Four of a Kind (39 page)

Alicia ignored her friend. When Crewcut said, “Call,” Alicia nearly peed herself. She might’ve, in fact, lost a few drops. She was going to double her money! In one hand!

Showdown. The dealer invited her to turn over her cards. She showed her pocket pair. The dealer said, “Four of a kind.”

A few of the players muttered approvingly.

Crewcut showed his cards. A three and four of spades. Alicia saw the rags and smiled.

The dealer said, “Straight flush wins.”

Before Alicia knew what was happening, the dealer moved the pot of chips over to Crewcut. Taking another look, she saw the horrible ugly truth. All of the communal cards were spades, except the queen of hearts, a two, five, and six.

Alicia had been blinded by her four of a kind, and didn’t notice all that black on the table.

The dealer called for the big and small blinds, or the five- and ten-dollar table antes. The next hand was already under way. The player to Alicia’s right, a fat middle-aged man in a cowboy hat, said, “Bad beat.”

The hand had taken ninety seconds to play, about as long as brushing her teeth. In that blink of an eye, Alicia had lost $500 of Bess’s money. Her legs wobbling, she managed to pull her chair away from the table, and stand up.

Bess folded her cards, and said to the dealer, “I’ll be right back.” Then the she got up, and put her arm around Alicia’s waist.

Alicia was eternally grateful to her friend for helping her walk. She said, “That proves one thing.”

“Bad luck,” said Bess. “We’ll get you more money.”

“No!” said Alicia. “I feel like I’m going to throw up! It’s too intense. Whiplash emotions and flooding hormones. I don’t have the stomach for it. Go back and play, please. Just let me get out of here.”

“What happened to Wild Heart?” asked Bess.

“Wild Heart almost went into cardiac arrest,” said Alicia, clutching her chest.

Bess frowned. “What’re you going to do?”

“Joan Rivers is performing in the theater later. I’ll check her out,” said Alicia. “I’ll have a couple of drinks—which I desperately need—and play some nickel slots. That’s my speed.”

“Are you sure?” asked Bess. “You should play at least one more hand.”

“One thousand percent sure,” said Alicia, feeling her stomach churn at the thought of losing another $500 in ninety seconds.

Bess said, “Charge the Joan Rivers ticket to the room,” and returned to the table.

Relieved, Alicia scurried out of the poker circle, and straight to the nearest bar. She downed a vodka tonic, and felt herself begin the journey out of the Twilight Zone, and back to her comfort zone.

Life lesson learned tonight: Alicia loved poker. But gambling? God as her witness, Alicia would Never. Gamble. Again.

And then there were three.

Robin noticed when Alicia fled the poker circle like a terrified bunny. Not too surprising, really. Robin never thought Alicia was a real gambler. Too nervous. Robin felt excited, but not afraid so far. She’d played four hands, and folded all of them. Too impulsive in real life, Robin was determined not to “tilt” or “steam,” poker terms for betting by emotion. On the other hand (as it were), she didn’t want to be “supertight,” or a “nit” either, meaning playing very few hands.

The button had gone all the way around the table before Robin called her first bet. She had two hearts in the pocket. Inspired by Carla’s speech earlier that day (was it really the same day?), Robin promised herself to go for it on a flush or straight draw.

The flop: five and ace of hearts. Robin’s eyes widened. Only one more heart for an ace high flush. She bet $20, and was reraised another $20. She called, amazed by how quickly a high pile of chips could turn into a short stack.

The turn: ten of clubs. No help. The bet went around the table, and Robin was forced to add another $40 to the pot. At this point, she had nothing. Not even a pair. If the river card wasn’t a heart, she’d have to fold—or bluff her way into the pot.

The dealer knocked the table and turned the river card: a freaking diamond. That flash of color made the Red Queen’s heart jump, but alas, her flush was not to be.

The bet was to her, another $40. She examined the communal cards. No pairs on board. No straight or flush possibilities. The aggressive bettor—a bald fifty-year-old with thick glasses and a leisure suit, a tourist from Florida?—could have a pocket ace. Robin had junk; anything would beat her.

This was it. To fold or bluff. She decided (impulsively) to go in, over the top. She bet $100.

Incredibly, Florida called.
Shit!
she thought. The dealer asked to see her cards.

“Ace high,” he said.

Florida turned over his cards. The dealer said, “Pair of deuces.”

In the pocket. He beat her with a pathetic pair of deuces. And now she was down nearly $200.

The men around the table snickered at her. Okay, yes, she was a bad bluffer. She screwed up. The smart play would’ve been to cut her losses and fold.

Smiling, Robin thought,
Now I’ve got them just where I want them. They think I’m a bluffer. They’ll raise me all night long
.

Several hands later, Robin decided to call on a pocket pair of eights. Those middle pairs were tough. Easy to beat, or a surprise winner. She reminded herself she’d lost already to a pair of deuces. Eights were better than that.

Florida came on strong, betting $60 pre-flop. Clearly, he also had a pair, but of what? Deuces again? Everyone else folded, but the Red Queen smelled a bluff, and decided to call.

The flop: jack of spades, four of hearts, a six of clubs. No help for
Robin. A lowly jack was the high card on the board. Unless he had a higher pair in the pocket, or a jack, she was on top.

The turn: another jack. The pair on the board—the two jacks—was a major danger, even though she had two pair. He could have three of a kind or a better set of two pair.

Robin decided to check, to lull Florida into a false sense of security, only to spring her guns on him when he was already pot committed. He checked, too.

