Cheating.
Did you cringe? I did; I hate cheating.
To clarify: I’m speaking of cheating in the sense of swindling. Although I am also anti-infidelity - that’s a point for another day. No, right now I speak of deceit, trickery and fraud by means of winning a game, a bet, a gamble.
Unlike most choices we face in life, the decision to cheat is acutely cut-and-dry. For example, as a kid - hell, as an adult right now if the situation went from hypothetical to actual - sneaking extra $500s in Monopoly is a serious no-no. Just as much as fixing a boxing match or marking a deck.
As black and white as I see cheating though, there is a grey area that is undeniable. As you might imagine, I am well versed in that locale…
Porter completed his simultaneous quadruple shot glass pour, rolled the bottle around his hand and shoved it back into its place without so much as a turn of the head. He clearly knew what he was doing, but don’t let that fool you, he’s not merely limited to barkeeping talents.
I have known Porter for more than five years; our introduction having originally taken place at a Cherokee casino in western North Carolina. A floor manager at the time, he witnessed a seventy-five hundred dollar bet between myself and a small Chinese man that went by ‘Dong’. I say 'went by' because he would always say his own name in the third person with a devious smile and a quick wink…“Dong, love the pretty ladies”…terribly unsettling, verging on creepy and I would ponder if his parents, himself or fate had dealt him such a fitting name.
When it comes to a having a witness to a gentlemen’s bet, the ideal specimen is Porter. Perpetually fair and utterly unapologetic for it, for good or bad, you could rest assured that with him, all bets would be handled the same: unbiased, just, and to the victor goes the spoils. No welshers, no cheaters, no debate.
Lo and behold, I ended up the victor, having placed my money on 'Tallulah the Lioness' in the 8th Annual Plus-Size Mud Wrestling Championship. Dong tried welsh on me but Porter put a stop to it quickly and threatened indefinite expulsion from the casino unless his debt was paid - now that’s Porter for you! He was raised by his uncles - both gamblers, who taught him that one must live and die by their word. Add some managerial skills and a dash pure street smarts and you have a reputation that brings with it a steaming heap of frequent flyer miles from traveling to gambling houses across the country… rehabilitating the sick, restructuring the broken, and adding a sense of prestige to the prominent - from carpet joints in Vegas to underground card rooms in Baltimore. It's because of this, that it came as no surprise that he’d show up here on the shores of Jersey.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
Chapter Seven: Checkmate
If you give a person internet access and thirty minutes of open surfing time, they will, without a doubt, end up at a faces of death-like video or otherwise disturbingly graphic and poorly lit footage of some accident, mishap or outright brutal series of events which inevitably leads to the death of the star of the show. Give it a whirl, start off with a totally PG and non-violent related topic - let‘s say baby ducklings…click around a bit and I promise that in no time at all you will be staring at the surveillance tape of a warehouse worker stacking boxing of steak knives.
But what’s that - looks like one box won’t quite fit. He’s really banging it in there… and that top shelve looks pretty shaky.
Then it happens.
The poor guys pounds just a little too hard and down falls fate. In slow motion, often due to crafty editing techniques, twelve glistening, razor sharp steak knives of varying sizes, plummets into the face of the newest resident of local mortuary.
When I find myself in this voyeuristic position, I will start the video again after its first completion; armed now with the knowledge of the near future. My attention stays on the victim’s eyes. He has no idea; his fate sealed.
The problem is that he lived life like a game of checkers - allowing impulsion to lead him. One can get by on an abundance of hope and a deficit of forethought for only so long. I felt exactly the same about Pip - poor guy; he has no idea. He’s under the impression that he still has control over his fate at this card game.
He is sadly mistaken.
I looked at my watch; Mason should be ready any minute now. “Almost time to get on with life and drive far away from Sandy Ocean Beach - miles and miles from Lenny’s Sports and Spirits,” I thought. I brought my glass to my lips and gave it a slow and steady slip.
I like to call the following ploy the ‘bluffers gambit’. Much like the queen’s gambit in chess, I will make an early sacrifice to gain a favorable position and then strike with unyielding force before my opponent knows what hit him.
