by Paul W Papa
I had a room at the Sands, the place I’d been staying since the bachelor party, and had been hitting the tables most every night. I’d done well. Poker isn’t your typical game of cards. It’s a game of body language. A game where your ability to read people was more important than the Bees you held. That’s why I liked it so much. Most people liked blackjack, or twenty-one as it was called. That was a game any idiot could play. So long as you could count to twenty-one, you were in. The odds were entirely with the house. It wasn’t my cup of chowder.
“Can I get you something wet?” Hill asked.
“I wouldn’t turn down a manhattan,” I admitted.
Bobby called to the cocktail waitress. “Get Mr. Rossi a manhattan, with rye,” he said. The cocktail waitress nodded and headed for the bar.
I placed a C-Note on the table. “Deal me in,” I said.
The dealer took my money and slid it into a box on the side of the table. He pulled twenty of those red unrelatable chips from the tray in front of him and pushed them over to me. I had to wait for the next hand to be dealt. In the meantime, I eyed my competition. There were three players. An older man in a blue-grey Gabardine suit with piped pockets and a blue bowtie sat stoically to my right. Next to him was a young kid—barely old enough to gamble—in a brown and tan Gaucho-style shirt and a pompadour haircut. An equally young girl in a billowy skirt and matching top hung on his shoulder, giggling in his ear. But it was the third man I was most interested in.
His name was Frank Abbandandolo, but most people called him “Fingers.” Frank started his illicit career on the streets of New York as a young boy picking the pockets of tourists. He was small and thin then, with nimble fingers. But that was then. Nowadays, he more resembled Castle’s famed detective than the thin boy who used to so deftly remove valuables. He wore fancy check trousers and a matching coat that could have been cut up into three smaller suits, a white shirt, and a patterned tie that wrapped around his neck like a noose. The fat stogie Fingers held competed with his sausage hands. He had mushed and flattened one end of the thing into a stomach-churning mess.
He looked over at me. “I know you,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
“I heard you left town.”
What? Was everyone reading from the same script? “As you can see,” I said, “I’m still here.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” he said, blowing out a large white cloud that hung around his oversized head.
The cocktail waitress brought my drink, sliding it onto a square paper napkin to my right. I thanked her with a single, then handed her another. “Keep them coming,” I said. “Doctor’s orders.” She smiled and nodded.
The three were playing Texas Hold’em, a version of seven card poker Freedman had brought to Vegas. It was a tad difficult to understand, but interesting once you got the hang of it. Basically, you had seven cards from which to make a hand of five.
The dealer had already given each player their hole cards, the first two cards dealt face-down so only the holder of each pair could see them, and each player had made an initial bet based only on these two cards. The dealer discarded the top card on the deck, then dealt three additional cards face-up directly in front of him. These three cards, known as the flop, were community cards, which meant everyone played off them to make their hands.
The flop consisted of a three of hearts, a Jack of spades, and a nine of clubs. I watched as the young man picked up the cards and showed them with a smile to his female companion.
“Is that good?” she asked him.
“Yeah, it’s pretty good,” he said.
“The point of the game is to bluff,” Fingers said and let out another billow of smoke. He held the cigar between two fat fingers. “If you let people know you have a good hand, then nobody’s gonna bet.”
The young woman looked like someone had let her canary out of the cage.
The dealer motioned to Fingers, waiting for his bet. The mobster pulled two chips from atop his pile and threw them in front of the flop. The dealer turned to the youngster.
“Sir?” the dealer said.
The youngster just stared at him.
“It’s your bet,” Fingers said. “Either call or fold.”
The kid tossed two chips into the pile.
The Gaberdine suit folded.
The dealer burned another card, then dealt a Jack of diamonds, which he placed on the table next to the other three. The turn card. I looked over at the young couple. The girl didn’t get excited at the new Jack, so I figured the kid must have a three or a nine in his hands. If he’d of held a Jack, he’d now have three of a kind and would be sitting pretty. Still, the least the kid now had was two pair.
