Poker is Not a Gentlemen's Game

Curly wasn't always the vigilante of the cardrooms. Long ago, he played mostly in home games; long ago, when the rules of evidence in certain legal cases were different from now.

After a nine-month vacation, Curly had come out of retirement. He had to. He was broke. He had won thousands last year, but now it was this year, and he was back playing poker. And if Tall Jack called his $200 bet, he'd be out of this juicy game, owing the money he'd borrowed to play on. Two deuces was all he had, while Jack debated with a straight. As Curly waited for the call he felt certain would come, he thought about his hatred for this man, and how it seemed as if he had failed in his attempt to humiliate Jack at the poker table.

At 8 p.m. on Friday, seven gambling men had sat down in the game room of Howard Hall's home in Palo Alto to play poker. The green-felt-covered Sears Roebuck-catalogue poker table had eight places.

Curly, the youngest player, had been happy to sit to Foggy Freddy's left, because Freddy called nearly every raise. Freddy's fat lips struggled to surround an immense green cigar. To Curly's left sat Howard, acting as host and banker.

"Sell me a hundred dollars' worth of chips, Howard. That should be enough to double anyone up if they catch me bluffing."

To Howard's left sat Bill Jones, a thin man in a shiny black suit.

"How was Europe, kid?"

"Had a fine time, thanks."

Next to Bill sat Frenchy the fry cook, a short guy with a thin mustache penciled on his upper lip. There was an empty chair to Frenchy's left, and then came Clyde, a usually pleasant fellow in his mid-40s. Between Clyde and Foggy Freddy sat Ice Cream Hank, a meek, gray-haired man of about 50, whose unpronounceable Polish name, all j's, k's, x's, z's, with a few y's in between, was lettered on the side of his ancient ice cream truck.

Curly leaned back and took a sip of grape juice. Tangled locks flowed over the collar of his purple shirt. He had just thrown his miserable hand in. After three rounds, he still had not had any playable cards. He would wait.

Looking stiffly formal in his old-fashioned black suit, Bill dealt the new hand. The men played no-limit table-stakes draw poker with the joker, 25-cent ante from each player, $4 minimum bet, bet or fold before the draw, and one could pass and raise after.

French opened for $4.

Three players folded. Curly finally had something, three queens. "Twelve more."

Howard folded.

Dealer Bill dropped.

Frenchy licked his thin mustache, and called the raise, bringing the pot to $32 plus the antes. "Gimme one."

Curly threw out a card. "I need one, also."

Frenchy was first to act after the draw. "I'll check it."

Curly had taken one to his three of a kind, slightly lessening his chances of improving, because a raiser who drew two gave away what he had, and he was playing for a call after the draw. He was sure Frenchy had two pair, 11-to-1 against improving, and if Frenchy had made a full house, he would have bet it.

Curly pushed a stack of chips into the pot. "Thirty bucks."

"Call."

"Trip queens." Curly spread his cards faceup on the table.

"Beats tens up. Take it."

As Curly stacked his $92 pot, a profit of $46 plus antes, the other players stirred. A tall man filled the doorway of the knotty-pine-paneled game room.

It's that damn lawyer! What's he doing here?

"Seat open, I see."

Howard motioned to the empty chair. "Yeah, c'mon sit down, Jack. Good game. How many chips you want?"

Tall Jack eased his 78 inches into the empty chair between Frenchy and Clyde, and looked through steel-rimmed glasses at each player's chips. His gaze lingered on Curly's stack, which, at $140, was the largest. He stroked his steel-gray goatee with his right hand. On the little finger glittered a heavy diamond ring.

"I'll take a hundred and fifty."

He raised his heavy gray eyebrows and stared deep into Curly's eyes, a bit questioningly, as if he thought they might have met somewhere before.

Howard introduced the two.

"Jack, Curly has just returned from a vacation in Europe. He used to play with us regularly, and he's triple tough."

"Glad to meet you, Curly. I like tough competition."

