“Sweet Jesus.”
“Sweet is right. And it would have been even sweeter if the bastards had let me hit when I was banging it at 40 bucks a pop.”
“Oh, you were banging it, you were banging it!”
“I was banging it. You should have been there. You should’ve seen it. I was banging it. Sweet. Sweet.”
“Forty bucks a pop. You don’t hold back. Oh, you are amazing. You go all the way.”
“Oh, it was beautiful. I knew that damned 3-2-3-2-3-2 was going to hit. I knew it. I just knew it. You know how it is when you just know it?”
“I know how it is. I know how it is. Oh, this is amazing. Sweet.
Sweet.”
“Oh, it is sweet. Damn sweet.”
My ex-wife will come to her senses tomorrow, or the next day, or next week. She will get in touch with me then. She will see that what we have is too good to let go. She will celebrate my victory. She will see things as she should. All this money I’m carrying around, if she’s not there to manage it for me, I’ll only blow it, right? That’s what she will think. For example, I already promised C.L. a big chunk of it to help her get back on her feet. To help her pay back her boyfriend. And she has promised to hang out with me, to be my pusher again.
Sweet.
Jesus.
I still love my wife. But it’s okay. It’s better than the darkness. It’s better than suicide. I have been there and I know. There is nowhere else to go. You are up against a wall. There are walls on all sides. You need money, but you have none. Well, you have just a little bit, so you gamble with it to make it grow, but it gets smaller when you lose. So you have to get more money and make that grow to replace the bundle you just gambled, but they’re turning off your water, so you have to give them something to keep it turned on, but then you have nothing to gamble with. So where do you get the money to gamble and pay bills? You need to gamble so that you can be happy. If you want to be a gambler, here is what you have to learn: You must surrender all other forms of joy. Only gambling equals happiness. Not paying bills. Not work. Not family. Not love.
Two uniformed security officers, doing their rounds of the casino parking lot on bicycles, make another close pass by the car. They cannot see inside because of the dark tint on my windows. Maybe they can. C.L. is snuggled against me, tenderly kissing my neck, saying, Oh, oh, you were banging it. My hand snakes under her T-shirt. Her flesh feels new and exciting. I press my lips against hers again. We are so hungry for it, this joy. We are tasting it in each other. The casino looms bright and beautiful in the distance on this glorious night. I cannot go back in there, but I am happy now with this check and with C.L.’s lips against my lips, and there are other places that I can go.
I want my wife and my family, but I am happy now.
I have $160,000, and I am happy.
My name is P, I am a gambler, I am lucky, and I am happy.
This is the ultimate.
This is joy.
I am on my way.
PART II
Professional
VEGAS
I have a notion that gamblers are as happy as most people, being always excited. Women, wine, fame, the table—even ambition, sate now and then; but every turn of the card and cast of the dice keeps the gamester alive: besides, one can game ten times longer than one can do anything else.
—Lord Byron
This is the ultimate. This is the joy. Vegas is heaven.
—P
47.
That first day we get turned around trying to find Harrah’s and end up downtown, where they say the sleazy joints are.
I go into the Gold Nugget. Is this sleazy? It doesn’t look sleazy to me. What do I know? I’m from Miami. It looks fabulous. I am in heaven. I peel off a grand for C.L., who heads directly for the machines. Our bags are still in the car, I have a three-day growth of beard, I’m wearing yesterday’s shirt, and I spy the Texas Hold’em room, where they’ve got all the antes you could ever want: quarter, dollar, $5, $20, $50, $100. A $1,000 ante. Oh lordy.
Tell me Vegas is not heaven. Tell me Vegas is not hell.
I’ve got sweaty palms. I’ve got goose bumps. I hear God talking to me. And He’s saying, High-stakes poker.
I hear you, Lord. Preach it!
