My Tip of the Day

I had just completed two straight months of grueling poker tournament write-ups at two L.A.-area casinos. At The Bicycle Casino, the events went straight through, and often didn't end until well after breakfast. At Commerce Casino, depending on the number of players, sometimes they played through, sometimes they played two days, and then there was a 3:30 a.m. cutoff time, so I was never sure from day to day when I was supposed to be on hand for the final table. On four occasions, two final tables were in action at the same time, and running back and forth between the two of them, frantically taking notes, was the only exercise I ever got. Then there was the tag-team event at Commerce, where I had to keep track of 20 players, to say nothing of the final day's televised World Poker Tour championship event, where I was jammed on a rickety, swaying press-section platform, blinded by revolving spotlights, and deafened by noisy spectators who jumped up on every key hand, effectively blocking my view of the TV monitor.



Anyway, I was totally exhausted by the time the last card had been dealt, so I decided to take a run up to the Barstow Card Casino for a little break. When I saw Big Denny, I told him my tales of woe.



"Ya poor little kid," the big ape sneered. "Come put yer head on Big Denny's shoulder an' I'll pat it for ya."



Getting sympathy from Big Denny was harder than getting back money that you loaned to a railbird.



"Tell ya what, Maxey. We got a big Omaha game goin' in da backroom. Why don'tcha sit in? Dat'll relax ya."



"In the first place, I have no intention of playing in your crooked games. In the second place, I'm a little short of cash."



"How come, Maxey? Ya never spends any."



"Well, when I do write-ups, I depend a lot on tokes from players who cash out, and the tokes have been drying up lately."



"How come? Ya been makin' a lot of mistakes again?"



"No more than usual. The problem is that the fields are so big now. Not only does that mean longer hours for me, but many of the players making it to the top spots now are new to poker. They don't know what I do or that I don't share in the toke pool."



"Dat's a shame, Maxey. Why don'tcha just grab a few chips when dey gets paid off? Da prize pools is so big now, dey won't miss it."



"Afraid not, Denny. The casinos I write for operate a little differently than the Barstow Card Casino does."



"OK, so how's about writin' what good players and gentlemen dey are if dey tokes ya good, an' what bums dey are an' how bad dey play if dey stiffs ya?"



"I would never compromise my editorial integrity, Denny," I said righteously, making a mental note of the suggestion.

Denny kept trying to come up with ideas. "Hey, why don't ya just put out a toke jar?"



Oh, yeah, I thought, toke jars. They're all over casinos now. They're on tournament desks, in cashier windows, at valet ticket booths, near gift shop cash registers, on snack bar counters, next to restroom attendants, on shoeshine stands, in beauty shops, and even at security guard stations. I once saw an ambulance drive up to take away a customer who had suffered a heart attack after a bad beat, and there was a toke jar on the gurney. But the one time I tried putting one out, I was warned that it was against regulations. Anyway, all I ever found in it were a couple of discarded chewing gum wrappers.



"Afraid that won't work, either," I said.



"Well, why don't ya ask some of yer friends who know about tippin' ta spread da word around?"



"Oh, some of the good guys, like David Levi and Kenna James, already do that for me. And Raymond Davis used to be my kindest helper and biggest supporter, but then he stopped."



"How come?"



"I wouldn't pay him 50 percent commission."



"Well, Maxey, why not just write somet'in in yer column, askin' people ta tip ya?"



"I could never do that, Denny. I've got more class than that."



The conversation was getting depressing. How humiliating for an award-winning journalist like me to have to grovel for tips. I was beginning to feel like those deaf mutes who sometimes walk into restaurants and hand out cards asking for money – or those Vegas maitre d's who walk around with their hands behind their backs, palms up. Sure, hand me a $100 chip and I'll try not to spell your name wrong.



Then Denny came up with one final idea. "Tell ya what, Maxey. Ya try ta write somet'in nice about me fer a change, and den ya kin say in yer column dat if people don't tip ya good, Big Denny will come after dem an' sit on dere head."



I shuddered. What a trade-off. Oh well, desperate men do desperate things, so here goes. Don't believe everything I've written about Big Denny. He's really a cultured, refined, caring gentleman who runs a truly classy card casino. And if you stiff me in a tournament, he'll pay you a visit and perch his posterior on your proboscis.

The preceding is a paid advertisement from Max Shapiro and does not necessarily reflect the opinion of Card Player.