WHEN PROBITY BECOMES A VICE

                                           

 

             Picture this: George Washington’s mother takes her son aside shortly after he confessed to his father that it was he who chopped down the cherry tree.

 

            “Very good, young man,” she says. "Probity is a wonderful thing. Just don’t let it become a vice.”

 

            “What,” you ask? How can probity become a vice?  I’ll tell you how, because I can think of no better way of defining an incident that occurred yesterday at a $2-$5 No Limit Texas Hold ‘Em game.  Sitting with wired kings, it was my turn to bet when a young fellow suddenly stopped the action.

 

            “Hold on," he said. "I’m not sure, I could be wrong, but I think I saw a flashed card.” 

 

            “Come again,” said the dealer.

 

            “I caught a glimpse of the first card you dealt to the lady.  At least I think I did.  I’m not 100% certain.  Still, I’d like everyone here to know I am honest.”

 

            Oh, man, don’t try that nonsense on me.  You might have seen it, then again you might not have. You’re not sure, you couldn’t quite make it out, but there was this flashed card and you kind of perceived something, and . . . hey, look here, everybody, am I not one hell of a person?  Because all you are doing is vaunting yourself!  What else do you think this proclamation of honesty is?  Here, during a total non-incident, you decide to come out crying STOP EVERYTHING when, as it turned out, you had no intention of following the hand in the first place.  Reminds me of the teacher’s pet who’s got to attract attention to himself, and what better way than appearing honest at the same time, sort of like killing two birds with one stone, n’est-ce pas?

 

            No fooling, the fellow refused to stop.  He simply had to repeat how moral he was even though he remained uncertain whether or not he had seen a card.  Lord protect me from people who go out of their way to assert their honesty, I can take care of the dishonest ones by myself.  Worse still, this went on for over a minute.  Finally the dealer called a floor director over.  Happily, since the gentleman on my immediate right had followed the $5 big blind it was decided to play the hand out irrespective of the young voyeur’s confusion. 

 

            By now, with the rhythm of the hand completely broken, I figured my best move was to follow.   I hate to follow with wired kings.  It’s a bloody trap.  What do you do if an ace shows up?  Suppose someone limps in with a nine and a six and those two cards appear on the flop? 

 

             As indicated, Mr. Probity mucked his hand when the bet came to him.  On his left, a bearded young man (75% to 90% of today’s players seem to be males under thirty) raised to $40.  The lady whose card was supposedly exposed called, as did the gentleman on my right.  That was enough for me.   Going all-in, I pushed $350 into the pot.  That scared everybody out except the initial raiser who only had $30 remaining.  A pair of treys and a five were flopped, followed by a nine on the turn and a ten on the river. Examining my kings, the bearded youngster threw his cards into the muck.

 

            “It’s a good thing you went all-in,” said a player a couple of seats to my left.  “I would have called forty dollars with my suited ace-three.”

 

             That’s the trouble with probity.  Too much of it can have the opposite effect to what one desires.  I recall an afternoon in Paris when the extremely literal-minded head of our Texas Hold ‘Em game was making the final accounts of the day.  Our biggest sucker, a wealthy banker announced his losses at 30,050 francs ($6,010).  After writing a check for 30,000 francs, he was asked by our scrupulous director for the missing ten bucks.

             “Do you really want them?” said the banker.  “Why not ask for my underpants too?  Well, here they are! The fifty francs, I mean.  But don’t expect me to play here again.”

MINI TOURNAMENTS

                                

         After a string of tough losses at Texas Hold ‘Em, I promised to stay away from casinos for at least a week.  What do you know?   I almost made it. Actually, I believe I would have pulled it off if my son hadn’t come to town.  Accepting the dictum that family loyalty should prevail over a promise made under duress, I reluctantly (well, almost) acceded to my offspring’s desire to participate in a tournament.  What’s that, you say?  Didn’t the World Series of Poker Tournament end a little while ago?  Yes, it did, but that has nothing to do with the scores of mini tournaments held weekly in Las Vegas.  So if you are looking for tournament action, go to Anthony Curtis’s excellent web site (www.lasvegasadvisor.com) and you will not only learn where to find poker tournaments any time of day (or night), but just about everything else going on in this Valley of Transgression.

 

        Since I was paying for both son and self, I sought out a relatively inexpensive locale.  That’s right, I wanted to limit our losses.  Can you think of a better reason for participating in tournaments rather than playing in cash games?  The Aladdin, with its $60 one-time buy-in fit the bill perfectly, and other than racing from a parking lot half way to Death Valley, we found both the casino and its adjoining Desert Passage much to our liking. 