Curly looked at the large hand that Jack began to extend toward him. He would have had to stand to reach it, and Howard was himself standing in Curly's way. Jack slowly withdrew his hand.

I know you, but you don't know me, do you, mister? No, you wouldn't. My hair's longer now, and anyway, it wasn't me you tried to destroy. It was her. And I'm going to get you for that.

"Curly, Jack's been playing with us about a month. Some of us call him Tall Jack."

Curly smiled mechanically. His eyes met Jack's gaze directly.

"Hello, Jack."

Freddy wasn't interested in the small talk. "Let's play. Whose deal is it?"

"Yours."

Someone opened, and someone called. Each took three cards. They both checked after the draw, and, as usually happens, the best hand took the pot.

Curly's mind sometimes wandered during slow, actionless hands. At these times, he tended to think of the girl who loved him for what he was, and didn't want him to be anything else. If he liked poker and could make money at it, she wanted him to be the best damned poker player around.

Curly twice more beat two pair for Frenchy by drawing one to three of a kind, each time getting a $40 call after the draw.

Poker can be a brutalizing game, as rough as football. Financial beatings are given to players who are psychologically unequipped to handle them. Most players subconsciously want to lose. They feel guilty about something - being trapped in a miserable marriage, cheating on their wives or their taxes, not working at the job that allows them to exercise their full capabilities, or perhaps being overpaid for doing a mediocre job - and need to punish themselves. Losing at poker is more acceptable socially than self-flagellation and less permanent than suicide.

Some players try to win and cannot, or win so little they might as well not waste their time. Some win most of the time. Sometimes two players want very much to win, each at the expense of the other, and a personal duel develops between them.

Several hands went by uneventfully. Curly and Jack seemed to be trying to stay out of each other's way, and neither called if the other raised, or bet a lot. It couldn't last, though. Each knew who the main players were.

Bill dealt. His shiny suit almost glared in the strong light.

Frenchy opened for $4.

Jack called.

Clyde folded.

Ice Cream raised $16, almost apologetically. He didn't speak, just put in the chips. That was his manner.

Ice Cream's concentration was on the chips that he was just pushing into the pot. Bill, Clyde, Howard, and Freddy focused their attention on that side of the table. Curly's eyes were on Frenchy and Jack, to gauge their reactions to the raise.

Frenchy shifted excitedly in his chair and knocked over Jack's glass with his elbow. The others missed seeing what happened immediately after the spilling of the drink, but Curly saw, and Jack saw, since it happened directly under his nose. Frenchy grabbed for the glass with his right hand, inadvertently tilting the cards in his left hand forward. As soon as he realized what he was doing, he jerked both hands back, but not before Curly caught a flash of the hand. Jack could not have missed seeing Frenchy's cards, four clubs and a heart. The inch of ice water in the glass spilled into Jack's chip tray, and dribbled over the edge. Jack replaced the glass in its holder with his free hand. His lips twitched slightly in anger at the few drops that landed in his lap.

Frenchy set a few chips on his hand. "Sorry." He blotted with a napkin at the water in Jack's chip tray.

Freddy and Curly folded.

Frenchy called Ice Cream's raise, leaving himself about $80.

Jack looked at Frenchy. He grabbed a stack of about 25 fives and slammed them into the pot.

"I'm going to raise that bet. A hundred more."

Ice Cream shook his head in disbelief and looked again at his cards. "Too much for me." He folded.

Frenchy grabbed a bunch of chips. "I call, damnit!"

As Jack had pounced to make the kill, taking advantage of Frenchy's momentary indiscretion in exposing his cards, the heavy diamond ring on the little finger of his right hand flashed into Curly's eyes.

Standing in front of the witness box, the lawyer slashed the air with his hand, figuratively dismembering each witness as he skillfully discredited their testimony. The diamond ring flashed through the air as he started to chop up the final witness for the prosecution, the only one other than the defendant who had actually been present at the scene of the alleged crime: the complainant herself.

