All In

A novel

By Glenn Donovan

Chapter 1

So this is my life, Jerry thought to himself.  It was three am on Sunday morning and he was in an alley next to a bodega in Hells Kitchen, New York.  It seemed that the owner of the bodega had just snapped and assaulted a transvestite hooker named Pita who had been caught stealing beer out of his cooler.  Pita, well known in the neighborhood, had earned the name by tucking his genitals between his legs so he looked like he didn’t have a dick.  He called it “putting his penis in his pocket” – hence the nickname.

The bodega owner was speaking high speed Spanish with Jerry’s partner, Luis.  He was a good young detective, but a little too friendly with his fellow Hispanics in Jerry’s view.  The owner’s story was that Pita had attacked him when confronted about the stolen beer and that he’d reacted in self defense. The problem was that Herman, the owner, didn’t have a mark on his body but Pita had been beaten half to death with a baseball bat.  It was going to be assault with a deadly weapon but Herman didn’t know that yet.

Pita was already on the bus to the hospital and EMS had not been encouraging.  He’d suffered serious head trauma and often this kind of injury ended badly.  To bad for Pita, Jerry thought, as he flicked the cigarette he’d just finished into the night.  He watched as its glowing ember traced an arc against dark recesses of the alley to which he’d retreated.  Sighing, he returned to the fracas that he was, in theory, responsible for sorting out.

He got Luis’s attention and motioned him over.  They hadn’t taken the owner into custody yet, which was not a bad idea.  If they could coax him to calmly come down to the station, he could be taken into custody there with no risk of a ruckus.  Currently surrounded by about fifty neighbors and family members of the bodega owner, Jerry believed the risk of a ruckus to be quite high right now.  The Ricans are pretty fucking tight, Jerry thought to himself.  He figured there would be no eyewitnesses from this crowd.  They took care of their own and Jerry respected this. He tried to imagine his neighbors in Astoria standing up for him in this or any way.  Hell, he only knew one of them by name.

Jerry asked, “Ok, so what’s his side of it?”  Apparently Herman’s night had been pretty bad all the way around. Earlier, he’d been “rushed” by a gang of kids.  A “rush” is when of a group of ten or more kids all rush into a store at the same time, grab as much as they can and then run like hell.  It’s impossible to defend from and to catch, or even identify, the kids because of the chaotic speed of the maneuver.  It was the latest fad crime for youth and an increasingly regular occurrence for Herman.  It was after this indignity had been visited upon him that he’d then had the pleasure of Pita’s patronage.  Jerry knew Pita, a crack-head/prostitute, who could be a real piece of work.  He was stealing some beer, tried to take off and, unfortunately, Herman had gotten a little carried away with the bat.  It happened.

Right now, Herman’s wife was screaming at him, something about him being an asshole, with a liberal dose of other insults that Jerry only half understood.  It was a mix of English and Spanish that he often heard in the city.  He could understand some of this ‘spanglish’ if he tried, but now that he had a bilingual partner, he didn’t even try.  Man, it had to suck to be Herman on this night, he thought to himself

“Ok Luis,” Jerry said, “let’s take him to the station.”

“Herman, porfavor, vamos a el estacione?” Luis asked Herman, doing his best impersonation of being casual.

Herman eyed Jerry and then Luis. Suspiciously, asking “Porque?”

Luis responded, “Para mas preguntas.”

Jerry listened to this exchange, Luis was keeping things cool.  Just more questions, Herman, no big deal, Herman.  Just come for a ride with us.  Everything’s going to be fine, just come with us.

Herman nodded, “Si, voy contigo.”  He nodded goodbye to his wife and got into the back of the car as Jerry held the door for him and didn’t help him into the car, making very sure it didn’t seem like Herman was being arrested.  Once he was in the back seat, Luis and he quickly got in the car and as they sped off into the night, Jerry thought, we got away with it again, knowing that someday they wouldn’t.  It was just a matter of time.  The delicate balance between the police and the people was a very fine thing.  Most regular people, that is those who weren’t crooks or living in crime ridden neighborhoods, didn’t realize it, but most of the time cops were outnumbered severely when they rolled up on a crime scene, particularly in New York city.  You get paid to keep everything low-key, because if that ugly mob did turn on you – well you were very likely to get in deep trouble quickly.  So Jerry relied on subterfuge and manipulation to keep things calm on the street.  He’d given up explaining his crazy world to civilians.  They just never really got it and it didn’t matter to Jerry whether they got it or not anymore.  All he knew was that it was sucking the life out of him.

