He didn't even bother drugging their drinks, he had watched this kid for six months he didn't need to.

He was really surprised when it was close. He was even moreso when Lazy won. The kid had had the night of his life.

Lazy only won by one game and was in the zone getting just the right rolls every time. They won ultimately by the skin of their teeth but they won. At least that's what the locals thought. Randall smiled, realizing as always, winning the money was the easy part, getting out of the bar and then out of town was the tough part. When the owner had offered to play for another for 200k, the insisted they would but the next day. Randall hated to leave the money on the table, but he knew they couldn't play that game. Greed kills. If they won, they'd never leave the city. The were on a plane that night. He sipped his drink and felt real remorse that his cousin was later found dead but that was the game Randall Breaux played, high stakes sometimes meant deadly stakes.

Anyway, he had his horse in place, with far more lucrative returns awaiting them. He licked his lips and reached for his phone again, now his recipe needed just the right dash of spice.

Shark Chum LuAnne I: Fish to Fry

2008-05-29T11:03:00.000-07:00

The hustle was on. Randal Breaux put down the phone after thanking the travel agent that he now owed a big check to. It was a simple squeeze really, Luanne DuBois was coming to town, and the room was going to be a feeding frenzy of sharks, looking to take her money... little did they know, Randal thought, the fishing on the coast this week was shark meat.

Luanne Dubois, was chum, pure and simple. Sharkbait that'd bring all the deep pockets into a casino. She led a legendary life and news of her impending arrival would make it around the coast in no time. Her husband had died young, to her he was a wannabe, a gambler with a trust fund who had enough of a bankroll to impress her, but little else. And soon enough, that bankroll wasn't enough. She was tired of him after she got finished saying the words, "I do," and it didn't surprise many that he died under strange circumstances in the French Quarter after a terrible run in a private game. There were too many suspects from all the money he ended up owing but there were also plenty of secret fingers pointed at LuAnne.

The one thing Luanne got out of her marriage and inherited from her husband was his love of cards. It was a parting infection. She also got a couple hundred thousand in insurance money but that didn't last long. She felt rich. And she played poker to prove it. She blew through the insurance money quickly at the casinos in New Orleans, the inept gold digger had become a great hole digger. She tried to dig her way out of the hole, because as much as she enjoyed cards even the casual players agreed she couldn't play for shit.

You'd think she was pretty unlucky in life. Tried to marry up, trading in her boring given name Stubing for DuBois, only to find out her husband was a denegerate and probably the black sheep of a family she never met. He was burning through the remains of his wealth buying her gaudy trinkets and trying to earn a living on the felt. To make matters worse, their boring and lifeless marriage, came to an end with his early demise. She lamented her bad luck wondering how opponents always held better hands and were given better lots in life.

When she was finally dry, without a cent to spare in her bank account, she endured two months, two long months, and she had a tough go. Friends she looked down upon when she thought she was ascending society's ladder now dismissed her without a second glance. She was an outcast and a tragic story whispered about in poker rooms. She borrowed money to eat, but would lose most of it on the tables. She tried to laugh it off, poverty was the best diet she ever had. Still, she thought she was one slot machine hit from turning it around. Her reckless spending was replaced by reckless pawning as the jewelry her husband probably couldn't afford to give her, but she insisted on receiving, became deals of the century for shrewd pawnshop owners who could smell her desperation when she walked in the door the first time. The third or fourth time they were simply stealing from her.

So yes, she was unlucky. Then in the third month after burning through the insurance money, and losing friendships over borrowed money, and three full years after her husband's passing, and having reached the bottom of the hole that could go no deeper, because she literally had nothing left, an attorney found her just as she was reading the eviction notice on her apartment.

She asked for dinner if he wanted to meet with her. He agreed, then he told her the unfortunate news of her father-in-law's recent death. He read a emotional letter written a few years before that spoke of a life of missed opportunities between father and son. It reminded her of the American Pie song by Don McClean. She was bored by the sorrow, and now only resented her passed husband even more for making her suffer through this meeting and listening to his "tragic" relationship.

Yet, within moments, instantly American Pie became her new favorite song because when the attorney finished the letter, he abrubtly stated the DuBois fortune was now hers. Fortune? She thought her husband had already burned through the lot. The lawyer told her, her father-in-law always was wealthy, and had willed his son, her dead husband, half despite his personal failings and their lifelong tension. Even better, her dead husband was to get the other half if his sister had passed. She had. Leukemia. LuAnne knew none of this. Then there was the caveat she or their nonexistent children would get the inheritance if something happend to her husband Vince DuBois.

Luanne, of course, had happenend to Vince DuBois. She asked, "Am I a millionaire?" The attorney responded she was a billionaire. While she took this in, he confided how astonishingly lucky LuAnne was because somebody as brillant as Vince's father had never ammended his will.

"Perhaps, it was from the sadness of losing his wife and children," the lawyer said. "Maybe, not changing the will didn't make their loss real. Maybe that's why he never reached out to her. The letter tears at me. They spent a lifetime in conflict and only in death could they reach out to one another. Yet, the son died first." He shook his head. She didn't respond with an obligatory expression of sadness, instead she pelted the lawyer with questions about her new money.

The lawyer, the dutiful lifelong attorney for the DuBois family, was of course disgusted by this interloper's aquisition of the fortune and though in private he schemed of ways to get a piece himself, he was angered by her unworthy windfall. He wanted to spit venom at her. He had half an idea to sue on behalf of a trust he could say Mr. DuBois had wanted to start with... him at the helm. He could forge documents, he could make it happen, but instead he gave a waxy, thin smile and realized perhaps fighting Ms. DuBois wasn't the easiest way to get his. Within ten minutes he was her new lawyer and advisor. He left his law firm with a terse phone call to the partner he thought was stealing the most from the firm and called an accountant friend of his with flexible policies.

So, unlucky LuAnne was suddenly lucky again. She was one of the wealthiest women in New Orleans and suddenly the owner of an international corporation. She was lucky because she was so wealthy and the corporation so stable it would take even her years to waste that kind of money or bankrupt the organization. Her lawyer, who was stealing a mint from her, was also business savvy enough to keep her in line and was determined to keep her from losing all of her vast fortune too quickly or to anybody but him. Plus, the more she made the more he did.

