POKER HERE, POKER THERE

                                        

         While not totally elitist, poker in France used to be reserved to the upper classes.  French laborers might play tarot and belotte, but your average working stiff would no more sit in at a poker game than he would frequent the clubhouse at the Longchamps racetrack.  This exclusivity made for some weird conventions.  Since substance in Gallic society is generally subordinate to style, it was all right in our games to bet, but one was not allowed to hesitate before doing so.  Gestures and verbal influences were frowned upon.  Entrapment could only be done in a proper manner, whatever proper meant.  I guess the idea was that Parisian poker players were supposed to comport themselves like ladies and gentlemen. 

 

            Let me assure you, times are changing.  Not only is Yankee imperialism manifest by fast foods, rap music and Hollywood reruns, even the inner sanctums of stodgy Parisian baccarat clubs have given way to poker a l’americain.  Today you can witness as much shouting and shoving at Omaha and Hold ‘Em on the banks of the Seine as you can on Fremont Street or certain suburbs of L. A.  

 

            If one difference exists it is that distaff players in France tend to be less vocal than American women.  La femme francaise believes discretion to be the better part of the feminine mystique.  I’d better stop here before I get into trouble and, without facts or figures to fall back on, cop out by citing Disraeli’s statement that: “there are little lies and big lies, after which there are statistics.”

 

            Anyway, last night at the Rio, two American ladies put on a show of verbosity more common to the back room of a Texas roundhouse than to the chic salons of the Champs-Elysees.  We were playing no-limit Texas Hold ‘Em.  Not that the poker action made much difference.  Clearly the two women were familiar with one another from previous engagements.  Ellen, the woman with long brown hair addressed her blonde opponent by a less than tasteful appellation.

 

            “Do you want to know why everybody calls you ‘Dirty Dorothy’?  Because you can’t utter a single sentence without using a four letter word.”

 

            “Screw off, Sugar.  This is Las Vegas.”

 

            “That doesn’t mean you can’t act like a lady.”

 

            “I have no pretensions of being anything other than what I am.”

 

“And what, may I ask, is that?”

 

 “A poker player, baby.  Nothing more, nothing less.”

 

            “But such a foul mouthed poker player!”

            “What the hell do you care?’

            “It’s just not feminine.”

 

“Particularly from a girl as pretty as you,” I interjected.

 

“Shove it, Mister,” said Dorothy.

 

“I’ll second that,” said Ellen.  “Looks have nothing to do with what we are talking about.”

 

“Frankly,” I said, itching for trouble, “I find a woman’s anatomy far more interesting than her vocabulary.”

 

“What a f---ing creep,” said Ellen.

 

“Hey!” I said.  “You’re doing the same thing you reproached Dorothy for.”

 

“That’s none of your business,” said Dorothy in a show of feminine solidarity.

 

“But it is,” I said.  “As long as we’re sitting at the same table, it is very much my business.”

 

“Listen here,” said an elderly gentleman.  “Is it all right with you people if we cut the dialogue and get back to playing poker?”

 

        If there is a moral to all this, I suppose it is to acknowledge that playing poker in Las Vegas is not the same as playing poker in gay Paree.  In the musical ‘My Fair Lady,’ Henry Higgins says: “the French don’t care what they do say, as long as they pronounce it properly.”  That is not so.  The upper crust cares very much what they say.  It’s just that, rather than coming through sharp and distinct, French swear words sound like sauces at a fancy restaurant.  And French women, as everybody knows, are constantly on a diet.

ATTITUDE

             If not everything, attitude means an awful lot when it comes to winning at poker.  Naturally we all prefer top pairs or suited connectors to rags, but haven’t you noticed that holding good cards in a docile mood pays a hell of a lot less than when you feel like a hungry tiger? As almost every poker book says, it’s aggressive play that leads to victory.  So yesterday instead of stopping off at The Palms to play no-limit Texas Hold ‘Em, I should have gone to the movies.                

