Ace - Deuce: The Life and Times of a Gambling Man

By J.E. Anderson

The theme of this book is a Tour de Noir of a gamblers life. Written in the third person, it describes the successes and eventual downfall of a young hustler. The book extensively describes gambling situations, cheating moves, scams against casinos and casino methods of cheating players. Heretofore unpublished, and possibly unknown even to law enforcement, are the conspiracies and actions of notorious Nevada cheating crews. Gambling on golf, backgammon, gin rummy and poker, and methods employed to take advantage of opponents, are extensively discussed.
The early chapters are moments in present time followed by reflection of the protagonist on his past and maturation, development of an exculpatory personal philosophy, love interest (explicit sex) and sexual encounters. His interactions with the Mafia, famous gamblers like Titanic Thompson, and present day high-rollers are authentic. Throughout his adventures the humor and irony in life situations are captures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463424039

J.E. Anderson

Mr. Anderson went to Las Vegas in 1958 to shoot some dice. He got broke, went to work as a dealer, became a floor man, pit-boss, Casino Manager, and eventually a Casino Consultant. During the same time period he played poker, golf, and any game you could gamble on. A few lapses in judgment, described in the book Ace-Deuce, led to his becoming an author rather than a player.

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Ace-Deuce

The Life & Times of a Gambling Man

J.E. Anderson

SKU-000419200_TEXT.pdf

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© 2011 by J.E. Anderson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 08/10/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4634-2401-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-2402-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-2403-9 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011910056

Printed in the United States of America

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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. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

FOREWORD

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

FOREWORD   

This narrative may be seen as a Tour de Noir of the gambling life; as a treatise on protection for the novice gambler, a primer for the aspiring casino floorman or as a workshop for those foolish enough to take the risks.

Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely intentional. With the exception of a slight distortion of time, and sometimes locale, all the events in this book are true, did happen, and probably are happening as you read this. Some names have been changed to protect those whose livelihood would be threatened, or to avoid any retribution or embarrassment to others.

There are no heroes or heroines and possibly no villains.

Choosing is absurd because there is no choice.

Hui-Neng, 6th Patriarch, around 680 AD

1   

ACE-DEUCE

Lake Tahoe, Nevada—South Shore: 1963

Over the cacophony of bells, whistles, the chunka-chunka sound of silver money falling into the hoppers of hundreds of slot machines, the rock band blaring in the lounge, Dog’s bark of, Come on Eleven!, was Ryan’s command. Ryan leaned over the craps table rail and awkwardly spilled a stack of $25 chips into the field. He had also bet $25 on eleven and $25 on twelve.

Dog’s laid-back style changed when he shot dice. He hollered and screamed for whatever number he needed and threw the dice so hard they ricocheted around the table, knocking over bets and painfully hitting the dealer’s hands. Dealers and boxmen, the supervisors sitting on the game, hate this kind of shooter, but the players love them, thinking that a little passion influences the outcome of the roll. Often, when Dog had the dice he would throw one or both dice completely off the table, stopping the game until they had been found and examined by the boxman. If dice were lost in this manner, the stickman would offer the shooter a selection of new dice from the dice bowl he kept in front of him. The bowl usually contained five or six dice.

Johnny V. Was playing on the end of the craps table opposite Dog when, on an earlier turn, Dog had demonstrated his lack of control. After a futile search by the players and the watching floorman for one lost die, the game continued. A few minutes later, Johnny V. moved from his end of the table to a position next to Ryan, bringing with him a rum and coke in a rock glass.

He commented to Ryan, You could get killed down there. This officed Ryan that Johnny V. had accomplished his part of the play. As the boxman’s eyes followed the next roll, Johnny stuck two fingers in his rum and coke and extracted the lost die. Dropping it into Ryan’s jacket pocket, he casually headed for the exit and the parking lot. He would be waiting with the car at the exit closest to the craps table, just in case this turned into a runner.