Fingers let out yet another billow of smoke, then he threw four chips onto the pile. He was bluffing, but the youngster didn’t know that. I could tell because his eyes turned into saucers when Fingers made the bet. The dealer waited for the kid’s bet. He looked to his companion.
“Need a woman to make your decisions for you?” Fingers asked. “Want me to ask the cocktail waitress what she thinks?”
He was trying to get the kid’s goat. It was working. Before you could say “Bob’s your uncle,” the kid had thrown eight chips into the pile.
“Too rich for you?” the kid asked.
Fingers smiled. He returned the cigar to his mouth, then took four more chips and threw them on the pile. The kid was playing right into his hands.
The dealer burned yet another card, then flipped the final community card from the top of the deck and placed it on the table. This card, known as the river, was a King of hearts.
The corners of Finger’s mouth arched upward ever so slightly, while the kid frowned, clearly hoping for a different card. Fingers hesitated. He took a leisurely puff of his stogie, then lifted his cards up off the table. He appeared to study them, looking over the tops at the kid every so often. The young woman held her breath. Fingers smiled. “Let’s make this interesting,” he said and threw six more chips into the pile.
That caught the kid’s attention, but it was clear he didn’t know what to do next.
Fingers let him stew, then spoke. “If you’ve got that pair in your hand, then bet. But you better hope I’m not holding something higher than a nine.”
The kid froze. He looked up at his girl. She wasn’t much help.
“If you want to fold,” Fingers said, “just lay your cards down on the table. You’re already behind the eight ball, kid. Don’t go throwing good money after bad. You still got a stack of chips in front of you, walk away, take your girl to a show.”
The kid turned to the dealer. He wasn’t any help either. After a moment, the kid put his cards face up on the table. He was holding a three of clubs and a ten of diamonds. With the two Jacks, he had a low two pair.
“Are you folding?” the dealer asked, just to confirm.
The kid nodded.
The dealer took the kid’s cards and put them into the discard pile.
With the game at a conclusion, Fingers tossed his cards on the pile. It is customary for the winner in such cases to throw the cards face-down, but Fingers wanted to show the kid he’d been bamboozled, so he threw them face up. Fingers had a five of clubs and a six of spades. Essentially nothing. Even with his two threes, the kid had a better hand.
“You had nothing!” the kid exclaimed. “I had two pair. You told me to fold.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You told me to take a walk.”
“What am I, your mother?” Fingers said. “You’re a grown man, well almost. You don’t need me to tell you what to do.”
I could see the kid getting red. He pushed his chair back with force.
The Gaberdine suit, grabbed his chips and skedaddled.
“Calm down,” Fingers said, his eyes had turned cold.
I knew that look. It wasn’t good.
Bobby knew it too. He stepped over to the table. “It’s all a game,” he said to the youngster. “Some p
eople are just better at bluffing than others. Nothing to get steamed over. How about I treat you and your lady friend to dinner?”
Fingers tossed a green chip over to the kid. “Here, the tip’s on me.”
Bobby walked around the table positioning himself between Fingers and the kid. Another man came up behind the couple, and between the two they escorted them away from the table.
The dealer gathered the chips, took the house’s percent, then slid the remaining pile over to the winner. Fingers took two chips and tossed them to the dealer. The dealer smiled and thanked Fingers. He tapped the chips on the table and slid them into his shirt pocket. That was done to let the house know they were tips, called tokes, and not chips he was trying to steal.
“You in?” Fingers asked.
“I’m in,” I answered.
But before the dealer could finish shuffling the deck, we were joined by a third.
Four
JOE “THE BARBER” Bilotti took a seat at the table. He was part of the Chicago Accardo Family. The head of the family, Anthony “Big Tuna” Accardo, was looking to make a larger presence in Vegas. Bilotti was on the advance team.
