(no subject)

Georges de Frayville, an acquaintance from Paris called me last night. He was staying at the Wynn.  Would I like to come over for a drink?  You bet I would!  Besides greeting a familiar face from the good old days, Georges (French spelling) used to be one of our top poker clients.  Aristocratic and snooty - meaning rich rather than classy - Monsieur de Frayville had the delightful habit of throwing oodles of fresh money after a few losing chips.  

 

 Driving across town, I thought of the gentleman who had built the great palace.  While I deeply admire Mr. Wynn, I try to steer clear of his casino.   Not because of any defects in the place, but because - until yesterday – it had not been very lucky for me.   Well, let me amend that slightly: could management not have shelled out another $100 or $200 on butter dishes to go along with the rumored $2.7 billion spent on everything else?  I mean, here in the lap of the utmost luxury imaginable, a patron in the breakfast room (breakfast being a 24/7 affair in Las Vegas, the meal might just as well be lunch or dinner) is served the most common supermarket butter, wrapped in difficult-to-open frozen paper patties.  Really, Gentlemen, no Parisian restaurateur with an eye for quality would commit such a faux pas.  While I am at it,  I could add a few ideas concerning valet parking and the upgrading of a not very interesting wine list, but I’ll wait until Mr. W- calls me personally before getting to those.

 

 Unfortunately, Georges did not want to play poker.  An inveterate gambler, Monsieur de Frayville is one Frenchman who prefers games of chance to ones that require a little thought, a touch of patience, some discipline, a wee bit of psychology and a modicum of self-knowledge.  Nor was he about to buy me a drink.

 

 “Come on,” he said after we had exchanged two Gallic cheek-kisses.  “Direct me to the baccarat tables.  I want to show your compatriots how to play a French game.”

 

 Since Georges had flown into town several days ago, I was sure he knew very well how to find every table in the house.  Once he fell into a gaming induced trance, I made my way to the poker room.

 

 I’ll say this about Las Vegas’ newest mega resort: there’s plenty of action.  Over a hundred players were occupying seats at the various poker tables.  A bit wary due to my recent lack of luck, I opted on the side of prudence by sitting at one of the more modest games.  Let me tell you, when it comes to low stakes no-limit Texas hold ‘Em at the Wynn, the blind structure, for some unaccountable reason is small blind: one dollar, large blind: three dollars.  Now when a player is used to one-two or two-five tables, those three-dollar chips can cause no little confusion.  Some of the players take them for ones, others for fives.  If you choose to make a ten or twenty dollar bet, someone, often the dealer, is likely to request you make it easy on everyone else by betting nine or twenty-one dollars.  A few of the more seasoned participants have learned how to skirt this problem.  Instead of announcing the amount of a bet they tell you the number of chips the are wagering.  “Call your bet, and raise twenty-four chips.”  Yeah, great! 

 

 Happily, even a mathematical dunce like me can figure some things out.  After about an hour and a half I began to catch on to the table of threes.  Down from two one hundred dollar

buy-ins to six little pink chips ($18), the bloody Wynn curse was at it again.  Damn that Georges!  Couldn’t he have gone to Caesar’s or the Mirage?

 

 Suddenly, confirmation that miracles will never cease to exist was happily revealed.  The player directly on my left raised my $3 big blind to $9.  Since  four other players followed, I willingly threw two more chips into the pot. All I had was the jack of hearts and the six of clubs, but what difference did that make?  I was playing the money, looking for a five to one payout with no concern for the card odds. 

 

The flop was six-ten of diamonds and the six of hearts.  A player betting 13 chips or $39 was called for a like sum by the man on his left, and by me for my remaining nine bucks.  That put $60 in a side pot, leaving $77 in the main pot ($81 minus a $4 rake).  The turn was the three of clubs and the river was the jack of spades.  Both of my adversaries were looking for diamond flushes that did not arrive.  After tipping the dealer two dollars, I had $75 in front of me.  On the very next hand I held two nines.  Still $125 behind, I limped in behind three other limpers.  The flop was six-eight-nine in three different suits. Out came the big blind with a $30 bet, followed by a lady on my right.  Afraid of a straight, I simply called.  A six turned over giving me a full house.  Big-Blind bet $42, followed by Madame, then by me which put me all-in.  The river was the queen of hearts.  Big blind went all-in, about $250.  By now I was sure that he held either two queens or two sixes.  Wrong!  When Madame threw her cards away (God alone knows why she followed), Big Blind proudly displayed a ten and a jack, giving him a straight to the queen, and giving me $220 after rake and tip.  Winning three of the next ten hands, I was $465 richer than when I had arrived.  That was thirty-seven times my money back from the initial jack-six of the big blind that brought about my change in fortune.  My fifteen minutes of happiness had finally arrived. (Not fame, Mr. Warhol, happiness.  Pure joy is what a poker player experiences during such a rush).