As Dog exclaimed, Come on eleven! he picked up the two dice offered by the stickman with one hand and tossed two $1 chips into the middle of the craps layout with the other hand. As the boxman and stickman scrambled for the caroming chips, Dog locked up one die between his third finger and palm and shot the other with blurring speed. Ryan had moved the die from his jacket pocket and held it under the stack of chips he was about to place in the field, the six on the die facing up. As Dog shot the other die, Ryan dropped the chips into the field and loudly exclaimed, Ow! Damn! instantly flinging up his hand and spilling the stack of chips, exposing the die which had apparently hit his hand. The die showed a six. As the other bouncing die came to rest on a two, and the stickman chanted, Eight, easy eight, take the field! Ryan shook his head and headed for the exit, glancing at the floorman who had taken an instinctive step toward the action. The floorman’s face reflected a What the hell was that? look.

A few minutes later, Dog met Ryan outside the casino exit. If the play had been successful, Dog would have been picked up elsewhere so they wouldn’t be seen together. As Johnny V. pulled up in the car, a tall, official-looking guy came hurrying from the casino door.

Ryan! Hold on! What’s happening, pardna’? he shouted to get Ryan’s attention. His face had a smartass, aggressive look as he approached Ryan.

Christ! It’s Max Kelly from Vegas, Ryan whispered to Dog as he nudged Dog toward the car and turned to meet Max, not sure what to expect.

Ryan had been exposed to Kelly at the Nevada Club on Fremont Street in Las Vegas, where Kelly had been a boxman. Ryan had been asked to leave the Fremont Street casino for being too lucky. Apparently, Max was now working for Harvey’s Wagon Wheel, one of the half dozen casinos at the south shore of Lake Tahoe.

Max hesitated before asking, How did you do at craps?

Got busted again. I just can’t keep from playing.

Ryan wanted to give Kelly some sucker conversation.

Max looked quizzical. You want to come in and have a drink? Something to eat?

Ryan could feel it: Max now had a conspiratorial look in his eye. He wanted a piece of whatever he thought Ryan might do next.

No thanks, Max, maybe next time.

Max continued. Sorry you went broke, but take some advice: no next time until you talk to me. I’m working the eye, and your picture’s in the book. If I see you, I’m supposed to eighty-six you.

Ryan knew that Kelly hadn’t made the dice move from the eye, he only surmised that if Ryan played, something might be going down.

OK Max, next time we’ll talk. I appreciate your warning.

Max looked impatient. Meet me when I get off and we’ll discuss it… maybe work something out.

Thanks for telling me about The Book. It’s bullshit—only association—but probably will cause me a lot of problems.

No way, Ryan thought, would I give this asshole a piece of any action. He probably has a 21 dealer he’s shacked up with and wants me to turn her out by teaching her how to shove off some money, and maybe walk me into a trap at the same time.He’ll get a third of the money for protection—the umbrella that he’ll promose—but when the heat comes, forget it. The 21 dealer and I go down and he gets to be a big man for picking up the scam.

I’ll catch you next trip, Max. I’m headed for Reno now. If Ryan could aavoid Max knowing he was staying on the North Shore, so much the better. Ryan also thought, No way can I have Max meet Dog or Johnny V. They’re so hungry they would go for anything Max proposed.

The Griffith Book was a problem. It was put out by an ex-Las Vegas cop who had started a casino security company and found a way to scam the casinos. The paranoia of casinos toward cheaters was not unfounded. They could be had from the inside or the outside. Griffith had found their Achilles heel. They wanted protection, but only thieves and old cross-roaders had the knowledge to stop any scam. Of course, they were dangerous to put on the payroll. Therefore, Griffith’s book, which contained pictures of suspected cheats, associates (even family), and many totally innocent tourists, was touted to the casinos. Griffith had hired a few ex-cops, snitches and burned out hustlers, who he peddled as walk around security. These people spent most of their time whispering into uneducated, but ambitious, pit bosses’ ears about the threat of carnivorous crews about to swoop down on their poor casino.

Instead of the casinos training their floor personnel to be aware of current and old cheating moves, they were gullible enough to buy Griffith’s pictures and gossip of cheating gangs running around the state. The owners and operators themselves were mostly ignorant of anything except how to beat any player who threatened their bankrolls. Before corporations took over the business, almost every casino had a few mechanics who could stop a lucky blackjack player or put out a fire on a craps table.

