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"Does that mean," Marshal asked, "the twenty-dollar guy then gets to see the flop without putting more money?"
"Right. Unless there's a raise. That means you've paid for the flop and should get to see it once a round. There'll probably be nine players—so once every nine hands. The other eight you fold— do not call the first bet. I repeat, Doc, do not. This means that on every round you'll have to ante up three times for a total of thirty-five bucks. The entire round of nine hands should take about twenty-five minutes. So you should lose seventy bucks an hour, max. Unless you do something stupid and try to play a hand.
"You want out in two hours?" Shelly continued, as the waitress brought his roast beef floating in rich gravy. "Tell you what. Let's play for an hour and thirty or forty minutes and then talk for a half-hour after. I've decided to cover all your losses—I'm feeling generous today—so here's a hundred bucks." He fished a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet.
Marshal took the bill. "Let's see . . . one hundred . . . does that compute?" He took out a pen and scribbled on the napkin. "Thirty-five dollars every twenty-five minutes, and you want to play for an hour and forty minutes—a hundred minutes. That comes out to one hundred forty dollars. Right?"
"Okay, okay. Here's another forty. And, here, here's a couple hundred more—a loan, only, for the evening. Best to buy three hundred worth of chips to start with—it looks better, won't call attention to yourself as a local yokel. You'll cash 'em in when we leave."
Shelly continued, wolfing down his roast beef and gravy-soaked bread. "Now listen carefully. Doc: if you lose more than one hundred forty, you're on your own. 'Cause the only way that can happen is to play your cards. And I wouldn't advise that—these guys are good. Most of 'em play three, four times a week—many of them make their living doing this. Plus, if you play your cards, you can't watch what I'm doing. And that's the point of this caper. Right?"
"Your book," said Marshal, "says there are certain treasure hands that should see the flop every time: high pairs, ace-king same suit."
"Shit, no. Not on my time. After I leave, Doc, you have a ball. Play all you want."
"Why your time?" Marshal asked.
"Because I'm paying all your antes to see all those cards. And besides this is still my official therapy time—even though it's the last session."
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Marshal nodded. "Well, I guess so."
"No, no, wait. Doc. I see where you're coming from. Who understands better than me how hard it is to fold a good hand? That would be cruel and unusual punishment. Let's compromise. Any time your first two cards are a pair of aces, kings, or queens, you call the bet to see the flop. If the flop doesn't improve your hand—that is, if you don't hit three of a kind or two pair on the flop— then you fold: you do not see another bet. And then, of course, we go fifty-fifty on any winnings."
"Fifty-fifty?" asked Marshal. "Is it legal for players at the same table to split winnings? And are we fifty-fifty on any losses I incur?"
"Okay. Right. I'm feeling generous—you keep any winnings but you must agree to play only pairs of aces, queens, or kings. Fold every other hand. Even ace-king same suit! Do it any other way and the losings are all yours. We okay now?"-
"Okay."
"Now let's talk about the main thing—the reason you're here. I want you to watch me when I bet. I'm going to bluff a lot tonight, so watch to see if I give it away with some kind of 'tell'—you know, the kind of stuff you picked up in your office: foot moving, stuff like that."
A few minutes later Marshal and Shelly heard their names called on the loudspeaker to join the twenty-forty game. Everyone welcomed them courteously. Shelly greeted the dealer, "How ya doin', Al? Here, give me five hundred bucks of those round ones and take good care of my friend here—a beginner—I'm trying to corrupt him, and I need your help."
Marshal bought three hundred dollars' worth of chips—a stack of red five-dollar chips and a stack of blue-and-white-striped twenty-dollar chips. On the second hand Marshal was the "blind"—he had to bet twenty dollars on the two down cards and got to see the flop: three small spades. Marshal held two spades—a two and a seven— and thus had a flush on five cards. And the next up card, fourth street, was also a low spade. Marshal, dazzled by his flush, defied Shelly's instructions and stayed in for the rest of the hand, twice calling forty-dollar bets. At the end of the hand all the players turned their cards over. Marshal displayed his two and seven of spades and proudly said, "Flush." But three other players had higher flushes.
Shelly leaned over and said, as gently as possible, "Marshal, four spades in the flop—that means everyone holding even one spade has
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a flush. Your six spades are no better than anyone else's five spades, and your seven of spades is bound to get beaten by some higher spade. Why did you think the other players stayed in the betting? Always ask yourself that. They've got to have flushes! At this rate, my friend, I calculate you will lose approximately nine hundred dollars an hour of your" —Shelly emphasized "your"—"hard-earned money."
Overhearing these comments, one of the players who had been counting his chips—a tall black man wearing a gray Borsalino and a Rolex on his wrist—said, "Man, ah was about to cash in and check out... get some sleep . . . but. . . hmm, dude's playing seven-high flush ... ah just might stick around some longer."
Marshal reddened at the attention, and the dealer said in a soothing manner, "Don't let 'em get to you. Marshal. I got a feeling you'll get on to it reeaalll soon—and when you do, you're going to kick some ass." As Marshal was to learn, a good dealer was a group therapist manque and could always be counted on to soothe feelings and offer support: table tranquillity always meant greater tips.