           I’m telling you, there are times when a man can’t get with it.  All afternoon, Old Vince Lombardi’s dictum: “winning isn’t the main thing, it’s the only thing,” seemed alien to me.  Constrained by an extinguished pilot light, I limped in with hands that merited a raise or backed down from drawing to straights or flushes.   I felt like a wounded stag surrounded by a pack of hunting dogs. When not nipping at my ankles, the pack seemed to go straight for the jugular. I began to lose hand after hand. Well, there are times you can’t do anything about that, but I don’t think such was the case yesterday.  My problem was I just didn’t care.  When some smart ass wiped me out on the river by making a set of fives to my weakly bet pair of aces, I smiled and offered congratulations rather than preparing to cut the creep's heart into pieces.  Instead of hostility, I kept eyeing my opponents with   indifference.  Let me tell you, that is no way to play the game. Even if one’s cards seem unfit to sustain an attack, a player should always be ready to go on the offensive.

           It is said that age makes one less aggressive.  I guess it has something to do with decreased testosterone levels or some other glandular malfunction.  Suddenly he who had been a raging warrior becomes an elderly statesman.   But if hormones are the culprit, why are so many female players kicking ass today?  Could it boil down instead to what’s in one’s mind and inside one’s heart?  Is there something to the concept that a winning attitude can generate winning cards?

           Leaving The Palms a few hundred dollars poorer, I vowed to never again play poker if losing did not upset me at least a little. Even if I hit a lotto jackpot, there is no way I intend to give money away graciously at poker. There are other places for that, such as making a donation to a children’s hospital.  

 

           It is said that the game of poker is a microcosm of the game of life.  If so, when cooking a meal, or writing a letter or skiing down a hillside, shouldn’t we act with determination and enthusiasm? Under those conditions, a losing day would be nothing more than a temporary setback.  You know what?   I think Coach Lombardi had it right after all.

ODDS . . .AND ENDS

                                               

 

            Can a player lose with four aces?  Definitely!   Many of us have seen it happen.  What about losing with a straight flush?  Personally I have never seen this occur, but it is a theoretical possibility.  How would you feel holding the seven of spades when a Texas Hold ‘Em board revealed the eight, nine, ten, jack of spades and your opponent just went all-in with more money than you have? He might have the ace of spades or he might have the queen. Then again, maybe he has no spade at all but is hoping that you are not holding the nuts. 

 

            Okay, one last question: can a player lose with a royal flush? “No way,” you would be inclined to reply.  “That is the one hand that cannot be beaten.”  Well, you might be mistaken.   Depends on where you are and with whom you are playing.  Poker, after all, is  a game of conventions, not rules.   In France, where I spent 30 years at the game, a few of my opponents thought no hand should be considered perfect.  Ergo, concluded these logicians, every player must be vulnerable.  Thus it was decided that a royal flush would come in second best to four deuces.  Viva la France!  What other nation can claim Descartes as a favorite son?

           True, we played mostly draw at the time. Later, when lowball took over, nary a soul bothered to point out that an unbeatable hand (ace-two-three-four-six in our case) could indeed exist.  By the time Texas Hold ‘Em became the belle of the ball, perfection and reality had become more or less intertwined.  Don’t ask me what would have happened if a flop included a pair of deuces and ten-jack-queen on suit with one player  holding the other two ducks, and another holding the missing ace-king. The French might shy away from fisticuffs, but they can stretch a verbal confrontation to limits unimaginable anywhere else.

