The World's Wildest 'Home Game'
I was holding a beer and money burrito without the tortilla. Yup, you guessed it – the stone cold mortal lock. Even better, my opponent had hit his hand too: top set. Trip aces. A freakin’ monster, to be sure, but a veritable fart in a hurricane compared to my wicked little wheel. My decision to play absolute junk – 2-5 offsuit, a close relative of my all-time favorite starting hand, 3-5 – in a hand that had been substantially raised pre-flop ($500 in a $25/$50 NL game) was about to yield a hefty payday. Had I been in a card room in Vegas, AC,
But wait, it gets better.
The guy I was heads up with looked like he was right out of Central Casting, on file for any film project that required a Mexican drug dealer – exactly what I pegged him for. Black silk shirt unbuttoned down to his portly belly, enough gold around his neck to make Mr. T whimper in the corner, horrible skin, a scraggly attempt at a handlebar mustache, and two freakishly scarred nubs in the middle of his left hand that seemed to indicate his fingers had not left his body of their own free will. The man had introduced himself as Guillermo, but everyone just called him Loco. Now, I’m not fluent in Spanish, but I definitely knew what loco meant. Crazy. Not exactly the kind of individual I would have chosen to lock horns with in an unlawful card game, especially considering the fact that I was a gringo interloper on his home turf. When I was a kid, my dad had taught me never to play poker with anyone nicknamed after a power tool or a farming implement. I’m reasonably certain he would have included Mexican drug dealers named Loco in that snippet of advice had he an inkling of what my future held.
Looking at my surroundings and, more specifically, the other people frequenting that makeshift casino – in addition to the poker game there was a craps table and a trio of blackjack tables – I saw only one remotely friendly face: Chris Heifner, the ex-drug runner who had gotten me into this mess. Granted, there were two other guys in the room who supposedly had my back should anything go down – hired Mexican muscle that my “guide” had relied upon before, under similar circumstances – but if the shit really did hit the fan there was no telling exactly what would happen or where their loyalties would lie. Sometimes, dollars and pesos just weren’t enough. What had seemed like a great idea at the time, when this “wild home game story” was first proposed to me a few weeks prior, had quickly morphed into a Mongolian cluster-fuck of mammoth proportions. Of course, I had only myself to blame.
For one, I could have just come to the game as a tagalong, a wingman with an agenda, merely to observe and pen a killer story after the fact. I guess I screwed the pooch on that one. And after I sat down, I could have simply chosen to play rock-tight and ultraconservative, not really mixing it up so much as just sitting in on a once-in-a-lifetime gaming experience – just to be able to say I had done it. But nooooo, I had to be a wild man, employing my usual rags-to-riches junkman tactics. I never considered the potential ramifications. Things were different south of the border. The folks down here might take bad beats personally. Back in the States, I’ve been called a donkey more times than I can remember. Oh well, sticks and stones. Not much to fear. But in this funky place, my victims might decide to express their displeasure in other, more uh, shall we say assertive ways. I mean, let’s face it – people went missing down here all the time.
So when Loco raised it up to five C-notes from under-the-gun, I should have just mucked my 2-5 yard sale, sipped my tequila, and watched the hand play out. Woulda-coulda- shoulda. Ah, the beauty of hindsight. And then that muy peligroso flop sealed my fate: 3- 4-J rainbow, about the best thing I could have hoped for short of flopping the nuts. Now I was locked into the hand like Michael Vick was to a bogus defense.
Loco quickly made a pot-sized bet of $1,500. After the third player in the hand, seated immediately to my right, made the call, I added my cash to the pot. The turn brought a 9 — no obvious help to anyone, especially yours truly — and when Loco fired out another $2k I was thoroughly convinced he was holding cowboys or bullets. For the record, I knew he had bullets in the pistol he wore beneath his untucked shirt – prior to my career as a freelance writer I had been in the weaponry biz long enough to spot a concealed handgun on just about anyone – but for the moment it was his cards that I was more concerned with. Hopefully, those would be the only bullets I’d have to contend with that night.
After ten seconds in the tank, the player to my right mucked his cards in disgust, stood up, and walked over to the bar, which consisted of little more than a few large metal tubs filled with ice and beer and a wooden crate holding stacks of plastic cups and about a dozen liquor bottles, half of which were tequila. It was now my turn to act. Folding my hand was the smart move, for numerous reasons. But my ego was in play here, as well. I had come into the game under a cover identity of sorts – an American arms dealer, no less, an occupation I knew a little something about – and a “Why the fuck not?” approach seemed like the only way to go. Needless to say, I talked myself into calling and added my money to the pot.
