Texas Poker Wisdom: A Novel

By Johnny Hughes

"Scrolling the pages of a Hughes narrative is like lighting a lantern into the darkest recess of poker's subculture. [Hughes] brings the legends of the past and present to life and often provides the very best portrait of these unique, real-life characters of anyone on record."

-Nolan Dalla, media director, World Series of Poker,
best-selling author and columnist for Card Player

"Johnny Hughes's poker stories are a national treasure hilarious stories and colorful characters timeless classics the stuff of history one of my all-time favorite poker writers."

-Iggy, a.k.a. Ignatius J. Reilly, the Blogfather of Poker, GuinnessandPoker.com

"Told with authenticity and the knowledge that only a true road gambler could possess a book that you will love a highly enjoyable read."

-Anthony Kelly, editor-in-chief, Player Europe magazine. Dublin.

"Cryptic, dark. Irrefutably unique. Elliptical euphemism and metaphor are (Hughes's) tools. Gambling folklore and parables abound. All told with a twinkle in the eye and one finger on the trigger ... Johnny writes evasively, challenging us to refute, compelling us to believe."

-James Dodd, a.k.a. Tetuso, Bet-the-Pot.com. London.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 19, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595915101

Johnny Hughes

Johnny Hughes has written for Bluff Magazine, Bluff Europe, Player Europe, Texas Observer, TexasMonthly.com, GuinnessandPoker.com, PokerPages.com, PokerForum.com, WisehandPoker.com, Bet-the-Pot.com, and Truckin?. He has been a gambler, salesman, and university lecturer. Learn more about Hughes at www.JohnnyHughes.com.

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Copyright © 2007 by Johnny Hughes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-47227-7 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-70964-9 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-595-91510-1 (ebk)

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

This book is dedicated to: Donna, Sasha, Vickye, and Mother.

Lubbock, Texas, Las Vegas, Nevada. November, 2005

CHAPTER 1

After fifty years of poker, there were certain things Matthew Slick O’Malley always did to prepare for a game. He counted all the cars. He wasn’t too happy to see the four tight, rock players were all there. With nine cars outside the Town House, he knew there would be an open seat. Part of his strategy was to always arrive a couple of hours after the poker game started. There was more action. The losers were trying to double up and catch up. The odds are you won’t get even.

Matt re-tied his long, gray ponytail, cleaned his wire-rimmed granny glasses, combed his gray goatee, and patted his pockets to see that he had what he needed for the poker game. He had a bankroll of $3,000 wrapped in a rubber band, ear plugs, snap-on sunshades, his lucky yin-yang spinner, a comb, a pen, a blue Binion’s World Series of Poker hat, and a small business card case for a wallet. He left his gun in the car. In West Texas, it is considered rude to carry a gun into someone else’s gambling joint.

Everyone saw Matt on the security TV monitor. Here comes another gar, said Dee. He’ll show you a trick. Watch out for Slick. He’ll put a snake in your pocket and ask you for a match.

Some of the players had played poker with each other around West Texas for half a century. Nora met him at the door with a warm hug.

Come on in, you might not win, Nora said.

Matt peeled three hundred-dollar bills from the fat roll he flashed and took the seat beside Nora, the dealer and sole owner of this small poker emporium. She handed him $285 in chips, the juice or house take being 5%.

You been out west? Cornbread asked. He meant Las Vegas.

I been staying around Lubbock, Matt said.

He checked each man’s hands for bandages and looked all around the table for jewelry and shiny objects. Then he counted each man’s chips and made a mental note of whether they were winning or losing. It seemed the smoking end of the table was taking a pounding. The new, young player had a mountain of chips. Matt knew the raises would be coming from the four smokers who sat in a row.

Matt knew all the players except the youngest one, another college-age player, who had learned poker from books, television, and the Internet. The young guy had on a baseball hat from Texas Tech, sunglasses, and a teal Polo shirt. He expertly riffled his chips over and over in the poker player’s ritual, like worry beads or the rosary. He had more chips than anyone, around $1,600.

Although Matt’s greatest concern was avoiding anger and negative emotions, he resented the young man on sight. There was a real generation gap between the older poker players who had played long before the poker boom and the huge new crowd of younger players.

I heard you on the radio, Tim, Matt said. You said ‘when men were men and sheep were nervous’ which really made Chris mad.