          For sure, we all play odds of some sort.  If not card odds, then pot odds or edge odds or some other intangible that will influence our decisions to fold, raise or follow.  Experience - call it deja-vu - also plays a role.   All this is fine and dandy in games run by respectable parties such as Nevada casinos, but what happens in a private game when things start to go weird? Add one skillful  manipulator to a table and you will suddenly witness an abnormal amount of losing flushes, full boats, even quads.  In no time at all, those odds in your head will turn into meaningless formulae.  At least that's what happened in one of my games -  over there on the Seine.  Happily, like most card sharks, our prestidigitator didn't know when to stop.  With greed outweighing intelligence, he came close to breaking the table.  Even his confederate (one of our pals, alas) could not control him.   This particular mechanic happened to be a compulsive horseplayer who needed   cash to pay off his racetrack debts.  By the time we caught him (by sheer coincidence) it was nearly too late. Few of us felt like playing poker anymore. I guess we were saved by summer vacation rather than by a snapshot confirming there was a thief in our midst. Never during the many months the bastard was at our table did any of us suspect the unusual run of cards was due to skillful fingers rather than to a series of mathematical aberrations.  Doubtless that is because  unpredictability is part of the beauty of poker.  When Phil Helmuth makes an asinine remark such as: “take away the element of luck and I would win ever hand,” he is denigrating the game we love.  If  "impossible" situations did not arise we might as well play go fish or mumble-de-peg.  Just make sure they do not  occur too frequently or you too might end up renouncing private games in favor of playing on the Las Vegas Strip.

POKER AND OTHER SHENANIGANS IN A PARIS ART GALLERY

                                              

     One afternoon just before Halloween I was playing head-on Texas Hold ‘Em with my friend and chief client, Alain Bertier.  Seated a few feet from the entrance to his boutique, we were surrounded by many of the countless objets d’art the renowned dealer had accumulated over the years.   I must have been winning close to a thousand dollars when a slim elegant gentleman wearing thick horn-rimmed eyeglasses came into the shop.  Bertier eyed him briefly before urging me to get on with the game.

 

            “Make yourself at home, Monsieur,” he said to the gentleman.  “Call me if you need any assistance.”

 

            I was reluctant to deal the cards.  Not because I wanted to protect my gains.   Soon enough the other players would be arriving next door at Madame Nicole’s. If lucky, I might be able to add my wins and Alain’s losses to the end of the day’s score sheet. 

 

            “What are you waiting for?” said Bertier.

 

            “Something must be wrong with you,” I said.  “You seem unaware that one of the most important people in Paris just came into your gallery.”

 

            Alain rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “what do you take me for, an ass?”

 

            “Well, now that you mention it . . .”

 

            “Make it snappy,” he said.  “It’s your deal.”

 

“But what about your client?”

 

            “Good God, man, you have the commercial sense of an orangutan.”

 

            “Alain, that is Yves Saint-Laurent!”

 

            “Keep your voice down.  He is an extremely private person who does not like to be fussed over.”

 

            The fashion designer walked from one end of the shop to the other, stopping occasionally to examine different pieces of glassware.   Finally Bertier pushed aside the playing cards and approached him gingerly.  Conversing in hushed tones, the two took turns holding a glass vase to the light.  Saint-Laurent smiled, nodded and said something I could not hear before leaving the shop empty-handed. 

.

            “He’ll be back,” said Bertier. “Anybody who wants to buy a Marinot Vase is obliged to pass by me.”

 

            Early shadows floated over the city.  I looked at my watch. Bertier continued to fondle the vase that had caught Monsieur Saint-Laurent’s eye.  A Japanese couple entered the shop.  Bertier nodded a greeting but paid them no attention.

 

            “Those are sightseers, not clients,” he whispered.

 

            “How do you know?”

 

            “I can tell.  Whose deal is it?"

 

            Without waiting for a reply, Alain dealt a card to me, and one to himself.  As usual when he was losing, I knew he would play every hand.

 

            A laborer wearing a workman’s smock walked into the shop carrying a heavy bronze horse.  Bertier told him to put the statue on his desk.  That crowded the poker action, but the art dealer wanted to look the animal over.  Satisfied, he slipped a few bills into the workman’s hand.  Retrieving his cards, he went all-in.

 

            “I bet you cannot even recall what cards you have,” I said.

 

            “Maybe I can't.  Are you paying or not?” 