 

        Oh the ignominy of it all!  While son Alexander steadily progressed, Papa was immediately eliminated.  Of the forty-eight players present, I alone was first to bow out. Like the Old Grey Mare, this Paris Poker Pro is not what he used to be!   Bad luck, you ask?  That's not it.  Dealt 5D-6D on the third hand, I went all-in on a flop of

JS-7H-4H.  How was I supposed to know someone was holding AH-JH?  Okay, it was a stupid bet (for a tournament, less so for a cash game), but perhaps I was influenced by an empty seat at the $1-$2 No Limit game taking place behind me. 

 

        Dammit all, I had to wait two and a half hours before Alex was finally eliminated in seventh position, one player out of the money.  Oh well, I must admit my impatience was assuaged by a $280 victory.

 

        Since sonny boy had such fun ( I wasn't complaining either), the following evening we returned to the Aladdin early enough to lose $100 at roulette before the poker tourney commenced.  That’s Vegas for you.  Sooner or later you are likely to get suckered into playing a table game with shameful odds against you. 

 

        Poor Alexander.  He lasted nearly an hour until his pair of tens lost to a set of sixes.  As for Papa, not this time!  I’m telling you, I hit straights and flushes and paired-up as though I were the horniest client of the hottest dating service around.  By the time we hit the final table there was no doubt who was chip leader.  I even had the pleasure of eliminating a tiresome smart aleck who, after doubling the pot with big slick, went all-in when a king appeared on the flop.  Staring at my wired aces, the look on his face was worth the entry fee.

 

        “Why didn’t you raise my original bet?” he asked.

 

        “I was hoping you 'd do my dirty work for me,” I said. 

 

        He threw his cards in the air, and uttered an unpleasant remark.  That was the sole display of anger or petulance I encountered all evening.  Everyone else acted in the manner of Phil Ivey or Doyle Brunson rather than like some other Phil or Mouthful Mike.  Even the young man who came in second shook my hand and patted me on the back when my J-10 beat his A-J thanks to a ten on the river.   From first eliminated on Wednesday evening to champion twenty-four hours later, I ask you, how can you not love this crazy game?  

 

        I gave half my $620 winnings to Alexander.  Aren’t parents supposed to be suckers for their children?  No big deal, that!  I’ll be back tomorrow and the day after, and for all you know, if I win another tournament, maybe next year I’ll sign up for the World Series of Poker.

TOUGH GUY

                                         

          One afternoon a tall man with a dark complexion came into the bar where our afternoon poker games took place in Paris.  Smartly dressed in a blue suit and red tie, his long brown hair ended in a ponytail.  He had dark eyes and a small crooked mouth.  A pair of elaborate mustaches curled from his upper lip to his cheekbones.

 

            “You’re Bill the American, aren’t you?” he asked me.

           

            I said I was.

 

            “I’m looking for the photographer, Herve Simeon,” he said.  “I’m Bertrand Gimont.  Perhaps you have heard of me?”

 

            I admitted I had.  More than once his name had been bruited about.

 

            “Are you expecting Simeon this afternoon?” he said.

 

            “You can never tell with him.”

 

            “The creep is trying to stiff me for 35,000 francs.  That’s seven thousand of your U.S. dollars.”

 

            “Wow,” I said.  “When did he lose that?”

 

            “Sunday.  He lost a lot more.  He says he’ll pay the others, but not me.”

 

            I did not like the way the man spoke out the side of his mouth, or his habit of sucking on his teeth.  I guess he had seen too many gangster films.

 

            “He’ll stiff you too,” he said.  “Wait and see.”

 

            “I doubt that.  He feels comfortable with us.”

 

            “What does that mean?”

 

            “Just what I said.”

 

            “So that’s his game, is it?  He’s telling everyone I cheated him. ‘

 

            “He never said that to me.”

 

            Gimont nodded knowingly.  I declined his offer for a cigarette.

 

            “Maybe we can work something out,” he said.

 

            “I can’t imagine what,” I said.

 

            “If he wins in your game, you can put the money aside for me.”

 

            “You know I can’t do that.”

 

            “All right,” he said, shrugging.  “I’ll have to do it my way.”

 

            Motioning with my head, I called to Madame Nicole.  The damn fool had exposed the butt of a pistol.  The bar owner looked at me with a strained expression.  With thumb and forefinger I made the sign of a revolver.