Jerry walked out of the station at 10:30 am, stretching as he walked to his car, the Sunday morning sunlight warming him. It had taken forever to get Herman’s initial statement and then Pita had died so the whole mess had been upgraded to murder.  Herman was screwed, that much was clear.  He was going to jail for a long time; just how long would be up to the prosecutor.  That particular jackass, Schwartz, had been in the house all morning, licking his chops over Herman.  Schwartz was one of those up and coming assistant district attorneys Jerry so despised. He possessed just the right level of ambition and amorality required to rise to the top of the shit-pile that was the New York City District Attorneys office.  It seemed to Jerry that Schwartz and his ilk only cared about winning and climbing the political ladder.  The victims and the perpetrators were way down the priority list for most of the ADA’s, as were the cops.  Schwartz had seemed genuinely pleased when Pita died, as it was a bigger case for him now.  He had no idea of who Pita was or how he had come to his miserable end and Herman was just a tool for him.  He didn’t understand how the constant assault by street scum could get to you, wear you down, how it could push even a good person to the breaking point.  Most disgusting of all was that Schwartz didn’t try to conceal his lack of concern or even try to seem sympathetic. Instead, he wore his ambition for all to see as though he was proud of it.  Jerry couldn’t decide who was more revolting – Schwartz or Pita?  Fuck it, it didn’t really matter anyway, Jerry thought, as he unlocked his car door and slipped into the car.

The beat up Grand Am was already like an oven.  It was early October, Indian summer, and it was already in the low eighty’s this early in the day. Jerry immediately cranked up the AC, rolled down the windows and flicked on the sound system he’d had installed recently, one of the few luxuries Jerry allowed himself – or could afford.  It made him happy, that’s all he knew.  He rolled down the street listening to Snoop Dogg and Pharrells “Beautiful”, as he’d done many times before. The swaying beat had him nodding along instantly as he felt the long night begin to fall away. Jerry pointed the car home, looking forward to crawling into his bed.

Bzzz.  Bzzz.  BZZZZZZZZZZZ.  Jerry came out of a deep sleep, vaguely aware that his doorbell was buzzing.  This information slowly leeched into his consciousness, finally occurring to him that he should answer the door.  He got up and fumbled through his drawer for some shorts.  BZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.  As he lumbered towards the door, groggy in the way that you could only be after being woken up after staying up all night and finally were in the middle of a heavy sleep, the nascent thought that it was probably Denilza at the door, his upstairs neighbor and sometimes lover, wended its way to his consciousness just before he pulled it open.

Sure enough, it was her. She was typing on her phone, and kept doing so for just a split-second longer that Jerry liked before looking up at him. “Hi Jerry.  How are you baby? Were you sleeping?  Did I wake you up?”. Jerry simply nodded and opened the door widely, stepping aside to let her in. As she breezed past him into his apartment, Jerry was struck by at the way she moved, just as he was every time he saw her.  The way she walked was somewhere between slinking and gliding.  It had something to do with the way her hips moved, swaying just enough to be sexy, but not overly so. Jerry cast aside thoughts of more sleep, closing the door behind her.

Denilza continued, “I’m sorry that I woke you up. I just want to go to the park and I don’t want to go alone.”  Denilza mocked a frown, plopping herself down on Jerry’s couch.

Jerry rubbed his eyes, saying “What time is it?”

“About 3:30.  C’mon, we should hurry.  It’s such a beautiful day, and there isn’t much sun left.”  Jerry detected impatience in her tone and this irritated him.  It seemed to him that he was a convenient distraction to her, and that if he didn’t fit exactly into her plans, she would cast him aside without a second thought. He eyed her for a moment, as if he was really pondering whether he would go along with her, both of them knowing that he would. He always went along with her; that was the nature of their relationship.

Jerry sighed and said, “Give me a minute and I’ll be ready.”

.

As they walked to the park, Jerry had a surreal feeling, as though all of him wasn’t actually there, walking along the street. It was at other-worldly and quite enjoyable.  In this quasi-delirium, he was aware of iced latte sliding down his throat, its sweetness and strong coffee taste bracing him and the sun beating down, warming him, encouraging him onwards to the park.  Denilza walked beside him, sunglasses on, hips swaying in her light, clingy skirt, all the while chattering away in her Brazilian accented English.  It was a perfect moment somehow, so he said nothing hoping he could encourage it to linger.