 

            While I was deliberating with a pair of sixes, Tom Filer came into the gallery.  Even if Bertier and he were arch rivals, they remained in close contact.  The American was carrying the ‘Gazette de Drouot,’ the weekly magazine that announces art sales and auctions throughout the country..

 

            Filer and Alain went off to a corner.  The visitor pointed to a picture in the Gazette.  Bertier shook his head.  Filer raised his voice.  Standing toe to toe, the two art dealers looked like a pair of boxers at a weigh-in.  Again Filer pleaded his case.

 

            “Nothing doing,” said Bertier.

 

            “You’re a damn fool,” said Filer.

 

            He glanced at me then looked away.  Well aware that neither he nor Bertier wanted an outsider listening in, I kept a blank expression on my face.  Of course I knew what they were up to.  The American dealer was trying to arrange what is called a revision in French and a knockout in English, a tactic in which two or more dealers agree not to bid against one another at a public auction so that one of the parties may obtain an object at a bargain-basement price.  Afterwards, he will pay off his fellow dealers, but at a cost far lower than had the bidding not been pre-arranged.  At times, members of the auctioneer’s team are co-conspirators.  An expert can estimate an object at less than its true value, or the auctioneer is capable of dropping his hammer prematurely.  Either way, the seller comes up short.  Or the converse might take place.  Dealers, experts and auctioneers can equally contrive to bid an object up so that the seller, assuming he is one of the happy few, ends up getting more than he rightfully deserves.

 

            Filer was barely out of sight when another American came into the shop.  A frail man with a high-pitched voice, his face had a yellow pallor that made him look like he was recovering from a tropical disease.  Overdressed in a long winter coat, his eyes were rheumy and small.  As soon as he set foot inside, he went to the bronze horse on Bertier’s desk.

 

“What gives, Alain?” he said in a surprised tone of voice.  “This piece is not signed.”

 

Bertier opened his mouth but was unable to speak.  His Adam’s apple danced along the edge of his throat.

 

“What-what-what are you doing here?” he finally stuttered.

 

The American continued to study the bronze.  “Really, Alain, I do not understand this at all.”

 

“It’s Wednesday,” Bertier said with difficulty.  “You told me you were coming on Friday.”

 

“What difference does that make?”

 

“Plenty,” said Bertier.  “It would have been signed by then.”

 

The man stormed out of the boutique.  I followed him into Madame Nicole’s bar.  He told me the horse he had expected to find was sculpted by P. J. Mene and should have borne the artist’s signature before his death in 1877.

 

A minute later, Bertier came running into the bar.  His eyes were afire and his face was angry.  Without a glance at the American collector, he grabbed my arm and pulled me outside.

 

“Whatever you see or hear around here, you keep to yourself.  Is that understood?  

 

“It is,” I said.

 

He kicked the door to his shop open.  The telephone was ringing. He did not answer it.  I noticed the bronze horse was no longer on his desk.

 

        “Sit down,” he commanded.  “Didn't you hear me say, all-in?"

 

        "I did," I said.

 

        "Well are you paying or not?”

TRANSFORMATION

                                                 

         I always get a kick out of hearing high profile players say it’s not the money that counts at poker, but winning the bracelet.  That sounds a bit strange when, by definition, the game is measured in terms of cold cash.  After all, is poker not a series of monetary challenges as to who holds – or will hold - the winning hand?  Chips are used in lieu of cash as a matter of convenience.  Admittedly, these celebrated players are referring to tournament games where chips cannot be redeemed, but with prize money in the millions of dollars, it strikes me as a curiosity to hear contestants repeat that they are competing for a garland of laurel (the bracelet) rather than for a lifetime of financial security. 

