Curly Goes on the Road

Curly was on the road. He had had a successful few months in the easy games of the poker factories of Southern California, but now he longed for the easy games and high-tech life of Silicon Valley, and was driving north along Interstate 5.

Driving half of the day had exhausted him. It didn't look like he'd make the Bay Area without falling asleep. He might have to spend the night in a motel in one of the Central Valley farming towns. Near evening, passing labeled fields and idle oil pumps, he took an exit that freeway signs had promised offered food, fuel, and lodging. Slowing down, he saw at the edges of ripening fields low blue signs with white letters proclaiming "Alfalfa," "Cotton," "String Beans." Ah yes, the center of America was not all in the Midwest.

Now, where could he go to relax? He passed cars angle-parked at the curbs of sidewalks fronting one-story feed stores, hotels, restaurants, and taverns.

Taverns. Hmm. There it was, heralded by a sign with a red neon-sculpted picture of a cocktail glass.

Pastime Club

Restaurant

Lounge

Poker

The last line was in print much smaller than the first three, as if the place wasn't too sure it wanted to let people know they might find a game here.

Here, Curly could relax. Driving half the day, that was work, but a few hands of poker and he would no longer see that white line down the middle of the road every time he closed his eyes.

He pulled in at the curb between a beat-up half-ton pickup and a 1966 Chevy with a fringe of fuzzy balls in all the windows. The last rays of the setting sun followed him through the open door. Past the end of the dim, deserted bar he could see a glassed-off backroom that held two green-felt-covered poker tables, each beneath a green-shaded light hanging at eye level by a cord from the ceiling.

No games were in session, but he saw several old men waiting around, apparently for him.

He opened the door from the bar and entered.

"Whaddya guys play?"

Four of them were in shiny old suits. Were they here always, frozen in time, waiting for a game? Did opening that door start their machinery going?

One of them seemed to be a spokesman. "What do you want to play?"

Uh-huh. Just waiting for a sucker to drop in, and you'll play whatever he wants. Right.

"Well, I kind of like limit lowball. You guys play that?"

"Sure, we play anything. We were just waiting for one more to start a game."

Uh-huh. Right.

The spokesman went to a wooden lectern by a wall, slid out a drawer full of chips, and brought several racks to the table. The lectern, or "box," as it was usually called, is a regular fixture in small cardrooms, where it serves as cashier's cage, filing cabinet for records of time collections, storage case for cards and chips, and general office for all cardroom business.

The spokesman set two stacks of chips at one position of the table, pulled two twenties from a battered wallet, and put the money on the rack. Each of the other three also bought $40 worth of chips.

What the heck! "Gimme $40 worth, too."

The spokesman returned the racks and the money to the box, then came back and broke open a new deck of cards.

"Are you the houseman?"

"Well, sort of. I help run the game when the owner isn't around, but I usually play, too, because we don't often get a full game during the week in a small town like this."

"Can I get a beer?"

"Sure. Draft OK?"

Curly didn't think they'd have Watney's Red Barrel Ale. "Fine."

The spokesman went into the bar, returning with a pitcher and five glasses. He poured beers all around.

The lowball game began. Curly played carefully, constantly watching the other players. As far as he could tell, the deck had not been tampered with. During play, no one appeared to be crimping or otherwise marking the cards. He could not detect any signaling between the players.

The betting was spirited. If one of them was drawing a card and another was pat, they often put five or six bets in before the draw. Curly played only with good hands, and, still cautious, did not push those very far. He lost a few hands, but won a few more than he lost. After an hour of play, he had doubled his chips.

The four old men seemed to be having a wonderful time gambling it up with each other, and appeared not to notice his conservative play.

Curly still had not seen a move, and his stack swelled to $100. Fattening me up for the kill, huh? When was that move going to come?

The beer was doing its work. Curly stood up and stretched. "Where's the bathroom?"

"Out that backdoor, and around the side."

Curly returned in a few minutes to see that a new hand had just been dealt – and there were five cards waiting for him at his place.

"Oh, there you are. We dealt you in in case you made it back in time."

Right. And he could just guess what that hand would be.

He picked up the cards, just as one of the other players was opening the pot. Curly held the cards so that only he could see them. He had a pat 6-4, the second-best hand in lowball. Uh-huh – and who had the pat wheel?

Would he be cute and just dump the hand? Then, he could get up with his $60 profit and leave them talking to themselves. No, he wanted to prove his suspicions, and at the same time let them know they had picked the wrong guy to screw around with.

Curly called the opening bet. Normally, he would have raised, but they weren't going to catch him with the old dealt-you-in-while-you-were-gone trick.

"Cards, gentlemen."

The first man tapped the table with his cards. "I don't want any." No, of course not.

Well, he would see it through. "I'm pat, too."

The opener bet again after the draw.

"I'll call." Curly added $4 to the pot. Curly had once had a terrific tell on another player and had actually thrown away a 6-4 for one bet, but this was the first time in his life he had just called with the hand. Usually he would just keep raising until the other guy got tired. Most of the time he had won with the hand, and sometimes he had lost, but he had never backed off it.

The first man smiled. "Guess I got you." He spread his cards faceup on the table: 6-5-3-2-A. Known as "number three" by most lowball players, it was the third-best possible hand, ranking right after a wheel and a 6-4. Under normal circumstances, any player dealt a pat 6-5 who got a call from another pat hand before the draw, and a call after the draw, without a raise either time, would be justified in thinking he had the better hand. He might be wishing that the other guy had raised instead of just called, so he could win a few more bets with such a powerhouse, but he would have no doubt that his hand was the winner. And had Curly played his hand the way he normally would, he probably would have won all of the guy's chips.

Curly was embarrassed. These guys really were on the level. They were just ordinary players who didn't particularly like playing fourhanded. Now what? If he showed down a 6-4 and took the pot, he could never explain why he hadn't once raised with the hand, except for the truth, that he thought they were setting him up.

"Yeah, I guess you do." Curly tossed his cards into the discards. The guy raked in his pot, and the next dealer started shuffling the cards.

Curly sighed. That was one on him. You can't be suspicious of everything.