 

            “You,” she said sharply.  “Out of here.  There will be none of that in this bar.”

 

            Nor would we poker players tolerate any criminality in our games.  Gimont’s tough guy approach was a demonstration of how not to act when faced with a loser who refuses to pay.  No surer way exists to alienate the local bourgeoisie.  While the French might pretend to be attracted to gangsters, nobody wanted to find a genuine underworld character sitting at his table.

 

            Many years later Gimont left Paris and settled in Guadeloupe.  He purchased a second hand yacht that he scrubbed and painted until it looked like new.  A Frenchman who remained in touch with him told me the man lived for his boat.  He learned where fish were running and how to pick up an occasional charter.  He and his boat were always available for young ladies hoping to find a Caribbean adventure.  Neither poker nor money interested him any longer.  When not at sea, he was content to spend his time polishing and repairing his prized possession.

 

            One morning, after an extended evening of partying, Gimont awoke to find his boat was not in its berth.  In a state of shock, he tried to recall if he had made an arrangement with another skipper.  Neither the harbormaster nor any of his fellow yachtsmen had any idea where the boat could be.  There was no sign that a line had been cut, and no witness to foul play.  For all anybody knew, Bertrand Gimont’s boat had disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle.

 

            Gimont spent the following weeks scouring the island.  Not a single harbor escaped his scrutiny.  On foot or by sea, he examined ever hidden inlet and every exposed or unexposed cove.  After a month of searching he returned home empty handed.  Not only had he not found the boat, not a soul knew a thing about it.

 

            With nowhere to sleep, Gimont took a room in a seedy hotel near the port.  Every day he walked along the quays in search of his missing boat.  The police were no help.  After a while they abandoned their investigation.  On a rainy evening, three months to the day following his loss, Bertrand Gimont put a revolver to his head and squeezed the trigger. 

 

              Although all this occurred many years ago, I have often wondered whether or not he used the same pistol he had shown me that afternoon in Madame Nicole’s poker Bar.  

MORE BAD BEATS

                                               

 

         Crybaby Freddie, a Parisian dealer in military antiques used to say the thing he feared most at poker was a good hand.  “Please, God please,” he would say aloud, “don’t give me good cards.”

 

            “How do you expect to win otherwise?” we would often asked him

 

            “I am not here to win.  I am here to have a good time.”

 

            That was probably true.   In Freddie’s case having a good time meant moaning, groaning and complaining that he was the unluckiest person who ever existed, which was more or less Charles De Gaulle’s description of his countrymen.  ("Ca rogne, ca grogne, ca rouspette.")

 

            It’s taken me an awful long time to understand Old Freddie, but recently I’ve been getting the point.  Up the Ole Kazoo, as they say!

 

            In six consecutive games I have suffered more bad beats than I care to count.  Yes, yes, I am quite aware that it is all part of the game, and didn’t someone say, “when sorrows come, they come not single spies but in battalions?”

 

 Worse still, I find myself beginning to enjoy sharing my woes with anyone who will lend an ear.  Good Lord!  Have all those years in Paris turned me into a Frenchman?

 

So if you allow me to reveal one or two, I promise not to divulge them all.

 

  As the big blind I am dealt 8-9.  The flop is two nines and an eight.  Naturally, I check.  So does everyone else.  The turn is a king.  I bet double the size of the pot and am called.  The river is another king.  Admittedly, the hand did not cost me too much, but I assure you it was not a great morale booster either.  Far more expensive was when I followed a raise holding 6H-8H.  Why make such a call, you might ask?  Well the raise came from the player on my immediate right and was followed by three others.   I guess it’s called playing the money.  The flop was 6D-6C-4D.  In first position a player bet $50.  I called.  Now the original raiser went all-in with no small bet.  He must have been sitting on $700, the same amount as the $50 bettor who promptly folded.  While aware that the all-in gentleman might be holding two fours, I strongly sensed a diamond draw and called with my remaining $160.  Simultaneous to his displaying the KD-10D, the dealer turned over first the ace and then the deuce of diamonds.  Coming, going, upside down or otherwise, there was no way the man was going to miss his flush.   Okay, only one more:  I raised the big blind from $5 to $45 with wired kings.  An elderly gentleman followed.  The flop was 9S-5H-3C.  I went all-in for $110.  My opponent looked at his watch and announced: “I really should be going home.  I know it’s a stupid call, but at least it will get me out of here, and you look like a pretty nice guy.”   So he puts his remaining chips in the pot, about a hundred bucks, stands up and turns over the 5S-4C.  How the hell could the dummy follow a $40 raise head-to-head with those two cards? Oh, that’s right, his wife was waiting for him. 