 

            Noble battle, monetary indifference and striving for excellence are of course aristocratic values.  Mighty Achilles sulked in his tent not because Agamemnon was enjoying the pleasures of the prize originally awarded to him, but because by taking the girl Breisis for himself, the commanding general had abnegated the public recognition of his chief warrior.  Great Hector recognized duty to self as a man’s primary responsibility, greater even than devotion to family and country.  Strange, you might think, to compare Mike Matusow or Phil Helmuth with the heroes of ‘The Iliad’, but do contemporary Texas Hold ‘Em players not achieve a degree of magnificence when they, like warriors of old, strive after the Homeric value of arête? 

 

            More than birth or education, financial ease opens the door to aristocratic values.  Balzac said: beyond every great fortune lies a crime.  After some vague ancestor has done the dirty work, I guess newly favored men and ladies are supposed to adopt the manners and morals of the upper classes.  Occasionally, a person with little or no monetary means also rises to the crème de la crème, as if to confirm that, however rare, true aristocracy can be inborn.  If not the case with the majority of our current poker stars, the quiet dignity of Phil Ivy or the polished grace of Doyle Brunson indicates that certain champions would have exhibited a patrician bearing no matter what their field of endeavor.

 

            Doubtless most of us who play poker would rather take home the millions than win a bracelet that says in this particular year at such and such a game, X- was the best in the world.  Of course in some cases, it’s all a matter of ego. While extraordinary men in art, science, politics or the military had inflated egos, as a rule they knew how to go about their business so that their achievements managed to dwarf any misguided sense of self.  Isn’t it significant when understatement prevails over hubris? Let us hope, therefore, on this eve of a new World Poker Championship, that such is the beauty of the game that even loud-mouthed brats with manners fit for a pigsty might undergo a transformation that sees them become veritable princes instead of the street rats they once were.

MORALITY LESSON

    The other evening at The Mirage a lady of considerable heft was talking to a  bald-headed gentleman about proper manners at a poker table.  A self-appointed expert on etiquette, Madame Gros (that's French for fat) felt no constraint over expressing her disdain for anyone (me) who happened to disagree with her.  Chopping and tipping were issues on which she held a particularly strong point of view.  On both subjects Baldy was in full accord.

 

 Chopping occurs when as a result of no other player following the action the small  and big blinds agree to avoid a face-to-face confrontation by taking back their money.  Seated immediately at Baldy’s right, he was not content when, dealt a pair of queens, I raised his big blind after every other player had folded.

 

 “Don’t you chop?” he asked in a disagreeable tone, tossing his cards on the table.

 

 “Sometimes,” I said.  “In this case I think I should respect the cards.”

 

 “Nothing doing,” said the overweight lady.  “Either you chop or you don’t.”

 

 “That’s right,” said the dealer.

 

 “Really?” I said.  “Is that a rule carved in stone?”

 

 “No, it's just good manners,” said the lady.

 

 “Something not everyone has,” said Baldy. 

 

 “Well, you know what that old philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre said,” I rebutted, thinking back on the many times I had come across the great man dining at The Montparnasse Coupole with his companion, Simone de Beauvoir.   “A man must create his own system of thought so as not to be enslaved by that of others.”

 

 “Wonderful,” said Madame Manners dryly.  “As if anyone has the slightest idea who you are talking about.”

 

 I let it go.  Not because I was adverse to a verbal confrontation but because the hand in progress had captured my attention.  A player’s fifty-dollar raise was followed twice before the bet came to me.  I dropped out holding a suited king-queen.  Surprisingly, my hairless neighbor followed.  Well, to make a long story short, a player holding two sevens flopped a set and wiped out his opponents, two who were dealt a higher pair, and Baldy who held Big Slick.  After raking in five or six hundred dollars, the gentleman tipped the dealer five bucks and quit the table.

 

 “That’s about the most disgraceful a tip I have ever seen,” said the fat lady.

 

 “I’ll say it is,” said Baldy.  “A person who wins a hand like that should tip at least five percent.”

 

 “Absolutely!”  Madame nodded vigorously.

 

 “I agree,” said the dealer. “A few dollars more would have been nice.”

 

 Pretty much aware of what I was getting into, I said maybe if the casinos augmented their employee’s salaries we could do away with tipping altogether. 