I stroll over to the $100 pit. God or no God, that’s about as much as I am willing to risk after being eaten on the riverboats in the $20 games. Did I tell you about the riverboats? New Orleans and Biloxi, I’m trying to forget. New Orleans and Biloxi, that’s the chapter I left out. God was talking to me then, too, and the boats took 25 grand from me in a little over a month. A seat is available. My heart is beating out of my chest.
I have five grand in chips stacked next to me. My stack is the shortest at the table—oh me, of little faith. There’s over a million dollars in chips at this table. These are the big boys—they come to play. Every mouth is chomping something—cigarette, cigar, tobacco, gum, toothpick. Every head, except mine, has a hat or cap, most of them worn backward or cocked to the side. The dealer’s a strange-looking man. He’s got gray hair, gray eyes, gray eyebrows, and white skin one shade short of albino. When he calls for antes, he gives the word expressionless new meaning. But I’m not fazed by it. I’ve seen worse.
Hundred-dollar-ante poker. I can afford that. It’s only money. Let’s get it on, ugly white-face man. Deal me my first cards in Vegas.
He deals me in. I look in the hole.
Ace-ace.
I’ve got pocket rockets!
But don’t let it show. Frown at them. These guys are pros.
I reach into my pocket for a mint. The cocktail waitress is swishing by. She catches my eye. No. Nothing for me, li’l lady, I grunt.
The bet’s coming around. Four guys go down. Four guys are still holding, plus me and the guy after me. It’s my turn now. I’m tempted to raise, but I don’t. Cigarette raises to $800. Cigar calls. Toothpick calls. Gum and Tobacco fold. I’m tempted to raise my aces, but I just call.
The flop comes six, king, ace.
I’ve got trip aces! Jesus-Jesus-keep-me-near-the-cross.
Cigar’s got the bet. He’s looking Cigarette straight in the eye. Cigarette’s looking right back at him. It’s testicle against testicle in here today, boys. Nobody’s looking at me. Cigar bets two hundred. Toothpick folds.
My turn. I’m tempted to raise, but I just call. Munching my mint. Swallowing hard. Digging in my pocket for another. Don’t mind me, fellas, I’m just a mint-munching fool. (With unbeatable trip aces!)
Now it’s Cigarette’s turn, and he does not hesitate. He raises to a thousand right away. Cigar sits back in his seat. Fiddles with his chips. But he’s still staring straight at Cigarette. Another drink lady swishes past. Cigar says, I see your thousand, I raise you another thousand. He pushes in his chips.
I’m tempted, tempted, so tempted to raise. But I munch my mint and just call. Maybe I called too quick. Now Cigar and Cigarette are looking at me. Me with my little stack of chips. Munching my mint. Digging in my pocket for more mints.
Who is this bozo?
Munch. Munch. Munch. I’ve committed $2,800 to the pot already, so my stack looks pretty sad next to theirs.
Then I get one of those moments. My brain is saying, Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. A little over a month ago, you would’ve banged $2,800 in maybe a couple days of gambling—now you are banging it in one hand. My oh my, P, how you have grown.
Cigarette reads me wrong and says, Re-raise $2,000. Cigar grunts, but then calls.
It’s my turn again. Munch. I call. Munch. Munch.
They both look at me like I’m an idiot. All I have left of my stack is two hundred dollars. They’re thinking, If he had something, then he should have just raised it all-in. Jheeze, what a bozo.
I’m thinking, What a bozo I am, I should have raised it all-in. I have an unbeatable hand. But it’s only $200. Munch. Munch.
So now they’re not looking at me anymore. I don’t matter to them. I’
m just a mint-munching bozo.
The next card comes, the turn card, and it’s a seven, with no chance for a flush, since all of the suits are out. Cigar checks. Cigarette bets a thousand.
Munch. I throw my last meager two hundred in and announce, Allin. Munch. Munch.
Old Cigar has seen enough. He folds. The dealer gives Cigarette back his change from the all-in, and then puts the river card out there. It’s a deuce. It’s no help for Cigarette, though he is smiling—he must really have a great hand. He can’t wait to show bozo his great hand.
