Seven Stud by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 9
It was an extremely hot summer day on Friday. Either that or I was just starting to sweat. I drove to Butch’s to go over the plan one last time, seeing that we were still on the same page. He seemed very calm about the whole thing, which I envied. He sensed this and made some comment about being glad that I wasn’t playing with our own money, so I said; “Still want to be partners?”
He said; “Hell, yes,” and I drove back home. I annoyed myself by noticing that I still had wet cold hands. I found some solace in remembering that Bill Russell used to throw up before most games. I heard that his team mates used to joke about how good a game Bill was going to play by the amount of vomit emitted. They seemed to sense a directly proportionate relationship between the heave ho heard splashing the toilet and the splashing of brilliance displayed on court.
I heard Frank pull into my driveway at 5:15. His top of the line black pickup would announce we were well off country boys. I met him at the door and he simply said; “Ready.”
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” I responded as I climbed up the passenger side. When I sat I said; “Packin’?”
“You betcha,” he replied and patted the bulge in his right pocket. He put the radio on and I heard classical music. We
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drove silently the entirety of the forty minute trip. He parked in a well occupied paved lot and I got my first look at the condos. They were rather well done, with a majority of synthetics used on the exterior. The siding imitated clapboard and ranged in color from light green to off white plastic and the metal red doors displayed gold leafed hardware. Each unit was two floors attached in groups of five.
I noted that a 1972 bright purple Mustang was already there, standing out from the rest. I walked a trifle behind Frank, needing some guidance to the right door. When we got there he rapped on the knocker three times. We waited a few seconds and for some reason I noticed that now I was very relaxed. My mind wandered to when this condo development was built three years prior. It was to be the first attached housing built in semi-rural Bedminster Township, home, at times to Jackie Kennedy and some claiming a Western European royalty lineage. The old-timers complaints were overruled by the New Jersey State Supreme Court, on the grounds that a man or a corporation cannot be denied his or its right to full use of his or its property. Secondly, there were no environmental reasons to require 5 acre single lot zoning. And, thirdly, goddammit, this was the fucking American way.
Not to worry. Everything worked out fine. While the old timers bemoaned the loss of their rural heritage, that was not
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exactly pristine anyway, young high income people bought the condos, presumably desiring the ambience of the area, but not wanting to maintain a farm. Pleasant life in Bedminster was again grudgingly resumed.
We noted a peeping hole open in front of us and a curious blinking eye’s presence was soon seen. A cheerful, curious small chubby man, very pre-maturely bald, opened the door.
Frank and Richard gave each other a brief hug, Richard being a little overzealous and sloppy because one could smell that he had already put away a few. I was introduced as something like the new shark that Frank was backing in tonight’s game. I was flattered, but also felt a bit silly as this was the first attempt at swimming that this shark was going to try to handle.
I didn’t say anything as I thought it wiser not to advertise my rookie status. Hell, I was old enough for anyone to assume that I’d been doing this for years.
The three of us passed through the 8 x 8 modernistic hallway and entered a large room right behind it containing a sizable living area which currently housed a large flimsy looking, plain, lightly stained oak table and chairs. The room was open to a kitchen and dining area. People were milling about, most with drinks in hand, animatedly discussing the exciting events of the past work week. I gathered from bits and pieces I could hear that a number of them worked as traders,
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while also making note that my first impression of Richard was that he seemed more like a manager or salesman. Then I saw Butch standing alone in a corner with no drink in hand, looking like he was anxiously waiting for the bullshit to end and start the game.
I gave him a wink and a small smile, not seen by the others, which he returned, somewhat sarcastically. After the rather cursory introductions, Richard noted that we had at least six players and that it was 6:05 and we were running late. Butch overheard this and walked directly to the table and picked a seat. Everyone else amiably and slowly made their way to the same table, fussing about a bit to find coasters, pens and paper. One player stood out from the others, an average sized black guy who was telling some story he found very interesting to a captive audience. He introduced himself to Butch and me as Alonzo and then asked Butch if he was anxious to lose his money.