 

I looked for Georges but he was nowhere to be found.  His room did not answer.  Not that I cared.  He said he would be staying in Vegas another couple of days.  Now that the Wynn has become my casino of choice, perhaps I will look him up when I return to play tomorrow.

STRADDLING

Poker, like police work, requires a lot of patience.  Any detective will tell you he spends far more time in observation than in confrontation.  No doubt about it: plod along plod is the modus operandi for both professional dicks and regular players in Las Vegas card rooms.

 

 Caution and languor defined yesterday’s one-two no-limit game at the MGM Grand. I tell you, playing a hand was almost a chore.  Boredom, ennui and yawns were the afternoon’s keywords.  With five immovable rocks pitted against five stationary boulders, you would have thought betting was against the law.

 

If it's axiomatic that when one’s opponents are playing wild and wooly it’s better to lay back and wait for good cards, then I guess the time to open up one’s game is when everyone else is half asleep.  So I figured yesterday’s game was as good a time as any to attempt a few straddles.

 

 In the world of finance a straddle is a tool whereby a speculator (usually in options) simultaneously takes a long and a short position.  Like straddling a horse, get it?  One of your legs is on the right while the other is on its left.  Hopefully, a trend will develop to indicate in which direction your speculation (one would be hard-pressed to call a straddle an investment) is moving.  A sharp observer will then close the contrary position and ride the other - winning - side home. 

 

 Other than speculation, I have no idea why doubling the big blind in Texas Hold ‘Em is called a straddle.  Rather than a hedge, such a move is clearly one-sided. While it serves to stimulate action and to give the participant the final word in the first round of betting, at no time are your legs on both sides of the beast.

 

 The first time I put up this unnecessary over-blind only one opponent came in.  Even though that was only four dollars, it seemed to scare the do-nothing players away.  Lo and behold, I was dealt a pair of tens.  Adding seventy-six dollars to my unseen bet, I went all-in.  Quickly, my caller dropped out.

 

"Maybe we should all start straddling," said the wise guy on my left. 

 

Of course nobody else did.  Dunce that I am, I alone continued to straddle when in third position.  True, that was only once every ten hands, but if you add up the sum involved over a period of time – well, you get the picture!

 

 After a while I said to the smart aleck next to me:

 

“Hey!  When are you going to follow through on your own suggestion?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” he said.  “I suppose you also expect me to put up eighty bucks to protect a four dollar-blind.”

 

“Was that a mistake?” I asked.

 

“Let’s put it this way: you won’t catch this player going all-in at twenty times his original bet.”

 

That was good to know.  Oh well, the fellow could not have been more than twenty-three years old.  I get the impression that young people today are taught to eschew disproportionate bets.  Some poker guru or some book must be telling them to double up or  to throw in bets equal to the size of the pot.  The idea is to build pots up so that you have something to win!  As smart as that might seem, it is not the only way to go.  If you do not make a few oversized bets, are you not inviting other players in?  For the most part, I would rather chase them out.  What can be more dangerous than letting an adversary see the next card?  That's not all!  Poker demands variance, in betting as well as in the choice of cards one plays.  Stick to formula betting and you might as well play baccarat or blackjack.

 

Eventually, I stopped straddling and asked the floor manager to find me a higher stakes game.  It took over half an hour until a seat at the two-dollar-five dollar table was available.  Just when my name was called, I was directly behind the big blind.  ‘One more time shouldn't hurt,’ I thought, placing four blue chips in front of me.

 

I’ll be Nick the Greek’s great uncle if I wasn’t dealt a pair of queens. After six players folded, an opponent who was heretofore invisible came limping in.  Man, this patsy-faced, bespectacled, bow tie-clad milquetoast could have earned a gold medal for non participation.  I mean, he hadn’t played two hands the entire session.  So when I went all-in for $65 and the tight-ass followed, all I could do was look upward and pray for another queen. 