You haven’t been calling in to any of the talk shows. You been on the road? Tim asked.

They had gone to Lubbock High School together almost fifty years back. Liberal Tim was a regular fixture on three local talk radio shows. Most callers absolutely hated him and coughed forth threats of bodily harm.

I’m like that lucky old sun, I got nothin’ to do but roll around Lubbock all day. I just haven’t been playing much poker, here or on the road, Matt said. I usually play up a storm around Christmas. I heard you call in knocking Karl Rove one morning and Barbara Bush the next. Liberal Tim. Being called that in America’s most conservative city could be dangerous. Some of those folks hate you Tim. You got more balls than a poison taster. Your liberal line of reasoning goes over like a pregnant high jumper.

Actually, Lubbock was found in a national poll to be the second most conservative city in all of America. Provo, Utah was first, Tim said. When last we spoke, you said you would be calling the radio stations to back me up. I was thinking, if Jesus had a tattoo, what would it say?

Carlos rolled his eyes. There was an unwritten rule prohibiting asking Tim questions which triggered learned and unwanted, lengthy lectures. In a big pot, someone outside the pot often asked Tim to hush up. Anyone who answered Tim’s rhetorical questions had to pay Nora a fine of one dollar.

Wade called in from Iraq and talked all about the war right before you called in against it. They were furious at you, Tim, Matt laughed.

Matt folded every hand the first round. He noticed that the new, young player was very aggressive, a frequent raiser, taking down most pots. Age and patience were now Matt’s greatest poker weapons. Nora was like a social director, talking when there was a lull, always cheerful, always willing to put up with sexist comments and moderate profanity. She wore a sequined party dress and blue and silver boots. To Nora, the poker game was a party as well as her only job.

Young fella, Matt said, staring straight at the young man’s eyes which he could not see behind the sunglasses. Me and you are about to play a big pot a show horse couldn’t jump over. Duck your head, we are going through a tunnel. Science and skill can always overcome ignorance and superstition. Old age and treachery can always overcome youth and skill.

This got a rise out of the older men. The young man said nothing, sitting as still as a cigar-store Indian. Kaw-Liga.

What y’all eating? Cornbread asked Nora.

Her daughter-in-law, Jennie, hovered near the table bringing coffee and food and scoring generous tips. They cooked from scratch and served two or more desserts. Jennie was the waitress, but Nora was the very proud and skilled cook.

Cornbread ordered a plate to eat there at the table. Curious Wilford went broke to the new player who was really on a rush, holding boots and shoes. Several of the men had eaten before the game started.

You hold more hands than any manicurist in town, Matt said to the young man who stared back stoically. He sat perfectly still like a statue. I’m gonna trap you, Matt added.

Half an hour later, Matt caught ace-king, right behind the big blind. He smooth called the ten dollars. So did seven others including the whole smoking section. The new young player raised it $80 just as Matt had expected. It was pot-limit Texas Hold ’em. Matt called the $80 and raised $300.

I’m all in, Matt said, money, marbles, and chalk. The whole kit-and-caboodle. I’m not smart enough for two bets.

This was all the chips he had left in front of him. The young man studied a while, and his cell phone rang.

I’m playing poker. Hold it a minute, he said. I know you have a small pair. I’m gonna draw you out just to piss you off.

Let me have this one and we will let you have the next one, Matt said.

He looked at Matt for some type of tell. After a longer delay than the players were used to, he called and showed ace-queen, off suit, exactly what Matt was hoping for. Then the young man returned to his cell phone conversation as Nora slowly turned the cards.

I’ll meet you outside the bank in twenty minutes. You can bet both Dallas and Tech.

He was dead to a queen, and he caught two of them. He pumped his fist in the air and said, Yes. Awesome. He stood up to rake in the big pot. He threw Nora a red five-dollar chip as a tip.

Matt didn’t bat an eyelash. Win or lose, he acted the same. He considered the young man’s celebration revolting. Matt threw Nora five more crisp, shiny hundred-dollar bills. Matt felt nothing. The young man’s heart was pounding. Matt watched the lad’s shirt jump up and down with some amusement. He acts like it’s the first big pot he ever won, Matt thought, but didn’t share that thought as he would have a few years back.

It was ever so silent as the young man cashed in over $2,800. He stacked the chips in stacks of one hundred each. Every man there watched and verified the count silently. You could come and go as you pleased.

