Dead Man Calling
Growing up in New York’s famed “Borscht Belt” region (if you’ve seen Dirty Dancing, well, that’s where I’m from), I was fortunate in that there was ALWAYS a card game. With numerous country club-style resort hotels within a 30-mile radius, on any day of the week, at any hour of the day, somewhere there were cards in the air and money on the table. Oftentimes, there was big money, too. Granted, maybe not the excessive amounts we’re all used to hearing about today, when multimillion dollar windfalls have become ho-hum commonplace; but sums still big enough to curl your toes, make a couple of mortgage payments, and leave enough left over to take your significant other on a seven-night Caribbean cruise—in an outside stateroom!
The kicker to this scenario — I hit the royal flush of life: my family actually OWNED one of these kosher Disneylands. At an age when most kids were playing Little League, I was drawing for gutshot straights. When they were out marauding the local mall, I was betting the bangtails at Monticello Raceway. You would think this early immersion into the world of wagering would make me a gambling expert, right? Heck no, but it sure gave me an inside track for finding the hottest games.
And one of those games was a marathon 7-card stud session, an exhausting escapade that featured six full-fledged poker junkies — two hotel guests, two area business owners, one semi-talented lounge singer, and yours truly — thrusting and parrying in playing card combat in one of the hotel’s nicer suites for the better part of two days. I remember it vividly: early August, nothing but thunderstorms in the forecast, a well-stocked wet bar, tasty room service, and deep pockets all around the table. Somebody pinch me!
Towards the end of the 41st hour of play, a hand came up that I will never forget as long as I live. By this time we were all pretty wired — lesson to the wise, NEVER mix No Doz tablets with espresso! — and there wasn’t a great deal of folding taking place, regardless of what our first three cards were. Even 2-5-9 rainbow, no worries; I’ve got outs. I can go runner-runner-runner-runner quads and really put a hurt on someone.
Now you see the mindset that had permeated the entire table. Incidentally, antes were now $5, and the stakes had risen to $10/$100, with a knockout punch $200 max on the river. Given our mental capacities (or total lack thereof) at this point, we probably should’ve been playing quarter-fifty (that’s cents, not dollars!) but hey, you only live once, right? Had I only known the prescience of those words.
So for this never-to-be forgotten hand, the J. was my door card, and I looked down to find the A. and K. in the hole. Helluva start, or so I thought. Without even bothering to look at my opponents’ upcards, when it was my turn to act I raised the maximum, $100, tossing $120 into the pot. Miraculously, everyone else folded, everyone except the 70-some-odd-year-old owner of a nearby laundromat, who raised me $100.
Now, I had played with — we’ll call him Jim — a number of times prior and I knew, without question, that when he came back over the top of me, Jim had the goods. But, my brain wasn’t firing on all its cylinders and I remember thinking that Jim, easily 60+ years older than me, had to be faring much worse, so he couldn’t possibly be playing his usual solid game. Alas, being the bratty “Richie Rich”-esque punk that I was, I reraised $100, not really giving his A. door card any credence. But when Jim popped me back $100 again, I simply called. Maybe the over-tired shirt stainremover actually had a hand.
Well, if he didn’t before, he did after fourth street, when the A. hit the board. However, I wasn’t all that concerned, as the 10. made my hand look as delicious as Pamela Anderson in a chocolate thong. All I needed now was the Q. for the royal flush, the absolute mortal lock, and I was feeling supremely confident that the poker gods were gonna deliver. However, Jim had no intention of letting me get there for free, and he led out, betting his pair of bullets to the tune of $100. Raising him at that juncture wasn’t exactly the wisest course of action, but that didn’t stop me. His automaton-like reraise was my punishment. Of course, I called. The vicious Tony Montana, his entire army, and his “little friend” couldn’t keep me from seeing this hand through to the river.
Fifth street came and went without helping either of us. This time when Jim bet I wised up and flat called, still 100% certain that my Q. — or now, any old spade — was only moments away. Sadly, sixth street was a big, fat goose egg. Never mind that Jim also got dealt a rag — he was still showing a pair of spicy red aces. I had the prettiest display of diddly- poop one could imagine, and that just wasn’t going to be enough to rake the pot.
Jim flicked a crisp $100 bill into the pot, along with two more C-notes for good measure. “In the blind,” he said.
Now maybe I should have noticed the beads of sweat that had appeared on his brow, the glazed look that had crept into his eyes behind his bifocals, and the ashen hue that had invaded his skin tone. But why the hell would I? I was too busy praying to the poker gods for a freakin’ spade!
The river cards were dealt. I waved a hand over mine a dozen times, spun it on the table another dozen, and whispered myriad prayers for the image of a big, black queen. And when I finally looked…yeesh! The trey of hearts was staring back at me, leaving me with a monstrously mighty final tally of a pair of threes.
At that age I wasn’t very adult about defeat and I tossed my cards into the air. “Take it, Jim,” I said, getting up from the table. “I can’t beat you.”
Only Jim didn’t move, just sat there silently, staring at the table.
“No need to slow-roll,” I added. “Your aces are good enough.”
Still nothing. That’s when one of the other players gave him a gentle nudge.
“Jim?”
Wouldn’t you know, he fell backward, deader than Elvis, from what we would later learn was a massive heart attack.
Without elaborating on the ensuing EMT activities, the coroner’s appearance, and the argument about whether or not to stop playing or continue the game once Jim’s corpse had been removed, I’ll conclude with the decision that was made regarding that fateful hand’s pot. Even though Jim wasn’t “around” to flip over his down cards—he had the A. in the hole — the two red aces he was showing beat my busted draw. For the record, even if I hadn’t mucked my hand, I would have acknowledged this (hmm, is it morally wrong to try and bluff a dead guy?). Thus, the money was placed in an envelope and delivered to his next of kin.
The very next week, that cheapskate of a deliverer confessed to removing gas money from poor dead Jim’s envelope — trust me, folks, I ain’t making this up! — and we barred him from the game. However, we did let him back in the following week, since big fish deserve to be hooked!