When Griffith couldn’t find anybody to put a cheating jacket on, he spent his time harassing the hookers. A mistake. A lot of the girls were connected to pit bosses or owners, or high-rollers who had juice. Many times Griffith was told to mind his own business, even to stay out of the casino; sometimes, because an owner or pit boss had an inside-outside crew redistributing the wealth, preventing the money going through the counting room where the IRS might want a piece. Many a small casino investor was busted out this way, if not by creative bookkeeping. But they still bought Griffith’s book, and paid for his faces.

Ryan was in the book for, Association with known cheater, though no one he had been known to associate with ever was convicted of anything. Usually, Las Vegans had the attitude, Do what you want, just don’t do it to me. But even in Las Vegas, living beyond your apparent means attracted attention. And sometimes, even Las Vegas was a small town, if you were local.

After walking twenty or thirty yards from the casino entrance, Ryan turned and waved at Johnny V. to pull the car up. Kelly had gone back to the casino.

Johnny V. was screaming, What the fuck happened? That was our case money!

In his laconic, basset hound manner, Dog had only told Johnny V., Ace-Deuce, which in the gambling business connotes losing or crapping out.

Johnny V. was five feet three, had a cherubic face with a cute, boyish smile, but inside he was a combination of Hitler, Napoleon, his heritage—Italian, with a little Ma Barker mixed in. He wanted to dominate any situation and would always second-guess anytime he was not in control. He had wanted to be the one to lay down the six in the field. He had plenty of balls, but not too long a life expectancy as a casino cheat. Diplomatically, Ryan had explained his part to him. You find the lost die and sneak it to me. I put it down. Ryan was six feet tall. It was his play. That ended the discussion. Ryan was compassionate enough not to tell Johnny V. the reason he couldn’t put the die down was that he was too short to lean over the craps table rail and reach the field. Ryan realized Johnny V. felt taller than five feet three.

They pulled out of Harvey’s and turned onto the state highway leading to North Shore. On the other side of the lake, at that state line, gambling casinos also proliferated, but on a smaller scale. Ryan said, Pull over, Johnny, and let Dog drive. I’ll tell you about the play. Johnny V. had adjusted the seat up against the glove compartment. He was also liable to hit a deer on the circuitous drive through the dense pine forest that came down the slopes to meet the lake. Besides, Ryan’s knees were jammed into his chest.

The proposition had been Ryan’s. It was a cowboy move that most hustlers would never consider trying, but the ride over from the North Shore had bored him, and the insistence of Johnny V. to try to make a little score had broken him down. Ryan had explained the play was not a cinch. They killed the six and won if the other die came up on a three, four, five, or six; but lost their money if a one or a two showed. They were two to one favorites. Plus, they would receive a bonus if the roll was an eleven or twelve. A good proposition, but not a lock.

Coming over, Johnny V. had not even hesitated. He had whipped out his case two hundred and was figuring out what they would cut up when twelve hit. $400 in the field and $25 on eleven and twelve; $50 to Dog to play with while he waited to get the dice out; shit, not bad. $400 times three in the field—a take down of sixteen hundred, plus $750 for twelve one roll—equaling $2350. Dog put up a hundred, and Ryan the other two. Cut three ways, the score would be almost eight hundred apiece. But for Johnny V., the money was not really where it was at. Beating one of these joints was the turn-on.

While driving around the lake to the South Shore, Dog had been hitting on some good, home grown herb he had acquired, and he couldn’t care less what they did. He knew that the South Shore had mucho good-looking girls; young college kids working the hotels and casinos during the summer season of June first to the end of August, outnumbering the men three or four to one. Not that he had any problems anyway. At six foot two, with wavy black hair, a natural tan and soulful hound dog eyes, girls were never a problem. Staying straight was the only problem. He knew his part in the scam could draw some heat, but what the hell, if Ryan said, Let’s go, he was in.

After cooling Johnny V. down, who still insisted the two would not have come up if he had shot the dice, Ryan had a new suggestion.

Let’s stop at Gus’s and have a drink.