When the ace hit the river, I nearly came in my pants. Twice! Jesus fucking Christ, this was both a blessing and a burden. Sure, I wanted to make my hand in the worst of ways but, now that I had, the thought of taking a hefty chunk of cash from the eight-fingered hombre sitting across from me opened up a serious keg of dynamite. Was this guy a good loser? Just by looking at him, I honestly didn’t think so.
His $5k wager sealed the deal. No doubt about it, the scary-looking reefer baron was holding pocket rockets. Now that he had three of ’em, he thought his hand was the bitch’s bastard. Loco grinned at me, a gold-capped dental emergency that resembled a blingedout version of Indian corn.
“Tell me, Mister American Gun-Man,” Loco began, his voice more syrupy than a plastic Aunt Jemima decanter, “do you have the huevos to call?”
Motherfucker. He really shouldn’t have said that. Now, it didn’t matter who he was. After an attempted verbal punking like that, nobody would cut that cocksucker any slack, especially a tough-as-nails, death-dealing arms trader like the one I was supposed to be.
“No, Loco, I don’t have the huevos to call.” It was my turn to grin, only I amped it up to a full-blown smile. “But I definitely have the stones to raise you.” And with that I pushed everything I had in front of me – a smidge over $10,000 – into the pot. “I’m all in.”
Hell, if you’re gonna be a bear, be a grizzly…
One of the perks of being an established journalist is that, after a while, you needn’t concern yourself with finding stories – the stories find you. Of course, there’s a potentially unpleasant flip side to that benefit. What looks and smells like cherry pie may, in fact, actually be nothing more than a perfectly carved wedge of botulism. Oh, it looks real yummy on the outside, but after a bite and a swallow you find yourself in a world of serious hurt. Well, during WSOP month in
Saturday night. The list for every game in the Bellagio’s elegant poker room was longer than a reticulated python on Miracle Grow. Since I wanted to play only No Limit – mainly because I SUCK at Limit – there were just a few lists I could join. Eventually, I got called for $10/$20 NL and took my seat at the table with the empty chair. There was a lot of cash in play so I bought in for $7,000 – a rack of orange chips with an additional $5k in bills. To be honest, I hadn’t been running very well during the month of June, but since I usually had good results at the Bellagio I wanted to be certain I had enough cash in front of me to capitalize when my luck eventually changed.
As I waited for the button to come around, I took stock of my opponents. All of the food groups were represented, as is the norm at virtually any poker table these days. However, one player stood out from the rest – the #2 seat. And since I was in seat #4, a visual recon of the oddball was cake. Roughly 6’1”, 230 pounds, with a freshly shaved head, concrete block jaw, a perfectly-coiffed goatee, and a myshit- don’t-stink swagger, it was easy to see that this guy was a rogue. Despite the custom suit and the fancy watch, no friggin’ way was he the corporate type. Ditto for an attorney, stockbroker, salesman, or any kind of numbers or advertising guy. Nah, this cat was sketchy. My gut instinct was the drug biz – and I ain’t talking about a pharmacist. It wasn’t so much his appearance or his body language that led me to that snap decision – it was his eyes. They never stopped moving, constantly darting around like a humming bird on meth. Only it didn’t appear to be the action on the table that concerned him – it was the entire poker room itself. His peepers were monitoring everything that was happening in every corner. The fact that I was wearing sunglasses allowed me to stare directly at the guy without arousing any suspicions – or so I thought.
After a few moments, the guy shifted his gaze and stared directly at me. I felt like he was looking right down into my soul. Shit. Maybe he was aware that I had been staring at him. His unwavering – and highly unnerving – gawk continued for what felt like an eternity before he finally let me off the hook.
Reaching across the table with one of his meaty paw-like hands, he said: “Adam Slutsky, right? From Bluff?”
“Guilty as charged,” I replied and accepted his vice-like handshake, immediately wishing I hadn’t. The bones in my hand now felt as if they’d been reduced to sand.
“Chris Heifner. I’m a big fan of your work.”
“Thanks,” I said as sincerely as I possibly could. To be perfectly honest, I never was very good at receiving compliments. For some reason, I respond much better to criticism – unless it’s from a woman I picked up the night before!
Chris and I wound up chatting on and off for the next hour or so, talking poker, sports, and the happenings at the current WSOP. A charismatic and likable guy with what appeared to be a devil-may-care approach to life, I learned that Chris hailed from Texas – El Paso, to be exact. I also learned that he was a pretty good card player, taking down a number of monster pots, two of which he scooped via sinister bluffs that he brazenly showed. Both of his well-timed moves elicited a rash of dirty looks from the hoodwinked opponents. But neither of them opted to verbalize their displeasure; Chris didn’t look like the kind of guy you wanted to pop off to – although I doubt he would have cared.