 

What’s the difference how he beat me?  The turn of a four, a five or a back door straight, it all comes out to the same thing.  While you’re at it, don’t do me any favors, Mister.  If you want to go home, do so, but without explaining that you are contributing to my welfare because you are in a rush! 

 

Crybaby Freddie, wherever you are: Je vous comprend.  For a week or two I shall stop playing this stupid game.  Then, when I return, I will raise my eyes to the heavens and ask our Creator- or perhaps the poker gods - to refrain from giving me good cards.  Meanwhile, I hope to have a swell time telling everyone all about the bad beats I have encountered.

INSOUCIANCE

                                          

For  a long while our afternoon draw poker game in Paris was going nowhere. Day after day the same participants showed up with the attitude of passing time rather than enjoying the challenge of creative poker. Of course that was better than nothing at all, but I suspected if things didn’t pick up the game would slowly expire. Oh well, thanks to Alain Bertier, Grandpa Pepe, and Roland the Corsican I was still making a living. 

The game became duller still when our sole female player, Jacqueline Sels quit drinking.  When fortified by a few shots of whiskey, Jacqueline’s raucous stories and sarcastic barbs were a source of constant amusement. Now, she said, she was going to stick to water.  At first, I thought it was drinking that caused her to quit Jerry and Carla Pritkin’s night game. Resisting alcohol is more difficult in the wee hours of morning than it is in the late afternoon. Then it came out that drinking had nothing to do with her decision. She was angry with a player who was a permanent fixture at the Pritkin’s game.  Dr. Louis Mellot, it seemed, was fooling around with Eva, Jacqueline’s eighteen-year old daughter.

“Two pairs,” says Crybaby Freddie. Although he swears he is going to stop playing he is almost always the first to arrive at Madame Nicole’s café.

“How high,” says Roland?

“You stupid Americans,” says Old Man Pepe. “You finally had a half decent president and what did you do but kick him out?”

“Tens up,” says Freddie.

Roland throws his cards away. “Better than nines over fours.”

“You see,” Bertier says to Freddie. “You don’t lose all your close hands.”

“Didn’t we go through all that a long time ago?” I say to Pepe.

“The old man is right,” says the dentist, Arthur Sisse. “Nixon was a great man.”

“Who cares about politics?” says Jacqueline. “When am I going to find a new man?”

“Oh mother, please!” says Florence, Jacqueline’s younger daughter. From time to time Jacqueline brings the sixteen-year old girl along as a spectator.

“Whose deal is it?” asks Claude Stahly, the other dentist at the table.

“Methinks it is the lady’s,” says English professor Pierre Pegon.

In first position I open a hand with three aces. Sandbagging is not my specialty. Suddenly my eyes fall on Bertier. What the hell is he doing? In an effort to appear nonchalant, the art dealer keeps gazing at the ceiling.  With a coy smile he drops his cards on the table.  It is unlike him to feign indifference when he is not holding a good hand.

Pepe, Sisse and Roland fold.  Crybaby Freddy comes in timidly. Stahly lets out a farting sound to let us know he is not playing the hand. That’s the extent of his humor. I look over at Pegon. Seated next to Bertier, he is squirming in his chair. From my vantage point at the end of the table I see why the teacher is uncomfortable. Behind them, Florence has stretched out her legs. Slowly, Alain Bertier has dropped a hand and is caressing the teenager’s calves.

Jacqueline is drinking directly from a Perrier bottle. Shaking a finger, she indicates that she is folding. Fortunately, her view of Florence is blocked. Unable to come to terms with Louis Mellot wooing her older daughter, imagine what she would think about Bertier touching her baby!

“Not only did he open the door to China,” says Pepe, “he brought about détente with the Russians.”

“Two cards,” I say. “Nixon was the only one who could pull those things off. You forget: for twenty-five years he led the opposition against them.”

“One card,” says Freddie.

Holy cow! I catch a fourth ace.  Will you look at that?  Bertier’s hand has disappeared under Florence’s skirt. The damn fool had better watch himself. With Jacqueline on the wagon, she is apt to be more attentive to what is going on.

“You tell ‘em, Pepe,” says Pegon. “De Gaulle started to kick the Yanks out. It is up to us to finish the job.”

“We can begin right at this table,” says Claude Stahly.