But what he doesn’t know is that there’s no way for bozo to lose. Trip aces is the best hand possible, and bozo has it. Poor Cigarette.
He shows his hand.
Pocket kings: He has trip kings. It was a good hand. A monster!
I show my hand. Pocket aces: trip aces. A bigger monster! Ha.
Cigarette curses under his breath, then nods his head in surrender as the dealer pushes me the pot. I don’t count it, but there’s got to be close to 15 grand in there.
All around the table I hear, Good hand, good hand, as I tip the dealer.
My first hand in Vegas, and I win it with trip aces. The nut. An unbeatable hand.
But, as they say in church, the Lord ain’t finished with me just yet. My second hand is also the nut. An ace-high flush in clubs.
Preach it, Lord! Preach it!
When I look down at my chips again, I have about 30 grand—close to 25 grand in profit. In two hands in Vegas I have just made up all of the money I blew from two weeks in Mississippi and a month in Louisiana on those lousy riverboats. Vegas is great. Vegas is home. I was born to play in Vegas.
The day rolls on. In no time, I am up nearly $100,000.
You would think I play here all the time. My stacks are as high as anybody else’s at the table. I’m scared to count the chips the stacks are so high. I have never seen so much money. Is all this money really mine? I came here expecting a beating, but now the feeling of doom has been lifted. All my problems can be solved with just what’s contained in these stacks.
And the other players—the way they’re all looking at me. Who is this guy? Where’d he come from? Where’d he learn to play so good? They fear me. They hate me. I’m taking all of their money.
I am their target. I am the one they want to beat.
But it ain’t gonna happen. I’m playing by the rules. Be patient. Wait for the good hands. Fold the bad hands. Play the players. Look for signs in their faces. Look for signs in their twitches and grunts. Look for their tells. Wait them out. Good players are patient. You are one of the good players, P.
I get up from the table and stretch my legs. I need to pee. I need a pack of mints. I look back at my seat and admire my chips. I can’t believe it. My stacks are now the highest at the table. Nice. All of that money I spent on machines trying to get less than this. What was that all about? This is so … easy. My bags are still in the car. My original five grand is gone, thanks to C.L., who has come back enough times to clean it out banging the machines. But I am hot, man. Hot.
When I sit back down, I give a friendly smile to the other gamblers with their cigars and their gum and their turned-around hats. They hardly smile back. I offer them each a mint. No one accepts. But that’s all right. No hard feelings. I don’t need your friendship, I just need your chips. Keep ’em coming, fellas.
At some point, I take a longer break to find C.L. I give her enough cash so she can get us squared away with a room. I give her a few more bucks to hold onto so she can bring me back a little food from time to time while I’m sitting at the table. Man shall not live by mints alone.
The best gamblers never eat at the table, I know; eating gives off too many tells. But I’m new at this and I’m hot and I don’t want to risk leaving the table for too long because my seat might get cold.
And it continues, with food or without. I win. I win. I win. And when I lose, the others celebrate. But I lose less often than I win. I lose less money than I win.
Late in the day, Cigarette finally beats me with a full house (I had the ace-high flush on the flop—tough break for me), and he shouts, I finally got you! Ha.
I glance down at the quarter of a million in chips sitting in front of me, and say to him, Good hand. Good hand.
But can’t he see?
I’m just a guy. Why come after me? Just play the cards. Why spend a hundred grand trying to beat me? A hundred grand … oh what a fool you are, Cigarette. Ha.
By the time I leave the table on that first day, my profit is close to $300,000. More money than I won in my big jackpot. More money than I have ever won in my life. Let’s see, at $10.64 an hour as a bus driver—yep. That’s more money than I earned in all of my years of driving a bus.
How sad. Bus drivers do noble work. So do teachers. And police officers.
But I am a gambler, and my stacks are so obscenely high they’re leaning.