Down the road from Harvey’s on the right, just up and across from the new Edgewater Golf Course, was a small casino owned by a Greek named Gus. Gus was reputedly a half-ass tough guy with some bad affiliations. He had about twenty or thirty slots, two blackjack games and a roulette. Nobody, except a few little old white haired ladies ever cashed out at Gus’s. Even they would be intimidated into putting back the nickels from their slot winnings if Gus frowned at them.

As they pulled into the parking lot, Ryan told Dog, Park the car facing the highway.

Alright! said Johnny V.

Ryan looked at Dog. We’ll go to the bar and case the play. If I can get down, watch my back. I don’t want to fight my way out if Gus gets excited.

Looking at Johnny V. No tequila!

Johnny V. didn’t like to be told what to drink but he bit his tongue. He knew that his past behavior on tequila was suspect. However, he couldn’t help one, Fuck you!

Cool it, Ryan said. If we’re lucky, maybe I can cheer you up.

The insalubrious smell of cigarette smoke, stinking ashtrays, perfume turned sour on the little old, white-haired ladies who were sweating out their departed spouse’s life savings, combined with the flashing lights and constant din of slot handles being pulled and coins dropping, seemed to condense the relatively small casino space. Obviously, a fun and exciting place.

Ryan led the crew to the small six stool bar. A good-looking redhead wearing a green, satin cowgirl blouse smiled and said, Howdy, boys.

Dog said, Coors with a schnapps back.

Cutty and water, Johnny smiled.

Still standing, Ryan said, Courvesier straight up.

Ryan watched the bar lady do her tendering until she became aware of his attention.

Gus around? he asked.

The employee badge pinned to her tight, satin, cowgirl shirt said, Hi, I’m Madge. As she looked at Ryan, Madge licked her bottom lip and her badge seemed to extend up and out. Across from the badge a small bulge appeared on her tight blouse.

Shit, Johnny V. thought. Fucking Ryan does it to them every time.

Ryan was just six feel tall, slim, with hair somewhere between blond and premature grey, combed straight back except for a small curl that fell not quite to one eyebrow. His eyebrows were arched and seemed to give a slightly devilish look to the blue eyes and not quite simpatico mouth. His nose had suffered the repercussions of his sardonic wit. There was a synergism. The black, Italian silk shirt and fawn, tailored suede jacket were just what Madge was looking for; a look that had style and implied money.

Gus is out, but I’m the manager when he’s not here. Can I help you?

A friend of mine said to say hello to Gus. We’re from San Francisco, and my friend is a Teamster boss there. Ryan knew that there was a Teamster loan on the place and, if Gus came in, he would have a problem rousting anyone connected to the Teamster power. For sure, Madge would let him know.

Maybe we’ll give you a little play. What’s the limit on the twenty-one and the wheel?

Ryan knew that the place had a low limit. $200 on the blackjack and a $400 payoff on the wheel. Gus ran a grind joint and didn’t want anybody to play that could hurt him. Just in case, Ryan had seen there was a woman named Polly, fiftyish, on one of the blackjack games, whose husband Ryan knew. Polly had been busting out blackjack suckers for years. Her husband, Ray, had finally picked up too much heat to work anymore; one of the few in the Griffith book who was for real. Ryan didn’t want to compromise Polly and avoided the table where she was working over the ladies auxiliary.

Madge recited the house limit, then saying, Maybe, if Gus comes in, he’ll let you play higher.

Figures, Ryan thought. We can play higher if Gus thinks we’ll stand still for a deuce being dealt to us.

Madge hadn’t collected yet for the cocktails. Dog pointed to his money on the bar and Ryan pulled a small roll of hundreds, held by a rubber band, from his jacket pocket.

Hey, this is on me. Madge was casing Ryan’s bankroll.

Ryan, I’d like to buy you the next one, maybe when you get off? The badge extended even further out. Johnny V. finished his scotch in one gulp. Dog looked like a mastiff with a new bone.