Bertier pays no attention to their banter. His face is blissful. I tell you, one of these days the man is going to go too far.

“You damn idiots,” says Freddie. “Of all the times to talk about politics, you have to pick today.  Here I’m holding four jacks and this American jerk doesn’t know it’s his turn to bet.”

“Four jacks?” I say. “I’ve got four aces.”

“You see, you see!” Freddie cries out. “Now will someone believe me?”

Bertier removes his hand away from Florence’s leg. He rubs his nose. Shifting in her seat, the young girl is looking directly at her mother.

“What is it, Cherie?” says Jacqueline.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“It can only happen to me,” moans Freddie.

“Quit your constant bawling,” says Sisse. “You haven’t given up a single chip when you should have lost your whole pile.”

“Who else can lose with four jacks?”

“We should talk about politics more often,” says Pepe. “It distracts the American.”

“That’s not why I missed my bet,” I say.

“Where has our friend Bertier gone off to?” says Jacqueline. “I have never seen him so quiet.”

Bertier attempts a weak smile. The deal comes to me. What the hell caused
Pepe to think of Nixon after all this time? That’s the French for you. Unfailingly, they remain loyal to the one American president forced out of office.

“Let’s try to play a little faster,” says Roland. “We all seem to be sleeping.”

He is right. We are moving at half our normal speed. As a group, we have been playing together so long we have become like an inbreeding family.

Florence stands up. Straightening her skirt, she moves away from the table.

“Cherie,” says her mother. “Bring me a glass of whiskey, will you? Just a small one to get rid of this funny taste in my mouth.”  Jacqueline throws back her head and laughs.  “Not too small, mind you,” she adds.

JAM SESSION

                                                       

             An expression we used to employ in Paris regarding earning money at poker went like this:  “you can’t make bread without jam.”  By stretching the imagination, I guess confiture, the word for jam in French, does sound a bit like the word, conjuncture.  Which was just another example of the locals trying to be clever.

 

In French or English, conjuncture indicates a combination of events or circumstances that precipitates a critical state of affairs.  Meaning you can have fabulous cards from noon to midnight and still only make peanuts.  If your opponents all have busted hands, whose going to pay to see those quads, boats, etc? 

 

Surely most of us can remember an occasion in which the pair we had in hand was duplicated on the board.  Naturally we checked again and again, hoping that somebody would make a flush or full house and bet into our strength.  Instead, what usually happened was we picked up naught but the blinds.  C’est la vie.   Without the proper jam you are not going to accumulate chips.  

 

Two nights ago at a $1-$2 No Limit Texas Hold ‘Em game at the MGM I saw a player corner the market on jam, jelly and conjuncture.  From the deal of the cards to the turn and the river, everything fell in place for him.  Well, almost everything: he could have been playing at a higher stakes table.

 

Don’t ask me why nobody raised before the flop.  Since the session was exceedingly defensive, I guess everyone was waiting for someone else to make the initial move.  That way, I was able to limp in with an unsuited king-ten.  Here’s what six of the other nine players were holding:  two queens, two jacks, two nines, two eights, A-KH and 7-6S.  The flop turned over, 5D, 8C, 9H.  Happily for Mister 7-6S the man with a set of eights was on the button.  Checked around to him, we finally saw some action.  And plenty at that! Before you could say: “Je pense, donc je suis” four players with substantial piles had gone all in.  With a measly $26 in front of me I too put the rest of my chips in the pot.  Now if only a jack and queen would turn over, I would have the nut straight!

 

Nothing of the sort happened.  By turning over the deuce of diamonds and the trey of hearts, the dealer once again confirmed that only one person per hand is apt to get lucky.   In this case it was a middle-aged gentleman with thick eyeglasses and a pencil thin mustache.  I don’t know how much he raked in, but for that table it was plenty.  Standing up to leave, I had to pass behind his position.

 

        “Yes, Siree,” I heard him remark to the player on his left.  “I sure played that hand like a pro.”  

LOGIC AND WHATEVER

                                                           

                                                  

         While sometimes it seems there are countless ways to rake in a pot, we usually win (1) when our cards hold up (2) we pull off a bluff (3) we pay an opponent’s bluff.  Of course the first  is the most common.  Luck, combined with good judgment and skillful betting will maximize our gains, and the psychological effect of having many – or few – chips on the table is likely to deter or stimulate an opponent’s action.  Winning by bluffing is less facile.  Besides having to choose the right moment, we have to know the amount to risk to scare off an opponent.   Successfully paying another player's bluff entails either intuition or the ability to read the person correctly.  Don’t get down on yourself if you sense a bluff and are mistaken.  Receiving information for future play might well compensate a short-term error.  With that acknowledged, allow me to give you an example of a style of play I encountered yesterday.  The only way I can come close to figuring it out is by repeating P.T. Barnum’s oft quoted dictum.