He convinced her to move to New York, to make gambling an excursion, to take up world travel and to satisfy her need to piss money away to give generously to charities. It was cheaper that way. She did give generously but not because she was charitable but because it got her on the society pages. Still, when LuAnne DuBois, went on her gambling excursions, she didn't piss money away she hemoraghed it. Like a recovering alcoholic on his first bender, the dam would come bursting open and whoever was lucky enough to play with her would get drenched.

When she came into town, poker players that couldn't get loans from anyone, could get loans from everyone if they could get a seat at her table. Sure, her chasing of hands sometimes broke even the richest pros when her miracle cards would hit and their bankrolls would be on the table, but for the most part it was Christmas on the coast. Literally her mere presence would turn an average night in the poker room to an event.

Ms. DuBois was coming to the Belle Riveria in Biloxi, and once Randal Breaux got the word out so was everybody else. Randal had some more phone calls to make. It was time for the team to come out of retirement.

Strip Poker

2008-05-10T08:28:00.001-07:00

I fancied myself a pretty good judge of character, what I liked about Marcy was she had none of it. She seemed like she'd be up for anything, and maybe it was because she didn't have a curfew or a reason to be home, but if I could come up with a crazy idea she'd see it through.

The rest of our group, high schoolers with conservative parents who had nice surburbian houses on the right side of the tracks, we had people to answer to, images to protect, and a clear-cut future ahead of us. Yet, we didn't have fun unless she was with us.

One night, Robby snuck out a bottle of Jack Daniels, Charis her mother's gin, and Alison got some vermuth and vodka her grandmother made Manhatten's with. I had said let's get drunk, and Marcy in between Turkish cigarettes had enacted the plan. This was our first experience with alcohol and an hour into it, Charis had hit the gin too hard and was throwing up. Alison comforted her and Robby and I quarreled over nonsense. Looked like the party was over.

Charis seemed to get her bearings back after she stopped drinking and upon Marcy's advice hit the water. We were in Marcy's dad's house, he was out of town on business, though when Marcy said business she mimicked a blow-job so I didn't quite know what she meant. She told us he was a real stickler about his alcohol. He marked it with a sharpie on the bottles to make sure no one stole it. By no one, I realized he meant Marcy. Marcy said our parents would start doing the same soon enough, but for now we had to bring the booze.

We played a game called quarters, but Marcy said the hard alcohol would make it go too quick. She was right. Soon, Robby, me and Alison were also drunk. I felt like puking too. I managed to swallow my spit and after a while I got a head rush and an electric buzz. It was my first.

What now? We were blissfully drunk and excited about it. Everything seemed a little funnier and we had this group energy kicking in. Suddenly, we were all like Marcy and up for anything.

"Let's play another game!" Robby said.

"I don't have many games," Marcy responded.

We searched her room and found Clue and Mastermind. Robby fiddled with Mastermind for a little bit and Alison offered a bad suggestion about turning it into a drinking game. We passed. Marcy did find a deck of cards.

"You know how to play poker?" She smiled fanning the cards out.

"Yeah, kind of," answered Robby. "My dad plays with some of the lawyers on Saturday nights. He's let me play a hand or two."

"Is it like Bonco?" asked Charis, "My mom plays Bonco."

"I know how to play, I play it on Yahoo Games, don't you guys watch it on TV?" Alison smirked, she loved it when she knew something about anything we didn't. Sometimes I hated her, this night however, she was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen. Instead of resenting her, I found myself privately admiring her. I was thinking about just this and looking at her hair, when I noticed all eyes on me.

"Yeah, I kind of know how to play," I said, shrugging looking at Marcy but not really knowing.

"Okay, here's what will do," she took another long drag of her menthol cigarette. "Charis, you pair up with Robby, I'll play my own hands, Alison will play her own hands, and you, do you feel comfortable playing on your own?"

I didn't, but I said yes anyway.

Robby asked the question I wouldn't have thought to ask, "What do we do for chips?"

Marcy smiled, "We are playing strip poker."

We started to giggle. No way, I thought. We started to laugh really hard. Absolutely not. Marcy joined us in the laughter. "I'm serious. We'll use our clothes as our chips."

Charis seemed uncomfortable but felt okay enough to take another pull of her mother's gin. Robby and I drank some Jack and chased it with our cokes. Alison winced, "If everybody's playing I'll play," she looked at Charis as though expecting her cheerleader friend to back out.

Charis pulled on the gin again, this time laughing even harder, "Fuck it."

Marcy looked us over and shuffled the cards. "We'll play hold 'em. Just like on TV. You get two down cards, and there are five community cards. You bet an article of clothing when you look at your cards, if you want to see the first three community cards, same thing to see the fourth and the fifth. You can check or call or raise. Best five cards make your hand."

"So I can look at my cards and just fold?" I asked.

She nodded.

I tried to slyly eye Robby but I was too drunk to be sly and everybody caught it and laughed.

"You can not just fold," Alison said, "and make us girls play and lose our clothes."

"No," Marcy grabbed at my collar, "Absolutely not. Every rotation you'll be in the blind, and you'll start with a piece of clothing at risk in the pot. If you fold you lose it."

As the cards were dealt out, I noticed we were all suddenly assessing what we were wearing. Fortunately, it was winter, so we all threw our coats on in succession to give us more chips. Alison tried to put on her scarf but Robby stopped that.

On the first hand, I looked down at 3 of hearts and an 8 of clubs. I thought I should fold and I did. Robbie raised. Everybody folded including Marcy who was "in the blind" and she lost her her Steelers starter jacket.

There really wasn't much action. Robby's team or Alison would raised and we'd fold, the tone had gotten a little more serious, but we were still nervously having fun. I raised with a pair of 8s and everybody folded. We were kind of treading water.

I looked down at a pair of aces and fidgeted closer to the pot. I said, "I raise." Everybody started laughing harder.

"It's not your turn you idiot," Alison said, wounding me. Suddenly her hair wasn't so shiny.

"Well, I'm raising when it is," I said defensively.