In direct contrast to Fingers, Bilotti looked like a star athlete. That is, if a star athlete wore a grey tweed suit, a light blue button-down shirt, a striped tie, a Trilby hat with a bowtie band, and rubbed people out for a living. He threw a nickel on the table. The dealer turned it into five stacks of twenty chips and slid them over to the mobster.
Bilotti was making a statement, but I wasn’t sure who he was trying to impress.
He got his name due to his penchant for using a straight razor on his victims. You hired him when you needed a button man to make a statement. A slashed throat will do that. Personally, I was never a fan of trademarks or signature moves. It gave the police a place to start.
My previous meeting with Bilotti left a sour taste in both our mouths. Bilotti was hired to take out an up-and-coming, not-yet-made gangster who had a bad habit of not following the rules. He went too far when he hit a truck of smokes belonging to a rival family. When they found out, Bilotti got the call. The only problem was the young gangster had another bad habit. He hung out with the mayor’s son. Instead of waiting until the gangster was alone, Bilotti hit him with the mayor’s kid in the room. Bilotti didn’t know who the kid was—or didn’t care. He just made sure there weren’t any witnesses.
When the Big Tuna found out what Bilotti had done, he was furious. Though Bilotti had gotten permission to take the hit on the gangster, the mayor’s kid was not part of the deal. They called in my father. If it hadn’t been for him, Bilotti would have wound up in jail, or worse, but the Barber didn’t take well to having his hit covered up. He also didn’t take well to the fine the Tuna imposed on him for the mistake. Bilotti couldn’t blame himself, so he blamed my father. Now he was here at the poker table right next to me.
He flashed me a cursory look but gave no indication of recognizing me. I was just fine with that.
“Hit a jackpot Bilotti?” Fingers asked.
“Mind your own business,” Bilotti countered. “If the stakes are too high, find another table.”
Frank wasn’t going anywhere. He looked up at Bobby who had already returned to the pit. “How about we raise the stakes a bit?”
Bobby nodded. He walked over to the sign that showed the table’s limit and changed it from one hundred to three hundred, meaning no one at the table could bet more than three hundred dollars on any one hand.
The dealer began the next hand. He dealt the hole cards, flicking his wrist slightly to send the cards spinning in front of each player. I kept my cards on the table, lifting only the two corners, ever so slightly, to get a peek at the number and suit. I had a Queen and a three of clubs. Not a great hand so far.
Fingers peeked at his cards casually; blew out a chimney of smoke, purposely in Bilotti’s direction; then moved his hand to his chips.
“I’m gonna shove that cigar up your ass,” Bilotti said.
“Good luck finding it,” Fingers countered.
I chuckled.
Bilotti turned to me, “You think that’s funny?” He asked.
“Actually, yes,” I confirmed. “Yes, I do.”
“Well, maybe I should…”
“You come here to play or to threaten?” Fingers asked. “If you don’t have a good hand, then fold.”
Bilotti was the type who took his cards off the table, cupping them in his oversized mitts. Casinos hated this. It caused the cards to bend, which meant they had to discard the deck after the deal and start with a new one. Bending cards was one of the ways people marked a deck. The house wouldn’t take a chance.
Fingers started the bid by throwing two chips in front of the dealer. These chips formed what is known as the pot, which is simply the collection of chips being bet. Bilotti did the same and so did I. The dealer discarded the top card then dealt the flop. There was an eight, a six, and a four, all the same suit—clubs. My hand was looking a little better.
I watched as Fingers, cigar in hand, tossed four chips from his stack onto the pot. Bilotti saw his bet and raised it four. The dealer turned to me. While a flush was nice, it wasn’t a solid hand, and I had the feeling my two table companions were about to engage in a grudge match that I wanted no part of, so I folded.
Bilotti laughed aloud and turned to the only other remaining player. Fingers raised an eyebrow, thought for a second, then tossed four more chips onto the small pile beginning to form in front of the dealer. After burning the next top card, the dealer dealt the turn; a five of diamonds. That, my friends, was the beginning of a straight, of which my little three of clubs would have felt right at home.