The other players can’t figure me. I throw away most hands—20, 30, 40 in a row—yet I catch a lot of monsters. Nut flushes. Nut trips. Nut straights and full houses. What they don’t know is that I bluff a lot, too. I have won more than a few hands with nothing in the hole. (3-7 ha! take that!) I’m playing the players, baby. When you’re hot, they don’t want to test you.
It will not always be like this, I know. The cards are as fickle as fate. There will be bad days, I know. But today is not one of them.
It is my 17th hour at the table. C.L. is over my shoulder, saying in my ear, Come to bed, baby. Come to bed. Let me show you our room. Her tongue flicks lightly in my ear.
Well, there is always that.
The fruits of my labor.
48.
The next day I win again. I’ve got more money sitting with me at the table in chips than I earned in my entire life, plus my wife’s salary, too.
The next day I win again. Am I a millionaire? Is it possible? Let me count it one more time. There it is—one million dollars in chips.
So I go out and buy the cowboy hat.
A legend’s got to have a trademark. A black hat to show I take no prisoners.
It’s a real nice hat.
I can afford it.
49.
Win, win, win. In Vegas, I have the golden touch. In Vegas, I cannot lose.
At least that’s how it goes the first year.
IT HURTS NOTHING
50.
I have a dream that I’m talking on this huge black phone too big for my head.
My mouth is full of cotton when I try to talk, I’m frantic, I’m weeping. I’m saying, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t stop. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Every day I do this. There is no end. I don’t even want to win anymore. I win—I want to give it back. I lose—same thing—I want to lose more. I just want it to end. I just want to get that monkey off my back. Maybe I should dump it all on the roulette wheel. Bet black. Let it spin. Win big or lose big—it’s over. C.L. won’t let me. C.L. won’t let me. Good old C.L. Why did I say that? I really miss you, hon. I do.
Too late, she says.
Give me a chance.
You need help, she says.
Give me another chance— You and your C.L.
It’s not about her, honey, don’t hang up, it’s not about— What do you want your coffin to look like?
My coffin?
What do you want your coffin to look like?
But it’s not my wife’s voice anymore. It’s a scary voice. Evil-sounding. It sounds like the voice of the devil. It spooks me so much I hang up the phone. I will myself to wake up. I awaken to the cold and dark of my room. It’s freezing cold. It smells bad, too. I roll over and there’s a man lying in bed with me. He’s looking at me with yellowed eyes. His black face is deformed like someone who has been in a bad accident. His teeth are so long they reach down to his knees. He reaches for me with skeletal fingers, and I awaken again. It was another dream.
This time I awaken to real life. I am in my room. I am lying in my bed next
to C.L. Strange.
This happens two nights in a row.
51.
I am lying to C.L. about money more and more these days. How can I not have money? She sees what’s happening at the table, and she bitches and bitches about it. She sees my chips stacked up. So how can I say I have no money? She’s absolutely right.
What she cannot see is what is happening to herself.
I give her a grand when she gets up in the morning. She comes back for another at noon. She needs at least two grand at night. That’s a good day. She has had several ten-grand days. Even with the kind of money I’m pulling in at the tables, a ten-grand day is a bad day.
You’re treating me like I’m some damned child, and I am not a child, she says.
She’s right about that.
Did I think, once upon a time, that she was 25? Try 35.
But when she’s hot, she’s hot. She has hit several jackpots of 20 and 30 grand so far. She has a knack for sensing a machine that’s about to hit. But where does the money go? Right back into the machine.
Ah, C.L.
She loves me. But she’s married to the machines.
So I keep the petty cash locked in the safe. She has a bank card that I load whenever she needs more, but she has to come to me to ask, and she does not like that. It’s just a two-minute phone call and the card is loaded, but boy she hates to ask. Begging, she calls it. Begging my nigger. She doesn’t mean anything by it. She has that kind of temper.
I catch her one night trying to crack the safe with a bread knife.
That is the same night she hits me.
All or Nothing Page 10