Denilza was talking about her work. “The club was craaazy last night.  Sula was so upset and the guys were just mean.  I can’t wait to go back to weekdays.  Weekend nights are when all the drunken idiots come out,” she complained.

There was a sing-song quality to her voice. He loved to listen to the sound of her voice more than to what she was saying. On this topic, however, he was particularly uninterested. He tried not to think too much about her stories from “the club”.  Jerry didn’t frequent strip clubs like so many of his fellow cops.  He’d always thought they were sleazy and if he thought about what Denilza did too much, it really bothered him.  It also could turn ugly with her if he seemed disapproving, so he just listened.

“Why can’t guys just have fun?  I don’t understand how come they can’t just party and enjoy themselves?”  Denilza looked over at him, “Are you even listening Jerry?”

Jerry responded, “Yeah, it’s just that I don’t know what to say. I mean, the way I look at it, that kind of shit is bound to happen at a strip club.  Guys who have issues with women are going to go there and take it out on the girls.  I hate it, and I hate that you have to put up with it. I don’t really know what else to say, so I’m just listening.”

Denilza grasped his hand and said, “Thanks.  I’m just so pissed off and need to get it out of my head.” She paused, looked off to somewhere over Jerry’s shoulder and then continued.  “Enough about me, tell me, how are you?”

There was an off-handedness to the tone of her query that irritated Jerry, making the question seem obligatory, but hey, at least she’s trying to be interested, right?  “Okay, I guess.  We had a rough night last night and I didn’t get done till about 10:30 this morning.  It was an assault that became a homicide.  The crime scene was a mess, and then there was lots of drama over what to charge the perp with.  The poor bastard we arrested, I mean, his whole life just went down the tubes in a couple of hours. One moment he’s running his bodega, looking forward to going home to his wife and kids, and the next, he’s in jail, looking at spending a good chunk of his life behind bars.”

Denilza looked at him curiously, “You are talking about a murderer, yes?  What about the person he killed?  I mean, why don’t you feel sorry for him?”

Jerry didn’t know how to explain this to her or most regular people.  They just didn’t get it.  Assaults happened all the time and while it was illegal, sometimes it was understandable to Jerry, and it just so happened that this one became a murder.He’d walked away from the encounter last night deeply ambivalent.  On the one hand he had no problem arresting Herman, he’d broken the law and was going to have to pay for what he did. Pita was dead – and that was that, but he also felt very bad for Herman. It was one of those things that just got out of hand. It happened, but how do you explain that to someone who doesn’t already know it?

He kept seeing Herman’s face when they arrested him in the station.  He’d been so surprised.  He’d seriously thought this was all going to work out somehow. When the reality of how screwed he was began to sink in, he’d begun screaming and fighting. They’d had to restrain him, only making matters worse.  In the end, Jerry had to hurt Herman a bit to get him to calm down.  The look in his eyes at that moment was one of betrayal and disbelief.  It had become personal.  Jerry and Luis had brought him in, letting him think everything was going to be fine, and now they were beating him down.

Jerry came back from his thoughts and responded, “It was kind of complicated, Denilza.  He didn’t mean to kill the other guy – who, after all, was stealing from him.  It just got out of hand.  The guy he killed was a real piece of work, I mean he was going to end up dead by someone at some point. And Herman wasn’t a troublemaker, ya know?  I’d gotten coffee in his bodega for a long time.  He was a straight up guy and now he’s fucked.  I had to put him in jail and his life if pretty much over.  It’s just bad all the way around.”

Denilza nodded and said nothing further about it.  It was an unusual moment of connection for them. They just walked along silently.  After a moment she slipped her hand into his, squeezing it gently, which felt better than anything in the world to Jerry right now so he decided to change the subject to something more fun. “At least I’m making money playing poker. The past two weeks have been phenomenal actually.”

Denilza said, “You should spend some of that money on me!”, she exclaimed. “We have to go out to a nice dinner soon. We both need to have some fun.” It was more of a demand than a request, but it was also a desire to be with him. At the age of thirty seven, Jerry had learned to take women as they came and, he was pretty lucky to be with her at all, so he said, “Sure, let’s do it the next night I have off.  I think Thursday is good.  I’ll surprise you with the place, ok?”

“Great!!  I’m not working Thursday night.” Denilza responded.