"Okay, but it's my turn and I'll raise first," Marcy said and threw her sweater into the middle of the table. We sat in silence a little bit. We had all lost a hat, a purse, and a couple of jackets, but we had held on to them until the hand was over. Marcy had changed it up a bit.

Not only that, Robby and I were staring at her bra. It was a silky gray and it was full. Suddenly Marcy looked kind of hot. Alison and Charis were staring too. Then the silence was broken when Charis just started laughing again.

"Okay, I call and I raise," Charis took off her top too and then threw her shoes into the middle.

Whoa. Her bra wasn't as full but it was something to look at.

Robby, her partner, took the hole cards from her and whispered in her ear--he was pissed.

Marcy tapped him, "Um, you have to lose the clothes too.

"She already put our clothes in."

"Eh-Eh, soccer player, you have to put your shirt in too," Alison giggled.

"Bullshit," Robbie threw in his shirt and shoes. Now the girls had something to stare at too. I knew I wouldn't be able to match his toned chest.

Action was finally on me, "I still raise."

"One raise per round, we only got so many clothes," Marcy ordered.

I nodded and tossed my shirt and shoes into the middle. I had a t-shirt on too. They said that had to go as well. I said it was like a bra. Robby made a joke about me needing one. No dice they said and it went in too. I drew my legs up to chest and sat. I tried not to stare too hard at Charis and Marcy but everybody's head was on a swivel. The laughter had stopped a little bit.

It was Alison's turn. I expected her to fold, and to stop participating at any moment, but I was glad to see two bras on the evening, and considered the night a success. She smiled at me, yes she had beautiful hair again, and surprised me by quickly pulling her sweater over her head and throwing it into the middle. Then she took off her high heels. Great feet.

The flop was k of spades, 6 of hearts, 7 of clubs. I felt my aces were still good. I said, "I raise," out of turn again.

"So do I," said Marcy and worked off her tight jeans throwing them at me.

"This is great," Robby said.

"What I can't ever raise?" I asked.

Charis, pulled at her jeans, "We call." Robby again was irate and after pulling Charis back to whisper in her ear again threw his 501s into the fray. He had tattered boxers on.

"Yeah, you guys got a hand," Marcy said sarcastically.

"Umm, I'm going to call, but what about the socks?" I said. I liked how Charis' bottoms matched her bra and I tried not to look too long I was definitely physically effected by her. Marcy's panties were polka dot and a little ratty too.

Alison jumped up and shimmied out of her jeans, this time smiling even more, "I call too." I loved her again. Her underwear was like it was out of the Victoria's Secret catalog my mom got. It was hot.

Robby high fived me.

The turn brought a Queen, I said "I raise" out of turn, again, and the same betting ensued as the socks were quickly potted.

The river was a J.

Marcy looked around, "On the river you can go all in, but you don't have to put your clothes into the pot unless you lose, since we are all in our underwear, sound fair?"

We all agreed. She said, "All-in."

Charis was stumped, "We uh..."

Robby grabbed the cards from her, "We fold."

I had pocket aces, so I said, "I call."

Alison said it even quicker, "Uh oh."

"Whatcha got," asked Marcy.

"I got Aces."

"Nice hand," Alison shrugged, "but I got trip Kings" and she laid down two kings to go with the one from the flop.

"Does that beat Aces?" I asked knowing the answer.

"Yeah, give me ya'lls clothes," she cackled and got a high five of her own from Charis.

"Oh, not so fast," Marcy said. "I got what's known as a broadway, A, with the King, with the Queen, with the Jack, and with my 10. It's a straight. You two owe me your clothes."

Alison seethed, "I'm not taking off my panties OR my bra."

"What it was okay for me, but not for you?" said Marcy.

"No, it's not fair," Alison sulked, "I had three kings. You cheated nobody gets a straight. I wouldn't have called if I knew you had a straight."

"Yeah, that's poker, take them off," Marcy blew a smug burst of smoke Alison's way.

"No. I won't." Alison grabbed for her jeans.

"Umm... You are supposed to be taking clothes off not putting them on," Robby laughed.

"Fuck you, Robby," Alison snapped.

"Fuck me? Fuck you you quitter," Robby gave it back.

I sat there watching, neither undressing completely or reaching for my clothes in the middle. Alison kept getting dressed, "This was stupid anyway," she said, "playing this white trash game."

Marcy looked wounded. I didn't like Alison's pretty, shiny hair anymore.

"Alison, calm down," I said.

She glared at me, "What you like that trashy bitch now?"

"Fine quit..." Marcy screamed. "You snobby bitch, and get the fuck out of my house."

Alison stalked off to the bathroom. Marcy, Charis, and Robby were now looking at me.

"Um... do I have to?" I asked.

"No need dude," Robby said.

"I guess not," Charis shrugged.

"Absolutely, I won the hand, I get to see you naked," Marcy smiled and crossed her arms.

"Ummm..."

"Dude, I don't need to see that," Robby tried to help.

"Why not?" Charis smiled.

"No need dude, she didn't you don't."

"No, he does, it's my pot. But I tell you what, you can show me... in there," Marcy smiled and motioned toward her dad's room with her head.

I knew I liked Marcy's character.

The Finger

2008-03-10T20:39:00.000-07:00

His index finger tapped his cards slowly and passively, then suddenly decisively and quickly.

I couldn't help but focus on the malformed digit. It was bulbous and thick, with a huge yellow fingernail that wrapped more than halfway around the circumference. The trunk like a raw carrot was worn white along the lines of his prints forming grotesque calluses. His other fingers did not match it for size nor did they match its awkwardness.

I chucked my cards toward the dealer feeling the action had landed on me. Thankfully, I wore sunglasses, and though I often used the anonymity of my eyes to gaze on the cocktail waitresses fatty cleavages or stare down an opponent looking for tells, this time I enjoyed my surreptitious study of the finger.

It was so thick it looked like two fingers merge into one. I though about twins absorbing one another in a womb, and wondered if some sort of prenatal osmosis had caused the disfigurement. His owner, a flashy lawyer, had no compulsion to hide it's ugliness, in fact, he seemed to wave the finger excessively. Almost as if he'd calculated the uneasiness it caused in his opponents and wanted everybody to be fully aware of his mutation.