 

            Mrs. Sweet (she had a friendly face and a pleasant smile) and I arrived at the Bellagio simultaneously.  Seated at the $2-$5 No Limit Texas Hold ‘Em table, the lady opted to buy in at the maximum $500, while I went the other way, requesting $200 worth of chips.  Rather than argue which tactic is more advantageous - both swords have a double edge – allow me to remind you that when entering a game already in progress, you are likely to encounter one or more players sitting with double, triple or quadruple the maximum buy-in permitted.  In that case, wouldn’t you agree that plunking down five bills reduces the leverage it offers when starting up a new game?  Particularly yesterday when a fellow named Burt was sitting on a pile worth around $5,000.

 

            Mrs. S- got lucky.  On the button holding pocket aces, the blinds were raised again and again.  The good lady had little to do but push in her chips before raking in a thousand five hundred dollars.

 

‘It should happen to me,’ I thought, as I imagine did everyone else.   (It has, but so infrequently, the point becomes moot.  Whoever said that eventually luck is distributed equally has a lot of observing to do – both at poker and in the world outside.)

 

A few moments later, Moneybags Burt bumped the $5 big blind up to $50.  Admittedly, he was playing rather large, but in a calculated way.  Other than a twenty-dollar publicity stunt he had yet to throw a dime away.  Personally, unless I was loaded, I wanted nothing to do with him.  Mrs. Sweet equaled Burt’s bet.  The flop came over Q-9-2 of three different suits.

 

“Check,” said Burt.

 

“Fifty,” said Mrs. S-.  Burt followed after a slight hesitation.

 

A second queen appeared on the turn.

 

“A hundred,” said Burt. 

 

“All-in,” said the lady.

 

“Wow!” said Burt.  “I doubt if you have a boat, Ma’am.  You’d sucker me in little by little if you did.  So I’m going to pay you with my Ace-Queen of spades.”

 

He was right.  She had the king of hearts and the queen of clubs.  The river was a six.  Burt got richer while the nice lady went into her pocketbook for another five bills. 

 

A lot happened in the next half hour, but nothing that made much difference to me.  Mrs. Sweet won another hand, as did Burt.  When her turn to be big blind arrived, I noticed him sit up in his seat and move a hand onto a stack of $100 chips. On the lady’s right, the small blind was nodding his head to the rhythm of an I-Pod.  There sure are a lot of music lovers present at contemporary poker games.

 

“Ten bucks,” said Burt when the bet came to him.  The smile on his face was almost angelic.

 

Of course she called.  The flop came up 9-9-4.   Both players checked.  The turn was a queen.  Burt bet $10.  Mrs. Sweet called.  The river was another four. Grinning foolishly, Burt went all-in.  Mrs. S- hesitated.  Not for all the tequila in Mexico would I have paid him holding anything other than two fours, two nines or two queens.

 

The lady was clearly confused.  Continuing to examine her cards, she shook her head from side to side.  Brother, what could she be thinking?  Did she really believe Burt was risking 800 bucks to pick up a handful of chips on a half ass bluff?  

 

            She paid with a four.  Burt turned over Q-9 suited.  In about forty-five minutes the lady had lost $1,000 with situations that would have seen a normal player ahead by a similar amount.  Okay, that wasn’t my problem. Losing thirty dollars, I was hoping to win my first hand.  But a thought kept turning over in my mind.  While we read a lot of books and articles on how to play winning poker, is there anything out there that might help us grasp elementary logic?

AT THE RIO

                                                         

 

          It’s 11:00 AM on a Friday morning at the Rio.  Nine of us are about to commence a $2-$5 No Limit Texas Hold ‘Em cash game.  Behind us, janitors, dealers and pit bosses are setting up tables for the $10,000 N.L. tournament, first prize, twelve million dollars.  About eleven hundred of the original 8,700 contestants remain.  Security personnel and television crews are scrambling all over the place.  They have an hour to get everything ready.  Since no spectators will be allowed this morning, the room seems almost vacant.   Maybe that’s why it is so damn cold.  The air conditioning must be regulated for several thousand bodies.