They had arrived at the park.  It was sprinkled with kids and families playing, enjoying their Sunday afternoon.  Denilza spread out a blanket, and Jerry laid down on it.  He was unable to focus on what Denilza was saying any longer. He basked in the low slung, late autumn sun as the rhythm of her voice gradually lulled him to sleep.

Jerry left the station house Tuesday night unsure of what he was going to do with the evening, or so he told himself. The car just seemed to steer itself when it came to the ‘decision turn’, that turn being the one where you either go home after work or do something else. It was as though Jerry had planned all along to go downtown and play cards.  Downtown, to nineteenth street and eighth avenue, to a poker club that he liked.  The action was always good there and Jerry was ready for some action.

Jerry had started playing Texas Hold’em about two years ago.  He had seen it on TV, and had been intrigued by the stakes involved and the caginess of the players.  Then, one of the cops in the precinct had invited him over for a game.  Ten guys, lots of beer and cards, how could he refuse?  He played terribly that night but he also realized that poker was the only game where your opponent didn’t have an unfair advantage, unlike the other casino games he’d tried over the years.  In Texas Hold’em you were playing against other people, not the house, as you would in a casino with blackjack or craps, so there was no house edge to overcome, giving every player an equal chance of winning. It was also clear to Jerry during the game that some players were better than others. One of the guys who’d come to the game was a Brit named Paul.  He gave Jerry some pointers over the course of the evening and later, Jerry managed to extract from him that he played in Atlantic City, Vegas, Foxwoods and on-line regularly.

Jerry watched Paul play.  The first thing he noticed was that he just didn’t play that much, which seemed odd compared to the high level of action from the other players.  He folded more hands than anyone else before the “flop”, the three cards that come down all at once after the first round of betting.  Yet, he was very aggressive when he did play a hand, usually raising before the flop, rarely just calling.  After a while, he jumped into a hand and bet about one hundred and fifty dollars through the course of betting which was called by two other players.  When Paul turned over his flush to the ace, the other guys groaned.  Paul was very gracious about the win but Jerry could see that this graciousness was calculated.  Paul wanted it to seem like he was lucky but Jerry could tell that he knew exactly what he was doing.

During a break in the action, Jerry joined Paul for a cigarette on Bill’s deck.  Jerry opened the conversation, noting that Paul had done quite well and admitted he was new to the game.  He then got to the point, “It seems to me that you win most of the hands you play.  No one else at the table seems as consistent.”

Paul nodded and said, “Well, as I told you, I play a lot of poker, Jerry.”

Jerry nodded in assent, stating, “It seems you do.  What pointers would you give a guy like me who is new to the game?”  Jerry paused and waited while Paul formed his answer.

After a moment, Paul replied simply, “Read a book on poker.  That will put you ahead of 75% of the players out there.”

Jerry continued, “Is there one that you would recommend?”

Paul replied, “Just go to the bookstore and leaf through them. Pick a basic one that seems readable to you. They all cover the basics. After that, you should read Brunson, Harrington and Sklansky. If you get that far, and you use what you learn, you’ll be ahead of 99% of the players you’ll ever face.”

That was it.  Jerry got a book on Texas Hold ‘em from Barnes & Noble the next day. That there were dozens of books on the subject was a shock to Jerry.  How could poker be so complicated?  As he read the first book, he was amazed by the complexity of the game.  Probability, strategy and psychology were all important parts of playing.  It turned out that Jerry was good at it, even more than that, he loved it.  He quickly felt at home at a poker table.  There was a common element among the men who played poker in these rooms, an intensity and an edge that most of them possessed.  It took balls to play poker, and Jerry liked being with people who had balls.

Jerry had read eleven books on poker at this point and had developed what he considered to be a professional approach to the game, winning regularly, but also taking huge beats sometimes, as there was always the element of probability at play in Texas Hold-em. By this point he’d learned where the underground games were in Manhattan and played regularly at several of them.

Jerry parked the Grand Am and got out.  The “Round Table” poker room was one of many underground card clubs in Manhattan where illegal poker games were run and it was also one of the oldest.  From the outside you saw only a door, but when you entered, it was like stepping into another world.   The clicking of chips being ruffled, the barely contained energy of the poker players, it had instantly encompassed Jerry the first time he’d entered one of the clubs.

