Turning Out, Dropping In, Tuning Out

Curly didn't like to think too much about the start of his professional poker-playing career, because that part of his life contained other emotionally charged, painful memories. Since that was also the start of learning about thieves and their methods, sometimes when he adopted his Superplayer guise, he recalled those early days.

He had briefly flirted with a career as Superthief, trying to rationalize it as stealing from those who were going to lose anyway, to give to the poor – namely, himself. No matter what these suckers did, they were to lose all their money. Why let some other sucker get it? Where was the difference in skill between sleight of hand and psychological and mathematical prowess?

It was a facile argument, one thieves through the ages had used to justify their ways to themselves and their comrades.

Mexican Manny, the best bottoms dealer in the Bay Area, had recognized Curly's talents as a player, and confided in the kid the derivation of his own skills. After the 2 a.m. cash-out one night, Manny had offered to take Curly to breakfast at a 24-hour joint on El Camino Real, The Royal Road, which dated back to the time when California belonged to Mexico. It was the one that readers of radio commericals insisted on calling "The El Camino," a redundancy that offended Curly's classically educated ears. The road that now traversed the length of the state had schizoid existence. When it skirted a town, it did so as SR 101, while its doppelganger ran through the town, hitting all the lights as 101 Alternate, aka 101 Business, marked at regular intervals by a large green mission bell that hung from a 7-foot-tall pole that resembled a shepherd's crook. Or at least the intervals were regular where the bell had not been removed by vandals.

The psychedelic era had not yet reached the point at which businessmen wore their hair fashionably long, nor were people with long hair more likely to be murderers than hippies. Straight hair was in. Young men tried to look like the Byrds, with their pageboy cuts. A forward-thinking group like the Grateful Dead might have its Pigpen, who looked like his northernmost parts were being attacked by a giant Brillo pad, but curly-headed youths for the most part kept it short or had it straightened. Not Curly, whose hair would have reached beyond the middle of his back if it had been straight. He wore steel-rimmed granny glasses that turned nearly black in the sun, and even in the relatively subdued light of a cardroom partially hid his eyes. His fingers held seven rings, all jade, opal, and ornately carved antique silver. Jeans, a Dr. Strange tee shirt, and moccasins constituted his favorite outfit. People thought him a little, well, weird, but they liked playing cards with him, because he played his favorite game, no-limit draw poker, with creativity and flair, won with grace, and never berated those who drew out on him.

Mexican Manny ordered steak and eggs, while his guest got a mushroom-and-cheese omelet. Curly tried not to frown as Manny first salted his scrambled eggs till they looked like the foothills after the first light dusting of late-fall snow, and peppered them so they resembled the muddy slush that would come after the passage on Highway 50 of many vehicles, and then with ketchup turned the steak into the carnage that might result from a skid upon such a crowd. Shrugging, Curly pushed the belabored simile under the table, and applied to his rye toast the single dose of grape jelly grudgingly dispensed by the thickening waitress.

"Kid, you play good. You bust your butt to create a wild image, and then when they finally get the nerve to call one of your huge bets, you show them the nuts. But all it takes is one lucky draw, and the dummy beats you out of a whole night's profits. I knew when you bet that hundred tonight against R.C. that you had trip aces, and he was gonna call with anything better than a pair of kings. Tough luck that he started with two little pair, and hit the 12-to-1 shot. Lucky for you that you caught him bluffing a couple of hands later for a hundred and a half, or you'd have been a big loser."

"That's OK. It all evens out in the long run."

"Sure, but what about the short run, when they keep makin' them lucky draws? Now, you notice I don't make much fuss, but I keep winnin' night after night. They don't draw out on me much, but I draw out on them."

"Right, and mostly on your deal."

"Well, I knew you were pretty sharp. But you're the only one that's noticed. Whadaya make outta the game? I haven't lost in 38 sessions, and I average 50 a night."

"Most I ever won in a row was 22, and I didn't average that much."

"Uh-huh, and you were lucky. Listen, kid, lemme show you a couple things. The way you play, and the way you look, no one'd ever suspect you of nothin'. You can still pretend to play crazy like you do now, but you'll make a few of them hands right when it counts."

"Right, and give you half."

"Only if you wanted, and then only when you also got half of mine. And I know I make more than twice what you do, and I ain't half the player you are."