The diamond flashed its brilliance into Curly's eyes, where he sat among the spectators at the trial.

"Why didn't you go right to the police, Miss Thompson?"

"I was confused and afraid."

"What were you afraid of?"

"I was afraid to face the police, afraid of what they would put me through."

"Afraid of the police, Miss Thompson? I should think you would be afraid, with the wild distortions you knew you were telling them of what transpired that evening."

"Those weren't distortions. He got me drunk, he held me down, and he raped me. That's the simple truth of what happened at Mr. Dash's office."

"We have already heard the medical examiner testify under oath to the fact that, whereas there were no signs of violence to your person, there was evidence of your having had sexual intercourse. Is it not in fact true that there was a liaison between two consenting adults, which you later regretted, and thus your charge of rape, a very serious charge not lightly made, I might add?"

He punctuated each phrase with a slash of his huge hand.

"That isn't so. I'm not used to alcohol. He got me too drunk to fight him."

The tall lawyer for the defense stroked his graying goatee with this right hand, glanced through his glasses at some papers in the other hand, then looked at the girl over the steel rims.

"Did you on New Year's Eve 1970 go to a party by yourself at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Al Barker?"

"Yes."

"Do you know a Mr. John Benson?"

"Yes."

"Did you not in fact early in the morning of January First, 1971, leave the Barker party in the company of Mr. John Benson?"

"Yes."

"Speak up, please, Miss Thompson. The jury can't hear you."

"Yes, I did!"

"And did you not go to Mr. Benson's home, where you spent the night?"

"Objection, Your Honor!" The assistant district attorney was on his feet.

"I overrule your objection, Mr. Sumner. The defense may explore the moral behavior of the complainant, and in so doing, examine her previous sexual relations. Please answer the question, Miss Thompson. Reporter, read Mr. Driver's last question."

"'And did you not go to Mr. Benson's home, where you spent the night?'"

"Yes, but nothing happened!"

"What do you mean?"

"I had too much to drink at the party, and didn't want to drive my car twenty miles in that condition. Mr. Benson lived a few blocks away, and offered to let me sleep on his couch, and then he'd take me back to my car in the morning."

"Well, you do seem to have a habit of getting drunk in compromising situations, don't you?"

"Objection!"

"Sustained."

"Now, Miss Thompson, you don't expect this jury to believe that you spent the night in a man's house after a drunken brawl and nothing happened?"

Another karate chop, and the diamond scintillated.

"That's just what I expect."

"How many other times did this happen, Miss Thompson? How many other men responded to the advances of a passionate and promiscuous woman? I believe one of your boyfriends is present in court today: Do you sleep with him, too?"

"I object, Your Honor! Improper cross-examination."

"I withdraw the question. Miss Thompson, you did have sexual relations with the defendant?"

The ring sparkled again as he pointed accusingly at her.

"Yes, he raped ..."

"I suggest that there was no rape, only the lust of a promiscuous woman inviting a willing man."

The ornate ring again flashed its brilliance into Curly's eyes as Jack picked up the three cards he had drawn.

Frenchy had just lost $98 drawing one to a flush and missing. Jack won without improving his two kings. He had taken advantage of Frenchy's weakness, a momentary inattention, winning $120 with the second-best hand by forcing Ice Cream out of the pot.

"I had aces up, but I couldn't call a hundred dollar reraise with them," grumbled Ice Cream, enviously eyeing Jack's $220 pot. "Maybe I'll have the full house the next time you try that trick."

Jack stacked the chips neatly. "It doesn't take a full house to win, my friend, just guts. You could've called with your two pair."

Curly now had about $425 in chips, and Jack about $275. Howard had $200. The rest ranged from $50 to $150.

Howard dealt.

Bill opened.

Frenchy folded.

Tall Jack raised $12.

Clyde, Ice Cream Hank, and Foggy Freddy all folded.

