by Grant Mccrea
Shut up, Rick, said Butch.
We had a couple scotches. Doubles. I loved Las Vegas. You could get a double scotch in a greasy spoon. Almost felt like home. Especially when I heard something that sounded like Russians ranting, two booths down. They were loud and drunk. I turned an ear their way.
Yup, Russian all right.
Jesus, they were everywhere.
On the way out, I glanced at them. See if I recognized anybody.
I didn’t.
My heart slowed down.
But I knew it was inevitable. They’d be all over the World Series. A few years ago there were maybe four or five Russians around. Serious players, mostly. Guys you had to be careful of only at the poker table. Now it seemed like there were hundreds.
The Brighton Beach guys would be there. I’d wager on it.
If I had any money to wager.
We found a passable motel off the beaten track, but easy cab distance to the Rio. Where the World Series of Poker would be played.
The Dusty Angel was a joint that once had tried too hard and then, some time ago, had given up trying at all. There was a large circular fountain in the middle of the lobby, empty of water. The pennies had all been stolen. Plastic vines dripped from the ceiling around the fountain. Their leaves were covered with dust. Plastic plants really didn’t require less maintenance than real ones, I mused. I mean, you didn’t have to water them, but you did have to dust them. Well, they weren’t dying, anyway. Though they did have a deceased kind of look about them.
Would you like a non-smoking Queen? asked the innocent young lady behind the counter.
Well, I said, perhaps my friends would. But I’d prefer a room.
The girl seemed a nice young thing, timid, freckled and bucktoothed.
She looked at me like I’d grown a dick out of my forehead.
I put my hand to my brow. No dick there.
Ah, then the dick must be me, I concluded.
She wasn’t angry. She just hadn’t gotten the joke. She patiently explained to me what she’d meant. Non-smoking meant the room. Queen described the bed.
Thank you, I said. That would be fine.
Actually, said Butch, we’d prefer a suite. Three bedrooms. One for each of us. Do you have suites?
She eyed us suspiciously.
Butch smiled his big smile. Brendan smiled his nervous one.
Well, she said, there is the Executive Suite. But it’s very expensive.
We asked how much. She told us. It was less than a single room at the Rio.
Expensive is a relative concept.
And you get what you pay for. The grandly named Executive Suite was done up in that motel beige that does its best to cause no offense. Everything had a distinct air of Scotchgard. Brendan’s room faced the front parking lot. Butch’s faced the rear parking lot. Mine faced … the parking lot next door.
Something to be said for symmetry, I guess. Equality. Fraternity.
But there was a big central living room. A wraparound couch. A wide balcony. And a mini-kitchen. It would do.
We unpacked the four boxes of booze we’d picked up at a package store on the way. We were going to need a lot. After a hard day of poker, you needed to celebrate. Or tranquilize. Depending.
And anyway, only a fool, or Gavin Smith, drinks during the game. We’d need to catch up.
I slouched into the beige wraparound. Butch, cop that he was, took the matching armchair, sat up straight. Brendan joined me on the couch, near horizontal.
Brendan was a bit of a duckling that way. I feared this imprinting thing was going to get out of hand.
But, we had a home. We could stay awhile.
Adventure, I said.
Fame, said Butch.
A million bucks, said Brendan.
Let’s make a plan, I said.
Let’s plan to get drunk, said Butch.
Excellent plan, I said.
I grabbed the glasses. Made us another set of doubles.
Someone had left a yellow and green striped, miniature rubber football between the cushions of the wraparound. I tossed it to Butch. He made a one-handed grab.
Brendan lit up one of his Gitanes. I was going to protest. Gitanes, besides being pretentious as hell anywhere outside of Paris or Amsterdam, stunk up the joint like the house burned down and you’re sitting in the water-soaked rubble. But what the hell. I didn’t want to be a hypocrite. I was sure the world was full of people who found my ultralight menthols offensive. Several of them had, in fact, identified themselves to me.
I got to tell you, Butch said, I’m not into this chicken-shit preliminary tournament stuff. For me it’s the Main Event or it’s nothing.
I tried to think of a clever response, but the second double scotch had just done a flanking maneuver on my left frontal lobe, and that’s where the wit resides.
