There was no hint of flirtation in her tone.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Do we have to be playin’ for somethin’?”
“I usually play for money,” she said. “I don’t see the point of poker if you’re not playin’ for somethin’.”
He patted his breast pocket and said, “Got nothing on me.”
“Well,” she replied, looking down at herself, “obviously neither do I.”
“Then let’s play for drinks,” Spain proposed.
“What?”
“Winner buys the loser drinks at the bar of their choice.”
“You tryin’ to slow play me, dude? Because I don’t go on tilt.”
Spain looked at her curiously. He had never heard those poker terms used so casually out of context. He thought it was a little bit strange. He lowered his glasses so he could peer at her over them.
“You are old enough to drink, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” she said, “yeah, I’m old enough to drink. Don’t bluff me, dude.”
Ouch. The poker talk. He wondered if she did that all the time.
“Let’s play poker,” he said.
They both looked down at the flop. There was a king, an eight, and a six on the table, off suit. She’d already told him she had two kings in the hole.
“I’ll bet one drink,” she said.
“Call,” he said. “Fourth Street comin’ out.”
He dealt out the fourth community card. It paired the eight on the table. If she was telling the truth and had flopped a set of kings, she now had a full house.
“Whoa,” she said. “That hurts, don’t it?”
He’d heard her trash talk at the tables before. Pretty obvious stuff.
“Why don’t we wait and see who hurts worse? I bet two drinks—the hard stuff, not beer or wine,” he said.
“I drink scotch, dude,” she told him. “I raise two more.”
“You’re called.”
“You’re crazy.” She was grinning. He could see she was having fun. Gonna teach the old dude a lesson, she was thinking.
“Fifth Street.”
“The riv-ah. Down and dirty,” she said.
Now it was confirmed. She was a cornball.
The river card didn’t help either one of them, but the only thing that could have improved her hand was a fourth king.
“Three drinks. Can you handle three drinks?” he asked.
“I can drink you under the table, old dude. I raise three more,” she said.
“I reraise,” he said. “Ah, let’s go all in. Let’s say twenty drinks. You’re gonna have some hangover.”
“You’re raisin’ me? All in?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“And you know I’ve got a full house? What, dude, you sayin’ you got four of a kind? That is so bullshit.”
She stared at him a moment, then down at the cards.
He stared back. “Put the puzzle together, Morticia.” He was giving her her first lesson and she didn’t even know it.
“I think you’re full of shit. But if we were playin’ for real money and not just cocktails, I’d still have to call. Even if you had your four eights I’d be pot committed. So call, dude.”
Jimmy blinked at her. She had finally used poker lingo in the right place.
“What’s your name?”
“What does that matter?”
“Apparently, we’re neighbors,” he said. “I like to know my neighbor’s name. I also like to know the name of the person who’s going to be buying me a bunch of drinks for playing like a jackass.”
“Kat,” she said. “My name’s Kat Landrigan. Now can we turn the cards over?”
He extended his right hand as he turned his cards.
“Jimmy Spain . . . and can you beat four eights?”
EIGHT
Man, I thought you were bluffin’.”
“Obviously I wasn’t.”
After each had gotten dressed, they walked to a neighborhood bar so Jimmy could collect a part of his drink winnings. Kat was now wearing jeans and a T-shirt that said i go all in. She was also chewing gum and snapping it. He found it annoying but didn’t say anything—yet. He’d changed into khaki trousers and another sports shirt. She got carded, and Jimmy got both dirty looks and winks from some of the other patrons as they sat at the bar.
“You were so lucky,” she said.
“Yes, I was, and now you are, if you learned something.”
The bartender set down his Newcastle and her scotch.
“So, you just couldn’t lay it down, huh?” he asked.
“Dude, I had a feelin’ you had the nuts, but, still, I was pot committed. I gotta make that call.”
“Wrong. You weren’t pot committed. My all-in bet was going to break you. And you never reraise into a possible cinch. And don’t forget, a good lay down separates the goods from the greats.”
“You talk like you’re a pro. Are you?” she asked.
“As it happens,” he said, sipping his beer, “yes.”
“Wait.” She set her drink down without tasting it and stared at him again. “You’re a professional gambler?”
“No,” he said. “I’m a professional poker player. My gambling’s another story.”
“If you’re a pro, dude, why are you readin’ the Brunson book?”
“Just keeping sharp,” he said. “I’ve been out of circulation awhile, but I’m getting ready to come back in. I’m just boning up.”
“You’re gonna play against Texas Dolly? That’s the nuts!”
“I’m going to be playing in tournaments,” he said. “I’ll be playing against all the—” He stopped himself, her weird poker speak finally getting to him. “By the way, what’s with you and the poker lingo? Don’t you think you’re pushing that a little bit?”
She shrugged. “It’s just a habit. Poker’s my life, you know.”
“Right. Okay, so I’m going to be playing against all the great players again.”
