LUCKY ERROR

 

        One afternoon in a Parisian game of dealer’s choice, I won a hand that elicited  admiration from nearly every player at the table.  The consensus among my opponents was that I had pulled off a brilliant coup.  Actually, all I had done was commit a lucky error.  What made the hand particularly pleasing was the expression of shock on the face of the victim of my stupidity.  Universally detested, Charlie the Rat was the most ‘nouveau’ of all nouveaux riches, and pretty much the richest.  Quick to let everyone know how much he spent on jewelry, automobiles and women, the man would rather have been hit by a bus than treat you to a cup of coffee.  If astute at business, the rat was proud to admit he was lacking in culture.  Music to Charlie was the whirring of machines in his button factory.  Books were something his accountants kept.  As detestable as he was, you had to admire the bastard’s frankness.

 

 We were playing at the Lido.  No, not on stage of the world famous cabaret but in an office on an upper floor.  By placing a collapsible round board on top of a desk, a pair of local businessmen had converted a conference room into a miniature poker parlor.  A dozen metal chairs served as furniture, along with two waste paper baskets and a small refrigerator.  Even though the two organizers were successful merchants, neither one of them was willing to cough up a few extra dollars needed to provide a modicum of comfort.  Their only extravagance was cards.  Hundreds upon hundreds of unopened decks were neatly arranged inside a half dozen large cartons of discount- purchased playing cards.

 

 In a late round that afternoon, the deal came to Charlie.  The unbelievable cheapskate asked if we weren’t fed up playing Texas Hold ‘Em hand after hand.

 

“If you want to try a game of luck, go play baccarat,” he said.

 

What he did not say was that draw poker gives the dealer an advantage in position.  Seated seventh of nine, who was I to oppose his choice?  Charlie mumbled a few words I didn’t catch.  He must have said something negative.  He was always carping, criticizing and complaining.  His habit of contesting hands he lost got on everybody’s nerves.   If he had not been so bloody rich, the organizers would have kicked him out long ago.  Still, they were dreaming if they thought we would ever see a penny of his.

 

It was hot in the crowded room.  I guess I was half asleep.  A while back I had decided to stop playing on the Champs-Elysees, but continued to go there in order to recruit some of their crazy players for my other games.  That was not going to be easy.  A table's greatest assets are their suckers.  Those Lido bastards weren’t about to give up their patsies without a fight.

 

 None of the first six players opened.  Since I was dealt a pat straight that was good for me. We were playing low to high, or so I thought.  Now if only JoJo in the eighth seat and Charlie in last did not open, the game would revert from lowball to poker.
 
 “Pass,” said Jo.

 

 “Open at poker,” said Charlie.  “Four hundred fifty francs.”

 

 “Poker?” I thought to myself.  “Did I hear the man say poker?"

 

  Of course it was poker!  How could I be such an ass?  We were playing high to low, not low to high.  That tightwad son of a bitch Charlie knew it was easier for the dealer to steal the antes at high than at low.

 

 None of the first six players came in.  Either they had lousy cards or they preferred not to risk ninety bucks on Charlie.  What did I know?  It was my turn to bet and I was not about to give the button manufacturer a chance to contest my raise.

 

 “Eleven fifty,” I said. 

 

In this game, bumping the pot seven hundred francs or $140 was no big deal.  Nor was it meant to be. I was inviting the rat to follow.

 

 Charlie did not hesitate to come in.  For all I knew the creep might have a half decent hand.

 

 “How many cards?” he asked.

 

 “None,” I said smugly.

 

 The rat nodded knowingly.  His forehead was wrinkled and his lower lip was protruding.

 

 “Two for me,” he said, then added: “one hundred francs on the blind.”

 

 “All-in,” I said, pushing my chips into the pot. 

 

 Charlie did not bother to look at his cards.  Sure of himself, he announced he was paying.

 

 I laid down my straight to the ten.   Poor Charlie!  The color drained from his face.  His eyes dilated and his mouth dropped open.  His trip jacks had cost him six thousand francs or twelve hundred dollars.

 

 “What is the meaning of this?” he said.  “How could you pass a hand like that in seventh position?”

 

 “I had no choice,” I said.  “I wasn't sitting eighth.”

 

 Many years later I saw Charlie’s obituary in The Figaro.  Once again I remembered the shocked expression on his face.  He never found out that I had not opened that hand due to a misunderstanding.  Happily, he made it easy for me when he declared he was opening at poker.   Had the rat merely said: “open,” he would have died a few thousand francs richer.