 

You know what?  When a player gets it into his head that he is going to pay, don’t try to figure him out.  I haven't the slightest clue what went through this weirdo's mind.  Can you believe he paid me with the ace of diamonds and nine of clubs?  Pinch me, somebody, will you, I must be dreaming!  But don’t tell me not to make disproportionate bets, or not to straddle.  Because not only did I win that hand, I went to the more expensive table and kept straddling successfully the rest of the afternoon.

Grudge Plays

I liked the gentleman sitting at my left at yesterday afternoon’s no-limit Texas Hold ‘Em game at the Wynn. He spoke in a soft voice, had a sense of humor and showed me he had a king high flush when I dropped out against him with two pairs.

“Good fold,” he said. “I guess I was too expensive.”

Whether he was or wasn't mattered little. I abandoned the hand since previously I had noticed him toying with a large gold ring when he held the nuts. As soon as he started rubbing that ring again, I figured I’d better honor my observation. Is anything more fundamental to this game than picking up an opponent’s tells?

A few hands later I won a moderate-sized pot against a young lady who seemed particularly agitated. The look she gave me sent the temperature in the room down several degrees.

“That’s twice you’ve beaten that girl,” my neighbor said kindly. “Ease up, man. Can’t you see she’s a beginner?”

“How could you pay with a pair of sevens?” the girl asked bitterly.

“Intuition,” I replied. That was untrue. Her pattern of betting made it clear to me that she was bluffing. Holding good cards on previous hands her bets were noticeably more sizable.

Two seats to the left of my good-hearted neighbor, a gentleman long on chips but short on hair was arguing over a technicality.

“He said ten, not ten chips. That means ten dollars to me.”

“Not necessarily,” said the dealer.

“That bald headed bastard is at it again,” my neighbor whispered to me. “He loves to bully inexperienced players. Nothing would please me more than to wipe him out.”

Although I said nothing, I suspected my neighbor was heading the wrong way. In this game it’s a mistake to concentrate one’s efforts on a single opponent.

I won another hand from the young lady when she raised a hand in which I was dealt wired nines. A nine came up on the flop. After she checked, I went all-in. Perhaps my action seemed foolish, but it had a dual purpose. Might not she pay by thinking I was trying to psyche her, or might I not be demonstrating what a fine fellow I was by letting her off the hook?

“Good fold,” I said when she threw her cards away. “I was hoping you wouldn’t follow.”

“That’s a lot of bull,” said Baldy across the way. “You were trying to trick her.”

“Honi soit qui mal y pense,” I replied.

Not ten minutes later, Baldy raised the three-dollar big blind to twenty-one dollars. Mister nice-guy next to me was the lone caller. The flop came up queen-jack of clubs, ten of diamonds. Baldy bet twenty chips or sixty dollars.

“I’m all-in,” said my neighbor, pushing close to $250 into the pot.

Baldy hesitated before deciding to pay. My neighbor turned over the eight of diamonds and the nine of spades.

“Small straight,” he said with a smile.

The turn was the ace of clubs. ‘What lousy luck,’ I thought to myself. That was about the worst card possible for my new pal.

“Hell’s bells!” said my neighbor, thinking along the same line.

“Save your breath,” said his opponent. “I’m neither on a flush nor a straight.”

The river was another ace. There was no doubting Baldy’s victory this time. His trip queens had become a full house.

The fellow on my left let out a string of curse words sufficient to embarrass the U.S. Naval Academy after a West Point touchdown. Maybe he wasn’t so nice after all.

“And to that son of a bitch,” he concluded.

I held back from commenting about his coming in with an unsuited eight-nine after a raise by a tight player. Seek trouble, and you are likely to find it, n'est-ce pas?

Calm reigned at the table for about two and a half minutes. Dealt wired kings, I made a half-assed raise to nine dollars.

“I’m all-in,” said my distaff opponent when the bet came to her.

Poor girl. She must have had financial problems. Well, maybe not. After all, she had wagered more than a hundred bucks holding jack-ten of diamonds.

I caught a third king that I didn’t need. Nothing resembling a jack, ten, straight or flush appeared on the board. The only thing that came up was the young lady’s temper. While her vocabulary was not as colorful as the gentleman on my left, the inflection of her voice was pretty much the same.