Jerry felt the usual rush of anticipation as he entered the room.  He felt so alive suddenly; his fatigue from working a fourteen hour shift just disappeared.  He talked to the room boss, Al, a guy who looked like he hadn’t been out in the sun in ten years, his skin a pallid grayish yellow,  a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.  ”Two grand”, Jerry said simply. Al rapidly counted out the two thousand dollars worth of chips.  Al’s shoulders were slumped and his head hung down just a bit, but his eyes were darting around continuously.  He simultaneously demonstrated a slackness and awareness that Jerry’d only seen in pro-poker players – and certain hard-core criminals.

Al nodded when Jerry asked for a 5/5 no-limit game, saying,  “Table 3, 7^th seat.”

Jerry thanked Al and as he walked towards the table, he heard Al say “Good luck.”  Jerry shook his head at this. It always seemed funny to him when people wished him luck.  He looked around the room.  Most of the guys in here understood the game pretty well, but most of them were still hoping for luck.  Jerry sat down at the table and un-racked his two thousand dollars worth of chips.  This was the maximum table buy-in as Jerry didn’t want to be playing with a small chip stack. Buying in with a small stack was a mistake that lots of rookie players made.  Looking around the table, he saw several larger stacks, with the biggest directly to his right in the 6 chair with about 7 grand.  Perfect, Jerry thought.

Jerry sat and observed the play for a few minutes.  He didn’t get any good hands to play and this was fine with him.  He’d rather get to know the table before he had to mix it up with anyone.  It became pretty clear that this was a table of  “rocks”, meaning tight players. It also seemed that they’d been playing at each other for a while.  There was little conversation and not much action.  This would be a hard table to make money at.

Jerry considered his strategy.  He had two choices, other than getting up right now and leaving. The first approach would be to “coffee house” it up a bit.  This consisted of making friendly banter with anyone who was willing.  He could try to crack some jokes, make idle conversation – anything to warm the table up and get people friendlier with each other. Friendly tables played more hands.  This would usually work well with inexperienced players, young players and weak, passive players, those who played a scared kind of poker.  He looked around at the rogue’s gallery he was facing and realized he’d have to go the other way.  The “maniac asshole” was his only shot here as he’d have to stir things up if he wanted to get any action.

Jerry had been an undercover cop for four years.  It had been a master’s course in acting with the major difference being that actors didn’t have to fuck the people they were acting for or be scared that they might kill you.  As a result, Jerry had developed the ability to turn certain characters on at will.  It was an occupational requirement.  He might be calm and happy in the morning, but by noon he had to be some hard ass crook.   When he wanted to piss people off, which he had to do sometimes, he’d be what he thought of as the ‘maniac asshole’.  This part of the job hadn’t come naturally to Jerry, but his boss at the time had walked up one side of him and down the other about it until he could do it on command.  Once he’d learned how to do it, he realized that it actually wasn’t all that hard.  He found that he had all he needed inside.  He just had to rile himself up usually by telling himself what assholes the guys he was trying to bust were, and start saying all the things he was thinking versus keeping them to himself.  It was quite fun sometimes and at a tight aggressive table, it was just the thing to aggravate a couple of these players so they would play back at him when they shouldn’t.

He was in middle position and as the bet came to him, he leaned into the table, saying, “Let’s play some cards.”, tossing an eighty dollar bet onto the table, letting the chips spray themselves forward.  He cocked his head to the left watching the action as it progressed.  After the third fold, he said to no one in particular, “What does it take to get some action at this table?”  No one called his bet though.

Jerry scoffed at his winnings, tossed the seven dollars he’d made on the hand to the dealer for a tip and flipped his cards over for all to see as he handed them to the dealer.  He’d held nine, two unsuited, which was a terrible hand.

The next hand Jerry limped in, just calling the five dollar minimum bet, saying, “Maybe we could see a flop this time?”

The player three seats down from Jerry, in the nine seat, glanced at him and tossed forty five dollars in, raising the bet, saying, “Maybe not.”

Jerry was pleased, maybe he’d affected this guys bet, he thought.  Jerry didn’t care what his cards were. They happened to be Ace and Eight of diamonds which happened to be a semi-playable hand.  The rest of the table folded around to him.  This put sixty dollars in the pot already with a thirty five dollar call to Jerry.  He was getting almost two to one on his money to call, not bad odds for the cards he was playing.  But he wasn’t going to make it easy for anyone at this table.

Jerry immediately said “Raise”, and tossed one hundred and twenty dollars into to the  pot.