I hear you, I said.
It was the best I could do.
I flung the ball out the window into the parking lot below. A gift, I thought, to the local schoolchildren.
A little mitzvah never hurts.
Did they have schoolchildren in Vegas?
Have you caught the cleavage in this town? I said. There’s so much around, it kind of stops meaning anything anymore.
I know what you mean, said Butch.
Another hazard I’m spared, said Brendan.
I don’t know, said Butch, there’s those guys on the trapeze at the Rio, on the way to the elevator. Spandex. Glutes.
To die for, I said.
I wouldn’t know, said Brendan.
You’re not fooling anyone, I said. But you know, now that I think of it, there’s something kind of weird.
What?
Well, you don’t really see any openly gay guys in Vegas. At least, not in the mainstream places. It’s another of those fifties hangover things, I think. Like drinks with little hats in them. Must be still underground. I mean, all those trapeze guys have to have somewhere to go to unwind, don’t they?
There’s more than you might think, said Brendan.
I see, I said. You know more than you’re letting on.
You’ll have to show us, said Butch.
Sure, said Brendan. But I don’t know if it’s really anything you want to see.
You’d be surprised, I said. But anyway, we’re not going anywhere before we qualify for the Main Event. And not before you track down that sister’s address, by the way.
Oh shit, he said.
Yeah. Like I said, we got work to do.
22.
THE WORLD SERIES OF POKER STARTED, back in 1970, at Binion’s Horseshoe. Binion’s is in the old Downtown district, the original Vegas. It’s a time machine now, Downtown. You expect Dean Martin to be headlining at the Gold Dust. All the fancy places are on the Strip. The Rio, where the WSOP is held now, is on the Strip, or just off it, depending on how you define the thing. Harrah’s, the casino conglomerate that owns the Rio, bought Binion’s a few years ago. They took the WSOP and the Horseshoe name and promptly dumped the hotel itself, so I hear, for pocket change. For one last year they held the final table at Binion’s, a nod to tradition. But now the whole thing is at the Rio.
I guess that’s progress.
The Rio is a massive hulk of a thing, done up in a carnival theme. There’s a Masquerade Tower and an Ipanema Tower. Clever. As you walk through the Masquerade Tower, some enormous contraption full of very un-Brazilian-looking guys and gals in Day-Glo pastel suits and ties swings overhead, the performers dancing to a deafening disco medley. There’s a sign:
IF ANYONE DOES NOT WISH TO PARTICIPATE IN
BEAD THROWING AND CATCHING, WE HOPE THAT YOU WILL
ENJOY YOURSELVES IN AREAS OF THE CASINO OTHER THAN
THE MASQUERADE VILLAGE.
Unfortunately, despite the fact that we had not the slightest interest in bead throwing and catching, we could not entirely avoid the Masquerade Village, since the long trek to the poker room went right through it. We lowered our heads and scurried
through, dodging fearsome pods of pastel-shorted fat persons and their equally lard-laden offspring, terrified of injury by errant bead fling.
We headed for the satellites. You could play in the super-satellites. More expensive to get into, fewer players to beat out. The regular satellites got you a cheap ticket to the supers. A lot of bluffing involved. You started with very few chips, and the blinds—forced bets the first two players make before the cards are dealt—went up fast. The blinds would come around to you every eight or nine hands, fewer as the field thinned out, so when they got high enough you couldn’t afford to wait for good cards. You’d get blinded to death. You had to run over the table. Go all in with any decent hand. Hope everyone folded. If not, hope to get lucky. It wasn’t real poker. But it took real skill. If you knew the math, which hands to go all in with, which hands to call an all in with, and when, you had a big advantage. It’s just that, compared to real poker, your options were extremely limited.
And if you won a hundred-dollar satellite, took your money, bought into a bigger satellite, you only had to beat out nine other players to play the Main Event, for practically nothing. Top ten percent got a seat. If you didn’t make it, you could start again.
Or, you could buy straight into the super for a thousand dollars.
I bought in for the grand. Call me impatient.