Marathon Game

Early in my career as a Parisian poker pro I found myself in a game that seemed would never end. Karin, my German wife was visiting her mom so I had nothing better to do even though I was opposed to games that went beyond seven or eight hours. All one ends up doing besides getting thoroughly exhausted is hurting weaker opponents thus giving them an excuse to drop out.

Fifty-seven hours ago nine of us sat down to play poker. Now we are only seven. We took a half-hour break at midnight Sunday when Annie Alphand, our host's wife came home unexpectedly. Jacques Collard was sitting buck-naked. Annie let out a scream. Jean-Paul Alphand and Collard are surgeons. Together they run a successful clinic in a western suburb. I don't think either of them will be operating today.

Collard promised us he would take off his clothes if he ever recouped the five thousand dollars he was losing. He’s a nut. All poker players are nuts, doctors in particular. Collard was down about twenty-five thousand francs at dinnertime. That was last night. It seems like last week. Dinner was a couple of stale baguettes and a few pieces of old gruyere. The losers bitched and moaned about stopping to eat.

“The hell with food,” said Collard. “If I want dinner I’ll go to a restaurant. We’re here to play poker.”

“That’s not what you said when you were winning last time,” said Pedro Da Silva, a Portuguese broker in granite and marble.

“Oh, man, that was months ago.”

“What do you care about a few paltry francs?” asked Jacqueline, the lone female player at that session. “Between your clinic and your father’s fortune . . .”

“I’ll tell you how much I care,” said Collard. “If I get my money back I’ll run through the streets of Paris naked, singing the Marseillaise.”

“Keep your clothes on,” said Jacqueline. “There’s not that much to see when they’re off.”

“Can you believe that damn Bertier,” said Da Silva. “The moment he recovered his losses he lit out of here like a man on fire.”

“What else would you expect from an art dealer?” I said. “They’re all a bunch of crooks.”

“Hey, you, Americano,” said Alphand. “No comments from the foreign brigade.”

“I guess that lowball hand still sticks in your craw,” I said.

“Damn right it does. A pat six against my seven-five.”

“Will you people shut up and play,” said Collard. “Who cares what happened last week?”

A few hours later Collard won a monster pot at seven-card stud. We were playing dealer’s choice. The surgeon’s four nines beat Herve Simeon the photographer’s jacks over fives full house and Da Silva’s ace high flush. Collard’s mood suddenly turned for the better. He stood up on his chair and started to whistle. One by one he threw off his clothing before rushing to the front door.

“Get back here, idiot,” said Alphand. “I’ve got neighbors.”

“Woo, woo, woo,” shouted Collard. “Allons enfants de la patrie . . . »

He regained his seat but not his attire. Annie Alphand was not due back till the following day. When she came home early she was shocked to find her apartment decorated with cigarette butts, half-eaten sandwiches, empty bottles, two jars of urine and a naked physician.

“What in God’s name is this?” she sighed.

“This is my manhood,” said Collard.

“Quick,” said Simeon. “Somebody get a magnifying glass.”

Jean-Paul put an arm around his wife and led her away.

“This next hand,” said Herve, retrieving the cards, “is one I call Cannack.”

A pink pastel dawn is absorbing the last fingers of night. Up and down, up and down. We are on a mad roller coaster ride, in the bowels of a sinking canyon, traversing a drunken whirlpool. Since he got his money back, Jacques Collard has just about stopped playing.

“Is it true, Pedro,” he asks, “that you’ve been dating Catherine Deneuve?”

“Who told you that?”

“One of my patients.”

“How would a patient of yours know anything about me?”

“You’d be surprised. Call four hundred and raise six hundred.”

Pierre Pegon lets out a sharp whistle. “Peace, peace! He is not dead, he does not sleep.”

Pegon teaches English Lit at the Sorbonne. Shakespeare and Shelley are among his favorites. Since he is reciting in the original, Collard does not know what he is talking about.

“Go get ‘em, Jacquo,” says Jacqueline.

“He has awakened from this dream of life,” Pegon continues.

“All-in,” says Simeon. He uses the French word: ‘tapis.’

Collard makes a gurgling sound. He looks at Herve’s pile of chips. The photographer’s bet is close to four thousand dollars.

“What game are we playing?” Collard asks.

“Poker, idiot,” says Alphand.

“Poker high or poker low?”