Curly had only two deuces. Feeling an inspiration, he raised another $35, expecting Bill and Tall Jack to fold, allowing him to win the $22 already in the pot. Jack had raised the opener, and Curly put him on a weak hand that he was trying to protect by allowing no one else into the pot to draw out on him, two pair or small trips, certainly not a hand with which he could call a $35 reraise. Just in case Bill or Jack did call, however, Curly would stand pat no matter how many cards they drew, and then bet a lot after the draw. The odds were against either of them making a calling hand.

As predicted, Bill folded.

Jack put in the extra $35, making $108 in the pot, with the antes. Jack had just called, not reraised, so Curly felt safe.

Howard prepared to deal the draw cards. "Cards, gentlemen."

Jack made a sweeping motion with his hand. "No cards."

No cards? He hadn't put Jack on that good a hand. Well, it had to be a small straight, and Jack was afraid of it. With better than a straight, Jack would have reraised. Curly certainly couldn't draw now to try to beat Jack's hand. If he took any cards at all, he might as well hand Jack the pot. All he had was one pair, and the odds against drawing three and making a full house or four deuces were about 100-to-1. These thoughts all passed through Curly's mind in less than a second, and his declaration came instantly after Tall Jack's.

"No cards here. Your bet."

The old pat-hand bluff. Jack had undoubtedly seen it pulled before, in other games, usually against only new or inexperienced players. He had certainly done it himself many times. Would Jack think that Curly would dare try it on him?

"You're pat, too? No bet."

Jack looked at Curly belligerently, as if to say, go ahead, bet, if you dare; I'll call you.

Curly didn't hesitate. His chips were arranged in six neat piles of 30, with a stack of 17 on top, $197 altogether. He held his cards in his left hand and used both hands to slowly slide all of his chips into the pot - and regretted it instantly. It was not such a bad play if he had another $500 in his pocket, but to bet all of a bankroll that wasn't even his on a bluff was madness.

Jack looked like he wanted to call. Curly was upset inside, but he didn't show it on the outside. He just smiled beatifically at Jack. Inside, he was saying to himself, You idiot! How can you make such a fool play? You know he's going to call you. He can't lay down a pat hand. He knows you're bluffing.

Jack's glasses slid further down his nose, and he leaned forward to stare piercingly at Curly over the lenses. Curly had seen Jack use this technique to intimidate witnesses, one in particular.

Oh, Cindy, you were so brave, even when the D.A. warned you what you would be in for. He told you that in the trial, everything would be spelled out in public in explicit detail, but you still wanted to go ahead, to prosecute that bastard boss. The D.A. said that as far as juries were concerned, only a virgin could be raped, and that this very clever defense lawyer would show how you were anything but that, that he would turn you into a promiscuous slut. Oh, and he did it so well. He discredited you with innuendos to the point that no jury would ever have convicted. It was he who destroyed you, not the man who raped you.

Jack kept a firm hold on the hand that he did not want to throw away, and stroked his steel-gray goatee. Most of the time in such a situation against a good player, Jack would not have had the best with a small straight, but for that very reason, he must be feeling suspicious.

Jack was going to let Curly sweat while he took his time about making his decision, to see if a tell would come out, if Curly would give anything away under the pressure.

"How much is it?"

He watched closely as Curly counted the chips.

"Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, hundred, twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, ninety, seven. Hundred ninety-seven."

You dummy! He's just playing with you, savoring the kill. You know he's going to call.

Jack slowly counted a like amount, and stared right into Curly's eyes as he just as slowly restacked the chips into one group that was surely going into that pot. Curly's smile became more angelic, if that was possible. Nobody could know that he was berating himself inside.

Jack had one last trick, a last effort to make Curly reveal whether he was bluffing or not.

"I'll let you see what I've been thinking about."

Jack spread his cards faceup on the table, without taking his eyes from Curly's face: 6-7-8-9-10 of assorted suits - a straight. That was supposed to be the final shocker, but Curly hardly even glanced at the hand, and appeared unconcerned. He didn't have to look. His original presumption, a small straight, had been correct. It was not so small, perhaps, but not good enough if Curly really had a pat hand.