After that Marshal played conservatively and folded every hand. A few good-natured jibes came his way for playing so tight, but Shelly and the dealer defended him and urged patience until he got the hang of it. Then, a half-hour later, he held a pair of aces and the flop was an ace and pair of deuces, giving him an aces full boat. Not many players called him on his hand, but still Marshal collected a two-hundred-fifty-dollar pot. The rest of the time Marshal watched Shelly like a hawk, occasionally jotting discreetly in a small notepad. No one seemed to mind his taking notes except a small Asian woman, almost completely hidden by towering stacks of winning chips, who stretched up, leaned over her pile of black-and-white twenty-dollar chips, and said to Marshal, gesturing toward his notepad, "And don't forget, a big straight beats a little teeny full boat! Hee-hee-hee."
Shelly was by far the most active bettor at the table and seemed to know what he was doing. Yet when he had a winning hand, few players stayed in on his bets. And when he bluffed, even with the best possible table position, one or two players with marginal hands always called and beat him. When someone else bet a lock hand, Shelly foolishly stayed in. Though Shelly had above-average cards, his stack of chips steadily declined and, at the end of ninety minutes, he had gone through his five hundred dollars. It didn't take Marshal long to find out why.
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Shelly stood up, threw the dealer his few remaining chips as a tip, and headed for the restaurant. Marshal cashed in his chips, left no tip, and followed Shelly.
"Pick up anything, Doc? Any tells?"
"Well, Shelly, you know I'm an amateur, but it seems to me that the only way you could have told them more about your hands is semaphorically."
"Huh? Come again,"
"You know, that flag system ships use to signal other ships."
"Ohyeah. Thatbad, eh?"
Marshal nodded.
"How about examples? Give me specifics."
"Well, to start, you remember the very big hands you had—I counted six: four full houses, a high straight, and a high flush?"
Shelly smiled wistfully, as if recalling old loves. "Yeah, I remember every one. Weren't they gorgeous?"
"Well," Mars
hal continued, "I noticed that anyone else at the table who had big hands always won more money that you did with comparable hands—a lot more money: at least twice or three times as much. In fact, I shouldn't even call your hands 'big hands,'maybe just high hands, because you never won a big pot with any of them."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning when you had a high hand the news spread like wildfire around the table."
"How'dlflagit?"
"Well, let me go over my observations. It seems to me that when you have great cards you squeeze them."
"Squeeze 'em?"
"Yeah, guard them as though you've got Fort Knox in your hand. Squeeze so hard you bend the bicycle wheels. And another thing, when you've got a boat you keep looking at your chips before you bet. Let's see, there was something else ..." Marshal studied his notes. "Yeah, here it is. Every time you've got a great hand, you look away from the table, off into the distance, as if you're trying to watch one of the TV basketball games—trying, I guess, to make the other players think you aren't too interested in the hand. But if you're bluffing, you're right in everyone's face, as though you're trying to stare them down, intimidate them, dissuade them from betting."
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"You're kidding, Doc? I do this? I can't believe it. I know all this stuff—it's all in Mike Carols Book of Tells. But I didn't know I did it." Shelly stood up and gave Marshal a bear hug. "Doc, this is what I call therapy! Big-time therapy! I can't wait to get back to that game—I'm going to reverse all my tells. I'll put such a spin on it those jokers won't know what hit them."
"Wait! There's more. You want to hear it?"
"Of course. But let's move quick. I want to make sure I get that spot back at the table. On second thought, let me reserve it." Shelly trotted up to Dusty, the pit boss, slapped him on the shoulder, whispered something to him, and slipped him a ten. Quickly back to Marshal, Shelly was all ears.
"Keep going—you're on a roll."
"Two things. If you look at your chips, maybe do a quick count, then no question—you got a great hand. I guess I already said that. But I didn't say this: when you bluff you never look at your chips. And then something more subtle—low level of confidence in this one . . . "
"Run it by me. Anything you have to say, Doc, I want to hear! Let me tell you, you're spitting gold!"
"Well, it seems to me that when you've got a good hand, you put your bet on the table very gently. And very close to you—you don't extend your arm very far. And when you bluff, you do the opposite—more aggressive and you plunk the chips exactly in the center of the table. Also when you bluff, often—but not every time—you seem to look at your hole cards again and again, as though you're hoping they've changed. One last thing: you hang in there to the end when everyone else at the table seems to know the guy's got a lock hand—so I guess you're playing your cards too much and not playing the other guy. Well, that's it." Marshal started to tear up his page of notes.
"No, no. Doc. Don't tear that. Let me have it. I'm going to frame it. No, no, I'll seal it in plastic and carry it with me—good luck charm, the touchstone of the Merriman fortune. Listen, I've got to go—that unique opportunity ..." Shelly beckoned toward the poker table they had just left, "that unique gathering of pigeons may never come again. Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Here's the letter I promised you."
He handed over a letter, and Marshal scanned it:
To Whom It May Concern:
This is to testify that I have received excellent treatment from Dr. Marshal Streider. I consider myself completely recovered from all ill effects I suffered from my treatment with Dr. Pande.