Feigning a bored look, Butch said; “I can’t possibly answer that until somebody starts dealing some fucking cards.”
Alonzo said; “Okay, dick.”
Butch didn’t correct the wrong name chosen for him.
Players got settled, leaving two standing. Richard said; “We can’t play seven stud with eight, so why don’t you two hang out a while until some suckers lose their money or quit.” Dick and Ari nodded quietly and walked back to the kitchen area and
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seemed content to continue their weekly “adventures in the pit”
stories.
Alonzo said; “Rules, dick.”
Richard assumed he was talking to him and said; “60,000 to play, $500 ante and a maximum of $5,000 per card.”
Alonzo said; “Can you bump a $5,000 bet another $5,000?”
Richard said; “Yes. I guess I should add that there are no royalties and any dispute will be decided by the two books on the kitchen table. If a man calls his hand too low he stands with that call.”
Butch flatly said; “I don’t have $60,000. I only have $44,000.”
Steve, another player, short and squat, with a currently bemused face said; “Didn’t anyone tell you?”
Butch said; “Yes, someone did, but I guess he didn’t know what he was talking about. Look at it this way. If I started with $60,000 and lost $16,000 on the first hand, you’d let me continue playing, right?”
When no one voiced any objection, but added; “Good enough, that’s where I am now.”
Richard said; “I’ll deal first, unless there are any objections.” When he met silence the game commenced.
In the initial few hands nothing of note really happened.
No one got an outstanding hand. No one bet heavily. No one
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attempted a bluff. Things were ordinary enough for me to focus my attention almost entirely on the other players’ mannerisms and conversation. The most unusual thing was Alonzo’s trait, perhaps to keep the game moving, of saying; “On you, dick,” and looking at the man high on board if he didn’t offer his bet quickly enough. This caused a bit of confusion at first, as Richard kept thinking that he was the Dick being referred to and Butch had similar passing thoughts.
In the first exchange, Steve was high on board and slow, prompting Alonzo to look at him and say; “It’s on you dick,” to which Richard responded; “You’re wrong this time, dick.” Butch added; “And if you mean me you don't know your ass from your elbow.”
Alonzo said; “No, not you two dicks.” He extended his right hand halfway across the table pointing at Steve, saying;
“This dick over here.” Steve calmly sat there a few seconds and then said; “I guess everybody’s dick to you. Tell me, do you think all white people look alike?”
It was an edgy enough statement to get no comment, only watchful eyes from the other players, until Alonzo started laughing, saying; “Yeah, you do. Dicks do, anyway.” He showed the space between his thumb and forefinger and added; “Little fuckers.” Everyone then laughed and it seemed to make the group feel more comfortable, when it became obvious through continuing
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“funny” comments, that Alonzo's kick was to be an entertainer first and a card player second.
As the night progressed Butch and I were getting ahead slowly, but significantly, as when Alonzo was “funny,” the sloshed Wall Street types; Richard, Steve and Marc, started articulating their own “funny observations, to the raucous delight of Alonzo. Butch and I used our “bluff and call”
techniques a few times, seemingly undetected. The result, however, was that Butch’s winnings were much greater than mine.
When I put my left index finger to my eye the fifth time, bluffing and again getting called by Butch, Frank tapped me on the shoulder and said to everyone; “Can we take a little break after this hand? I’d like to have a talk with my man, here.”
The others dispersed to the kitchen and bathrooms, while I just stood up and turned to face Frank.
He said; “He calls you every time you bluff. I don’t think it’s worth trying again.”
I said; “I think you’re right. I’ve probably done it too many times already. But, we’re still ahead pretty well.”
Frank clapped his two hands right on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye saying; “Yeah, we are. But, we’re getting pretty good cards and some of the others are making bad mistakes. We can make enough money just calmly taking advantage of that. You don’t need to bet what you don’t have.”