“Take your choice,” says Simeon.

“Illegal remark,” says Collard. “You are not allowed to verbally influence an opponent.”

“You heard me,” says Herve. "I said 'tapis.' "

“But I don’t know what game it is.”

“Then why did you raise?” I ask.

“Oh, man, it’s late. I mean, early. I’m in no shape to go on. Do you guys want a note from my doctor?”

“No,” says Simeon. “We want your money.”

Collard throws his cards on the table. Three kings turn over.

“That’s smart,” says Pedro Da Silva. “The hand is low-ball.”

“Low-ball?” says Collard. “Give me back my money.”

“No can do,” says Herve. I’ve got a straight to the five. I told you I could go either way.”

“Though this be madness . . .” says Pegon.

“How’s about shutting up with your Anglo-Saxonisms,” says Collard. “I’ll be damned if you intellectuals don’t show off words as much as a nouveau riche shows off money.”

Jacqueline stands up. “I’ve had enough,” she says. “I’m going home.”

“You can’t do that,” says Alphand. “I’m down a small fortune.”

“What time is it?” says Da Silva.

“Going on eight,” I reply.

“Mon Dieu,” says Collard. “I’ve got an appendectomy at nine.”

“How much are you winning, Bill?” Alphand asks me.

“About the same as what you’re losing.”

“Will you settle for half in cash right now?”

“Do I have any choice?”

“Of course you do.”

“In that case, it’s a deal.”

I want to go home too. Even though I’m winning big I don’t feel too great. Jean-Paul Alphand is a damn good client. I want to keep his head above water, not drown him. Lately I’ve had a hand on him. All too often these damn Frenchmen take their poker losses personally. Maybe all players do. Well, if you’re going to be a success in this town you had better know how to take one step backwards in order to skip a few steps forward. These Frogs care more about style than they do about substance. That doesn't help much when it comes to poker, but I tell you, even if they are a bunch of bastards, I love them, every last one of them. I really do

An Unwelcome Frenchman

After thirty years of playing poker professionally in France (1969-1999), here in Las Vegas I can see that games are much tighter than those in Paris. One of the reasons is because over there we played on credit. Oh man, did that cause problems, foremost of which was getting stiffed again and again. But without credit, how was one supposed to make a living? It was a rare Frenchman (or lady) who would show up with more than a pittance of euros (francs at the time). More important still, until the mid 90s, only private games existed. That precluded access to the unlimited public of poker clubs and casinos and made bad debts an integral part of the system.

In the beginning we played in a café/bar down the street from the French Senate. We were so naive back then that any passerby who asked was allowed to sit in at our game. It took a fellow called Pretty Boy (Belle Gueule) to put a stop to that. Belle Guele's real name was Roland Duclos. An up-and-coming male model, his handsome face regularly graced the pages of several French fashion magazines. Since he was friendly with the manager of a fancy clothing store across the street from our gambling locale, we regular players assumed he was a straight shooter. Always impeccably dressed, Pretty Boy sported a smart Cartier watch, wore slightly scuffed cowboy boots and made sure that his canary yellow sweater was properly draped over his shoulders. I tell you, he was chic - as only chic can be in Paris! Then there were his companions, one cover girl after another, each making her way up the precarious ladder of French high fashion. So when Pretty Boy asked if he could sit in with us, we were glad to make a place for him. I guess we all wanted to keep an eye on the blonde accompanying him that afternoon. Man, that girl's smile was about as perfect as a smile can get.

Wouldn’t you know it? Our new opponent turned out to be a first class sucker as far as poker was concerned. Still, with cards that ran hot all afternoon he managed to rake in his fair share of pots. I imagine even Phil Helmuth will admit that at any given moment a monkey can beat the best player in the world (Phil himself?) At day’s end Pretty Boy found himself the winner of two thousand francs, roughly four hundred U.S. dollars. Tricky Alain, a top art dealer who was by far the biggest loser at our table made a scene out of paying the model off with twenty brand new one hundred franc bills. Duclos strutted over to his lady friend like a matador who had just killed a bull.

“Hey babe,” he said. “You know what? Winning at poker is easier than sitting in front of a camera.”

“Please, Roland,” she replied. “I have not eaten all day.”

“Sugarplum,” he said, “you name the restaurant and I’ll take you there.”