The dealer cut the cards and began a new hand - I now sat at the small blind and therefore first to act after the flop; a most opportune position indeed at this point. I glanced at my hole cards and discovered 2-9 off suit - perfect. The table was split with folders and limpers all around to Pip, who raised twice the big blind. When betting got back to me, I quickly called, as did two others, bringing the total to four who would see the flop.
A-Q-5, rainbow.
I opened with a small bet, then peered at the man in second position while lifting my brow slightly.
Mr. Denim Jacket tapped his cards on the table then flung them into the muck. Next up was Handlebar Mustache, of coarse I could call him Bow-Tie, either would be fitting, though I think the ’stache is slightly more rare and thus deserves top billing.
Handlebar Mustache reached for chips and counted off the call. He peered at Pip and then at me. With a raise of his eyebrow he slid his cards to the dealer and returned his chips to his stack. Pip called quickly.
The Turn: 8c.
“You’re in t-trouble now,” I said to Pip, forcing a stammer while I made a bet that committed me to the pot - Pip called again.
The River: Jd.
Without missing a beat, I shoved my remaining chips into the pot. Pip called and wasted no time turning over two pair: Aces and fives. I slammed my hand to the felt showing my obviously failed attempt at a bluff, to which Pip exploded with laughter.
“You’re a terrible liar, buddy!” he yelped.
Doing some quick math, I tallied his total stack to be just shy of $2000, yanked out my billfold and slapped $1900 onto the table. “Dammit, I haven’t been felted all night!” I complained.
“Don’t get carried away now,” said Denim Jacket.
“I don’t need any advice,” I snapped back.
“All downhill from here…” a voice said.
I looked up and recognized the shabby Lonnie’s patch immediately. “…I’ve gotta see this,” the bartender continued, standing only a few feet from the table, crossing his arms as he watched.
A new round began. I waited until it was my action to even touch the cards; my eyes transfixed on Pip as betting ensued. He peeked at his cards twice - he must like what he sees.
With the bet at 140, I stared blankly at my hole cards: 5d,Jh. Not much acting to do here, I clenched my jaw and tossed my cards to the dealer with hint of attitude. I could see Pip looking my way with a crooked smile growing across his face.
I used the remainder of the hand appearing quite disinterested in the table- sending text messages to myself and answering back with a fury.
“Post your blinds,” called the dealer as he cut the deck. Again I watched Pip, this time he limited his peek to one, but I could see the wheels turning in his head.
“Whatcha got?” I wondered, “Small pair? Suited connectors?”
I could hear Handlebar Mustache call the blind before the action got to Pip.
“110,” Pip spoke.
He might as well showed me his cards. One-hundred ten is a strange bet, not wildly large given the average pot sizes, but large enough to make some kind of a statement.
He’s betting a weak Ace; acting conservative, though verging on cautious. A large over-bet would surely make him fold…unless of coarse it came down to just he and I. How could he resist?
I snatched up my cards and willed myself a good 50/50 hand, something that would give an Ace-blank a run for its money; I would be at the mercy of the poker gods until then.
And with that, there they were, two black sevens.
I raised - big. “Four-hundred.”
The guy to my immediate left, who seemed bothered by the card game that kept interrupting his drinking and scratching, folded quickly and got to work on what must have been an unimaginable rash on his lower groin.
Next was Denim Jacket - “Front row to the melt down - I’m in,” he muttered as he counted off the call and tossed his chips forward.
Handlebar Mustache yawned and folded quietly.
Back to Pip, who looked me over and shook his head. “You just don’t give up do ya?” he asked.
I moved my hips as if I were vibrating and reached for my phone, gave it a click and tucked in back in my pocket. “What?” I replied.
“Are you gambling here or just screwing around, boy? This ain’t kindergarten!” he growled, leaning deep over the table.
“Hey, its your bet tough guy,” said the bartender, now standing directly behind Pip, with the goon from the curtain now close by.
“Fine.” he replied settling back in his seat. “Well, then it’s in your hands kid. Go home now or learn a very important life lesson.” He slide his entire stack toward the center of the table, “All-in.”
I flashed a glance at Demin Jacket and then back at Pip.
“Sounds good to me,” I said with a swift push of my chips.
“I’ll just get out of the line of fire,” said Denim Jacket folding.
“Happy coin flip,” I said as I turned up my sevens next to Pip’s Ace-6.