 

        “After all,” I concluded, “has anyone ever seen a dealer return a dime to a player who has dropped a bundle on a losing hand, even a person who has been tipping generously all evening?”

 

         Nobody gave me the finger or booed out loud, but the dagger-throwing glances cast my way by Fatty, Baldy and the dealer let me know that my idea did not concur to their way of thinking.  Since it was late in the evening and I was about even, I stood up and said goodbye to a perfectly silent table.  Other than a bad beat, I can think of little I appreciate less than a morality lesson from poker opponents.

 

         The following morning I drove my Honda to a garage I had picked out of the yellow pages.  A computer-generated light on the dashboard continued to indicate something was wrong.  Damn, why had I spent $170 at another garage less than a month previously just to discover the problem still existed?  Tom, the owner of the appropriately named High Road Automotive told me that this particular light received information from 32 different sensors.  After hooking the car up to a fancy machine, he informed me that the problem was with something he called a catalytic converter.  That, he said, was a job that would probably cost in the neighborhood of $500. 

 

         “That’s pretty steep,” I said.  “Can’t you do it for less?”

 

         “I can’t, but Honda can and will.  You’ve only gone 61,000 miles.  For this kind of problem your warranty is good up to 80,000 miles.”

 

         Tom directed me to a nearby Honda agency.  Sure enough, even with a seven-year old car, I was 100% covered for the job at hand.  Instead of raking me over the coals, a perfect stranger had saved me five hundred dollars while earning nothing for himself.  Returning to his garage, I let Tom know how much I appreciated what he had done.  

 

        “I only did what is right," he said.  "How can I charge you when I know you can get the job done for nothing?”

 

        “Most people don’t think that way,” I said.

 

        Tom shrugged.  “That’s their problem.”

 

        After discovering that Tom and his wife were into organic food, I went to a special market where I bought a mixture of fruit and vegetables for $25.  If proper poker etiquette says one should tip a dealer 5% for randomly distributing cards, I guess the same percentage would be correct when a garage mechanic saves you five bills.  I'm really not sure, but I hope to find out from Madame Fatty or the Bald Eagle when I return to play Texas Hold 'Em on The Strip tonight.

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.

KINDERGARDEN GAME

The first evening I played poker at Jerry and Carla Prtikin’s Paris apartment I saw at once I had fallen into a cavern of riches.  Their invitees were even less skillful than the dunces who played in my afternoon game.  Let me tell you: in the poker business a winner's assets are his opponents.  Chez Pritkin I was facing a group of kindergartners.

 

  Jerry’s main objective was to show off to his wife.  He could not restrain himself from gloating whenever he outplayed her.  Since that aroused Carla’s anger, she would go after him by raising his bets.   It mattered not that they were playing with common funds.  Nor did they pay any attention to another player who might be pitted against them. If a third party happened to win a hand, they would accuse one another of crowding the action.  That attitude rubbed off on a second couple playing with common funds.  Stasia and Louis were both doctors.  Although they lived together they had no plans of getting married.  A redheaded beauty of Russian origin, Stasia never addressed Louis by anything other than his last name.  It was: ‘Mellot get me a drink,’ or ‘Mellot put in a chip for me,’ or ‘Mellot you play like an idiot.’  Louis Mellot, a yellow-papered cigarette invariably dangling from his lips, would make a sour face but not say a word.  Stasia was right.  Mellot did play like an idiot.  So did she.

 

 Also present at the Pritkin table was a tall bespectacled gentleman known as JLR. Jean-Luc Ravel held a high position in a publishing house.  A quiet, timid man, he played with great intensity, frequently examining his cards as though they held some secret formula.  He claimed to be related to the famed composer, but few people believed him.  I was an exception.  Not so much about Uncle Maurice as about the card he received when drawing to a straight or a flush.  All you had to do was ask and he would reply.  Not once did I catch him fibbing.  That was important.  Ravel was not afraid to mislead you.  After he bet, you had to study his face.  Whenever he bluffed, JLR unconsciously broke into a childlike smile.  