As I felt a couple of cards slide under my hands, I watched his finger trap his hole cards with an audible thud. Surely, one of its siblings had to match it. I studied those fingers all the more, on both hands and none did. This finger, more petrified anteater snout, then human form intrigued me all the more with each second I study it. Perhaps, I mused it was not actually a finger, but his big toe. Sometimes doctors will give patients who lose their thumb their big toe as a replacement, surgically sewing it on. Maybe this guy lost a digit and replaced it at an early enough age, early enough to morph into it's thumblike shape and growing into the monster it now was. Except it was his finger not his thumb. Maybe they tried it with an index finger. More radically, I concluded perhaps it was someone else's transplanted toe-thumb given to him upon their death and the loss of his finger, maybe his brother, and they grew up the son of carpenter.

Disinterestedly I saw my cards were a pair of fours. If I wasn't distracted I might have tried to play them but my focus was only on the finger. I tossed them into the muck and ignored the dealer chastising me for folding out of turn. That's what it must be a confused toe-thumb finger. I looked around the table, to see if anybody else was as taken by the aberrant finger as I was. The lady to his left certainly was. I watched her beady eyes, sunken beneath ample sweaty flesh, linger on the finger.

She was heavy, but I say that only to be polite, more accurately, and more bluntly she was obese. Her folds spilled out of her top that was about two years too thin for her, or depending on the speed of her consuming two months. I pondered just for a moment how long ago that shirt fit her, and how much longer she'd squeeze her bingo wings into it's sleeves, but then the finger brought me back to my primary train of though.

It's owner was pointing it, like a loaded bazooka, at me.

"Bub, you sleeping over there?" He asked. "I love it when these guys wear their sunglasses, watcha hiding from? The law? The TV cameras..." the finger swept through the air in a circle, like a staff held by Moses, with the business end baring down on me.

"I'm hiding from the finger," I thought. I said nothing but raised my eyebrows and slightly shrugged a nonreply.

"Cat got your tongue?" He made a circle in the air with the finger, the air swooshed as though each molecule was pushing away from touching it's repulsive form.

The table laughed. I noticed the huge woman's body rippled in literal waves, breasts indistinguishable from belly, one gelatinous jolly mass, chuckling her amusement. Her eyes told a different story, they were only on the finger and they harbored contempt. Darting from player to player I saw the entire table was now transfixed by the finger.

The man behind the finger, sneered at me again, "You a mute? You dumb boy?"

"Yes scared quiet by your social scar," I thought but I shrugged again though the finger was starting to get to me.

"You know when someone's talking to you, it's rude not to reply," the finger wagged into my face, like a ragged python in the reeds.

The dealer tossed out another hand, but the action paused as the finger stayed in my face. Finally, I felt forced to talk.

My disgust steeling my will, I mumbled, "My apologies... but I don't like fingers in my face... and even more unsettling is that crippled, toe-thumb with its own elbow wagging in my face," the mumble turned to talk and the talk turned to a yell as I found vocalization to my thoughts, "so kindly either put that away or risk losing it and ending up much better for it, because I feel, I'm going to gnaw that off with my own teeth, if that's the only means I have, so I suggest you get it out of my face NOW!"

With a jump, I came out of my slumber, the lawyer tapping me awake as it was my turn to act. Gathering myself, I folded my 7-3 off suit, and as I did, I saw the most peculiar mole on the man across from me.

Aussie Millions Winners.

2007-12-18T22:58:00.000-08:00

Congrats to the Full Tilt Blogger winners. Wish I had heard of this opportunity earlier as many of these guys completely outclassed my pedestrian entry below. Next year, if they host it again, I'll put some time into it and try and have a better showing. Here's the results. Winner got a 6 day trip to the Aussie Millions all expenses paid and a 10k (Aussie) buy-in to the main event. Pretty sweet.

Blogger Entries

Blog Name
Player ID
Placing
The_Goat_Speaks 2 3 4
Julius_Goat
Winner
Creativity Breeds Madness
Fuel55
Winner
My Poker Blog
luckyjimdixon
Runner Up
Stochastic Confessions
jasper6294
Honorable Mention, Humor
The Obituarium
JoeSpeaker
Honorable Mention, Literary
Low Limit Grinder
GCox25
ramblings of a mad man
SirWALGMan
Aussie Millions Win
Kajagugu
High On Poker
HighOnPoker
Poker Girl In Vegas
CarmenSinCity
Mow…En…Um…Down
mowenumdown
Exploits of a PokerTart
ptart
Instant Tragedy: Just Add Water
InstantTragedy
Katitude
katitude
Loving & Loathing Poker
Louddwnunder
Bam-Bam In Bedrock
BamBamCan
Beer City Poker
NightRanger
PlayerN
gcp
Big Poker Dreams, Small Bankroll
newinnov
Up a Lazy River
AgSweep
Making Sense of Reality
Pioke
Mission WSOP
BJ316
Mr Subliminal's Blog
mrsubliminal
sell the kids
sellthekids
Medusa's Castle 2
pvanharibo
Bayne's Poker Suffering
bayne_s
Dear Poker Diary
surflexus
What're The Odds?
Drive11186

Aussie Millions: Short Story

2007-12-09T19:09:00.000-08:00

(Full Tilt is doing a promotion for bloggers involving fictional blog posts from the: Aussie Millions as I just signed up there I thought I'd enter, go to poker and you too can post some absurdity).

Day 1 at the Aussie Millions:
+Lost my luggage, all I have in my carry on bag is a Stuff Magazine, a USA Today's living section and an English/Austrian dictionary. My mom meant well. She also gave me some Ricola which was even stranger if she really thought I was going to the Alps wouldn't there be plenty there?
+Went to the hotel and tried to get some sleep but my body was confused by the hemispheres and whole other side of the world stuff so I ended up just watching infomercials. Did you know that in Australia instead of Australians trying to sell you stuff the foreign pitchman is always Canadians.
+Played some hold 'em in the cash games. I asked somebody about the conversion rates and how it affected the chips. Apparently it has something to do with a wanker whatever that is.
+Cash game was tough as I was completely, utterly card-dead, I didn't have a single hand to play.