So, after breakfast, Curly went to Manny's place, where he was shown how Manny peeked the bottom card on his deal. If the card matched one in his hand, he stayed for all the action, drew three cards and made trips, or sometimes one and made a straight, flush, or full house.

"You know that guy with the toupee who plays over at the lowball joint?"

"The one that always says, 'It's a good thing my girlfriend works, or I couldn't afford to play cards'? Yeah, I know him. I can't see how they let him play. I've seen him walk around the floor, practically stand on his head to see somebody's hand in a game, and then signal somebody I guess is his partner at that table."

"That's him. He don't get barred because he's got juice down with the floorman. He's a b-dealer, too. He deals wooden bottoms, though. I'm amazed nobody's ever made him. Look at him dealin' sometime. Each card comes off the top of the deck, you see the card slide to the right, but when he comes from the cellar, suddenly the top card don't move. Wooden bottoms. Now, watch me. See, the cards comin' off to my right. Now, here, from the bottom, notice how at the same time I push the top card slightly to the right with my thumb and back again. It's an optical illusion, makes it look like the card's comin' off the top. If you're lookin' for it, you can't see nothin'. And you can't see my bottom peek even if you're sittin' right next to me, 'cause I do it right when I'm squarin' the deck in both hands after the cut."

"Yeah, looks good."

"Ever hit a brief?"

"Can't say's I have. What's that?"

"When someone carries a slug while shufflin', he wants the deck cut a certain way, so the cards end up where he wants, so he can just deal normal. He don't have to deal bottoms. So, he shuffles in a brief. Look at that deck. See the little edge at the end?"

"Yeah."

"Could you cut to it?"

"Maybe."

"I'll teach you how. That's a sixteenth of an inch. Pretty big brief. A good cutter can hit a thirty-second every time. If he don't have nobody cuttin' for him, a guy has to hope the dummy hits the brief. That happens a lot, but when it don't, he has to hop the cut, like this."

"That's pretty good. I wouldn't have seen it if I hadn't known you were going to do it."

"True, but it's risky. Better to have someone cuttin' for you. Here's how to do it. Whichever hand you cut with, don't just pick up half the deck and set it down next to the bottom half. Curl your middle, ring, and little finger against your palm. Now, press them down on top of the deck. Press your index finger against the front of the deck. You can feel that brief."

"OK."

"Now, keep the deck caputured with those three fingers. Lift up the front of the deck with your index finger. It'll come apart right at the brief. At the same time, lift up the back with your thumb. When you've got control of the half you're pickin' up, lighten up on the pressure with those three fingers, so it all comes up smoothly."

"Uh-huh. Got it."

"Perfect. You hit right at the brief. Now, tomorrow night you won't be doin' any cuttin'. But it's a good thing to know until you learn some harder stuff."

"Hey, I'm not sure I want to do this."

"Well, look, think about it. Just don't blow the whistle, OK?"

"No matter what I decide, just show me a few more tricks, and I'll stay cool. And thanks for breakfast."

The next night, Curly paid close attention whenever Mexican Manny dealt. He didn't look directly at the guy, but used his peripheral vision and observed the situations. Often Manny called in a spot in which a player with the conservative image he had would not have stayed, such as when he was holding just one pair. He'd draw three cards, and, sure enough, make three of a kind in those crucial spots. Manny was smart enough not to get tied to an obvious loser. If it seemed likely that one or more of his opponents had made a complete hand, Manny would dump trips.

While playing, Curly worked on reinforcing in R.C.'s mind that whenever he bet his stack, he was bluffing. Having a couple of tells on the guy, he could make the wild plays when he knew R.C. wouldn't call. Curly never showed a hand when he wasn't called, so he contrived to show the bluffs in other ways. Once when he knew R.C. had drawn to and missed a flush, another player was all in for $2. Curly bet all of his remaining $200 to win the $50 side pot, knowing that R.C. could not call with a busted flush, and even with a high pair, he would reason that he would see the hand anyway because Curly would have to show it to the guy who had run out of chips. Curly showed his own snow, and the short player dragged six bucks plus the antes while Curly profited considerably more off the side pot.

On the next hand, R.C. overblinded the pot. The winner of the previous pot had left a $1 chip in the pot, this being a winner-blind game, making it a $2 minimum bet. R.C. put in two bucks, now making it $4 to go and giving him last action before the draw.

Curly opened for $4.