However, as I suspected, the turn only served to further fuel a betting war; one I feared was heading for ugly town. Fingers tossed four more chips on the pile. He was now seventy dollars in. But Bilotti wasn’t finished showing off. He saw Fingers’ four and raised it four more, bringing the pot near the one-hundred-and-seventy-dollar mark. The stakes were drawing a small crowd. Fingers called. Bobby stepped up to the table.
The dealer dealt the river. Queen of hearts.
There went the straight. Now there was little here, but it didn’t stop the two from another round of one-upmanship.
Fingers let out a great billow of smoke. He picked up four chips but kept them in his hands. He seemed to peer into the distance as if he was contemplating his chances. Of course, he already knew them, he was just trying to get to Bilotti; probably hoping he would’ve folded by now. Fingers had a good hand. I could tell on the very first deal when his hand went straight to the pile of chips in front of him. He was eager to bet and that meant he was holding something good. Now eighty dollars deep, Fingers tossed the chips onto the pile. The pot was now two hundred dollars, close to a month’s salary for the average Joe.
Bilotti studied Fingers. “You’re bluffing,” he said.
“Maybe,” Fingers said. “It’ll cost you four fins to find out.”
Bilotti threw the four chips on the table. He smiled broadly.
“No more bets,” the dealer said.
“Let’s see what you got,” Bilotti said.
“You first,” Fingers counted.
“No, I paid for the privilege to see your cards. Turn ‘em over.”
Fingers picked his hole cards off the table, turned them over and tossed them on the pile of chips. His cards were both the same, only the suits were different. Two eights, one diamond and one heart. With the eight in the flop, Fingers had three of a kind. Now I knew why he was so eager to get to those chips.
Unless Bilotti was holding two Queens, Fingers had him. The force with which Bilotti threw his cards down on the table was a good sign he had no Queens.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” Bilotti yelled out. He stood hard, sending his chair flying back into the crowd. “You cheat…”
“Careful,” Fingers cautioned before Bilotti could finish. “Choose your next words carefully,” he said
through hardened eyes.
Bilotti returned the look.
“We’re all friends here,” Bobby interjected. “Bluffing’s the name of the game.”
Bilotti’s eyes narrowed. He could easily take Fingers and both men knew it. However, even being made doesn’t give you privileges in another family’s casino. He was on New York property and he knew what that meant. Fingers was holding more than just three of a kind. Right now, Fingers held all the cards.
“We good here?” Fingers asked, taking a puff of his stogie.
Bilotti let the question hang for a moment. Finally, he turned and picked up his chair, moved it to the table, and sat down.
The dealer let out an audible sigh.
“Perhaps the Emerald Room would be more to your liking Mr. Abbandandolo,” Bobby said to Fingers.
Fingers smiled. “I like your way of thinking,” he replied.
“Shall I have your chips sent up there?”
“Yeah, why don’t you do that,” Fingers said, then stood to leave.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Bilotti demanded.
“Any place I damn well please,” Fingers said. Then he looked over at me. “Care to join me Rossi?”
The invite surprised me. The Emerald Room was a private room above the casino. I’d heard much about it but had never seen it. As far as the Sands was concerned, it was the Holy Grail.
Bilotti turned to me. “Rossi?” he repeated. “You Boston Rossi’s kid?”
“One and the same,” I admitted.
“Your father cost me a nice chunk of change,” Bilotti said.
“That’s not how I heard it.”
“Well then, you heard wrong.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “Seeing as how I was there.”
Bilotti gave me a hard look. “Now I recognize you,” he said. “You’ve grown up a bit.”
“A bit,” I confirmed.
“I guess I can just win back my money through you.”
“Not me,” I said. “I’ll be in the Emerald Room.” I picked up my chips and downed what was left of my manhattan.