The Weekly Screed (#911)

The poker game: A fable

By David Benjamin

“Never play cards with a man called Doc. Never eat at a place called Mom’s. Never sleep with a woman whose troubles are worse than your own.”

                                                                     — Nelson Algren

DEADWOOD — The game was so big that the man called Doc was sitting in, elbow-to-elbow with the red-faced mob boss whom everybody knew — with tongue in cheek — as Honest Don. The game was convened in the poker salon of Honest Don’s Florida clubhouse. Honest Don had upholstered the table, invited the players, stationed his bodyguards, provided the booze (although Honest Don was a famous tee-totaler), served up the hors d’oeuvres, cued the muzak and even brought the cards, every deck bearing his name printed in gold.

His friends had told Wild Bill he hadn’t oughta sit in on this one. They told him everybody who ever ventured into Honest Don’s lair came out screwed, blued and tattooed, feeling lucky to be alive. But Wild Bill wasn’t just trying to win the game. He was trying to save it from the sleight of hand, intimidation and blatant double-dealing that Honest Don had spread into every high-stakes game, every riverboat, casino and roadhouse backroom from Bar Harbor to San Pedro.

This game was big enough to draw Slats Rebozo, a sportswriter who followed the ponies and games of chance for the Gazette. Smoking a rancid cigar, the sourpuss press monkey hung back, kibitzing, scribbling and muttering.

At first, the cards fell Wild Bill’s way. He got up a few thousand. By and by, though, as it must, the tide turned. Honest Don hauled in a string of pots. Soon enough, it came clear why Bill’s luck had gone queer. He spotted Honest Don dealing from the bottom and not trying to hide it. Wild Bill called him out.

Honest Don stood up violently, shaking a fist in Wild Bill’s face. “You’re the one dealing from the bottom, you four-flushing ratfink!”

Wild Bill was dumbstruck. Honest Don had ambushed him with a favorite gambit, turning his own dirty tricks against his marks. Wild Bill stared in horror as two of Honest Don’s gunsels leveled their artillery. “Apologize, Bill. Or Seamus and Guido here’ll send you up the six-foot ladder.”

Thinking fast, Wild Bill figured an apology was getting off easy. It would keep him at the table. He said, “Sorry,” Honest Don flashed a sort of labored grin — he wasn’t a natural smiler — and the two iceman melted back. More edgy than before, the game went on.

As Wild Bill kept losing, the room filled with more and more of Honest Don’s cronies. They patted him affectionately, kissed his ring, contributed to his bets, poured his Perrier, fluffed his zabuton and offered to bear his children.

An hour later, as Doc dealt, Honest Don reached for a potato chip. An ace of diamonds fell out of his sleeve, into the bean dip. “Hey,” cried Wild Bill.

Honest Don was on his feet again. He pointed one of his exceptionally short fingers right at Bill’s nose. “You gold-grabbin’ grifter,” bellowed Honest Don. “I seen that! That ace came flyin’ right out of your crooked, cheatin‘ sleeve.”

“Who? Me? No! Wait!” exclaimed Wild Bill. He felt suddenly trapped, bewildered and close to death, as Honest Don’s fumigators again pointed their 40-cal cannons at his face.

“Ventilate the punk,” said Honest Don.

“Stop right there,” said Doc. “My game don’t allow no straight razors, gunplay or chewin‘ tobacco. You boys back off.”

Of course, no one retreated. Seamus and Guido each chambered a round. A soft chant could be heard building among Honest Don’s fan base. “Blow ’im up, blow ’im up, blow ’im up…” Finally, with a shrug to Doc, Honest Don deferred. The crowd moaned with disappointment.

Doc gave his judgment: “Now, that there extra ace is a damning piece of evidence that suggests wrongdoing by someone at this table. But gosh, where’d it come from? Sorry to say, but I ain’t sayin’ and I sure ain’t in the business of crossin’ the dude who brought me here, put me up, introduced me last night to a swell gal named Trixie, staked the game and sent out to Mom’s for sandwiches.”

Doc then deferred the matter of the truant ace to a gaming commission that did not currently exist but might be convened — subject, of course, to a vehement veto by Honest Don — at a later date.

With this, Honest Don relented once more, without a smile, and the two enforcers holstered their heaters. The game went on, nervously.

An hour later, one of Don’s molls slipped into the room. She was a slinky piece of homework in a red dress that clung like Saran wrap on a tenderloin. She had a choice caboose and ta-tas that knocked the Himalayas into a sombrero. Her name was Conchita and Bill knew her from a dime-grind palace in his Dodge City days when he and she had more troubles than either wanted to talk about. She was now, thought Bill, seeing better days. A soft gasp escaped the boys at the table as she glided in. She gave Bill a look he could feel in his thymus gland, as she slipped around behind him and leaned so close to examine his hand he could smell all five of her Chanels.

She stayed there. Wild Bill caught the looks Honest Don was sending her until, unable to contain himself, he pointed at Don and shouted, “Just one damn minute here. This frail is telegraphin‘ my deal. You know every card I got!”

Sure enough, Honest Don was on his feet again, flanked by Seamus and Guido, accusing Wild Bill of inviting Conchita into the game to swing and sway, flash her goodies and cramp his style.

Wild Bill slumped in his chair. Conchita slid past him and sashayed out of the room, planting a kiss on Don’s cheek and allowing him a quick feel under the scarlet hankie that passed for her skirt.

Foolishly, Wild Bill mustered a weak protest. “Honest Don,” he said, “you conspired with that temptress, to distract all of us, to sabotage a fair game, to flood my senses with perfume and peek at my hand, darn it!”

Honest Don grew orange with rage. “No, not me! I’m the fairest poker player there ever was. Everybody knows that,” he roared. “You’re the crooked one, not me. I didn’t collude with that tart. You did. And you’re gonna pay the price, you nickel-rat palooka! You thought I was a sucker to let you in? Well, now you’re gonna suck the big one.”

With that, Honest Don nodded almost imperceptibly. Seamus and Guido opened up on Wild Bill, blasting him into the wall and leaving nothing but a heap of bloody rags and brain tissue underneath a Swiss-cheese Stetson.

Slats Rebozo, the Gazette gossip, reeled with shock. He cried out to Honest Don. “You shot him! Why’d you do that?”

“Poor guy was losing,” said Honest Don. “He shot himself.”

“Shot himself? How can you shoot yourself two hundred times?”

“Wild Bill’s famous for his quick trigger,” said Honest Don, innocently.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” replied Slats. “Even from you.”

“You’ve never been fair to me,” said Honest Don. “The media hates me. But these guys, my people.” He waved a tiny hand. “They love me. Right, Doc?”

Doc, spattered with Wild Bill’s blood, trembling in his seat, said, “On behalf of the bunch of guys around you, Honest Don, we thank you for the opportunity and the blessing that you've given us to play in your game, cough up our chips and help you make the game of poker great again.”

“Write it up that way,” said Honest Don.

Slats, ushered back to his typewriter by Seamus and Guido, wrote it up that way.

MORAL: The only winning move is not to play.