Peripherally, Ryan had been watching the roulette table. The lady croupier’s back was to the bar, but he could see most of the game. What looked like a cowboy and his girl were splashing around a few $.25 chips from the front of the layout across from the dealer. The couple’s play was so repetitively boring that the lady dealer was almost nodding off. The wheel head was barely moving. As the dealer reached for the roulette ball, and lethargically placed it on the track for the next roll, Ryan casually left the bar and sat down at the end of the nearby roulette layout. The dealer’s back was to him as she completed the spin of the ball and returned her gaze to somewhere out there. As the ball slowed and dropped into the slow-moving wheel head, Ryan placed $200 just on the edge of the layout nearest him. A small box that read two for one was half covered by the money. When the dealer heard the ball drop into the numbered slot on the wheel, she glanced at the number and reached out for the cowboy’s chips. This caused her to see Ryan and the $200 on the end of the table.

Startled, change! she loudly exclaimed.

Ryan grabbed her hand as she reached for the two bills.

Hold it! he demanded. That was a bet!

Madge had naturally been checking to see where Ryan would play and headed out from behind the bar as the dealer started looking for some help.

What’s going on? Madge said as she reached the game.

Trying to cover her lack of earlier attention to the layout, the dealer declared, He wanted change, and now he’s claiming…

Ryan interrupted, I made a bet on the column and she’s trying to take my money!

Madge could see the $200 where Ryan had placed it half covering the third column box. A column is twelve numbers in a row running down the layout towards the zeroes at the end. There are three rows of twelve number each, paying two to one if a number comes up in that column.

Pay the lucky man, said Madge.

If Madge suspected Ryan made the bet after the ball had fallen, she didn’t want to risk losing a customer if she was wrong. Also, she expected him to keep playing.

The dealer paid $400 with a look that said, I’d like to cut off your balls.

With a smile, Ryan stacked up the chips and tossed the dealer $10. Thanks darling. A token of my appreciation—but I think you’re too tough for me. I’m going back to the bar.

Walking to the bar, Ryan saw Dog was gone and Johnny V. had his cute little smile in place. Ryan knew that Dog would be waiting outside with the engine running.

Madge had a speculative expression on her face and her chest had gone back to being a thirty-four. Ryan slid onto the bar stool. I’ll take that Courvoisier you offered.

As Madge reached for the cognac, Ryan continued, And cash me out, sweetheart.

Johnny V. said, And one quick shot of tequila, please.

Madge slid the Courvoisier bottle back onto the back bar and turned—her face beginning to match her red hair. She took Ryan’s chips to the register; the place was too small for a proper cashier’s cage. She snatched out $400.

Thinking, You asshole, she smiled. See you down the road, slick.

Ryan winked, picked up the money, and said, Let’s hitch it up Johnny. Madge has no sense of humor, and I guess we’ve missed Gus.

Pulling away from Gus’s, Ryan gave Dog and Johnny V. $130 apiece; $400 three ways, less the $10 toke.

Best I could do in a small town. At least we have drinking money.

Johnny V. said, Let’s go back and do it again.

Dog reached for the half joint he had left in the ashtray.

To eat is to survive to be hungry, guru Ryan.

Johnny V. liked to have the last word. I hate that Zen shit.

2   

ON THE ROAD: 1958

Crystal Bay, Nevada, is a village on the North Shore of Lake Tahoe. It is built on a hill which slopes steeply into California on one side and east into Nevada on the other, with the lake at its base. Leaving Crystal Bay is called Coming off the hill.

Ryan, with Johnny V. and Dog, had decided to take a drive to the South Shore, to come off the hill, on the spur of the moment. There had been no plans—except the sun, the lake, the overlooking peaks drew them to explore their summer surroundings. The lake was seasonal; now, after Memorial Day, was the start of the summer tourist rush. Winter skiers who came to the world-class slopes had traded their skis for sail boats. Lines of cars from the California Bay Area and Sacramento brought tourist dollars to the Nevada gambling casinos. There were also many who had cabins, lodges, expensive homes built into the pines surrounding Lake Tahoe.

Now it was night. The drive back to the North Shore would take over an hour, winding through the pines on a narrow road with an occasional glimpse of the moon on the lake. A total contrast to Ryan’s normal environment of casinos and hotel rooms.