Day 2 at the Aussie Millions
+I saw my favorite Full Tilt pros, who are really my favorite Poker pros period (and that has nothing to do with me winning my trip from them) milling about the lobby. I overheard them say they hate asskissers, I told them I completely agreed and that I admired their integrity for being above flattery. Speaking of Poker's best looking spokesmen and women, Phil Ivy, Howard Lederer, and Eric Seidel are the three most likely to win according to the odds makers, and I'd have to go with the Tilters myself if I were a betting man. Wait, I'm a poker player, I am a betting man. Time to find a bookie, I've got some catching up to do.
+After catching my breath I was nearly run over by a scooter/wheel-chair thing. To my surprise, Mike Matusow was doing wheelies, I don't think it was his, as the plate on the back said "Dolly," and an older gentleman in a cowboy hat was chasing him down the hallway. In a panic, Matusow crashed into Andy Black in a monumental blow-up. There was some fear the Mouth might be injured as he wasn't talking. Strangely at just that moment Mr. Peanut was walking by and saw the prone Matusow and starting taking some cheap shots on him and something about jumping him at last year's world series and payback being an angry peanut.
+ Later, as I milled through the hallways I'd go barely go two feet without hearing the most riveting bad turn of card stories I had ever heard. I was enthralled, and couldn't help but eavesdrop as each story got more and more unbelievable. If only I had the time I'd document those sets that lost to runner-runner straights, those full houses that lost to runner-runner quads on the board and higher kicker in the opponent's hand. I could listen all day to those unfortunate players. Finally, I made it out, but upon doing so I realized that I had spent so much time listening to bad beats, that I had to turn around and come back in again. The big event was about to start and I was playing on Full Tilt's dime so I had to represent.
+Walking back toward the tournament area, I must say, as fascinating as those stories were they were staring to get just a little bit annoying.
+Inside I found my seat and went card dead. I couldn't get pocket aces, kings or queens if my life depended on it. I got Jacks a couple of times, Ace-Queen, and a lot of suited connectors but nothing playable.
+Mid-way through the tournament Allen Cunningham sat down at the table. I kept hearing a red-haired little man in the background point and say, "HE'S ALLEN CUNNINGHAM."
+John Juanda and Jennifer Harmon also sat down at the table after a couple of hours. Finally, I got pocket rockets and could play a hand. Some idiot called my all in with Kings and I was able to double up. I told him he was a donkey.
+After a couple more hours of being card dead with no high pairs, Juanda told me I was the loosest player he had ever seen. I couldn't believe it. I decided to just play kings and aces and ruled out the pocket queens from my starting requirements. I must admit I did steal once from the button by raising 3x with pocket 10s so maybe that was what Juanda was talking about.
+Right before the dinner break I ran into another fish who called my all in with kings when I had aces so I doubled up.
+I learned some new words of flattery, Nit, Rock, and Tight. For the heck of it, I looked them up in the Austrian dictionary just to see what they might have meant.

Day 3 at the Aussie Millions
+Day 2 was a long day which was capped off by me getting checked to in the big blind and making a 10 high straight with my 9 and 10 of hears. Some idiot called me with a 5 and a 9 for a smaller straight. Plenty of fish in the sea for us sharks and I was eager to do a little more poaching on as the cards went up in the air.
+So, again the card-dead thing continued. If only I had something playable. I get such bad luck.
+For lunch I tried some of the local cuisine and had a vegemite sandwich. It wasn't quite peanut butter as I expected but it wasn't too bad.
+My luggage finally came in so I could change clothes. I found my iPod which helps me focus at the table. Unfortunately, I didn't pack the headphones. Jennifer Harmon told me to just buy some new ones. I reminded her we were in Australia and that they couldn't possibly be compatible. She laughed and asked if I was joking.
+I flopped a set of kings and laid them down when I got reraised on a board with Ks2h8d, but finally I was getting my share of the cards as I got AA five times. Three times nobody played with me but I doubled up the other two times.
+This little Canadian whose name escapes me sat down at the table and started telling everybody what cards they held. He claimed he always knew. As he talked I realized he should move to Australia because they love Canadian pitch men, and he's terrible at the cards playing weird hands all the time.
+The rest of the day was somewhat uneventful.
+IF YOU CALL MAKING THE MONEY UNEVENTFUL. I also survived something called the bubble. Apparently people start playing real poker at this critical stage and only showed down big hands. Well, except for the idiot big stacks that seemed to fire away at every pot.
+When I left that night, I heard more of those bad beat stories and regretted not having remembered a pen to write them down. Each one is so fresh and so new.
+I'm mad I still haven't seen a boxing Kangaroo.
+I tried a Fosters beer, I said, "It's Australian for beer mate!" I must have given them some U.S. Money because they wouldn't stop yelling for a wanker.

Day 4 Aussie Millions
+I made the final table and though I'm sitting with my idols I'm not scared of them at all. There is also a local guy with a soul patch. The fans seem to like him. Strangely though, I kept missing a real celebrity because at any given moment they'd start chanting "Ozzie" but Mr. Osbourne was never to be seen. Nor was his friend Mr. Oy.
+Somebody called me a nitfish. Again, I'm not so sure what that means, but I'm fairly confident it's a compliment. I had a fairly decent run of cards but finally I got knocked out in 2nd place when my pocket Aces got cracked. I heard this brat of a man, some idiot named Phil something giving an interview to the local media even though he had gone busted the day before talking about the guy who made a set of kings. He talked about that guy dodging bullets like he was superman or something. I mean really the real story was I lost with pocket Aces. You never see that.
+I'm eager to go back to the states. Even though my luggage arrived, I realized my clothes were packed dirty. I had forgotten that my clothes probalby wouldn't be compatible with an Australian washing machine so I smelled a little bit.
+I didn't get to meet Crocidile Dundee so I'm starting to think that movie wasn't a true story. Russell Crowe was nowhere to be seen either.
+Before I caught my plane home, I saw some football on the TV. I must say I'm surprised they got rid of the pads and the line of scrimmage.

Part III: Zeppelins and A Melted Snowman

2007-12-04T09:20:00.000-08:00

You grimly studied the cash in front of Mr. Barrymore and watched Maurice take his second place winnings and hold them your way. It wasn't just your friends waiting on your decision, these two smiling sharps, knew who was going to make the call. An excuse eluded you.