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“I agree. You’re right. I probably did it two times too many already. Sorry. That Butch can be a real Missourian.”
That either satisfied him or made him assured that there would be no more “mistakes” on my part.
He said; “All right. You’re my man. Go make me a small fortune.” When the game resumed, Richard and Marc lost all their money and were replaced by the now very drunken Ari and Dick. The fact that one of the dicks in the game was replaced by a real Dick, struck Alonzo as so funny, that I don’t think he ever again got back to business. He was cracking all sorts of jokes, laughed at heartily by the Wall Street boys and occasionally by Butch and me as he methodically lost all his money. He got up from his chair silently, reached into his pocket and pulled out a .45. Oddly, he didn’t point it at anyone, but rather held it on its side in the palm of his hand.
I could see Butch and Frank put their hands to their pockets, but not withdrawing their guns, eyes glued to Alonzo, who put his gun back in his pocket saying; “I need this sometimes when I’m playing with the brothers, but not here.” He thought the action amusing. He seemed happy when he joined the other losers already in the kitchen, proceeded to entertain his new buddies, laughing uproariously whenever they said something of dubious merit.
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It didn’t take much more than another hour for the real Dick to lose all his money, leaving the game with only four players, two of them partners. Butch looked up at the simple circular electric wall clock and said; “Why don’t we call it quits? It’s almost 8:30 anyway.”
The other players nodded agreement. We stuffed the money into small leather carrying cases provided by the house and went into the kitchen joining the others. As we sipped our ice teas, Butch and I listened to Alonzo do the rest of his comedy routine to constant laughs, chuckling and attempted funny responses. I thought he really got good after he got going and wished I could get him on my television, even if I had to change the channel from PBS.
After some drunken laughing pleasantries, Frank, Butch and I made our departures rather unnoticed, while Alonzo successfully retained center stage.
Shortly after Frank started driving me back, he said;
“Count up how much we have.” After a few minutes I said;
“$150,000.”
He said; “$105,000 is mine.”
I did some quick math and saw he was right; his original $60,000 investment and half of the $90,000 in winnings, leaving $45,000 for me.
I said; “Want to do it again?”
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He said; “Maybe. I’ve got some other business that requires attention right now, though.”
I interpreted what he said as possibly being indicative of a suspicion about the bluffing and calling, Butch and I had done. He should have been anxious to go again after getting a 75% return on investment in three hours. For a few minutes I was sad that he correctly felt as he did, because I liked him and thought he was a good guy.
He drove me silently to my house, stopped in my driveway and said; “I’ll be in touch.” As I exited the car I said; “I hope soon.” I shut the door and he silently drove away. I went inside and again counted my $45,000, which now seemed paltry with all the big money kicking around. I waited about five minutes, before driving to Butch’s house, hoping he had gone directly home, because I wanted to see more money.
His Mustang was in the driveway and he was in the garage alone counting his parcel, under the fluorescent lighting. He ignored me at first, as he was near the end of his count and wanted to finish undisturbed. He turned to me and said;
“$125,000.”
I said; “$45,000.”
He looked disappointed. I went over the math with him and he acquiesced to the numbers, giving me $65,000. He said; “I
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know it’s right, but it just feels like giving Frank half really knocks the hell out of us.”
“I’ve got a feeling it’s not going to happen again. I think he was uncomfortable with our bluffing/calling routine.”
“He didn’t say anything, did he?”
“He told me to stop bluffing. I’m just inferring the rest.”
“He ought to be goddamn happy with his $45,000 return on a $60,000 investment, for doing nothing.”
I said; “He got what we agreed to and that’s all there is to it. Don’t whine. We’ve got $110,000 apiece. A month ago we didn’t have anything.”
Butch mumbled; “Yeah, right.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to play in either of the games we’ve been in again. We’re going to have to find a bigger one, partner.”
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