Everyone else folded, including the winner blind.

Now, it was R.C.'s turn. He raised $20.

Curly immediately raised back $50.

Mexican Manny smiled. He knew that Curly had the nuts this hand. Indeed, Curly had been dealt a pat full house.

R.C. drew one card. Curly put him on two pair, and he liked his hand even more. He was not likely to get drawn out on.

Curly stood pat.

R.C. checked.

Just as he had done a moment ago, Curly pushed out all of his chips, another $180. R.C. smiled. "Call your ass." He shoved in the rest of his chips, over a hundred and a half.

Curly opened up his hand prior to laying it faceup on the table. The other players were watching the pot, and didn't see his cards, but Manny saw the three tens and two kings. Just before Curly had a chance to show his cards, R.C. spread his own hand, three jacks and two kings.

Ohmigosh. He started with kings and jacks. I had two of the cards he needed. The guy next to me had one jack. There was only one card in the deck he could hit to fill up, and he got it.

Boy, that was enough to tick off the Easter Bunny. Curly got up to get some fresh air. He heard footsteps behind him as he crossed the parking lot in the cool night air.

"Tough beat, kid."

"Hi, Manny. Well, you know, that's the breaks. At least he left me 30 bucks."

"You'll never get even off that. Listen, guy's in our game puttin' juice on the deck. He's real good. Stuff's real hard to see. Puts a little scratch on the ends of certain cards. He's doin' eights and nines right now, but he'll switch to some other numbers when a new deck comes in, so no one catches on. When he sees one of his cards on top of the deck, he deals a second until he wants to put that card out. You're gonna get the hands for the rest of the night. He don't get nothin' from it. Just a favor to me. Gotta get back before anyone thinks we're together." Mexican Manny strode rapidly to the rear door of the club before Curly could reply.

Curly walked around some more, thinking, then returned.

Peter the Postman had left the game, his place taken by a weasel-faced stranger Curly had never seen before. Must be the new guy. It was the guy's deal just as Curly sat down.

R.C. was under the gun, and opened for $2.

Curly looked at his cards, and tried not to smile. Three eights and two nines. He raised $10.

Everyone but R.C. folded. R.C. called, and drew one card.

Curly stood pat.

R.C. checked.

Curly bet the rest of his chips, another $18.

R.C. called.

Curly turned over his full house.

R.C. showed his two pair, aces up. "Take it."

Now, Curly was up to $60.

Manny never let on that he knew the new player, but someone else addressed him as Joe. Everytime Joe dealt, Curly started with at least two pair, eights and nines. If he drew one to the hand, he invariabley filled up. If he drew two to three nines, he either caught a pair of eights for a full house or made four nines. Someone said he was catching lots of big hands. Someone else said that he seemed to be having lots of eights and nines.

"Yeah, those are my lucky numbers today." OK, Joe, time to switch numbers. Curly couldn't be the one to ask for a new deck. Manny and Joe wouldn't risk asking, either, and none of the players seemed interested in a new deck.

Curly had recovered from the earlier disaster. He had built his stack up to close to $300.

On Joe's next deal, R.C. opened for the minimum.

Curly picked up his cards. Three nines. He raised $20.

The others folded, and R.C. raised back $40.

Curly called.

R.C. was first. "No cards."

"Gimme two." Curly picked up the cards. No surprise. A 9 and an 8. Joe was ensuring that Curly would make his hand. Four nines. That was going to beat just about any pat hand R.C. could come up with.

R.C. bet $20. He often underbet after the draw, sometimes getting himself into trouble. While a small bet after the draw might coax an aggressive player into raising, thereby allowing R.C. to make a bundle when he caught the player bluffing, a large raise could also mean a big hand, and cost him a bunch. Well, Curly would give him what he wanted.

"Raise." Curly put in all but $20 of his chips.

"Put them all in."

Uh-oh. That didn't sound so good. Curly called R.C.'s raise with his remaining chips.

R.C. triumphantly spread a seven-high straight flush.

Fortunately, nobody asked to see the losing hand, because Curly did not feel inclined to show another mittful of Oldsmobile numbers. Curly smiled and ditched his cards. "Nice hand, R.C. Take the money. Chips!" Curly waved two mallards overhead, and the floorman replaced them with two stacks of $5 chips.