“Bullshit! You lay two grand down on a couple sevens!?” Pip could hardly control himself, he developed a tick in his left eye and I couldn’t help but think how that could have sped up the game in retrospect.
“Five cards to come, calm your shit down,” said the bartender as he lay his hand on Pips shoulder to keep him in his seat.
The flop: 2d-2h-10h.
“Oh come on,” Pip clamored.
The turn: Js
“If I get my hands on you…you little prick!” Pip shook with tension.
The river: 2s.
As the two of spades hit the felt, Pip leapt to his feet, tossing the bartender’s arm aside. He grabbed at an open beer bottle and slammed it against the table. The curtain goon moved quickly considering his size and tackled Pip at the knees. The bartender put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. Three more men stepped through the commotion and dragged Pip through the curtain.
I felt a hand on my forearm and looked up at Handlebar Mustache, “This calls for a round at the bar - your buying,” he said in a whisper.
“Cash me out - send it to the bar,” I directed the dealer as I weeded out a hundred chip and tossed it to him.
“Thank-you, sir. Your winnings will be up very shortly.” he responded.
I stood from my seat and moved to the bar where I perched myself on a stool between Scott Coopersmith and Tommy Jacobs…that is to say Denim Jacket and Handlebar Mustache.
“Nothing is ever easy with you, Greyson, is it?” the bartender asked pouring four shots of Scotch.
“Well, it might be messy Porter, but it’s profitable,” I replied.
But what’s that - looks like one box won’t quite fit. He’s really banging it in there… and that top shelve looks pretty shaky.
Then it happens.
The poor guys pounds just a little too hard and down falls fate. In slow motion, often due to crafty editing techniques, twelve glistening, razor sharp steak knives of varying sizes, plummets into the face of the newest resident of local mortuary.
When I find myself in this voyeuristic position, I will start the video again after its first completion; armed now with the knowledge of the near future. My attention stays on the victim’s eyes. He has no idea; his fate sealed.
The problem is that he lived life like a game of checkers - allowing impulsion to lead him. One can get by on an abundance of hope and a deficit of forethought for only so long. I felt exactly the same about Pip - poor guy; he has no idea. He’s under the impression that he still has control over his fate at this card game.
He is sadly mistaken.
I looked at my watch; Mason should be ready any minute now. “Almost time to get on with life and drive far away from Sandy Ocean Beach - miles and miles from Lenny’s Sports and Spirits,” I thought. I brought my glass to my lips and gave it a slow and steady slip.
I like to call the following ploy the ‘bluffers gambit’. Much like the queen’s gambit in chess, I will make an early sacrifice to gain a favorable position and then strike with unyielding force before my opponent knows what hit him.
The dealer cut the cards and began a new hand - I now sat at the small blind and therefore first to act after the flop; a most opportune position indeed at this point. I glanced at my hole cards and discovered 2-9 off suit - perfect. The table was split with folders and limpers all around to Pip, who raised twice the big blind. When betting got back to me, I quickly called, as did two others, bringing the total to four who would see the flop.
A-Q-5, rainbow.
I opened with a small bet, then peered at the man in second position while lifting my brow slightly.
Mr. Denim Jacket tapped his cards on the table then flung them into the muck. Next up was Handlebar Mustache, of coarse I could call him Bow-Tie, either would be fitting, though I think the ’stache is slightly more rare and thus deserves top billing.
Handlebar Mustache reached for chips and counted off the call. He peered at Pip and then at me. With a raise of his eyebrow he slid his cards to the dealer and returned his chips to his stack. Pip called quickly.
The Turn: 8c.
“You’re in t-trouble now,” I said to Pip, forcing a stammer while I made a bet that committed me to the pot - Pip called again.
The River: Jd.
Without missing a beat, I shoved my remaining chips into the pot. Pip called and wasted no time turning over two pair: Aces and fives. I slammed my hand to the felt showing my obviously failed attempt at a bluff, to which Pip exploded with laughter.
“You’re a terrible liar, buddy!” he yelped.
Doing some quick math, I tallied his total stack to be just shy of $2000, yanked out my billfold and slapped $1900 onto the table. “Dammit, I haven’t been felted all night!” I complained.
“Don’t get carried away now,” said Denim Jacket.