Arm in arm they sauntered out the glass front door into the cool night air. I'm telling you, they were as fine a couple as any to be found in the City of Light.

Next day Belle Gueule was at the bar bright and early. Seated alone with my first – or was it my second? - kir of the day, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Hey man!” Roland inquired. “What's with the action today?”

“It's coming,” I said. “But not until you introduce us to that knockout from yesterday.”

“Who, Claudine? Don't make me laugh. She’s one of a hundred.”

“Is that so?” I said. "Well, the others will be along shortly.”

Sure enough, one by one, our regular players arrived on schedule. You could bet that starting time for our poker games was as respected as an audience with the President of the Republic. Old Grandpa Pepe came with Crybaby Freddie (isn’t there a whiner at every poker table?), followed by two dentists, an electrical supplies salesman and finally our star, the art dealer himself.

“Let’s get cracking,” said Roland. “What kept you guys so long?”

Alas, that afternoon Dullsville was the name of the game. Other than Freddie's three kings losing to my three aces, (precipitating a “now do you see what I mean,” from the whiner) nothing much occurred. When the final accounts were made Roland Duclos was down one thousand eight hundred francs. While that was not too much for a lousy player, the man seemed to be in a state of shock. Rising slowly to his feet, he removed a piece of lint from his cashmere sweater before ambling over to where his belted suede jacket hung on a coat rack near the café’s entrance. He ordered a glass of champagne then rifled through his various pockets. You can be sure this particular bar did not serve Dom Perignon or Crystal Roederer, but some obscure brand that cost about five bucks a bottle at the neighborhood supermarket. Man it was highway robbery what Madame Nicole, the owner of the cafe charged for the bubbly, particularly at a time that a fillet of sole cardinale cost 30 francs ($6.00) at the Tour d’Argent, and Lucas Carton’s signature dish, woodcock stuffed with homemade foie gras, flamed at one’s table was the most expensive (as well as the best) dish in town at eighty francs or sixteen dollars a plate. Duclos downed his drink quickly, and slipped out the door.

Distracted by Pepe and Alain who were shooting dice, not a single poker player paid any attention to the male model. Soon the old man crapped out. The art dealer took the dice in hand.

“All bets accepted,” he announced. (“On peut faire.”)

Henri the electrical supplies salesman bet two hundred francs, while we others bet fifty, thirty or twenty francs. In rushed Gaston the florist who plunked down a five franc coin, more or less one U.S. dollar.

“No more bets,” said Alain who proceeded to throw a natural seven. Quickly he turned to his right. Not to confront Henri or one of the dentists or even Freddie or me who had risked thirty francs each.

“Give me my five francs, florist?” he shouted. “Give them here right now.”

That was Alain in a nutshell. As a trendy art dealer, he was selling Galle vases, Tiffany lamps and Ruhlman furniture at thousands of times the money wagered by the rest of us together. But even if the dough he was raking in from art nouveau and art deco objects (fake and authentic) was truly prodigious, for the moment that was not what counted. Those big bucks might have been more important, but they were never quite as real as a simple five franc coin.

Suddenly Claude the dentist turned around and let out a shout.

"Where’s that new guy Duclos gone off to? He owes me eighteen hundred francs.”

Immediately we all sensed we had been stiffed. Appointed to go to the shop where Roland’s friend was closing up for the night, I quickly inquired after the cover boy.

“Haven’t seen him all day,” the manager said.

And that was that. The losing son of a bitch didn’t leave us a single centime. Of course his pal at the clothing store refused to acknowledge Roland's debt, though he did promise he would call him the next day. That turned out to be – well, I really don’t know how it turned out. The damn shop manager just happened to pull off a disappearing act of his own. Policemen were swarming outside his store when I arrived the following afternoon. Besides the manager, the receipts for the week were missing. The shop’s owner was furious, but no more than we poker players. While I doubt if there was any collusion between the two friends, the second vanishing act was not going to pay the Duclos debt.

Old Amarillo Slim says that as a businessman he managed to amass several cigar boxes full of bad paper, but never once did a card player stiff him. Of course Slim never lived in France. Maybe that was why Mark Twain said something to the effect of man being neither angel nor devil, but rather a creature suspended between the angels and the French. Anyway, after the Roland Duclos escapade we insisted that new entrants pay cash in advance or be guaranteed by one of the established players. Things did not work out too well there either, but I will save that for another time.