Fortunately, I was having a good night as well. In under two hours I had picked up a little over $3,000 – my best result by far in a month that been chock-full of brutal bad beats. Growing a little tired and not wanting to push my luck any further, I started to rack up my chips. That’s when Chris asked if he could buy me a drink and pitch me an incredible story.
First things first… While I’d hate to alienate myself from any fans I may have accumulated in West Hollywood or San Francisco, allowing strange guys to buy me drinks just isn’t how I roll. Second, if I had a dollar every time somebody said he wanted to pitch me “an incredible story,” I’d be driving a new Lamborghini Murcielago instead of restoring a ’73 DeTomaso Pantera. However, curiosity got the better of me and a few minutes later we were seated at a table in the Petrossian Bar, just off the lobby, drinking single malt Scotch and talking shop.
“Okay, Adam, here’s the deal,” was how Chris began. “I don’t know you, other than what I’ve read about you, so I’m just gonna spill my guts and give you my story in a nutshell. If you want to judge me, that’s your prerogative – be my guest.”
“What are you gonna tell me, that you’re a serial killer?” I said, half-joking.
“No, nothing that bad,” he said with a bemused chuckle. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then he turned hanging-judge serious. “But I used to be one of the biggest, most successful interstate drug smugglers for a $25-million-ayear international marijuana cartel.”
Silence. I took a slug of my drink, looked at the stone-faced, self-confessed drug runner sitting opposite me. I waited a few moments for him to crack a smile, to let me off the hook. He didn’t.
After a beat: “You’re serious?” I asked.
“As a kick in the dick,” he retorted.
“How the hell are you not rotting in jail right now?” I posed. “Or dead and buried in some unmarked grave?”
And so, Chris Heifner told me his story. At one time, he was a successful day trader, living the American dream. Nice house, beautiful wife, great kids, and more than enough leisure time and cash to enjoy golf on some of Texas’s finest links or VIP treatment at his favorite strip club whenever he felt the urge. But all that changed the day he got busted — by five K9 units, no less — with $300K worth of Mexican weed in the trunk of his rental car. But if that was bad, this was worse: The dealer he was muling for, his former best friend from college, not only decided that he wouldn’t assist Chris in any way — legally, financially, or otherwise — but also opted to threaten his life and the lives of his wife and children should he elect to cooperate with the authorities.
“Naturally, I was floored,” Chris explained. “Not in a million years would I have ratted this guy out, no matter what the DEA and the Feds threw at me. It was my decision to do what I was doing. You know, that whole Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time’ sort of thing. But it was mutually beneficial for him to help me out, even a little bit. When he decided to threaten my wife and kids, he crossed a fuckin’ line and I wanted to kill him on the spot.”
Chris took a long swig of his Scotch, killed the drink, and crunched down on an ice cube. I could tell this was a toxic issue for him. After a moment of hard chewing, he continued.
“That was my wakeup call. My ‘get your head outta your ass’ moment. I started thinking about the poison I had been making money off of and, even though I wasn’t the one selling it, I was still a big part of the problem. I thought about how I’d feel if one of my own kids [he has four] got mixed up with that shit and that was the last straw. That’s when I made the decision to burn that drug-dealing, cock-sucking best-friend-turned-boss if it was the last thing I ever did on this earth. And what’s more, I was gonna do it the right way, the legal way! I was gonna be the one responsible for him sitting in jail for the next 20-someodd years, enjoying a never-ending succession of ass-rapes. Sure, I really wanted to kill him deader than Elvis for threatening to harm the people I loved most, but that was just testosterone talking. I had to be smart. He wasn’t worth throwing my life away. In the end, I figured that I may not have been the one who actually cut his throat, but I was sure as hell gonna be the blade.”
And so, Chris flipped and went to work for the DEA as a paid confidential informant. Scary shit. Donnie Brasco shit. About as safe as a bulletproof vest-tester or a bomb-disarmer. For two years, Chris worked both sides of the drug game, putting his life on the line every step of the way. And he had more close calls than a baitfish in a shark tank. Fortunately, despite all the evidence he gathered, he never had to testify in open court. Law enforcement was able to maneuver around his dealings like skilled surgeons, allowing him to keep his cover and keep the damning information coming.
As for the dealer Chris used to work for, the ex-best buddy he swore to put away… “Oh, he eventually got his — big time,” Chris explained. “Went missing one day, left a wife and a kid behind. The DEA is certain his bosses closed the account for good, if you know what I mean.”