“I don’t need any advice,” I snapped back.
“All downhill from here…” a voice said.
I looked up and recognized the shabby Lonnie’s patch immediately. “…I’ve gotta see this,” the bartender continued, standing only a few feet from the table, crossing his arms as he watched.
A new round began. I waited until it was my action to even touch the cards; my eyes transfixed on Pip as betting ensued. He peeked at his cards twice - he must like what he sees.
With the bet at 140, I stared blankly at my hole cards: 5d,Jh. Not much acting to do here, I clenched my jaw and tossed my cards to the dealer with hint of attitude. I could see Pip looking my way with a crooked smile growing across his face.
I used the remainder of the hand appearing quite disinterested in the table- sending text messages to myself and answering back with a fury.
“Post your blinds,” called the dealer as he cut the deck. Again I watched Pip, this time he limited his peek to one, but I could see the wheels turning in his head.
“Whatcha got?” I wondered, “Small pair? Suited connectors?”
I could hear Handlebar Mustache call the blind before the action got to Pip.
“110,” Pip spoke.
He might as well showed me his cards. One-hundred ten is a strange bet, not wildly large given the average pot sizes, but large enough to make some kind of a statement.
He’s betting a weak Ace; acting conservative, though verging on cautious. A large over-bet would surely make him fold…unless of coarse it came down to just he and I. How could he resist?
I snatched up my cards and willed myself a good 50/50 hand, something that would give an Ace-blank a run for its money; I would be at the mercy of the poker gods until then.
And with that, there they were, two black sevens.
I raised - big. “Four-hundred.”
The guy to my immediate left, who seemed bothered by the card game that kept interrupting his drinking and scratching, folded quickly and got to work on what must have been an unimaginable rash on his lower groin.
Next was Denim Jacket - “Front row to the melt down - I’m in,” he muttered as he counted off the call and tossed his chips forward.
Handlebar Mustache yawned and folded quietly.
Back to Pip, who looked me over and shook his head. “You just don’t give up do ya?” he asked.
I moved my hips as if I were vibrating and reached for my phone, gave it a click and tucked in back in my pocket. “What?” I replied.
“Are you gambling here or just screwing around, boy? This ain’t kindergarten!” he growled, leaning deep over the table.
“Hey, its your bet tough guy,” said the bartender, now standing directly behind Pip, with the goon from the curtain now close by.
“Fine.” he replied settling back in his seat. “Well, then it’s in your hands kid. Go home now or learn a very important life lesson.” He slide his entire stack toward the center of the table, “All-in.”
I flashed a glance at Demin Jacket and then back at Pip.
“Sounds good to me,” I said with a swift push of my chips.
“I’ll just get out of the line of fire,” said Denim Jacket folding.
“Happy coin flip,” I said as I turned up my sevens next to Pip’s Ace-6.
“Bullshit! You lay two grand down on a couple sevens!?” Pip could hardly control himself, he developed a tick in his left eye and I couldn’t help but think how that could have sped up the game in retrospect.
“Five cards to come, calm your shit down,” said the bartender as he lay his hand on Pips shoulder to keep him in his seat.
The flop: 2d-2h-10h.
“Oh come on,” Pip clamored.
The turn: Js
“If I get my hands on you…you little prick!” Pip shook with tension.
The river: 2s.
As the two of spades hit the felt, Pip leapt to his feet, tossing the bartender’s arm aside. He grabbed at an open beer bottle and slammed it against the table. The curtain goon moved quickly considering his size and tackled Pip at the knees. The bartender put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. Three more men stepped through the commotion and dragged Pip through the curtain.
I felt a hand on my forearm and looked up at Handlebar Mustache, “This calls for a round at the bar - your buying,” he said in a whisper.
“Cash me out - send it to the bar,” I directed the dealer as I weeded out a hundred chip and tossed it to him.
“Thank-you, sir. Your winnings will be up very shortly.” he responded.
I stood from my seat and moved to the bar where I perched myself on a stool between Scott Coopersmith and Tommy Jacobs…that is to say Denim Jacket and Handlebar Mustache.
“Nothing is ever easy with you, Greyson, is it?” the bartender asked pouring four shots of Scotch.
“Well, it might be messy Porter, but it’s profitable,” I replied.
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