Tell them where you got it, Carlos said, as Jennie let the young man out the front door.

Dee nodded toward the kitchen. He and Matt went off for a private conversation, leaving their chips on the table.

That was Dylan, Dee said. Your nephew.

How do you know? I doubt it, Matt said.

It’s sure him. Dylan O’Malley. Without those shades, he’s a ringer for Moody. He’s a hell of a poker player, been beating those new Indian casinos in Oklahoma. He was living in Abilene and playing ever day there. The Kid sent him here to Nora’s game. He’s a road gambler, like you. He knows who you are I figure. We was talking about you before you came to squat. Were your ears burning? Dee asked.

Aunt May wrote me that he was in the Navy. His mother still lives in Stephenville. He’s about twenty-six. I haven’t seen him since Donovan’s funeral in ’85. You know Becky hates me, probably turned the boy against me. If he is a gambler, she sure hates it. I hate it, too. Why didn’t he say something to me? Matt asked.

He sure as hell got your attention. He got all our attention. I heard he won $36,000 last week off these Tech kids and this Chinaman in C.J.’s game. He stays over at C.J.’s some. He runs with that bunch of young gamblers around Tech. They play higher than we do. He has been over here to Nora’s a couple of times. Maybe he is cold trailing you. He drew you out slicker than greased owl shit, Dee said.

Dee routinely put over 130 miles a day on his decade-old, faded rose Cadillac. He lived alone in the farm house he was born in outside Littlefield, Texas. His cousin farmed the land on the halves. Dee’s cotton was hailed out this year. He played unlucky missing the record harvest.

He didn’t get no cherry. I heard he was gonna make a lawyer. Does real well in school. Moody provided for them. What does he do? Matt asked. Matt often vocalized his belief in simple living and a monastic Spartan lifestyle.

He was doing it, Dee said, pulling his John B. Stetson down.

Dee’s cowboy hat was a prop he moved around often. Only a few years back, Western attire would make up half the poker table, but now it was an international game. He’s a gambler, like you and Moody.

I’m mighty sorry to hear that, Dee, Matt said. You been beating them?

I had a good streak going, but poker money has no home, Dee said. I’m up and down like a Yo-Yo. Chicken in the pot one day, feathers the next. Dee’s litany was worn, comfortable, and all too familiar. My bankroll looks like an elephant stepped on it. Since you got Moody’s pension money, you sure don’t play much poker.

I keep trying to get myself to go on the road. This is a tough poker game, tougher than anyplace I play. We are having a Santa Claus rally on the stock market. I make a little money every week. There’s more to life than poker, Matt said.

Matt knew Dee had always put in more hours at the poker table than most Square Johns do from nine to five at some real job or one that appeared real.

If I had your money, I’d throw mine away. These young folks like Dylan play any two cards and raise like their horse was parked in a red-ant bed. You can’t put them on a hand. They got me hacked in the head. I’d rather have my dick caught in a meat grinder than to try to beat these new young players. Dee slapped his hat on his knee and laughed.

You probably didn’t hear that Sanjay and C.J. win ’em own selves $120,000 in this Internet tournament. You sure are right about Sanjay. He’s as good a poker player as it gets. These regulars are scared of him as a possum is of an ax-handle. They are both twenty-one years old, Dee said.

Nora had let Liberal Tim deal while she took a smoking break. She joined them in the small kitchen.

You used to be such a good game starter, Matt, why don’t you help me work over here? Nora asked. We been late to start or short handed. I used to have a little waiting list.

I’m old and stiff, Nora. My back acts up, but the yoga is working. I’m loyal. This is about the only place I play poker in these parts. I’ve steered some live ones your way. I have stayed off the road most of the fall.

Matt believed in treating the houseman or lady like some type of boss. Good relations with casino employees was the mark of a professional. He always brought Nora some casino gift shop present when he went to Las Vegas. Matt would steal roses from his neighbor’s yards to bring to Nora. He’d run enough poker games to appreciate the role of the house. Matt gave thanks each night to Jesus that he would never have to run a poker game or deal again in his life.

Clyde has been trying to open a game on my days. Teddy is running a tournament on two of my days. We had a system that worked, Nora said.

She ran a poker game on Mondays, Wednesday, and Fridays from 1:00 P.M. until the players quit, usually around seven. They might go all night long if a real producer was stuck.