 

            Compared to the main event our table is small potatoes.  That makes me smallest of all.  My eight opponents have bought in between $300 and $500 apiece.  Not me, partner.  After 30 years of playing the game professionally in Paris, I know the advantage of risking as little as possible.  At this table, the minimum stake is  $100.  That’s enough. If the poker gods want to smile on you they will do so no matter how much your initial stake. 

 

            It takes an hour before I am obliged to buy-in again.  Other than losing a $20 raise with a pair of sevens, I didn’t play a hand.  By now the place is buzzing with activity.  Over the PA system a detached voice instructs the dealers to shuffle up and deal.  Unimaginable, I am thinking.  How can a person win $12,000,000 at a poker game, even one that lasts two weeks?  Once I won $18,000 in a marathon game in Neuilly, but all I collected was half that amount.

 

            I bust out with a pair of kings.  A fat man with suited ace-king hits an ace on the river.  The river, the river, it’s always the river!  Pumping a fist in the air, the bastard looks as though he is congratulating himself for skillful play. 

 

            Back in the pocket I go for another $100.  No way am I going to take more.  Since a $500 buy-in wouldn’t have helped me so far, I see no reason to change tactics.  A loud roar erupts from the tournament section.  I guess some celebrity player just demonstrated his ability by hitting a straight or flush.

 

            I go all-in with Ace-King of hearts.  Fatty follows with Queen-six of clubs.  A straight to the five – what’s called a bicycle or a wheel at lowball – appears on the board.  The fat man and I split the pot.  At the back of the room someone emits a deep moan.  I know how you feel, pal, believe me I do.

 

            I limp in with king-ten of spades.  Fatso raises $10.  You got it: from five bucks he brings the hand up to fifteen dollars.  A young fellow with a thousand bucks in front of him and I are the only followers.   Either the other players have nothing or they are distracted by the action a few yards away. 

 

It is still like Antarctica here.  Some wise guy must have upped the A/C another couple of notches.  Members of the TV crew are wearing sweaters.  I’m telling you, there are more summertime colds in Las Vegas than any other place in the world.  I wonder if a collective lawsuit against the casinos . . . Forget it, nobody ever forced a player inside.

 

A king, a ten and a five appear on the flop.  Two of them are hearts.  I go all-in.  Fatty too pushes his whole pile into the pot, an amount equal to what the young player has in front of him.  With action like that I can only assume he has flopped a set.  If it’s kings I am drawing dead.  The young fellow scratches his head but folds.  The fat man turns over two small hearts.  What a ridiculous bet!  Suppose the young guy was holding two kings or the ace second of hearts?  Hey, wait a minute!  Maybe the three hundred pound man isn’t so stupid after all.  If that were the case, wouldn’t the young fellow have come back at his two-bit raise?

 

Naturally a heart appears on the river.  I’ve had enough.  I can’t hit against them, but they sure know how to hit against me.  Anyway, I am glad to exit this igloo.  Walking out the door, I am jostled by a tall, well-dressed gentleman who apparently has been eliminated from the tournament.  He is talking to a woman next to him.  It is probably his wife, though in France it would be assumed she was his mistress.

 

“Forget what I told you yesterday,” he says.  “This game is ninety-nine per cent luck.”

 

            “I couldn’t agree with you more,” I say to him, before quickly walking away.

TALES AND TELLS

                                     

         It’s a mistake to think all Parisian art dealers are crooks.  One or two honest dealers can be found if you make an effort.  At our poker table Freddie-the-Weeper was lily white, or blanc-bleu as they say in French. That’s why, he claims, he never got rich.  Not that Freddie’s done poorly.  The crybaby owns a large apartment on the Left Bank and a country home in the Dordogne.  Pretty good for a peddler of military articles and historic objects.

 

             Little Pete (Petit Pierrot) is on the other side of the fence. He might do poorly at cards, but he makes a good living selling art.  Oh, the naughty things one learns at Parisian poker tables.  Pete himself liked to brag about his misconduct.  I’m telling you, if Messieurs Luciano, Costello and Lansky had known what was going on in fancy Parisian galleries, they would have forsaken guns and gangs.

 

            Little Pete measures five foot three.  Unfortunately, he’s only an occasional player.  Mainly, he comes to touch base with our superstar, Alain Bertier, one of the world’s leading dealers in Art Nouveau and Art Deco.  Rumor has it Alain began his career as a runner for a homosexual dealer on the Right Bank.  With no compunctions about lending his body to get ahead (pun unintended), our boy rose up the ladder very quickly.  Sex aside, Bertier would have been successful in whatever he did.  Intelligent and ambitious, he has a will of iron.   I don’t know what attracts him to Pierrot, unless he sees a version of his younger self.