Several ashtrays held forgotten smoldering cigarettes. The other players remained silent, fascinatedly regarding the four-point drama: Curly, Tall Jack, Jack's straight, and all those chips in the pot. Frenchy seemed to be wishing he had the hand so he could call; he didn't trust anyone, particularly Curly. Howard appeared to be glad he wasn't involved. Ice Cream seemed bored, as if he knew better than to call. Foggy Freddy would've called. He played his cards, not the players. Curly would never attempt to bluff Freddy. Curly felt Clyde's eyes trying to read him.

"Well, I know what you're doing, Curly, but I haven't got the guts to call you."

And the hand that Jack had so desperately wanted to call with, if only that damnable kid would have given him some sign of weakness, disappeared facedown into the discards.

"You don't know what I'm doing, or you would've called. You only suspected."

Curly had made $57 on a hand he shouldn't have played, that should have cost him his whole stack the way he'd played it, and forced him to leave this beautiful game without having been able to humiliate Tall Jack.

He wanted Jack to know for sure what had beat him. As Curly raked in the pot with one hand, he casually turned over the pair of deuces with the other, his $248 bluff. Curly had turned a potential disaster into a winning play, while setting Jack up for the big call at the right time. Jack looked grim. He would be laying for Curly now. There would be no bluffing him for a while.

On Curly's next deal, Howard opened.

Jack called.

Curly had three sixes. "Raise." Twelve more.

Howard folded.

Jack hesitated a moment, and looked at Curly over his glasses. "And twenty-five."

Oh no, Jack, you're trying to be tricky. You're lying in the weeds waiting for me; not raising with a good hand so that when I raise, you can reraise and trap me. Well, goodbye; these three sixes are not worth any more than $16 to me.

Curly smiled and dumped his hand. Jack looked a little annoyed that Curly hadn't called, but took the $22 profit.

On Bill's deal, Curly again had trips, this time three nines. Frenchy opened, and doggedly called another $16. No one else thought the pot was worth playing.

Frenchy was first to draw. "Gimme one."

Curly was next. "I'll take two."

Dodging and weaving, he was not keeping a kicker this time.

Frenchy smiled as he passed after the draw. He seemed so sure that Curly could not have trips this time that he didn't even bother to look at the card he caught. Curly always took one when he had three of a kind, so this time he must be bluffing.

Curly bet all of Frenchy's remaining $90, which would only strengthen the man's feeling that it was a bluff. If Curly wanted a call, Frenchy would reason, he'd never bet that much, more than twice the size of the pot.

"Call."

"Beat three nines and take the money."

"What? Can't; got two pair. Sure fooled me. Chips!"

Foggy Freddy couldn't resist. "The cry of the wounded poker player."

He jammed the chewed-up foul phallic stogie into his pouting rubbery lips when no one laughed at the attempt at humor.

"How many, Frenchy?" asked banker Howard.

"Hundred."

"Your Honor, I object."

"Overruled."

Curly roused from his reverie as Jack slammed enough chips into the pot to put Foggy Freddy all in. Freddy called with confidence.

"I've got kings full." Jack looked proud of himself as he turned over three kings and two queens and started to reach for the pot.

"Just a minute. I've got aces full."

Three aces and two jacks, two powerhouses, and Freddy had the best. He had won nearly $200 with his pat full house, putting him second in chips with $335. Curly exceeded that by about $50. Jack was now down to just over $200, his kings full having cost him $140.

"I better have some more chips, in case I beat a hand for somebody." Jack looked significantly toward Curly's and Freddy's corner of the table. "Give me another three hundred, Howard."

"You know this game is strictly cash, Jack."

"I've got the damned money. Give me the chips!"