 

 Rounding out the Pritkin table were two art dealers from my afternoon game: Tricky Alain Bertier and crazy Marcel Favart.  Bertier did not seem pleased to see me but  Favart, better known as Baby Rose, greeted me warmly.

 

 “Ah, Bill, I think I shall get back some of the money you’ve taken from me at Madame Nicole’s.”

 

 Damn that Favart!   He turned out to be a better prophet than poker player.

 

                                                               *

 

 I had a problem with Arthur Sisse.  At the time, he was in the army.  Not as a soldier but as a dentist.  Stationed on the outskirts of Paris, Sisse was free most afternoons and every Saturday evening.  Time and again, he beseeched me to bring him to Pritkin's house.  Aware that the five day a week afternoon game was my bread and butter, I felt it was in my interest to convert Sisse from an archrival to a sometime ally.  Nevertheless, it was with no little reluctance that I asked Jerry if I could bring him along.

 

 “Sure,” said Jerry.  “We are short of players as it is.”

 

 That was because Jacqueline Sels was recovering from an operation and Baby Rose was out of town.  With their return the table would be full.  Secretly I was hoping that Jerry and Carla would not like Arthur.   Well guess what?  I was in for a rude surprise.  Arthur knew just how to play up to our host.  Since both men enjoyed expensive cigars, the dentist suddenly became Mister Generous in sharing his Havanas.   I get the feeling that an esoteric bond exists between cigar smokers, even people of opposing dispositions.  Puffing away together, Arthur and Jerry went off to some smoky land of their own, allowing Sisse to gain acceptance at the Pritkin game.

 

                                                                   *

 

 A few weeks later.  Dangerous session tonight!  Carla and Jerry have been faring poorly.  They have stopped attacking one another.  Over the past month I have won a lot of money at their house.  Sisse and Bertier have been winning too, but not nearly as much as me.  Baby Rose had to drop out for lack of funds.   Stasia, Louis Mellot and the Pritkins have been losing regularly.

 

 Five minutes ago I took a sizeable pot from Mellot.  That prompted a nasty comment from Sisse.  JLR looked at him quizzically.  Damn it all!  I will have to watch my step.  Ravel too enjoys an occasional cigar.

 

 At this game we only play draw. Jerry opens a hand at 100 francs ($20).  JLR follows.  The bet comes to me.  I have decided to play recklessly.

 

 “Three hundred,” I say, with a pair of fives.

 

 “Sauve qui peut,” (‘save yourselves’) says Sisse, implying that I only play locked hands.

 

 Liar!  He plays tighter than anybody else.

 

 Louis Mellot hesitates but follows.  Now it’s Stasia who has a problem.  You can see she wants to come in.  Thinking better of it, she throws her cards away with a display of ill humor.  Damn, damn, damn!  Maybe I should whisper in her ear that I am playing to lose.

 

 Both Jerry and JLR call.  Carla is busy making coffee.  It’s four in the morning.  We could all use a shot of caffeine. 

 

 “Three cards,” says Jerry.

 

 “One,” says JLR.

 

 If playing strongly, I would no doubt stand pat.  I know I have everyone psyched.  Then I would examine Ravel to see if he hit his hand.  That would leave only Mellot as a threat.  But I am not playing to win.  Wasn’t it Lenin who said: “sometimes you have to take one step backward in order to take two steps forward?”

 

 “Three cards,” I say.

 

  Stasia smacks her forehead with an open palm.  I’ll be damned.  For the first time in her poker-playing life, she did not come in with a pair of aces.

 

 “Only one,” says Mellot.

 

 Jerry bets a single chip after the draw.  I put him on a pair of kings.

 

 “Eight hundred,” says Ravel.

 

 Ironically, I’ve caught another five.  Like the police, cards are rarely there when you need them, but omni-present when you do not.

