Jack of Hearts: A Love Affair with Poker.

By M. Richardson

Jaqueline Bridge, a croupier in a cheap casino dreams of becoming a professional poker player.

This is her only desire until she meets a handsome and successful poker pro and she finds herself going head to head with him.

In cards and in love Jaqueline is wary of betting big – but this one could be a winner, unless he’s bluffing?

Everything comes to a head, on the final card at the biggest game of her life in fabulous Las Vegas.

Is he bluffing? Does she go all in?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jul 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781984595126

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The rank of winning poker hands begins with the High Card.

It’s the lowest, meanest, poorest, loneliest way of winning a pot, it’s the when all else fails way of winning at poker.

When no-one is able to make a pair (let alone a better hand) the player with the highest card will be deemed the winner. The most basic poker player knows that a high card – even if it is an ace - is a very weak, lonely hand and hardly ever wins anything on its own.

A Guide to Hands in Poker and their

Probability by S G Baron

The scent and hum and thick air of a casino are sickening at three am and Jaqueline Bridge knew that she had another three hours to go before she could get out. As she dealt out the cards at the blackjack table, her fixed smile remained set and she wondered for the millionth time if she’d ever get out from under this job and be the one sitting on the other side of the table, playing not blackjack but poker, as a professional card player. She didn’t blink when the young guy at the table spilt his pair of kings (a page one error in Blackjack for Dummies) and dutifully dealt him a couple of fresh cards, one to each king; giving him 14 on one hand and 17 on the other. He took a card on the 14 (busting with 22) and stuck on the 17. Jaqueline had a nine showing and turned over a queen,

Nineteen. Dealer wins, she said, without emotion.

Oohh, you lucky…. said the man, letting his voice trail away and waggling his jaw to himself. Jaqueline didn’t feel particularly lucky as she collected in the spent cards and swept the chips away from the players. It wasn’t the fact that the money she’d won wasn’t going into her pocket, it was the fact that she’d taken this job as a short term solution to her (lack of finances) financial problems, thinking that within six months she’d have earned enough money and gained enough experience to be playing cards (and keeping the winnings) for a living. That was 18 months ago, and she was still dealing the £5/£10 table in Toni’s Casino in the middle of the night. At least the hours didn’t bother her. It wasn’t as if she had a boyfriend waiting at home, and when she wasn’t working, she was barely able to afford to go out. Plus, with most of her girlfriends happily married and / or babied-up, she had fewer and fewer invitations to head out on the town anyway.

The guy who’d split his kings made blackjack on the next hand and slapped the table with joy, See! See that! he crowed, "That’s how you play this game!" His friends around him slapped his back and applauded his win, and Jaqueline stacked his winnings next to his stake. She smiled benignly as casino etiquette dictated, and the guy winked at her with the smuggest grin stretched between his ears.

That’s the way you do it he proclaimed, directing his comments to the table but keeping his eyes on Jaqueline. Her face was a veneer of politeness, and anyone looking at her with her silly but spotless croupier uniform and her long red hair tied back in a sensible ponytail, would never have guessed that inside she was rolling her eyes to heaven at the thought that this guy should take credit for getting the cards he was dealt. As if all his suppressed skill had summoned a blackjack by the force of sheer talent, as opposed to the cards just coming out that way, as they had a 5% chance of doing.

Jaqueline didn’t hate blackjack, but she knew that there was a lot less skill involved in trying to make 21 than there was in an opening call in poker. The guy at the table piled his chips in front of him and declared that he was on a roll and felt like he couldn’t lose.

Good for you, thought Jaqueline sardonically.

Jaqueline dutifully dealt out two cards for him and a single card for herself. Dealing blackjack reminded her of how she’d first fallen in love with cards when she was a little girl. Back then, Sunday afternoons were always about big roast dinners with family sprawling around the house and trying to squeeze around the dining room table, squashed together on unmatched chairs. After the meal, her father, uncles and both granddads would take over the dining table, where a pack of old playing cards would replace the roast potatoes, ashtrays would replace the plates; and handfuls of coins would replace the cutlery. The women headed off to the kitchen to do the dishes, but Jaqueline always complained to her mother that she wanted to stay and play the games. Her mother (probably quite accurately) thought she was trying to get out of drying dishes and shooed her into the kitchen.