Skinny, as Jerry had already nick-named the guy who’d raised him, narrowed his eyes and considered Jerry carefully.  Jerry knew he had him.  Obviously his hand had been good enough for a late position raise but not quite good enough to easily call a re-raise.  Not by any conservative poker standards, which was the game these guys were playing – and the game that Jerry was going to use back at them until he pissed them off.

Skinny threw his cards at the dealer muttering, “Man I really wanted to call you there but I just couldn’t.”  Jerry raked in the chips gloating, this time not showing his cards.  He glanced at the big stack to his right and his expression hadn’t changed a bit.  Guess I’ve got some work to do, he thought to himself.

Jerry sat tight for a couple of hands. He was getting in early position anyway, close to the start of the betting, which was a major disadvantage and he didn’t like to push too much from there if he could help it.  But sure enough, under the gun, meaning the first person to act after all the cards were dealt, he drew aces.  It was too perfect, given his previous play, but it actually posed a hard decision for him.  The table had shown itself to be pretty weak.  If he raised, he might not get action, but if he just limped in, that is just calling the minimum five dollar bet, it might look suspicious given his previous play.  He decided to “min raise” which at this table was twenty dollars.  It could be read as another push or the slow play of a big hand, but given his image, it might just be seen as just stupid aggression and kind of insulting to the table.

The action after Jerry’s bet folded around to the eight seat, which was occupied by a kid Jerry had taken to calling “Turtle” after the character from the TV show, Entourage.  He had a gangsta running suit on with a razor thin, short beard framing his chubby face.  Did he look in the mirror and tell himself he looked good before he went out, Jerry thought?

Turtle said, “Raise”, sitting quietly for a moment, eyeing his chips, and then pushed in one hundred dollars while, glaring at Jerry.  The rest of the players quickly folded, bringing the action back to Jerry.

Jerry decided to ‘hollywood’ this decision up a bit.  It was a no-brainer re-raise situation and Jerry was willing to put every dollar he had into this hand pre-flop because he was favored at a minimum 80% to 20% against any other opening hand with one opponent. In Hold’em, the edge didn’t get any bigger than that before the flop.   The question now was how to get the most money in the pot? Jerry sat, trying to look worried about whether he should call or not, while he was actually calculating how best to take Turtle’s money.

He asked Turtle, “How much ya got back there?” asking for a count of Turtles chips.  This was often a prelude to going all in. Turtle answered quickly “Seventeen hundred thirty eight.”

Jerry had him covered, but just.  More importantly was Turtle’s reaction.  He seemed to not mind the count, which meant that he might call an all in bet right now, but it was unlikely unless he had Kings or Queens or was a bad player.  Jerry thought some more. There was no way Turtle could put Jerry on a big hand. Not with his wild play thus far.  So there were hands besides kings or queens Turtle would very likely call an all in bet with.  But he also wanted to get the chips in if he was on something smaller.  Jerry decided he was happy to play him after the flop.

The big stack to his right called out “Time” which meant Jerry had one minute to make his decision.  This was considered rude for someone not in the hand to do.  Jerry now had one minute to make his decision, but this was actually perfect because it meant he’d pissed someone else at the table off.  He decided that he would re-raise Turtle a relatively small amount that would tempt him into re-raising him again.

Jerry looked Turtle dead in the eye and said, “Raise it up, three hundred straight.” This meant it was only another two hundred for Turtle to call.  A good player would be suspicious of a small raise here as there was really no point in it.  Given that there was already three hundred and twenty seven dollars in the pot, a call was getting better than two and half to one odds.  It was a bet that screamed, please call me or raise me to a good player.  But Turtle wasn’t a good player, he just played a lot of cards.

Turtle mistakenly saw the bet as a sign of weakness, as Jerry had hoped, and after just a moment replied, “I’m all in”, shoving his chips dramatically into the center of the table.  Before he even finished pushing the chips in, Jerry replied “Call”.

Turtle didn’t expect this.  Jerry hadn’t waited because there was no value in waiting.  It was going to be a “showdown” where all the cards were played out without any further betting. Jerry flipped over his aces and Turtle groaned.  He didn’t turn over his cards, which Jerry didn’t care about.  Unlike TV tournament showdowns, you weren’t required to flip over your cards in cash games, only the winner would be required to show his cards.  The cards fell.  Jack, two, four of different suits, a rainbow flop.  Jerry thought, shit, I hope he didn’t have pocket jacks.