Shelly Merriman
"How's that?" asked Shelly.
"Perfect," said Marshal. "Now, if you would just date it."
Shelly dated the note and then, expansively, added a line:
I herewith drop any legal claims against the San Francisco Analytic Institute.
"How's that?"
"Even better. Thank you, Mr. Merriman. Tomorrow I'll mail you the letter I promised."
"That will make us square. One hand washes the other. You know, Doc, I've just been thinking—early stages, not planned through yet—but you might have another whole career in poker counseling. You're fantastic at it. Or I think you are—let me see what happens when I get back to the table. But let's do lunch sometime. I could be persuaded to act as your agent. Just look around this place—hundreds of losers with their little pipe dreams, dying to improve. And other casinos are much larger . . . Garden City, Club 101 .. . they'd pay anything. I could fill your practice in an instant— or could fill an auditorium for a workshop—couple hundred players, hundred bucks a head, twenty thou a day—I'd get regular agent's fees, of course. Think about it. I gotta go. I'll call ya. Opportunity beckons."
And with that Shelly sauntered back to the hold 'em table, singing, "zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay."
Marshal walked out of Avocado Joe's and into the parking lot. The time was eleven-thirty. In a half-hour he would call Peter.
TWENTY-ONE
he night before his next session with Carolyn, Ernest had a vivid dream. He sat up in bed and jotted it down: / am rushing through an airport. I spot Carolyn in a throng of passengers. I am glad to see her and I run up to her and try to give her a big hug but she keeps her purse in the way, making it a bulky and unsatisfactory hug.
As he thought about his dream in the morning, he remembered his resolution after the conversation with Paul: "the truth got me into this and the truth will get me out." Ernest decided to do something he had never before done. He would share his dream with his patient.
In their next session, Carol was intrigued by Ernest's relating his dream about hugging her. After the last session she had begun to wonder whether she may have misjudged Ernest; she was losing hope that she could ever entice him into compromising himself. And here, today, he tells her he dreamed about her. Perhaps this might
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lead somewhere interesting, Carol thought. But without conviction: she no longer felt she had any control in the situation. For a shrink, Ernest was entirely unpredictable, she thought; almost every session he did or said something that surprised her. And almost every session he showed her something about herself she hadn't known.
"Well, Ernest, this is very strange because I had a dream about you last night. Isn't that what Jung called 'synchronicity'?"
"Not exactly. By 'synchronicity' I think Jung referred to a concordance of two related phenomena, one occurring in the subjective world, the other in the physical, objective world. I recall he described somewhere working with a patient's dream involving an ancient Egyptian scarab and then noting that a Hve beetle was flying against the windowpane as though it were trying to get into the room.
"I've never understood the significance of that concept," Ernest continued. "I think that many people are so uncomfortable at the sheer contingency of life that they find comfort by believing in some form of cosmic interconnectedness. I've never been drawn in by this. Somehow the idea of randomness or nature's indifference has never unsettled me. Why is simple 'coincidence' such a horror? Why must it be viewed as something other than coincidence?
"As for our dreaming of each other, is that worthy of wonder? It seems to me that, given the amount of contact we have and the intimacy of our connection, it would be surprising if we didn't enter into each other's dreams. Sorry to go on like this, Carolyn, I must sound like I'm lecturing. But ideas like 'synchronicity' stir up a lot of feeling for me: I often feel lonely trudging in the no-man's land between Freudian dogmatism and Jungian mysticism."
"No, I don't mind when you talk about these things, Ernest. In fact, I like it when you share your thoughts like that. But you have one habit that does make things seem Hke a lecture: you keep using my name every other minute."
"I was absolutely unaware of it."
"You mind my saying that to you?"
"Mind? I'm delighted. Makes me feel you're starti
ng to take me seriously."
Carol leaned over and gave Ernest's hand a squeeze.
He squeezed back for a second and said, "But we've got work to do. Let's go back to the dream. Can you tell me your thoughts about it?"
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"Oh, no! It's your dream, Ernest. What do you think?"
"Fair enough. Well, often psychotherapy is symbolized in dreams as some form of a journey. So I think the airport represents our therapy. I try to be close to you, to hug you. But you put something in the way: your purse."
"And so, Ernest, what do you make of the purse? I feel a little weird—it's like we're switching roles."
"Not at all, Carolyn, I encourage it; nothing is more important than our being honest with each other. So let's stay with it. Well, what comes to mind is that Freud points out repeatedly that a 'purse' is a common symbol for female genitals. As I've mentioned, I don't ascribe to Freudian dogma—but still I try not to pour out the baby with the bathwater. Freud had so many correct insights that it would be foolish to ignore them. And once, years ago, I participated in an experiment where women were asked, under hypnosis, to dream that a man they desire comes to their bed. But they're instructed to disguise the explicit sexual act in the dream. A surprising number of women used a purse symbol—that is, a man coming to them and inserting something into their purse."
"So then, Ernest, the dream means ... ?"
"I think that the dream is saying that you and I are embarking on therapy, but that you may be inserting sexuality between us in a fashion that prevents us from truly being intimate."
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