Under the ceaseless glow of the casino lights Jaqueline dealt out the cards, turning over a six of hearts to herself and giving the on a roll player a seven of diamonds and an eight of clubs, Fifteen, said Jaqueline and looked at the man at the table, Hit me he said.

She dealt him a nine. Too many, she said and took in his cards and his chips. He grimaced at her, his bravado and smiles all dried up.

Someone’s pinched my luck, he grumbled. Jaqueline had to stop herself from telling him he had no-one but himself to blame, taking a card on fifteen when the dealer was showing a six. Instead she smiled and continued to mechanically deal the cards…

It usually didn’t take long before her complaining wore her mother down, and after a token amount of dishes had been dried she was permitted to run out of the kitchen and clamber up onto her father’s knee, where (provided she sat quietly and didn’t fidget) she was allowed to watch the games of pontoon, newmarket and poker progress…

Eleven! shrieked the man at the table, and grinning as if he had a huge hinge across his head he announced, Doubling down. As he put the same amount of chips down next to his stack, Jaqueline turned over a six, giving him 17 and then turned over her own hole (facedown) card, Dealer has 18 she said without emotion. The man growled something under his breath and looked at Jaqueline as if she’d robbed him. He soon regained his composure, however, and plonked an even bigger stack of chips down in front of him, Surely you deserve to lose ’round about now. he sneered.

This didn’t bother Jaqueline. There were plenty of customers in the casino who thought they were playing against the croupier, and that it was personal, when in fact she was just a part of the machinery, like the cogs in a fruit machine. Casinos had long ago perfected the rules for dealing blackjack, and they dictated that the dealer has to take a card if they have a hand totalling fewer than 17 and stand on anything higher than a 16. This meant that even if she wanted to, she couldn’t compete against the customers. There were no tactics and no choices for her to make, she was just a dealing machine rather than an actual player. All her job really entailed was simple maths and not mucking the cards. Not that she’d fancy playing against this guy. At anything. He was a typical 3am casino bore, convinced that he had a divine right to win hands, cursing the cards when they didn’t do his bidding, and vaulting his own guile and skill when the cards fell for him.

Jaqueline knew, as any decent card player should know, that card games are all about probabilities and percentages. Luck belongs in the lottery. This was why she wasn’t a big fan of blackjack, there was very little actual skill involved (unless you counted cards and even then, when you knew that the odds were in your favour, the win percentage was never that high).

Her family’s Sunday afternoon card games had focused on the human side of the games, the shame-faced bluff and the audacious raise and the good-natured banter amongst her relations. After countless afternoons watching the grownups play, she decided, as children always do, that she could play as well as any of them. Knowing that when a game was underway was the wrong time to bother her father with such a request, she caught him when he came home on Friday night (Saturday left too little time if she needed to work on him). After the traditional welcome-home hugs and kisses she began talking about how much fun the men seemed to be having with the cards and how, as she was now 7 and ¾, she was clearly mature enough to join them. To begin with her father laughed, but when he saw the terribly sombre look on her face, he smiled his winning smile and offered her a wager. They’d play Pontoon that very evening and if she won, she could join the grownups on Sunday. If not, she’d dry ALL the dishes after Sunday lunch. She agreed in an instant (she’d been able to count to 21 (and beyond) for ages now). Her mother was out on her Friday night bingo pilgrimage so, after a sumptuous dinner of beans on toast, Jaqueline and her father sat down with two packets of matches and one pack of cards. On Jaqueline’s insistence, her father had also laid the traditional green felt tablecloth that was brought out every Sunday on the table-top to do things properly. They’d started slowly, her father was unsure of how serious she was taking it all, but after a few sensible hands (and a few lucky cards) Jaqueline proved that she was indeed serious, and keen to beat him. Time ticked by.