Shelley was the floor manager in charge of the satellites. She’d been doing it forever. Every year, first thing I’d do is look her up, say hello. It was a good-luck kind of thing. She was in her sixties, maybe. Sharp nose. Bad teeth. I could only assume she had crates of hair spray left over from the fifties in her efficiency apartment; there was no other explanation for the height of her dyed blonde bouffant. Dime-store lipstick, heavily applied. Another crate in the basement. They hadn’t made that shade of orange since 1965.
But you had to like her. She was quick on her feet, and always funny. Knew the job. Every once in a while she’d sit and deal a few hands. She dealt like a pro. One of the best. Fast, slick, efficient and accurate. And she knew all the rules, however arcane. And if somebody got out of line, she knew how to bring down the hammer. Ten-minute penalty, she’d say in a pointy voice that went right to the offender’s spinal cord, some tourist who’d cursed at a nasty river card. They’d get up, slink away. Nobody messed with her.
You wished she were always at your table.
Hey, Shelley, I said.
Rick Redman, she said with a smile. Tore yourself away from the courtroom?
I’m not doing that anymore, I said.
She raised her eyebrows, pulling over her cash box to take my ten bills, writing my name on the call sheet with her other hand.
Gave it up, I said. Too much stress. Poker now. And investigations.
Investigations, she said. Sounds exotic.
It isn’t. Not yet, anyway. Actually, it’s not anything, yet.
We have faith, she said, turning to the next guy in line.
While I waited to be called, I wandered about the playing hall. It was ridiculously big. Several football fields big. An enormous web of aluminum pipes slung from the roof, from which dangled innumerable light fixtures, cameras, table number cards, banner ads for sponsors—most ubiquitously a certain brand of beer. A bevy of delectable young things wandered the floor and hallways, hired by the beer company to dress up in identical outfits: skimpy cut-off jeans, tool belt, work boots, white shirt tied up under their breasts. Their sole job appeared to be to hand out souvenir World Series of Poker chips that could be redeemed in the tent out back for a free beer. But only the sponsor’s beer. Which sucked.
Also out back was a food tent, where they sold mass-produced burgers and dogs, low cost and surprisingly tasty. And rows of latrines in trailers, shockingly clean. And air-conditioned. Thank the Lord.
They’d thought it out: you’d never really need to leave the joint.
I checked out the beer tent. They had a pool table. Some huge beanbag chairs to doze in. I didn’t drink beer, but it was brutally cold in there, which made me want to stay as long as possible.
I hung for a while. Introduced myself to the bartender. Natalya. Was anybody not Russian anymore? Well, she at least was the kind of Russian I could appreciate. Impossibly tall and slim. Strong Slavic chin. Blue eyes, wide and widely set. A regal nose. Not one of those tiny American things trying desperately to hide its function. This was a nose that announced itself.
Hey, I said.
Hey, she replied with a wide smile. Her front teeth crossed just a little, one slightly shorter than the other. Sexy.
We introduced ourselves. I told her I was a dissolute ex-lawyer-sort-of-investigator-quasi-semiprofessional-poker-player kind of guy. She said she was a model. I feigned feigning astonishment. She laughed.
Yes, she said. The beer company hired a bunch of us. We’re supposed to go around giving out coupons to everybody. Tell them to come out back for free beers.
Problem is, I said, the beer sucks.
Shh, she said, putting a finger to her lips.
There’s nobody else here, I said, looking around the place.
That’s ’cause the beer sucks.
I only drink scotch anyway.
Well, she said, leaning forward, if you’re really good to me, I might be able to help you.
I could smell her. Lilac and something. Something good.
I considered giving up the World Series. Moving in with Natalya. Being her foot slave.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t gotten the offer yet.
Got to get back to the tables, I said. But I’ll take you up on that later.
I got a wink in return.