A time to reflect. Ryan thought of the pool-room in Florida where he had matriculated; his curriculum being dice shooting and card playing, and some research and development on a pool stroke. He had soon run out of customers in the area he came from and had decided it was time to take his education on the road. Having read Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, heard Greely’s expression Go west young man, Barnum’s ode There’s a sucker born every day, coupled with his opacity for business, Ryan decided to follow the sun west. He had learned from his mother not to be prejudiced; he interpreted this to mean it was alright to take anyone’s money, regardless of race, color, or creed.

Ryan faced the challenge of the road with an oil guzzling Thunderbird he had won from a used-car lot owner playing 9-ball, a meager bank—roll, his pool-cue and golf clubs, and a dilapidated wardrobe stuffed into the Thunderbird trunk.

Working his way through small southern towns, sporadically finding action and building his bank-roll, getting almost broke in the backroom of a Louisiana roadhouse playing poker, Ryan polished his skills and discipline. He learned being the best was not where it was at; matching-up, being able to collect when you won, winning without antagonizing and losing your opponent, avoiding traps—intuition was often better than logic—learning to let his ego go before his bank-roll; these were the components of survival and success.

Ending up in Johnson City, Illinois, where once a year the country’s best pool players, hustlers, cross-roaders, the sporting men who enjoyed wagering on the resulting match-ups, and their ladies, met to showcase their talents, Ryan thought he was ready.

The Jansco brothers who owned the Johnson City Billiard Parlor promoted an annual billiard tournament and were enthusiastic supporters and referees of the various matches; straight pool, one-pocket, 9-ball and snooker were the tournament events. Any match-up that could be made outside the tournament was encouraged. They discouraged fighting, knife-cutting, and shooting, and if you got caught cheating, you were on your own.

Black mohair suits—alligator shoes; bib overalls—work boots with cow shit on the uppers; filling station attendants with oil slick caps, the grease of which might be applied to certain cards if a game came up; urban slicks from the big cities; some with style who would gamble—some who only looked for locks; those who played better under pressure—those who folded; players with their own bank-rolls and those looking for a stake-horse—if staked would they play or dump their backers? Many chameleons—the appearance of a doctor or banker one day, a hillbilly the next—or whatever. The entourages: some wives there for the long run, their children asleep in the motel rooms. Flashy groupies who loved winners and their bank-rolls—until their champions forced them to turn tricks when they got broke.

Ryan remembered Nicky Vach. Freezing the object ball to the middle of the end rail and placing the cue ball in the jaws of the opposite end pocket—daring anyone to bet he couldn’t cut it in.

He could still hear the braggadocious Texan hustling the quite black man.

Hey boy! Y’all don’t gamble git back to the cotton patch.

The black guy had turned a shade darker and mumbled, You be too good, boss! Po’ folk can’t fade y’all—but I’ll chance some money you give me the eight. (In 9-ball giving the weight means the opponent can win by pocketing either the eight or nine ball.) The Texan watched the black man shuffle towards the cue rack; that boy don’t even have a screw-together stick.

Ryan walked around watching the worlds best at work. He had a couople of beers with Weenie Beanie, who had busted him one time in Florida. Coming back to the toughest steer in Texas and the black man’s game, he now noticed they were playing even and there was less Texas steer shit in the air. Contemplatively Ryan watched the game; the Texan was steaming. Ryan knew the Texan couldn’t admit to himself this shuffling cotton picker had a chance. Ryan remembered, let your ego go before your bankroll.

Let’s step it up… I want some action. The Texan figured he could double up and catch up. He had talked Sambo into playing with no spot after the black guy had won a few lucky games to pull ahead; now he would bear down. They had started at $100 a game, surprising the Texan who figured the cotton chopper couldn’t afford that. Now stuck $1200, he didn’t like it—it wasn’t much money but he couldn’t stand losing to this apparent field hand. Ryan stepped up, I’ll bet a couple hundred a game just to pass time.

Ryan had escaped the Cajun trap in Louisiana in bad financial shape. A couple of small wins on the road to Johnson City had built his bank-roll to $2400 and change. He didn’t want to get hurt betting on the side but intuition pushed him to take the risk.

