Big Demi - Part II

In Part I of this saga, I described how I found a way to get back at Big Denny for all the grief he had caused me over the years. I told him he could make a lot of easy money by dressing up like a woman and playing in a big ladies tournament. Unbelievably, he went for it, and from there I forced him to get a wax job, wig, and beauty makeover, and got him garbed in ladies undergarments, a dress, and tight high-heeled shoes. Understandably, Big Denny was dazed and subdued as we pulled up to the casino offering the ladies event.

As Big Denny stepped out of the car, the bemused parking attendant gave him a little pat on the butt. Enraged, Denny tried to grab him by the throat. He spun around, but wobbled in his ungainly shoes and fell down, enabling the attendant to make his escape.



Slowly and painfully, Denny got up and dusted himself off. As we walked into the casino, the first player we came across was "Super Mario" Esquerra. His eyes popped out when he saw Denny.



"Hotcha!" he exclaimed. "Ay, mamacita, you a fine-looking lady. What's your address?"



"Yer address is gonna be da emergency room, buster!" Denny replied threateningly as Mario scurried off.



Big Denny was shaking. "Maxey," he said pitifully, "I can't go troo wit' dis. Let's go home."



I didn't get the big lug this far to let him get away. "Oh, come on, Denny," I said soothingly. "Let me buy you a beer.

You'll feel better."



I got him into the bar. Within 15 minutes he had guzzled down four bottles of suds and was ready to take on the world again. By now his wig was askew, his lipstick was smeared, and he was tottering unsteadily on his high-heeled shoes, but he was too drunk to notice. All that beer also resulted in another consequence I had hoped for.



"Maxey," Big Denny said in a panic. "I gotta go to da john. What'll I do? I can't go to da men's room, an' if I get caught in da ladies room dey'll arrest me."



This was turning into the happiest day of my life. "I guess you better use the parking lot."



Big Denny dashed out and returned after a few minutes. Apparently he had relieved himself on somebody's car, because a customer would later complain that all the paint had been stripped off one of his fenders.



Reminding him to speak in a falsetto, I guided Denny to the tournament room and up to the sign-up desk, where a staff person looked at him quizzically. She asked him his name.



"Denny," he chirped.



"Denny?"



"He means Demi," I corrected. "I mean, she means Demi."



The woman stared at both of us for a moment, then shrugged and wrote out a tournament receipt. "And we have a gift for you too, sweetie," she said, handing him a gift bag.



Denny pulled out a package of lace hankies and a bottle of perfume. "Just what I needs," he said sourly.



We found his table, and he squeezed into his seat after shoving two seated women aside to make room. While waiting for the limit hold'em rebuy tournament to begin, the ladies engaged in the usual girl talk: how often they needed to color their roots, how to deal with menstrual cramps, which of their friends were having affairs, and so on. Trying to be sociable and join in, he asked, "Hey, do ya t'ink da Red Sox kin win da World Series again dis year?"



The women looked at him blankly, then resumed their gabbing as Denny covered his ears with his hands.



Mercifully, play finally got under way. The game was limit hold'em. After a few hands, Denny, under the gun, looked at pocket aces and decided to just limp in and trap someone. Sure enough, a young and obviously beginning player to his left fumbled with her chips and called, and then another woman raised. She and Denny got into a raising war while the young lady kept calling. The flop was A K 7. Denny had top set and the pot was capped again. The turn brought the 2 and the river the 8, and both were capped. "I've got a set of kings," declared the older woman, who was last to act.



"Gimme da pot," declared Denny, turning over his aces.



"What do you have?" the dealer asked the young lady.



"Oh, dear, just two sevens," she said, turning over the 7 6.



"You have a flush," the dealer told her.



"I do? What's a flush?"



Big Denny went berserk. "You tryin' ta slow-play me?" he asked the innocent beginner.



"Oh, I'm really trying to play as fast as I can," she assured him.



Denny decided to make a rebuy. Things were not getting off to a good start for him. As play continued, he began to realize that women were not the pushovers he expected them to be. He kept losing pots and then took a big hit in a huge pot when a woman, with nothing but pocket fours, picked off his bluff on the river.



"How could anyone call wit' dat hand?" he grumbled.



"Simple," she replied. "From your play, I identified you as an aggressive player. When you merely limped in from the button, I knew you couldn't have a middle to higher pair or big cards like A-K or A-Q. I put you on suited connectors.



When three small cards and two clubs flopped and you bet, I put you on a semibluff. When you checked the turn and bet the river after two red cards came, it seemed probable that you had missed your flush and were bluffing. I estimated I was a 5.2-1 underdog, but since I was getting 6.5-1 pot odds, I had to make a value call."



Denny's jaw dropped. "Who da hell are you, Roy Cooke's sister?"



"No, I'm his mother. I taught him how to play."



Eventually, the table broke, and Denny found his new seat. My wildest hopes were surpassed when I saw that directly across from him was … Windy Waggy! She was the name-dropping know-it-all who once stopped by his casino, promising to double his business. She camped out in his hotel for two months, made all kinds of demands, made him raise betting limits to far more than his farmer-customers could afford, directed him to build a moat in front of his establishment so that he could call it the "Bayside Card Casino," and so on. In desperation, he tried to get rid of her by proposing marriage. When she accepted, he suffered a massive heart attack, and then she finally left rather than be bothered caring for an invalid. Now, she stared at Big Denny. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" she inquired.



Denny shook his head and averted his eyes as Windy continued with her standard routine. "I rarely play in these smaller tournaments," she told the table. "I was actually planning to play in Mr. Flynt's $3,000-$6,000 stud game tonight, but he had to go out of town."



Somebody mentioned Daniel Negreanu, and Windy quickly picked up on it. "Daniel? What a sweet boy. I helped him so much with his game. You know, Steve Wynn wanted me to be the poker ambassador for his new hotel, but I am so insanely busy that I couldn't possibly spare the time, so I recommended Daniel."



Play continued, and Denny continued to go downhill, rebuying three more times. Finally, he flopped a nut flush. His opponent had only pocket deuces, but she caught runner-runner for a full house.



Forgetting his falsetto, Big Denny roared, "How'd ya like me ta sit on yer head, lady?"



Recognition struck Windy Waggy. "Dennis!" she shrieked. As her hysterical screams made the chandeliers sway, Big Denny leaped to his feet and began tottering to the exit as fast as his high-heeled shoes would allow. "I'll get ya fer dis, Maxey," were his last words as he disappeared from sight.



So, in case any of you ever decide to play in a ladies tournament at this casino and wonder why they now demand a testosterone sample, this was the reason.



Part I of this series can be found at www.CardPlayer.com.