Manny looked as if he had been stricken with a sudden attack of gastritis. Joe merely looked pained, which was not much change from his ordinary expression.

Smitty was the superstitious one at the table. "Too many big hands coming out, and I'm not getting any of them. Let's have a deck change."

The floorman came over with a new paper deck, and retired the old one. One of the players gave him a dollar. The next pot that had more than $2 in it would pay for the deck. Everyone would understand when the player who had put up the dollar for the deck took a chip out of the next such pot. Curly was not sorry to see the deck go.

He had had a powerful hand go down to what the thieves call a drop-in, a bigger hand that accidentally gets in the way of a dishonestly produced big hand. Unless a thief put out five aces every time, he had to take a chance on a drop-in. Even a royal flush was no guaranteed winner: It could tie. And five aces always appearing on one player's deal would look mighty suspicious.

Curly glanced at Manny, who was doing something strange. He kept spreading both hands across his cheeks, as if in consternation, and then laying his hands on the table, one with all five fingers outstretched, the other with two. Oh, sure, tens and sevens now.

On Joe's next deal, Curly started with two pair, tens and sevens, drew one card, and filled up. That was worth $40.

Tens and sevens, every time Joe dealt – always at least three of a kind at the showdown. After several rounds, Curly approached being even.

It was 2 o'clock, and the last hand of the night, dealt by Joe. Curly had four tens.

R.C. opened.

Curly raised $20.

R.C. raised back $40.

If this had been a hack novel, alarm bells would be going off in Curly's head. Hadn't he been on this ride before? R.C. had been doing well, and had more than enough chips to cover Curly's $400. "Call."

R.C. stood pat.

Curly drew one. Why? Can't improve. Just want to see if it's a 7. Yep, that's what it is.

R.C. bet his usual $20.

Curly couldn't back off the hand now. How many times could R.C. be dealt a pat straight flush? Or, how about a better four of a kind? He hasn't had that yet. "Raise it." He put in another hundred.

R.C. set his cards down, and placed a chip on them for protection. He spread both hands behind his mounds of chips, bulldozer fashion, as if preparing to push them all in, all the while staring at Curly, who sat there grinning back at him like an idiot.

Damn. He's got another one. That's what I get for trying to be a crook – instant punishment.

R.C. inched the chips forward a fraction of an inch, stopped, and again slid them the same distance. They still had a long way to go before reaching the pot. R.C. was enjoying the role of cat, toying with his victim.

"You got it this time, don't you, Curly? I think you were bluffing me that last time, but this time you got the hand."

Curly did not remind his taunter that he had called his last $20 when R.C. had raised him all in, and thus could not have been bluffing.

"Well, I got a nice little win here and I'm not going busted on the last pot of the night with a hand I shouldn't even be in the pot with." R.C. turned over two small pair, fours and deuces. "Take it. I give up. Let's see whatcha had."

Curly closed his eyes for a moment in relief, and picked up the deck, inserting his cards into the middle. On the last hand of the night, it was customary for the winner of the hand to take the cards with him to the cage when he cashed out.

Joe spoke for the first time that evening. "Hey, kid, betcha buck I can tear that deck in half."

Curly handed him the cards. "You're on."

Joe held the cards such that they angled back, with the bottom card forming a leading edge. It was an old magician's trick. He tore the deck in half, and dumped the cards in the trash.

Curly gave him a chip. Of course. Destroy the evidence in case the management examines the cards.

Curly had parked at the far end of the lot. Manny walked over as Curly was opening the door to his 10-year-old clunker.

"Ya wanna have some breakfast? My treat, since I won more than you did."

Curly stopped, his hand resting on the roof of the car. He didn't say anything for several minutes. He wondered how he could ever have thought that it was a matter of prestige to be regarded as having been "turned out by Mexican Manny." The thieves would respect him, or at least his prowess. But did he want all of the thieves regarding him as one of them? And if all of them knew it, mightn't others find out, too? Was that the reputation he wanted? He won enough by playing on the square – maybe not as much or as regularly as Manny, but enough for his needs. And when he built up his bankroll, he could play higher, and win more.

"Manny, I will try not to ever sit in the same game with you, but sometimes I'll have no choice. When I do, I don't want you to do anything. I'm not going to do business with you or anyone else, ever. And I'm not going to be seen in public with you, either."

He sat down, closed the door, started the car, and drove off, leaving Manny standing alone in the darkness.