“Again? You’ve played against them before?”
“Once or twice in money games.”
“Are you goin’ on the tour?” Her eyes were shining and she still had not taken a sip of her drink.
“The tour?”
“The WPT tour.”
“I think I’ll have to. That’s where the money is. All the big cash games and, of course, the tournaments.”
“Okay, look, dude,” she said, “this is, like, fate. This is jackpot time for me. You gotta help me.”
“With what?”
“I want to play on the tour.”
He’d gone over in his mind how best to respond to this statement, knowing that it was coming.
“No way.”
She leaned back as if he’d slapped her.
“Why not?”
“Look at you.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
He hesitated, took a swallow of beer, then set his glass down on the bar.
“You mean besides the black nail polish, purple hair, and piercings?”
Her face colored. “What’s that got to do with playin’ poker?”
“All right. I’ll tell you a secret.”
“What?”
“I’ve seen you play around town. We go to some of the same places. In fact, I sat at a table with you once.”
“You did? I didn’t see you.”
“That’s because you pay too much attention to your cards and not enough to the other players.”
She laughed derisively. “How can you pay too much attention to your cards?”
“Look, Kat, I’ve seen the best hand lose to the better player more times than I can count.”
“Yeah, but isn’t the best player the one with the best hand?”
Jimmy shook his head sadly.
“You’ve got a lot to learn.”
“Then teach me, dude. This is what I’m sayin’. I wanna go all in on this. I wanna be the best.”
Here came the touchy part. He knew he
’d have to be careful not to agree too readily.
“I’m no teacher, kid. Read the books.”
“I have read the books,” she said. “Brunson, Caro, Phil Hellmuth, but there’s only so much you can learn from books.”
“How do you even know I’m who I say I am?” he asked. “What makes you think you can believe me?”
“I have a built-in bullshit meter,” she said. “It’s tellin’ me you’re okay. It’s tellin’ me you’re the nuts.”
“Okay, you have to stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Throwing poker terms into the conversation. It’s getting silly.”
He could see she wanted to be insulted, but instead she let it slide.
“Well . . . okay.”
“And at your age you’ve got a reliable bullshit meter?”
“Comes from living with my father for so long,” she said. “The man was full of it.”
“And what’s he full of now?”
She smiled. “Cash. I’ll pay you to teach me.”
Now this would be tricky. If he turned down money he had better have a good reason.
“Look,” she continued, “you said you’ve seen me play. Why aren’t you just tellin’ me no, forget it, I can’t play? I’ll tell you why. Because I have talent and you know it.”
“Okay, it’s true,” he said. “You have some raw talent, but there’s so much of your game that is underdeveloped.”
“Look, dude,” she said, “the World Series of Poker just ended. We’ve got a whole year before the next one. In the meantime there’s WPT events. All kinds of action. I’m serious about paying you.”
“I don’t need your money.” Especially when he was taking her old man’s.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I have my own game to think about.”
“If you’re a pro like you say, your game is set,” she said.
“It’s a bit rusty.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been . . . away from the tables for a while.”
He was looking into her eyes and could see her mind racing.
“Maybe,” she said quickly, “maybe by helping me you can help yourself.”
“How’s that?”
“By startin’ from scratch. By helpin’ me bring my game up, maybe you’ll get your game back.”
Whether or not her logic was faulty she had given him a way in.
“Okay.”
She hesitated, then said, “What?” as if she hadn’t heard him right.
“I said okay,” he repeated. “Let’s give it a shot.”
“Do you mean it? No bluff?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I mean it. No bluff. But first thing?”
“Yeah?”
“Get rid of the gum,” he said. “The snapping drives me crazy.” He had a cell mate who used to do the same thing. The guy wouldn’t quit. Worst six months of his stretch. Almost.
Her eyes lit up. She threw her arms wide and leaped at him. He had no choice but to catch her.
“Oh, dude, thank you!”
Holding her in his arms he was catching still more looks from the other patrons, but he ignored them.
So much for her bullshit meter.
NINE
The present . . .
As a rule players can take a break every two hours in addition to the dinner break. Even if they aren’t at the table, an ante will be taken from their chip stack, as well as the blinds, mandatory bets from two players—the small blind and the big blind—that are used to build the pot. On the first day the blinds are small enough that a player can stay away for hours and still have most of his or her chips left by the end of play. By the time a player gets to the final table, however, the blinds go up considerably, and if a player stays away too long he will be blinded off for big money. And that would be pure suicide. . . .
Although Jimmy had laid back most of the afternoon, he had taken two nice pots, increasing his chip count to the point where breaks would not be a problem. As in all tournaments, there was a dinner break of about an hour. The tournament had started at noon, and the play would continue well into the night.
When the dinner break hit, Jimmy tried to sneak away for a quick bite. He looked over at Kat, who was in animated conversation with three other players.
Spain called across the room, “Are you eating?”