Mr. Barrymore eyed you comically with an exaggerated adjustment to his monocle, "What's it going to be then? Hey? Am I looking at a yellow streak running down the backs of New Orleans elite? Are these stakes too high for this poor little rich group? You know one time I played cards on a zeppelin trip in New Jersey. The game got so intense that when the balloon landed we continued on at the airfield after everybody else had disembarked. I lost every red cent to my name that day from a couple of officers in the Navy. But you know who was the luckiest fella in the tri-state area, Me. I missed my connecting flight on a little known dirigible called the Hindenburg..."

The crowd got drawn into his story, Maurice walked over and got some chips, as Mr. Barrymore continued, "so it was not two seconds after I lost my last hand, chasing some sort of empty straight when that thing blew, I spent some time in the Great War and I never felt an explosion that big. An older gentleman's teeth were blown clear out of his mouth, across the cards and into the forehead of one of those Army boys... Navy... Navy boys, and they bit in and stuck. So the airfield is still shaking from the blast, and I looking at a first lieutenant with wood teeth hanging from his eyebrows..."

Even you fell into the stories, as Maurice casually cashiered the chips and people dug into the wallets to play. The question was no longer on the table, there would be a cash game and everybody was playing, and Mr. Barrymore held court even longer... "But it was then, on that very infamous day, and god bless those poor victims, and that leftenant with the teeth in his head, that I told myself, gentlemen, I told myself, I would never miss the opportunity to play cards if the game was good and the company like yourselves is even better. Now, let's us play lest a Zeppelin fall on our heads too. Seize the day gentleman"

The game started feebly as people felt each other out, and kept a watchful eye on Mr. Barrymore and Maurice. Finally, Judges Broussard, a burly, cantankerous old goat, got dealt a big hand and bet into Mr. Barrymore. Mr. Barrymore made a couple of crying calls and then lost the big pot. Mr. Barrymore showed his hand a busted inside straight draw. The judge sniffed in disdain and Mr. Barrymore's play.

Maurice started to win a succession of small pots, and you thought to yourself how you noticed in the tournaments he seemed to pick up all the free money, and he was even better at this in the cash game. Mr. Barrymore chided him for never being able to take down a large pot. Maurice responded, "I'm not losing them either. The way you are going it's going to take a Zeppelin crash for you to get out of here with anything but the lint in your pockets. Streetcar is going to turn you down."

As play continued their banter, turned to bickering, and they seemed genuinely at odds with one another. Maurice half-stood after one bad beat put the bulk of his chips in front of Mr. Barrymore and Maurice sneered at his friend with a derisive "You like a dog chasing it's own tail. One day you are going to catch it and not have a tail, that's what." As play settled down, and Maurice sulked over his lost chips and snidely criticized Mr. Barrymore, Mr. Barrymore barely noticed as he too busy manning a bottle of scotch and filling every one's glasses with generous helpings.

The chips were definitely going his way, and if not for another, long tall story, of him being on a Transcontinental Railroad Car in the Rockies somewhere playing an impromptu game with an Indian Chief, your game might have lost some players. As it was, the story had ample twists and turns, with Mr. Barrymore losing a deed to an oil-well to the Indian Chief, that he had only won the day before off a Texan in Kansas City. But as the Chief couldn't read English, he gave him a page from a Sears-Roebuck catalog, which ironically was the shipping instructions for glass beads. He laughed, and so did the others, and though you tippled a scotch or two, you were alert enough to watch the money empty onto Mr. Barrymore's stack.

As another hour passed, more of the same continued, but more of the players were realizing this raconteur was in fact fleecing them and the mood turned a little somber. Now instead of an infectious laugh, Mr. Barrymore's bellows were politely chuckled at but never joined. Finally, it was Maurice, who had managed to get back to even that broke up the guffaws from Mr. Barrymore's story telling, "Well, well, now, now, it seems the hour is late and this watch," Maurice tapped his grimy timepiece twice, "is telling me," he put an ear to it like a silent movie star, "yes, it's telling me the journey is long and it's best I best skedaddle now, Mr. Barrymore should we be on our way?"

Mr. Barrymore jerked quickly around, sloshing the glass of scotch in one hand and his bowler comically falling over his eyes again. This time there was no saving grace. His other hand with his cards still wedge between two stubby fingers fixed the bowler and flashed just for a moment his hole cards to half the table: it looked clearly like 8 of hearts, 8 of diamonds.

"Listen here Maurice, you trouble me to play in this game, a fine game it is, populated by this Crescent City's finest, and in the middle of this my best hand in hours tell me your watch is talking to you. Poppycock! We finish this hand," Mr. Barrymore admonished him.

"After the hand we leave, and leave I shall, whether we are a we or not," said Maurice.

Affecting a whisper, Mr. Barrymore leaned toward his friend, "And leave a winner shall I because I got that dumb judge over there on the hook. Watch and learn."

The "dumb" Judge Broussard heard every word and turned beet red. Before giving Barrymore a piece of his mind he stole a glance at his hole cards and reigned in his composure.

Mr. Barrymore whipped back to face the table and spilt his entire scotch on his neighbor. Flustered, and fixing his bowler again, he put down his scotch dabbed at his neighbors groin with the table cloth. Dr. Fenman jumped up in anger. Mr. Barrymore begged forgiveness but his welcome had been worn out. No longer were your tablemates imploring you to make a decision with their eyes, now they were demanding it.

Realizing the scotch had worked it's course you responsibly announced, "Gentleman this is the final hand. We'll have tomorrow for more."

The table nodded in agreement. Dr. Fenman agreed, "I should think so."

Mr. Barrymore now suddenly very drunk, "Because of me! I never! If this be the last hand then I raise in the dark! One thousand... dollar bills."

Dr. Fenman still irritated from the spill tsk-ed, "You can't raise in the dark if you've already looked at your hand and unfortunately for you so have w..."

"No, I say allow it," the red-faced Judge Broussard interjected.

"But... we... Ah.... O.k." Dr. Fenman got it. In fact the entire table had gotten it, now drunk and seeing their money stacked neatly in front of Mr. Barrymore, his act was tiresome, they wanted him to lose and for the judge to get his dignity back. Broussard must have had a pair of 8s beat badly.