Nora, you know how a poker dealer and a stagecoach driver are alike? Dee asked.

You tell me, Dee, Nora said.

They both spend the day staring at ten assholes. Dee always laughed the loudest at his own jokes.

CHAPTER 2

You could set your watch by Dagwood, the senior player and over eighty. He insisted that his thick, jet black hair was not dyed. He’d left the poker game every day about half past four, usually winner. This signaled Matt to think about going. He tried to play at least three hours regardless of whether he was winner or loser. National Public Radio had a show he liked at 4 P.M., so he tried to stay until then.

Nora had the best heavy adjustable office chairs and a custom-built poker table. It was the most comfortable setup and best food he could remember at a small outlaw gambling house. Decades of poker and his small recent winnings had Matt restless. Poker had never been better.

Farm Boy and Willard, both aggressive, deceptive players, won thousands routinely. Matt won hundreds, and felt he was just watching the game and life go by. When to quit a poker game was an agonizing question. One determinant was how many chips were in the smoking section, where the wilder, looser players dwelled. Usually, Matt would target the two weakest players and plan to leave shortly after they left. Folks have been debating their ownselves about whether to quit when you are ahead when gambling since cavemen were betting on chunking rocks.

Carlos, Bidal, Hector, Jump Dog, and the Fireman all had healthy stacks of chips. They were poker drunk, in a real gambling mood. The later the game lasted at Nora’s, the better and wilder it got. Matt felt he always quit when opportunities were brightest.

Poker was work. Poker and working the phones for a bookmaker were the only work he had known most of his life. It’s all the same long poker game, Matt often reminded himself. It really doesn’t matter when you start or when you leave or if you go play at all. You set your own hours. You decide whether to go play poker. You don’t have a schedule or a budget or a boss or any security unless you know when to hold ’em and know when to fold ’em.

Around six, Matt asked Jennie to fix him a plate of the spaghetti to go. He often took a plate of the great food home. He cashed out $250 loser and dutifully wrote the loss in his composition book sitting in the car. He glanced over the long string of wins and losses. He still had a 75% win rate. The ups and downs were small and reflected the conservatism that crept up like and with age. As a young, flashy gambler, Matt mocked the grinders and the rocks. Now he was both.

Matt wrote notes about big pots in his composition book. That day he wrote,I had ace-king versus ace-queen, and my own nephew caught the Hilton Sisters, Siegfried and Roy. Him and Carlos and Bidal were big winners. Had a couple of little pairs, never tripped, never had a big pair. Flopped a king high straight and doubled up. Flat day. Good starting hand discipline.

Rather than head for his austere furnished apartment of twenty years, Matt drove to Avenue A, on Lubbock’s industrial, sadder side. On Ttwenty-Third Street, there was a small, new, brick office building that had once been the site of Flora’s, a family-owned Mexican food restaurant.

It was just sundown, and the broad sky was a beautiful burnt orange, purple, and cherry vanilla. Matt parked beside the building and just sat there in his new Toyota Avalon. This was the scene of his brother Donovan’s unsolved murder, twenty years ago. He had been shot and maybe robbed. No one saw or heard anything. There were never any real clues. Matt’s father, Moody, had hired two private detectives and hounded the Lubbock Police. They never ever really knew anything.

Matt tried to remember but guessed he hadn’t stopped there in about eight years. He decided to eat the spaghetti and looked all around the console and glove box for a plastic fork he thought was there but gave up.

It wasn’t my fault, Matt said out loud and his voice cracked. He cried and couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had cried. Then he turned his lonely chariot toward home.

Matt woke up without an alarm around six most mornings. Lubbock being such a small town with an even smaller town’s culture and rituals, Matt expected to hear a known voice on one of the three local radio talk shows he listened to weekdays. On the first station, a caller was advocating Coach Bob Knight for Chancellor of Texas Tech.

Then Matt heard Liberal Tim railing against a local group called the Jesus Alliance. They had a luncheon the previous day attended by almost all the politicians running for office in contested races. The Jesus Alliance was hosting a big debate at the Calvary Baptist Church.

Liberal Tim said, Why should local officials be grilled about Roe V. Wade, gay marriage, and the war in Iraq? I wish just one major politician had told them a big ol’ West Texas No. Hell No. I won’t go. I’m not coming to your stinking meeting. Their motto is ‘not politically correct but Jesus correct,’ and they are holding debates, come on.