Looking at the black man, Ryan said, Do you mind?

Still shuffling, No sah boss, he walked over to Ryan. I’m from Los Angeles, my name’s Al… I’d like to have someone pulling for me… good Karma.

Ryan didn’t know what Karma was but he didn’t see any fear in the man’s eyes.

The Txan’s luck didn’t change. Al made the nine ball on the break a few times and the Texan dogged a few makeable shots. Ryan was up $3000 and Al another $1500. Big shot was stuck $5700 and hot.

My game’s a little off… I’ll try it some more but I need some weight. The word weight had a plaintive sound.

Reckon I need the eight if you want to keep playin’.

Al looked at him. Al’s demeanor had changed; no more cotton picker.

I’ll give you a chance to get even. You can have the eight, but let’s get it out of the dirt… I’ll play for $300. Ryan can do what he wants, Al said.

Al glanced at Ryan giving him a wink and an open hand on his chest—the universal sign for ‘OK.’

Ryan said, I’ll bet a nickel, meaning $500.

The Texan didn’t like that show of confidence but he knew with the eight ball spot he had the best of it—now he was gonna take these suckers off. Also a crowd had gathered and he couldn’t show any weakness in front of them.

Rack ’em up, he exclaimed as he chalked-up.

The Texan had started with $10,000 in his pocket which he had intended to flash and impress with, not lose. He had $4300 left of that money, and a half hour later none. Al hadn’t done any spectacular shooting but it seemed when he missed the Texan never had a shot.

I’m out of pocket change, boys… or I’d keep playin’. The Texan figured maybe he should go to the bar.

You’re sure running bad… if you can sell some cows real quick and come up with some serious money maybe I can think of a game you’ll like, said Al.

Sticking in the needle. reckon I could play jacked-up if you weren’t broke. (Jacked-up meant playing one handed, the cue held at its point of balance with no support on the rail; very difficult.)

The Texan couldn’t stand it—he had $50,000 he had put up with the brothers and no fucking nappy headed cotton picker could best him, especially one handed.

The Texan’s name was Cutter and he didn’t have many cows; but he had a lot of oil wells. Cutter would go to Las Vegas or the Caribbean and win or lose much more money than was involved here; but on the line was his pride, his desire to be recognized as a peer of these world class gamblers. He couldn’t accept that he was a minnow swimming with the sharks. The $10,000 was nothing; even the $50,000. The stubbornness that had brought in Texas oil where others had feared to drill drove him. He almost ran towards the office.

Al had headed for the men’s room to freshen up, Ryan following. Checking to make sure they were alone, Al said, You’ve made a nice score… want to back off?

It was a tough decision. Ryan had never seen a one handed player that could beat a decent two handed one; also, the $5500 he was ahead was serious money.

Al again, I appreciate the confidence you’ve shown in me. Not many white boys would take my side… not knowing me… especially in this environment.

Ryan silently thanked his mother for her liberal influence. Do you know what you’re doing? Or are you just trying to stick that redneck’s dick in the dirt?

Al said, Here’s what I feel… I don’t know if I can beat him, but I think he’ll beat himself.

Ryan remembered one of his lessons: sometimes you had to forget logic and trust intuition. Reaching for Al’s hand he said, Let’s bury that asshole!

Coming back to the table with his $50,000 in a large manilla envelope, the Texan felt confident. He was gonna find that boy’s choking point.

Ryan and Al had their own strategy. After a dialectic discussion they had decided to take a small profit; Ryan $1500 and Al $200, leaving $8000 they would put together. Ryan couldn’t have been more nervous if he was playing and he was pleased to lock-up $1500, intuition or not.

Cutter was going for the kill, Y’all got the belly for $2000?

Al looked dismayed, That be too high for a po’ black man. He was in his Amos and Andy act again, Ryan thought. But gimme the first break and I’ll try ’er.

Al jacked up his cue and stabbed at the rack, just skimming the one ball and nearly scratching, barely separating the balls. Cutter had no shot and missed an attempt at hitting