Your moral compass asunder, now you watched as the men you worried were going to get cheated were about to cheat the stranger. Despite your loyalties you could not let it happen, "Mr. Barrymore, I must say..."

He spun on you with an evil glint in his eye, "Are you in the hand?"

"No, I folded..."

"Then you must say nothing! The only one who must say anything is the judge... You call my thousand judge?"

"I don't, I raise you one more," the judge said.

"I'm sorry, I must tell you when you spilt your drink you exposed your cards," you spit out to Mr. Barrymore despite the venom your first attempt received.

"I don't care what you think you saw! I call that raise. Flop 'em dealer," Barrymore stared intently at the board. Out came an Ace of hearts, a Jack of diamonds, and a 10 of diamonds.

"I guess, I bet a thousand more," said Barrymore.

"I see that!" the judge retorted.

A seven of diamonds fell on the turn. Another 1000 was bet and called. A jack of hearts hit the river.

"My last 1000 dear judge," Mr. Barrymore pushed into the pot, "if not for this being a table stakes game I'd bet the other 5 in my pocket."

"I'll honor said bet if you want to make it!" The judge said defiantly.

"I do!" Barrymore whipped out a wad of cash. "Where's yours?"

"Do you know who I am?"

"Yes, I do, but if my money's on the table for you to honor it, I need $5000 to match it. You only got a few hundred in front of you. Borrow it from your friends," Mr. Barrymore eyed them.

A couple of players pushed a few hundred to the judge and then he looked to Dr. Fenman who had the most chips but was a tight borderline cheap player. He hesitated, "Let me see your cards judge and I'll think about it."

The judge showed him his pocket cards, and Fenman's eyes nearly shot out of his head, "Yes, yes, take the chips and here's a 1000 more to raise him."

Barrymore looked quickly at Maurice, who out of nowhere pulled out a neat roll of bills, to match the bet.

"It's a call?" The judge flipped over pocket aces for a full house.

Then Barrymore turned over a 89 of diamonds for a straight flush.

The table was aghast.

PART II: Maurice's Friend

2007-11-12T11:16:00.000-08:00

You watched him open the door for Maurice, and watched Maurice playfully doff his cap and insist his friend enter first, and with a quick step Maurice followed suit, not even touching the handle. Maybe Maurice had OCD and that was why he never touched the handle, you pondered for a moment, until you realized just how dirty he always was.

For every bit of folksy tramp Maurice was, his friend was genteel and tweedy aristocrat. Gold jewelry lined his fingers and wrists, a poppy sat in his lapel and a bold wide tie hung to his waist accenting the pinstripes to his tailored suit. He wore a bowler, probably concealing his depleted hairline, and he had a sparkle to his eye. That being said, the gold was somewhat dull, a stray string belied the moneyed and pressed look of his suit, and his shoes were scuffed, polished, but scuffed.

From the start, he did not appear to be what he presented himself to be. To you, he radiated flim-flam man and his crisp chatter, though disarming, only reinforced it. The table filled with intelligent lawyers, judges, councilmen and doctors also immediately was suspicious. Eyes darted to one another as Maurice's friend approached with a wide smile.

"Good Evening kind sirs, my friend Maurice has told me of your game and that there might be an open seat tonight?" He nodded his head to the two open chairs. Despite his too large bowler slightly riding down his forehead in the process he still look noble and dignified as he took to his seat. "Yes, yes?"

He was down before anyone could reply. The table took in a silent breath and you realized they were looking to you to decline the spot. You wondered how to frame the excuse and then, Maurice was upon you. His thin smile in your face, "Mr. Henry Tyson Esquire won't be here tonight, and as I," he fished out his pocket watch which probably didn't work,"am on time, and you have a practice allowing those not on time, to have their seat taken by those that only show part of the time, it seems well within the rules that Mr. Barrymore be allowed to sit with us, for not only is seat open it'll be open all of the night and it's his to take as no part-timers are here to stake a claim, so it's taken. You are so kind."

He smiled again.

That was that. Maurice' double-talk had cut off all possible avenues of nos and his friend Mr. Barrymore was already cutting a deck. He smelled of Lavender, actually he wreaked of Lavender, and if not for that being a pleasing scent to you, it probably would have been quite a distraction. You watched two of the older judges light their first cigar an hour earlier than they normally would and you were quite confident it was to counter the cologne.

Mr. Barrymore talked with a roll, his vocabulary an extensive one, and like Maurice he often made little sense, he just made little sense with grander adjectives. However, Maurice was an accepted oddity and novelty that was more laughed at than with, but Barrymore had grand tales that meandered through a litany of famous names and often ended with a belly laugh that was contagious. You quickly realized it wasn't so much the stories that were funny but Barrymore's laughing.

Barrymore played through the tournament, and made a decent mess of many of the hands, but he had a lucky streak that enabled him to go deep enough to just miss the money. Barrymore missed a flush draw and boldly proclaimed, "I played those two because they were suited, and one night I once won every hand with a flush or a straight, on a cruise on the Atlantic, you'd think with the titanic Titanic crash I'd avoid such venues, but I do like the chase and though I bludgeoned my opponents with suck-outs, I can't refrain from playing same-said hands anon. Because I when I hit, I take all the chips. Alas... though it is you that have all my chips." He bellowed laughter and the table followed suit, "You'd think I'd learn. Forsooth, the only thing chasing has ever got me is a couple of ex-wives, a treatment of penicillin, and busted at cards." He laughed harder, "I jest, gentlemen, about the penicillin... it wasn't one treatment it was two." Suddenly, you realized he had fished out a monocle, and with each guffaw it fell anew.

When the tournament ended, with Maurice grousing about finishing second again, Mr. Barrymore pulled out a stack of greenbacks, "I know Maurice says you gentleman sometimes finish the night with a cash game or two and I just want you to know I'll play." He spread the hundreds provocatively, "But beforewarned I'll not chase the straights, just the flushes so expect a better effort." His eyes twinkled.

The table's unease was palpable. All eyes turned to you again...