 

            I’ll say one thing about Little Pete: he is not afraid to bluff.  When he asks for a single card at draw, he’s likely to come out betting.  Then it’s my job to figure out what he’s got.  Happily, Pete makes it easy for me.  His clients might not be able to tell the genuine goods from the fakes, but at poker he’s as easy to read as the Happy New Year sign on top of the Eiffel Tower.  All one has to do is make him talk.  If Pierrot opens his mouth, he’s bluffing; if he clams up, he’s hit his hand.  Naturally there is a method in how one goes about this.  In my case, I say:  “my time to pay.”  Now if Pete says: “take all the time you want,” the last thing in the world I’m going to do is pay him right away.  Don’t ever let an opponent know you’ve figured out one of his tells.  So I’ll toss a coin or count my fingers or throw in my chips disgustedly, so as to give the impression I don’t know what I am doing.  That usually evokes Pierrot to say something equivalent to: “hell’s bells, I can’t beat this bastard in poker or in flipping coins.”   But please, do not feel sorry for the little man.  He himself cannot count how many times he has sold Rodin’s statue, “The Kiss.” Surely, it’s in the hundreds.

 

            Francois-Auguste-Rene Rodin authorized seven versions of his exquisite bronze before breaking the mold from which the statue was cast.  So where did all those extra copies come from?  That’s hardly the point.  If given a chance, most any dealer would do what Little Pete does.  What sets Pierrot apart is not his dishonesty but the fact that he is a member of a committee appointed by the French Ministry of Culture whose purpose is to protect French art and artists from fraud and deceit.  They might just as well have appointed Jack-the-Ripper chief of police.

 

            In both the world of art and the world of poker, Pierrot is a relative minnow.  Wait till you see Bertier.  Now there is a great white shark, and subtle as well!  Although Alain maintains a gallery next door to the café where we play poker, most of his business is conducted from his home.  The boutique is a front.  Madame Bertier, Claire to her friends, tends shop.  Not only does that allow her to keep an eye on her husband, it helps keep the tax people at bay.  A compulsive buyer, Alain has stocked his emporium from floor to ceiling with bronzes, furniture, glassware and anything else created between 1890 and 1935.  I don’t know how many times he has sold The Kiss, probably, never.  Rodin is not one of his favorites.  Didn’t I tell you he was subtle?  Alain tends to steer clear of great names.  No Manets, Monets or Gauguins for him.  But don’t for a minute think that leaves him out of the counterfeit game.  Au contraire, he and a couple of other dealers have sold ten times as many marble and bronze statuettes of the Romanian born sculptor Demetre Chiparus than the master molded and cast on his own.

 

 Residing for many years in Paris, Chiparus produced about 2,500 statues in the 1920s and 1930s.  So make your count.  At roughly $4,000 apiece, the trio of French counterfeiters have raked in – you’ve got it - $100,000,000 from a relatively unknown artist.

 

            At poker, Bertier has nearly as many tells as false Chiparuses.  Foremost is the sound of his voice.  Brother, when he drops his voice an octave you had better head for the hills.  The man is loaded, and everybody knows it, even Claude Stahly the dentist whose brain measures half the size of half a pea.

 

            Bertier prides himself on being the trickiest fellow in town.  He cannot understand why someone as clever as he is consistently loses at poker.  He loses because he has little patience, no discipline, lacks money management and displays his tells as clear as a flock of blackbirds in a snowfield.  Here’s an example:

 

            Alain draws a card.  Stahly takes two.  For sure, Claude has three of a kind.  He could never imagine drawing one or standing pat.  A rock tight player, the dentist raised before the draw.  No way would he do so on the come.  Bertier is probably drawing to a straight or a flush.  Like most of the locals, he wouldn’t dream of folding if there were a chance he could catch a card to complete his hand.  I’m telling you, these Frenchmen are money in the bank.

 

            “Parole,” says Bertier, glancing at his card.  That means pass, or check.  Oh my God, he sounds like he’s tuning up to sing basso in a Russian opera.  What did he do, hit a straight flush?

 

            Stahly has heard it.  Maybe he’s not so stupid after all.  He is taunting Bertier by waving his cards in the art dealer’s face.

 

            “What’s tha