The river: king of spades. No help for the Red Queen. Bet to Florida, he mulled and mulled. Took his sweet mofo time. Every second that ticked by, Robin felt her blood pressure rise. What was he thinking about? Whether she had anything? If he had a king in the pocket, he’d’ve bet big immediately. If he had a jack, he’d’ve bet after the turn. So what was the friggin’ holdup?

He’s got shit
, she decided.
He’s trying to decide if I’ve got shit. If he thinks I’m bluffing, he’ll bet big to force me to fold because he knows I don’t want a showdown with crap again. Act like you’ve got nothing! Make him come in over the top
.

How exactly did one do that? Robin pretended to be overcome with nerves. She breathed rapidly, and played with her stack.

Florida saw her fidget, and smiled slyly. He said, “One hundred.”

“Raise,” said Robin way too quickly.

“All in,” he said, even faster.

Now Robin wondered if he’d lulled
her
into the pot with a false sense of security. She’d been playing for only a half an hour, and stood to lose all her money on an iffy two pair.

“Fold,” she said.

Florida turned over his cards. He had zippo, zilch, a ten and a nine. Her eights beat him by a mile. She’d been bluffed out of half her money by a bald goober.

Robin’s stack was down to a dozen chips. Frustrated, she steamed into the pot with a pair of pocket fives, and lost the rest of her money at blinding speed.

When she stood up to leave, none of the men at the table said good-bye. Her chips were gone, therefore, she didn’t exist. Poker was dehumanizing. It turned a person into a pile.

She said, “Thank you,” to the dealer.

Florida said, “You’re welcome,” fingering his (formerly her) chips.

Shithead
, she thought. Robin fumed out of the poker circle, bound for a casino exit to smoke, or a bar, whichever came first.

Alicia saw Robin coming. The brunette said, “You lasted a lot longer than I did.”

“I didn’t win a single hand! I was impulsive and emotional,” said Robin. “I played like an insecure little girl.”

“I played like a jittery mouse,” said Alicia.

They sat in silence, both of them ruminating on the “you are how you play” notion.

“Illusions? Officially shattered,” said Robin. “To tell you the truth, I’m relieved it’s over. I’m completely frazzled.”

“Have a drink,” said Alicia. “It helps.”

And then there were two.

Carla was in a rhythm. She folded low percentage hands and called all pre-flop pairs, straight draws, flush draws, and face cards with a kicker of ten or higher. After the flop, she folded any hand that didn’t have a pair of eights or higher, or twelve “outs” or chances of hitting a straight or flush. She raised after the turn with a high pair, two pairs, three of a kind, or a straight or flush draw with at least eight “outs.” She raised or called after the river with three of a kind, pair of kings or aces, a full house, flush, or straight. Otherwise, she folded. These rules had been ground into her head while playing on the computer and with her friends. And she was winning. A lot. Carla’s system was a success.

What she came to realize about real poker play: it was a grind. She followed her rules, calculated outs and odds. The universe collapsed
into the size of the table. The intensity of studying limited information and projecting a variety of potential outcomes took her back to medical school. The mental process of diagnosing a disease was pretty similar to placing a bet. Going by what you could see, the doctor (or player) then followed the protocol (or rules). Previous research and experience helped improve her cure (or win) percentages. Poker was a system. Carla was a scientist. Her skill at keeping emotions in check made her an excellent diagnostician—and an efficient poker player. Unlike her patients’ parents, who expected and wanted Carla to be emotive and sympathetic, the gamblers expected her to be stonefaced as the Sphinx, and ruthless. At the table, Carla was spared the pressure to express herself.

But the play was too mechanical. She felt like a machine. Of course, it was satisfying to win. But beating a table full of strangers—no celebration allowed—was joyless (although preferable, naturally, to losing). She missed the “Come to Mama” moments of exhilaration when playing with her friends. With real money, she took calculated risks, but not wild ones. Real poker wasn’t as fun as she thought it would be.

But it was absorbing. Dozens of hands went by in a flash. Players came and went from her table. The dealer changed many times. Alicia and Robin signaled to her from outside the circle to ask if she wanted to take a break and see Joan Rivers’s one-woman show. She waved them off. They left. She took a bathroom break or two. Drank a couple of coffees brought to her by servers. Alicia and Robin appeared again. Carla stretched her legs, left her chips on the table, and talked to them outside the circle for five minutes.

“Joan was great,” said Alicia.

“She’s still got it,” said Robin. “But if I hear another joke about geriatric vaginas this year, it’ll be too soon. We’re going to the casino floor to play the ladylike sucker game of roulette. Wanna come?”

“I’m going to stick around for a few more hands,” said Carla.

“It’s midnight, you realize,” said Robin.

Carla was shocked to hear it. “I’ve been playing poker for five hours?”

“The chair has formed a permanent impression of your ass,” said Robin.

“I lasted less than two minutes,” said Alicia.

“Maybe I do need a break,” said Carla, rubbing her (now that she thought of it) numb rear end. “Just give me a minute to get my chips.”

She returned to the table and said she was done.

“Would you like me to change your chips?” asked the dealer.

“Er, sure,” she said, realizing her piles were too high to carry away. She pushed them forward toward her tenth dealer of the night. With dizzying speed, he counted her chips into hundreds. Then thousands. Carla’s jaw dropped as the total rose higher and higher.

“Changing five thousand six hundred and forty,” the dealer announced. A manager with a computerized clipboard came over to double check the count, and officiate over the transfer to Carla of eleven $500 chips, one $100 chip, and two $20 chips.