At this point Turtle flipped over his cards, and he was holding jacks after all, beating the four and a half to one odds against him being dealt three of a kind.  The next card was a three, giving Jerry a straight draw now from the ace to the five, known as the wheel, or the low straight. He now had six ‘outs’, meaning cards that could help him beat his opponent, giving him about at best thirteen percent chance of beating Turtle on the last card, consisting of any of the  four fives, which were, in theory still , or one of the two aces remaining in the deck to give him three of a kind.

Jerry remained stony faced while Turtle was up on his feet yelling, “No five, no ace, no five, no ace”.  Jerry looked around at the table and saw that they all wanted him to lose.  It had been a perfect setup, it was just that the cards might not be cooperating tonight.  The last card was drawn by the slowly by the dealer and it was the five of hearts completing Jerry’s straight, beating Turtle’s three of a kind.

Turtle screamed, “Fuck, fuck, fuck – fucking rivered again.  Every goddamned time.”

Jerry realized he had to stay in role and had leapt to his feet too, screaming, ‘Hell yeah.”  Then he looked at Turtle, “What do you mean ‘rivered?  I was an 80% favorite to win that and the best hand won.”  With this Jerry sat down and began raking the chips towards him.

As he was stacking his chips, he said to the big stack next to him, “Rivered, I mean, what the fuck.  I started better than him and finished better than him.  End of fucking story.”

Turtle was still standing up and cursing.  No one else but Jerry had said a word and they likely wouldn’t.  Anyway you cut it, he’d just lost about two grand and that hurt.  Jerry wasn’t going to push him anymore.

Then the guy in the two seat said, “Yeah that was a bad beat, a tough break.”  He directed his comment to Turtle and was at the other end of the table from Jerry, but this was too good an opportunity to take it to the next level.  He just might get three or four players on tilt.

Jerry asked the player, “What the fuck did you just say?”

The guy, who looked worn down by too many years at a poker table, with drunken, rheumy eyes, responded, “What?”

Jerry retorted, “What, are you deaf as well as fucking stupid?  You heard what I asked you, but let’s skip that.  That was no fucking “bad beat”. If he had won, I would have had the ‘bad beat’.  So let’s just stop this shit right in its tracks, shall we, and play some more poker?”

The drunken guy sat there kind of staring at Jerry in disbelief, not sure what to do.  Jerry could tell that part of him wanted to tell him to fuck off, but was thinking better of it.  It was clear that he’d lost his nerve.

Just like he was folding a hand against a big bet, Jerry watched him wilt, shrinking down in his chair a bit, saying to no one in particular, “That’s what I’m here for.  C’mon, let’s play some cards.”

And that was that.  Jerry went “card dead” for a while. He didn’t need to push anymore, he’d made one big hand payoff with his act, which was fine for the “maniac asshole” play.  You couldn’t stretch it out too far or someone would eventually crack you.  So he sat back and reverted to conservative poker, and was getting nothing.

Jerry thought about the game while he waited patiently for a playable hand. The fact was that poker is boring most of the time.  It simply didn’t pay to go into most hands, so much of the time for a good player was spent watching other people play.  It was important to pay attention as lots of information could be gained by observing the behavior of the other players at the table.  Betting patterns, quality of play, style, tells – all these could be collected for use later, but it could also be very tedious.

Jerry felt himself getting bored and knew he should probably go.  When he was learning how to play, he’d found that he took too many risks when he was bored.  He’d become an ’action junkie’, that was the term he’d heard for it.  Most anyone was susceptible to it. Every gambler gets off on the rush of a big pot, win or lose.  Jerry had learned the hard way to avoid this and the only way he could avoid it was to leave when he got bored.  He checked his watch. It was two thirty already and he needed some sleep.  He was up nineteen hundred, he could go home with a real smile on his face.  He had to be back up at seven o’clock for a satellite tournament online anyway, so he’d better go.  He took his chips wordlessly from the table and cashed them in with Al.

He just about strutted to his car.  There was something about winning money gambling that was deeply satisfying, knowing you weren’t the sucker and that the other guys were.  Or maybe it was that there wasn’t any work involved?  Or that you had beaten the odds? It was particularly true in poker.  Besting the other man and taking his money in a face to face, no nonsense confrontation was unlike most other forms of competition.  Jerry loved the feeling.  The drive home seemed effortless and he didn’t even hit much traffic. He was home in his bed by ten past three and fell asleep almost immediately.