PART I: Maurice

2007-11-07T11:48:00.000-08:00

Maurice slithered into rooms and slinked out of them. Sometimes you'd be playing and he'd be there over your shoulder stealing a peak at your hole-cards and then smiling that thin grin when you'd be startled by his hot breath on your neck. You never saw him open a door, and rarely saw him enter, but when you did it would be on the heels of another at the last second as the door was almost closing.

His belly looked as though it had a belly of it's own, as he'd wear a fanny pack forward under his nondescript grey sweatshirt, and digging into it would often come with a show of the larger white hairy stomach. Fortunately, he'd often just undo the buckle and set the entire pouch on the table. It was swollen with dollar coins and dirty, wrinkled five and ten dollar bills. They were always sticky and despite his promises to "wash 'em next time" his currency never cleaned up. It was hard not to imagine him trolling a circuit of small denomination treasure troves like under motel vending machines, amongst the dirty cushions of dilapidated sofas in flophouse lobbies, or beneath the floor mats of unlocked parked cars just to get his buy-in every week.

He'd always arrive late, and sometimes his seat would be filled by a part-timer, and he'd rankle his nose at you, glare at his century old pocket watch, and spittle, "Always early are we?" he'd sigh, "Early it is aren't it." Then he fade into the background watching some hands and minutes later he be gone with no one seeing him leave.

As eccentric as Maurice was, sometimes wearing fingerless leather gloves which only highlighted the mechanic's stump rather than concealed it, he was sharp as a whip. Once in a heated discussion about him and much debated realization that nobody knew how he got an invite to the game in the first place, it was hypothesized that Maurice was one of those career panhandlers. Maybe he lived in Old Metairie in a quiet cottage, but commuted to downton New Orleans to prey on the tourists. Yes, you had all agreed it'd be an easy life as long as he had no drug problem, a good patter, and a sympathy inducing aura. He certainly he had the second two and despite the smell of stale cigarettes he never seemed drug addled only odd.

That story quickly became the accepted truth. When Maurice was questioned about profession or education, he'd lapse into his double talk and answer with a wink or a reply like, "Goat milker, tropadore, and sandwich board wearer--this week." He could avoid a question like a silky tongued politican and if cornered would often overbet the pot and put the focus back on to the game.

With few records kept, despite many players being accountants and number lovers, it was specualted that Maurice was definitely one of the winningnest players. He often came in second, occasionally first, and several times he'd be out early. He'd leave with a similar speech each time, along the lines of "I thank you for the trouble of allowing my unskilled, dimwittted play, play amongst you pillars of society, country-club members, and aris-tocracy. I trust you'll allow me to make another donation, same time next week."

His play consisted of amazing calls, bold bluffs, and people reading skills. At times it felt like he could read the cards that everyone held, but if he was cheating he was smart enough to never win too much. You had done some research on sharps and discovered his stumped finger was an advantage in dirty dealing if he was one. When discussion of Maurice came up and this was submitted to some of the players, everybody avoided his deal.

It didn't take long for him to notice he took many uncontested pots when the cards in his hand, and some of the worst players, who's ego demanded they could only be beaten by being cheated, didn't even look at their cards and just returned them to him. He'd smile and finger the button. "Position is a powerful weapon in this game. But what's your favorite position is the real question? Ah, judges?" Then he'd rake a pot.

Yet, despite all those concerns that Maurice was a sharp, nobody ever asked for him to leave or accused him to his face. He was too much a novelty and a breath of fresh air, despite his presence demanding an air freshener for any room, for anyone to really object. Besides wasn't if fun to beat a real life card cheat.

But then one night Maurice brought a friend...

Toe to Talon

2007-09-20T21:28:00.000-07:00

Long, spiny fingers lay like ribbons over the two cards. The knuckles stretched opaque as if the thin bones themselves were apt to split their fleshy casement at any second. Triangulated fingernails slightly pressed into the green of the table and though my gaze was transfixed by the wraith like hands and their slow elegant movements I could feel the oppressive eyes scorching my face with study. I stole a glance at him and for a moment all was still between us.

I looked quickly back at his skeletal digits and struggled to gather my thoughts. The forefingers traced tiny circles almost breaking the felt, and after a moment at most, hypnotically they tempted me to look elsewhere. I felt transfixed, a puppet at the end of a taunt string, tugged smoothly by those fingers. I resisted, but as I slowly lost the battle, my eyes tracked upward with his rising hands, seeing his ebony shirt, loosely folded over his thin frame. A fabric so dark, it appeared a pool of limitless empty black. His right hand with it's clawed fingernail moved upward slowly guiding my gaze to the bony point that was his chin.

My eyes now on his face, I was only more compelled to look steadily upward. Where I dared not look before, I was now helpless to the pull of his scorching eyes. Up past the thin and wasted nose, up past the points of the twin inverted spade tattoos that spilled into his hollow cheeks like dark tears, until at last I saw his encircled eyes. Those vacant, sunken eyeballs steadily focused on mine. I felt stripped naked and exposed before him.

For a moment all was still between us.

Then with a rush, noise dulled and muted, all filtered away. I lost concept of mood or temperature or even time, there were only his eyes. They enveloped me. It was as if their stare swallowed me whole, deeper into their dark depths. Within a fleeting heartbeat all else was lost. I struggled to swim through the force of their cyclonic tug.

Thought ceased, unsustained and forgotten. Even my involuntary systems like breathing and blood flow seemed to stop with an icy chill. I was overcome in the miasma. Only emptiness.

Then a lone thought, called to me from my strangled consciousness, a survival instinct not yet quelled and it urged me to break the gaze. Panic suddenly reset my body, and though I strained to look away, though I knew I must, I could not. I felt a paraplegic in a burning building suddenly ironically regaining the feeling in my legs only to feel the lapping suffocating white hot flame overcome me.

The panic quickly replaced by a slow dull rhythm and even my basest survival instinct was overcome when a guttural, echoing atonal voice rang out, "The only choice is to fold. All others bring darkness. The only choice is to fold. All others bring hellfire." My right hand started to move my cards to the muck, I wanted only to end it.

Just as I was about to release them...

...suddenly, inexplicably I found resistance anew.

My hand hovered there...

...and then a new voice rang out.

It was my own, but as if spoken by another and it said, "I call."