We have to go to a hard break, Chuck said. Thanks for the call as always, Liberal Tim. He cut Tim off as he had to on the days Tim didn’t hang up on him.

Matt awoke happy at the sound of Tim’s voice. Matt did not believe in electric lights most times, especially in the mornings. He opened all the blinds and waited for the first light of the sun. People in flat country develop a close personal relationship with the sky.

He did all his little things in the dark. He brewed a pot of green tea with cinnamon. He punched the remote to check five radio talk shows, Lubbock being a gabby town. Matt’s favorite show had an older audience. Some lady in her eighties was recounting that she shared a coke with her soldier boyfriend because we didn’t have but one nickel, and it come up on the radio about Pearl Harbor, and we were married Christmas eve.

The next caller, a regular, revealed as he often did that half the White House staff have dual Israeli citizenship. He ranted about the Jews once a week or so. He was about the only one they did cut off.

Another caller said he had shaken Coach Bob Knight’s hand. He said, I never met a greater man or a greater American in these troubled times.

Matt switched back in time to hear another regular caller’s venomous attack on Liberal Tim.

When I was risking my life for America, that secular Communist had flowers in his hair. He has a picture of Stalin on his wall. You gotta know he would call in if somebody had something good about Jesus, like, you know, to say. He is against ever thang good about West Texas. His voice was rising. I wish they’d give me five minutes alone with Liberal Tim.

Matt dialed the station’s number. Tim always generated so many callers that he couldn’t get in. Only Hillary Clinton and FEMA rivaled Tim in unpopularity among the regular callers, a little extended family of the West Texas air waves.

Matt played mental games all day, but a favorite was memorizing the voices of as many callers as possible. He tolerated with discomfort the endless hype about local Christmas events and goings on at Texas Tech. When the hosts were in some type of aimless, air-filling chatter, Matt would call in with a question, joke, or comment and often attempt to direct the show. A certain Law of Diminishing Returns had set in. His calls were less frequent.

Matt’s favorite bit was appearing to agree with the attacks on Liberal Tim. The talk shows of a morning became fodder for the poker game discussions in the afternoon which they resembled. You can’t change the dial in a poker game.

When Matt finally grabbed a little air time, he said, Tim’s off his meds again this morning. Tell Tim to Lubbock or Leave It. There is no fence around town. If you don’t like it here, leave. Adios, you will not be missed. Don’t let the doorknob hit you in the butt.

Matt hoped that Cornbread, Dagwood. and other members of the poker community were listening. He knew Tim would relish any mention of his name, yea or nay.

Now this here is an absolute historical fact about Lubbock. It used to be that everybody was a yellow-dog Democrat. All the office holders and most folks were Democrats in these parts. Then Liberal Tim starts telling everybody that he is a Democrat. The whole county switched parties. A Democrat wouldn’t have the chance of a butterfly in a tornado around Lubbock, Matt said

Matt always sat in the window staring at the sky while he ate a power breakfast of oatmeal, walnuts, yogurt, and grape juice. He was afraid of his very own heart. Matt watered his lone ivy plant. The decision of whether or not to play poker that day began its eternal, internal debate. Most of Matt’s life he had to do something to bring in some cash. He was too nervous to steal and too lazy to work, so he became a gambler. Only now his father had left him an annuity of $3,000 per month for life, no more, no less. A spendthrift trust. For the last two years, this money had miraculously flowed automatically into his Wells Fargo checking account each month. Years of ups and downs and being rich or broke and never really knowing whether he’d be on a winning streak or a losing streak were over. Matt was still getting used to it. The days of not knowing where his next meal was coming from were far from a romantic adventure. As everybody in West Texas knows, a broke man stinks.

The talk radio callers were talking about Texas Tech in the Cotton Bowl, the Toys for Tots Drive, Coach Knight’s son, the hated liberal media, and home remedies. A lady advocated putting Aqua Velva cologne in your ears in the winter. Three callers had tips about using vinegar. One man said you should urinate on your feet in the shower to prevent athlete’s feet and make your toe nails shiny. A frantic woman had lost a just groomed black poodle near the Mall. A Vet of World War II told of his battles in the South Pacific and, still angry, said, Mac-Arthur let us down.

A fellow said you can wash your gimmee hats in