“I’m not hungry, dude,” Kat called back, as overexcited as a puppy. “I’ve doubled my chip stack. I don’t need the distraction.”
She went confidently back to her conversation, and he was on his own for dinner.
He knew that Doyle Brunson, Dallas Jack, and some of the old-timers still went to Binion’s Steakhouse, at the top of Binion’s Horseshoe downtown on Fremont Street, but of course there was no time for that. They’d probably opt for some fancy place inside the Bellagio. He decided to get a sandwich at Snacks, the snack bar next to the Race & Sports Book. He was about to go in when he heard a sultry voice call his name.
He turned, recognized the person, and said, “Well, hello.”
Sabine Chevalier stood just outside the snack bar. He noticed how violet her eyes looked today. Either they hadn’t appeared that color the night before, or he’d been concentrating so hard on his cards he hadn’t noticed.
“Mr. Spain,” she said. “What a coincidence. Taking your dinner break here?”
“That’s right,” he said. “Just a quick bite.”
“Oh, we can do better than this, mais oui,” she said. “I have reservations at Prime, and I’m dining alone. Would you care to join me?” Like most men he found her accent charming.
“How could I refuse an invitation like that?”
As they walked through the casino she said, “We did not have an opportunity to meet last night, but I watched you play.”
“I saw you there.”
“I was very impressed.”
“So was I.”
She might have blushed. He couldn’t be sure because she turned her head at that moment.
Prime was one of the best steakhouses in Las Vegas and the Bellagio’s signature restaurant. When they arrived, there was a line waiting to get in, but, true to her word, Sabine had a reservation and they were seated immediately.
They dutifully followed the hostess, who walked them past the bar, where Mike Sexton was standing with Steve Lipscomb, his boss and the driving force behind the WPT. He and Jimmy exchanged nods.
The hostess laid the menus on a table by the window, which had a remarkable view of the dancing waters outside.
“Your server, Anthony, will be right with you.”
“I’m impressed,” Jimmy said again, as they seated themselves across from each other. “This is a great table.”
“I requested a table by the window.”
They picked up their menus.
“I’ve never eaten here before,” he said. Small talk. “I’ve heard a lot about their steaks.”
“I eat here whenever I can,” she said, “and I usually have the sea bass. Magnifique.”
“I have steak when I can.” He didn’t tell her how much he’d missed it when he was inside, and even though he’d been out over a year he still ordered it before anything else.
A bow-tied young man appeared at their table and introduced himself. This was something Jimmy hadn’t gotten used to yet since he’d returned to the world: wait staff who introduced themselves.
He asked if they’d like a drink.
“I am going to have champagne,” Sabine told Jimmy.
“I’ll join you,” he said. “That way we can get a bottle.”
“French champagne?” she asked.
He smiled and said, “What else.”
That obviously pleased her, and he allowed her to order.
“Very well. I’ll get your champagne—” the waiter began.
“We are ready to order, c’est vrai?” Sabine asked Jimmy, cutting the waiter off. “I’m starved.”
Jimmy said he was. Sabine
ordered her bass and a salad of field greens in a sherry vinaigrette. For a vegetable she took the ginger sweet potatoes. Jimmy asked for the porterhouse, medium, with the Tuscan fries and a Caesar salad.
“We’re playing in the poker tournament,” Jimmy told him.
“I understand, sir,” Anthony said. “I’ll put a rush on everything.”
“How are you doing, by the way?” she asked when the waiter left.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ve got about sixteen thousand in chips.”
“Really? I have close to fourteen.”
“Not bad. A lot of players have busted out already.”
She nodded with a slight smile.
Jimmy looked around at the Baccarat chandeliers, the plush furnishings, and all the gilt. This was the new Vegas, and while he preferred the old one, Bellagio was the classiest of the new.
He noticed that Mike Sexton was watching them. He could tell because the man looked away when Jimmy caught him. He wondered who was capturing Sexton’s attention, him or the beautiful woman across the table?
He looked at Sabine. She had an impossibly clear complexion which, at first glance, made you guess her age at somewhere in her late twenties. Upon closer inspection, however, the small lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth moved her into her early thirties. She was made all the more stunning for it, though. She was wearing a black dress that might have been called simple on another woman. On Sabine Chevalier it was special. He couldn’t imagine that she had been playing poker in it all day.
“You look very nice.”
“Merci. Ah, but you are wearing a suit. Not a lot of men wear suits to play poker.”
“Just an old custom of mine,” he said.
He had felt a little out of place at first, but then decided not to change his style. Besides, it was unavoidable that having been in prison would color every aspect of his life. Once out, food tasted better, air smelled better, and he felt a need to dress. “I like wearing suits . . . and ties, which I notice have pretty much gone out of style.”
“You speak as if you have been away.”
“I . . . have been out of circulation for a while.”
“I wondered about that last night.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You play well, and I was wondering why I had not heard of you or seen you at any other tournaments.”
The Picasso Flop Page 5