 

 “My time,” I say, before going through my ritual.  I had better not be mistaken.  With no trace of a smile, the editor has surely hit his hand.

 

 “I pay,” I say.

 

 Jerry throws his cards away out of turn.  I do not like the expression on his face.  Mellot shakes his head in disgust.  He shows us all that he has come up short drawing to a straight flush.

 

 “Alpinist,” says Ravel.  He has made a flush in spades.  In French a spade is a pique, homonymous with the word pic meaning the top of a mountain, ergo a mountain climber or an Alpinist.  The French try very hard to be clever.

 

 “Ayieee,” I say.  “I was sure you were bluffing.”

 

 Raking in the chips, Ravel does not conceal his pleasure.  From behind all night,
 he has suddenly moved ahead.  Next I will attempt to give some money back to the Pritkins.  That is not so easy.  A player cannot select his victims or his beneficiaries at will.  The cards have something to say about that.

 

 “What the devil is wrong with the rest of you?” says Ravel, uncharacteristically verbose.  “I have no problem whatsoever beating the American.”

 

 Bless him, bless him, bless him!  I could not have phrased it better myself.  That son of a bitch Sisse has a smirk on his face wide enough to drive a truck through.  Well it's my own damn fault.  How could I have been such an idiot to bring him here?

COCKTAILS PLEASE

    I went back to The Wynn yesterday afternoon, quitting after I won exactly $100.  Either my old pal Georges de Frayville was out shopping or trying his luck at another casino.  I left him a voice message, but I doubt if he will call me back.  I really don’t know why he contacted me in the first place. We had never been particularly friendly in Paris.  Suffice it to say, I was glad he was the catalyst in breaking my jinx at the newest - and flashiest - mega resort in town. 

 

    On my way home I had a sudden hankering for a Pisco sour.  I stopped off at the Rio.  If anyplace in Las Vegas were to serve this exotic Peruvian/Chilean white brandy, I figured it would be a casino with a South American theme.  No dice.  “Sorry, Senhor, we don't carry Pisco,” I was informed.  Oh well, putting my thirst aside, I walked over to the poker room where a no limit Texas hold ‘em tournament was getting underway.  Since that made for immediate seating at a $2- $5 cash game, I sat down to try my luck.  Fixed between $100 and $500, the required buy-in was right up my alley. 

 

  Often I wonder why casinos other than Binions and the Wynn place a ceiling on buy-ins.  I guess it’s because they don’t want a couple of smart alecks plunking down a few thousand  dollars apiece and scaring other players away.  It’s the house’s business to fill up as many seats as possible (generally nine or ten at a poker table), not to cater to the whims of a few nouveaux-riches showoffs.  As it is, no space pays less per square foot than poker rooms.  The manager of a popular card room told me whereas other table games bring in $150 an hour per player, and each slot machine generates a profit of $75 an hour, poker, with it’s small rake and no house participation is only worth $5 an hour per player.  The casinos offer the game because of its huge following, and because it brings people inside who might end up at blackjack, craps or the slots.

 

  A word to the wise: do not sit down to play poker when a tournament is beginning.   Within ten minutes of my arrival, five of nine seated players quit our table in favor of the tourney.  So here were the rest of us: losing the same amount when our cards didn’t hold up while winning peanuts when they did.  With fewer than five players, a game tends to deteriorate into an attempt to steal the  blinds.  I quit when sixty of my hundred bucks were depleted. True, if you stick around long enough players knocked out of the tournament will probably return to the cash games, but that could take an hour or more. 

 

 A few blocks away, I turned off Flamingo Road onto Jones Street where I knew a Peruvian-Mexican Restaurant.  Due to the traffic, it took me a while to arrive at the seedy driveway that housed the eatery.  Only one customer was inside, a drunk half asleep at a cafeteria style table.  I asked the proprietor for a Pisco sour.

 

 “Sorry,” he said.   “I ran out of Pisco last night.”