Tall Jack stood up suddenly, and Howard and Freddy inadvertently flinched. He pulled a thin leather wallet from his tight pants pocket, and flung three bills across the table. Howard gave him three stacks of fives. Jack sat back down, and everyone seemed to breathe a little easier.

An hour later, by mutual consent, the minimum bet was raised to $10, and the ante increased to $1. Jack and Curly had both been doing well, again staying out of each other's way. Jack had close to $600, putting him $150 ahead. Curly had just over $600, a profit of $500.

It was Howard's deal.

Bill opened.

Frenchy folded.

Tall Jack called.

Clyde, Ice Cream, and Freddy dropped.

Curly had the 4 5 6, the joker, and the 10 - three to an open-end straight flush, plus the bug. It was a very powerful drawing hand - nothing yet, but fantastic potential. Twenty-two of the remaining 48 cards - any deuce, trey, 7, 8, or club - would give him a straight or better, only 13-to-11 against him, practically even money, and four of those cards would give him a virtually unbeatable straight flush. "Let's make it thirty more."

Howard folded.

Bill called.

Jack reraised! "And sixty."

Even if Bill didn't call the raise, Curly would get better than 3-to-1 on a nearly even shot by calling, since the pot already contained $188. Jack had pulled this trick before, not raising with a good hand so that he could reraise, but this time Curly was calling.

"OK, you got me."

Curly quickly broke 12 $5 chips into three piles of four.

"I'm in there." Bill was first to draw. "Gimme one."

He had to have three of a kind, high ones, too, and was keeping a kicker. Bill would never put in that kind of money to draw to a straight or flush, nor to two pair. He always drew one to trips, which fooled Foggy Freddy, but no one else.

Jack's turn. "No cards."

This was no bluff. Jack really had a pat hand. He didn't have the nerve to try Curly's own trick on him.

"One." Be there, baby!

Leaving his cards facedown on the table, he set the drawn card on top, pushed the cards square together, and then picked up the five cards with both hands wrapped around them so no one but himself could see them, and slowly started to squeeze them open, but not looking at the cards, watching instead to see what Bill and Jack did.

Bill was first after the draw. "Check."

"Bet." Jack put in $100, a third of what was already in the pot. Jack evidently wanted to make sure he'd get something for the hand. He must have thought Curly had two pair or trips.

What was that last card? His heart pounding, he could look now. He held his breath.

Four of clubs, five of clubs, six of clubs, joker - come on, baby! And … the … it's a club! That should be good enough. But wait … the eight of clubs!

The straight flush was there! There was a moment's hesitation, as if to telegraph the message, I really shouldn't try this again, and …

"Raise. All of it."

He exhaled slowly.

It was a larger mountain of chips this time - ones and fives neatly stacked into many piles - that he eased into the pot, just as before. There was a gasp from somewhere at the table at this large bet. Curly smiled happily and confidently. It was not difficult to do; he knew he had the winner.

Bill folded.

This time, Tall Jack did not give it the old hesitation waltz. He wasn't going to be run off a hand again. Jack shoved in all of his chips, nervously knocking some of the stacks over.

Clyde loved to keep the pots straight. "Wait a second, lemme count these. Let's see, Curly's got five twelve, a raise of four twelve. Jack's got three ninety of it. Curly gets twenty-two back. Show'm down."

Jack spread down an ace-high straight.

"No good. Straight flush." Gotcha, you bastard! And I'll get you again.

Jack seemed hypnotized by those four little clubs and the joker spread out before him, as Curly unhurriedly raked in his $1,288 and began stacking the chips. Tall Jack slowly stood up to his full 6 feet 6 inches, somehow not looking as tall, distinguished, or piercing. He seemed rumpled, sagging.

"Nice play, kid. Well, gentlemen, I've lost enough. See you next week."

"Don't take it too hard, Jack. You'll get it back soon enough. Why, you probably make five times that on one good rape case."

Did a flash of recognition momentarily ignite the dulled eyes? Jack would surely be back next week to try for his revenge.