“So why go public now?” I asked. “I mean, aren’t you worried?”
Chris smiled. “No, I’m not a target because, contrary to popular belief, it just doesn’t work that way. Going after me or my family would just attract unnecessary attention — attention these people don’t want or need. In El Paso there are so many different drug-running operations that it’d be next to impossible to hunt down everyone who may have screwed one of the teams [Chris likens the many drug dealing operations to NASCAR teams who help each other at times but are ultimately competing against one another] at some point.
“Now I’ve got a public-speaking company (www.zyoose.com); I talk to people of all types, from all walks of life, and help them to achieve their goals and fulfill their dreams. The decisions I’ve made and the things I’ve gone through have given me a unique perspective. I figured I should share what I’ve learned.
This is where I became perplexed. “Hey man, all due respect,” I began, not wanting to diminish the quality of his story, “but what’s all this have to do with me? Do you want me to write your book?”
Chris let out a hearty laugh, one of those “Don’t flatter yourself” kind of belly laughs. “No, Adam, I’ve got that covered.”
And indeed, he does. Chris is currently putting the finishing touches on a manuscript entitled Runner: The Chris Heifner Story. It is rumored that publishers are already crawling out of the woodwork for the rights.
“So…”
“Dude, I’ve got a story for you for Bluff. It’s my favorite poker mag and I thought I’d hook you up.”
“How?”
“Everybody always thinks their home game is the shit. Well, I know for a fact that my game is the craziest on the planet.”
Chris had spent a long time building up his reputation in the drug biz. The name of his defense attorney pretty much solidified his clout. And since he was about to turn his back on that world for good, he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. The way he saw it, there was no better way to say goodbye than to play in an illegal, floating poker game one final time and bring a journalist he admired along for the ride.
Man, the shit I get myself into…
I had just pushed all my chips and cash into the pot. Loco looked at the board and laughed. “I like your style, man, but your timing is not very good. I call.” He flipped over the two cards I knew he was holding — pocket aces.
There were a lot of comments I could have made here. Being a somewhat witty individual — at least, I like to think so — coming up with a sarcastic reply would have been easier than labeling Brittney Spears as mentally unstable. Instead, I chose to travel the classier — and safer — route: I simply revealed my hand.
“What’s that?” Loco stood up, scrutinized the board for a moment, did a double take, and then refocused his attention on me. “You played that shit against me? After I raised?”
Still avoiding any verbal repartee like the plague, I just shrugged.
Nobody at the table said a word. In my peripheral, I could see Chris bracing for action. Oh shit. Here we go.
Then, Loco started laughing. Softly at first, rapidly increasing in volume. The other players joined in. Soon, I was laughing, too, even though I wasn’t exactly sure why. I’ll chalk mine up to nerves. If I said it was anything else, I’d be lying through my teeth.
Loco started wagging his finger at me. “Pinche cabrón! We’ve got a game now.”
My sphincter finally unpuckered. Turns out Loco was a good sport — much better than a lot of the players I’ve nailed with a similar rag hand. And to his credit, he wasn’t that bad of a player, either, although the later it got and the more tequila he drank, the looser his play became. (Had I just met the Mexican version
of Scotty Nguyen?) Still, thanks to a few cooperative flops, turns, and rivers – including a 7 against me to snap my pocket queens and win a huge pot – Loco was able to recoup a good chunk of his earlier losses. I was secretly worried that if he ended up deep in the hole, there was a damn good chance I would have wound up in a deeper one.
Eventually, I had seen enough. It was time to go — while I was still upright and breathing. I had lost back roughly half of my winnings (not by choice, mind you), sufficiently seeding the game, and I figured if ever there were a safe time to thank them for their hospitality and skedaddle — with their money and my life — that was definitely it. One look at Chris confirmed he and I were on the same page. As I put away the cash and changed out the chips for spendable dough, Loco informed me that he’d like to do some business in the near future.
“I could always use a friend in America,” he said with a drunken slur and a bit of a twinkle in his bloodshot eyes. “Especially a friend who can get me boom-booms.”
Assuming he wasn’t talking about professional boxer Ray Mancini, I nodded enthusiastically, clapped him on the shoulder, and told him I looked forward to it. Thirty seconds later, Chris and I were back inside the relative safety of a rented SUV, heading for the border. If ever there was a time I wanted to hear Neil Diamond singing one of his signature songs, that was definitely it. Next time, I’ll stick to Cabo san Lucas. Maybe Sammy’s got a good game I can crash!