Back in the playing hangar a couple of the warm-up events were going on, and a bunch of satellites. The place was like the biggest, loudest cafeteria you’ve ever seen—packed with poker tables as far as the eye could see, every seat filled. Herds of kids in baseball caps and tracksuits. Crowds of old-time guys, guys from Idaho and Illinois, Tennessee and Texas, lots of checked shirts and large belt buckles. Here and there an over-painted old lady. Black guys, white guys, a zillion Asian guys. Democracy at its best. You couldn’t generalize. If you thought Asian guys with shades played tight, you’d lose a lot of money to Korean Dave. If you thought guys with yarmulkes were bound to call you down with only top pair, Real Estate Sammy would set you straight. If you thought women could be pushed around, High Times Annie would kick your ass.
No, you had to take everyone as an individual. Every player for himself. Risk, reward. Skill, profit. Foolishness, punishment. But not always. Sometimes Joe the grocery store clerk wins the lottery.
It was even more democratic with the Internet qualifiers. The place was littered with the logos of the major Internet poker sites. If the Internet qualifiers didn’t already stand out by virtue of their youth and lack of table tricks—the chip-riffling, hard-staring, trash-talking routines so assiduously cultivated by professionals who’d been around a few decades—they were usually bedecked with so many accoutrements of the site on which they qualified—hats, buttons, t-shirts, whatever, stuff they were contractually obliged to flaunt in return for their good luck in winning a seat—you could spot them a mile away.
Generally, though, nondescript is the word to describe, charitably, your average tournament poker player. Baseball caps, many worn backwards, t-shirts and sweatshirts, many stained. Though there’s always a minority of serious characters determined to liven up the place. An ancient guy with enormous thick glasses, a scraggly beard and stupendously large ears, rancid teeth. His shirt said Sin City Casino and Lounge, with a silhouette of a naked woman, red on black. He was wearing a CSI: Las Vegas hat. Don’t be fooled: it turns out he plays a good aggressive game. And a guy named Bernie, with a floor-length black raincoat and enormous hat to match, long fingers, splayed at the ends, he hunched over his cards like an arthritic gecko.
Towards the back I spotted some of the stars. Doyle Brunson, the Godfather of poker. You could spot the cowboy hat twenty tables away. I
doubted he’d ever missed one of these events. Daniel Negreanu, eating vegetarian out of a takeout container. As though he were sitting in his kitchen. Munch. Glance at hole cards. Munch. Muck cards. Keeping up a patter, too. Probing for information.
A few celebrities. James Woods. Ben Affleck. Some actress. I was sure she was famous. Couldn’t remember her name. Jennifer somebody. Tilly. Cleavage to die for. And Lennox Lewis. Former heavyweight champion of the world. He took up a lot of room at the table. Seemed like a nice guy.
Waiters prowled the room. Not enough of them. It could take a half hour before they came back with your drink.
Not a bad thing, that, necessarily.
My name was called.
My table was near the front. Near the exit doors. A constant stream of players, railbirds going by. Just another thing to ignore.
I looked around the table. Nobody I recognized right away. No big-name pros. That was good. Maybe I had a chance. All I had to do was beat nine other players. Last guy standing had an entry to the Main Event.
There was the usual motley crew at the table. A guy with skin-tight pink shorts and a sour expression. Potbelly. Highlighted hair. Kind of like a tanned, gay Chris Farley. A guy with gray hair, tailored shirt. Looked like maybe a podiatrist in from Utah. Guy with a cowboy hat and a leather jacket. I liked the old-school look. Thought about adopting it.
Wasn’t like that in the old days, of course. Used to be lots of cowboy hats. Now they looked a little lonely and quaint. I missed the conversations you’d get:
Where ya from?
Tallahassee.
I went broke in Tallahassee. About thirteen years ago, I reckon.
You don’t say?
I reflexively assumed that the guy wearing the cowboy hat knew what he was doing. Just like I concluded that the podiatrist wasn’t going to last long. Better to avoid succumbing to those clichés, though. Whether someone knows what they’re doing is something to be discerned by their bets, their plays, their mannerisms. The cards they play. Do they sit like statues, never raise, always call or fold? Calling Station Alert. Easy money. Bluff them till they drop. The three times all night they raise, get the hell out of the hand. Do they play every second hand for a raise? Maniac Alert. Easy money, but dangerous when lucky. Tread with care. Don’t play for draws. Bust them with made hands. Do they act like a maniac one minute, like a rock the next? Beware. Could be a Cowboy.