Pita, Pita, the Dealer Eater

I am fairly tolerant of dealers - except for, of course, the ones who chew gum, talk too much, point at me and impatiently tap the table when it's my turn to act, watch the basketball game on television instead of the table, and give me dirty looks when I tip only a quarter.

Not every player is as pleasant as I am, and some are downright nasty. But the worst I've ever seen is a guy named Salvatore Esposita, known by one and all as Pita, Pita, the dealer eater. I first met Sal at Ralph the Rattler's home game. He was so paranoid that when it was his turn to deal and he lost a pot, he would hurl curses at himself. If he dealt himself a really bad beat, he sometimes stuck a fork in his arm.

In casinos, he despised all dealers, no matter their sex, appearance, or how competent or congenial they were. If he lost, it was their fault. If he won, it was due to his skill. His vocabulary consisted entirely of four-letter, 10-letter, and 12-letter epithets. He threw cards and regretted that there weren't ashtrays around anymore to hurl.

Once, I talked to Sal and tried to change his attitude. He explained that animosity overtook him only at the table, and he was quite friendly with dealers in social situations. "I even had a dealer for dinner at my house once," he said.

"Really? How was it?"

"Well, he was a bit tough, but he went well with fava beans and a nice Chianti," Sal recalled, sucking in his breath.

One day I noticed a group of dealers huddled in a corner and asked what they were doing. "We're drawing straws to see who gets to kill Pita," they told me.

I was shocked. Not surprised, you understand, just shocked. "That's awful," I said. "Even if the dealer who does the job doesn't get caught, that terrible deed will be on his conscience the rest of his life."

The dealers laughed. "It would be an honor," they said. "We all wanted to bump him off, so we had to draw straws to be fair."

Alarmed at the thought of bloodshed, even that of Sal's, I alerted him to what was happening. "Oh, so we're goin' to the mattresses, are we? That's OK, 'cause I got more boys than they do. Let's see, I'll call Vince Burgio … and Paul Vinci … and Max Pescatori. … and Iceberg Sitra. Oh, yeah, and Al Barbieri. I been stakin' him, an' he owes me a lotta make-up."

"Al Barbieri? Are you crazy? You can't trust Al. If the dealers paid him enough money, he'd blow you away himself."

"Yeah, maybe you're right. Well, you got any better ideas, Max?"

"Yes, I do," I said firmly. "You simply have to make peace with dealers and start treating them like human beings."

"I would, if any of them was human."

"Now stop that, Sal. Your attitude is bad for you as well as dealers."

"Yeah, so who's gonna make me change - you?"

"No, you won't listen to me. But maybe you should talk to a professional counselor. Why don't you make an appointment with Dr. Wolfgang Krock, the eminent poker psychologist?"

"Me? See a shrink? No self-respecting Italian guy would ever do somethin' like that."

"Oh, yeah? How about that mob boss on The Sopranos? He's always talking to one."

I wasn't making much headway with Pita until there was a sudden shout from the huddled dealers. "Oh, boy, I got the short straw. Will tonight be soon enough?"

Pita turned pale. "Well, I guess if Tony Soprano can talk to a shrink, I can, too. Where do I find this guy?"

I gave Sal his address and phone number, and he made an appointment for that night. Getting to see Krock on such short notice was no problem. He was so hard up for business that he even made house calls, bringing his own couch. Since it was Wednesday, it was also discount night, with 20 percent off. Still, Sal was having second thoughts when he arrived. And he wasn't reassured when he saw the sign above Krock's desk that read, "Payment in Advance."

Krock welcomed him and ushered him into his studio. "Please lie down on der couch, Mr. Esposita," he said.

Sal froze. "You tryin' to get fresh with me, buster?"

Krock assured him it was standard procedure, simply a way to get a patient to relax. Eventually, Sal agreed to lie down, but only after Krock pushed his chair back a few feet.

"I understand you have a problem mit der vershtunkaner dealers," Krock began. "Zo, let's start from der beginning. Tell me vot your childhood was like, Mr. Esposita."

"Oh, the usual stuff," Sal replied, describing how he filched candy bars from stores, stole hubcaps, and started smoking when he was 6. "Normal for any kid from Brooklyn."

"It doesn't zound like you ver der good little boy," Krock remarked.

"Sure I was," Sal replied defensively. "I even helped my uncle in his business."

"Und vot business vas dat?"

"Uncle Mario was in the numbers racket. I sold numbers to kids at school."

Krock shook his head and moved his chair back another foot. "Und vot ver your teachers in school like?"

"Teachers? I hated 'em. Always makin' you do things you didn't want to do, makin' you stand in a corner if you said a bad word, rappin' your knuckles with a ruler just because you gave them the finger. And they weren't as smart as they thought. They didn't know nothin', and everything they did and said was wrong," he yelled, working himself into a rage.

"Ya, ya," Krock said, nodding his head. "I think maybe somewhere we are getting now. You hated der teachers because dey controlled you, und now you hate der dealers because dey control der cards."

"I wouldn't hate them if they dealt the cards right," Sal argued.

"Max told me vunce you hit der jackpot. Didn't der dealer deal der cards right dot time?"

"Are you kiddin'? The s.o.b. dealt me the small end of the jackpot."

Krock threw up his arms. "It's no use, Mr. Esposita. Der common sense I can't talk to you, so I vill haf to do something more drastic." He began scribbling on a pad.

Sal glanced at it. "What the hell ya doin', doc, writin' a prescription for tranquilizers or somethin'?"

"You vill not get off dot easy. Der only vay you vill be able to control yourself vould be if you got to see vot dealers haf to go through every day dealing mit der shtunks like you. So, I am writing der court order sending you to der dealers school."

When I ran into Sal the next day, he was in the foulest mood I have ever seen him in. He showed me the court order, yelled that it was all my fault, and demanded to know what he should do.

"Oh, it'll be fine, Sal," I smiled. "Just one piece of advice, though."

"Which is?"

"When they serve you lunch at the dealers school, don't eat it."