Jaqueline sat in her pajamas nursing some orange squash with a biscuit, as her father sat in his work clothes, drinking a mug of tea, and the stacks of matchsticks grew and shrank in a reasonably fair exchange. Jaqueline’s father kept his matches in a jumble pile in front of him, while she kept hers in neat rows of ten. Jaqueline wasn’t aware of the time until her father suddenly exclaimed It’s half ten! Way past your bedtime young lady, quick off to bed.

But we’re not finished, complained Jaqueline, and besides I’m not even tired.

Tired or not your mother will skin me alive, if she gets home and you’re not in bed. Now go and brush your teeth.

But what about the game?

How about we pick it up again next week? I’ve had fun, haven’t you?

But what about Sunday? Can I play? shrilled an indignant Jaqueline.

We had a deal. You had to win all my matches before you could play.

But that’s not fair! We didn’t finish! YOU didn’t let me finish.

Sorry kiddo, at least you don’t have to dry all the dishes on Sunday. Now, off to bed.

But…

No buts, bed.

Jaqueline jumped down from her seat, making every attempt to make as loud a clump as she possibly could in her bunny rabbit slippers, and then a thought struck her.

One hand! she said. One last hand…for everything.

Her father looked at her steadily, and said You mean all in?

I mean all of my matches against all of yours and if I win, I win.

And if you don’t, it’s the Sunday dishes.

Yes, said Jaqueline suddenly feeling taller and older and convinced that she would win the next hand.

OK, said her father one hand, all in, for a seat at the Sunday card game.

They ceremoniously piled all their matches into the centre of the table and her father dealt the cards. She received the eight of diamonds, and the seven of spades, her father had two queens. Sorry kiddo I think it’s dishes for you on Sunday.

Jaqueline chewed her lip and stared at her cards. Seven and eight kept adding up to 15, no matter how many times she tried to make them add up to something else. She had to try and beat her father’s 20, but anything over a six would be too many. She paused, and then jumped off her chair, closed her eyes and turned around on the spot three times. For luck! she announced to her father, who was grinning from ear to ear.

Well maybe you better do it twice; you’ll need lots of luck to beat my 20. he said.

This time holding her breath, Jaqueline closed her eyes tight, and steadily turned around on the spot once, twice, three times. And then sat back in her seat, with her back perfectly straight.

Very well, said her father and turned over a card for her. It was a six! Jaqueline squealed with delight, and barely noticed when her father dealt himself a four, busting on 24. I can play? Jaqueline said with sparkling eyes looking up at her father.

Yes, you won didn’t you.

I did, I did, I did she said, I needed to beat your 20 and I got a six, and that makes 21 and you had a 20 and then I got 21, and I beat you, and I won and I get all the matches and I get to play on Sunday.

You did indeed, very well played Jaqueline. Now bed, before your mum comes home.

Jaqueline hugged her father goodnight, positively bounced up the stairs and brushed all her teeth before jumping into bed. Despite the fact she was convinced that she would never fall asleep before Sunday, she was gently snoring before her mother came home from bingo, just five minutes later.

Her memory of that night, over twenty years ago, was where Jaqueline always returned whenever she questioned (as she seemed to do more and more often these days) her reasons for wanting to make her living playing cards. In those twenty plus years, she’d grown up, been through college (where she honed her card skills at friendly games with other students), got a job, lost a job, and finally found herself approaching thirty with one failed career and a bunch of failed relationship behind her. Now she sat on the wrong side of the table dealing cards on behalf of a less-than-elegant casino. Sometimes she felt that her entire life was shaping up to be a busted flush. The only constant throughout those last twenty years had been poker. She’d played at least once a week when she was a student and had kept her hand in when she’d had a proper job, as a PA in a small company. The company, and the job, lasted long enough to clear her university debts, but nowhere near long enough to build up a bank roll that would let her concentrate on poker full time.

Even though it was meant to be a temporary job, a means to an end rather than a career, she still felt like a failure. Jaqueline had quickly found out that if you want to make a living playing poker, you need to have the cash to make it work. It wasn’t just that you needed to have sufficient on you to be allowed to join a game, you also had to have enough to absorb the dreaded bad-beats, those occasions where you played your hand perfectly but ended up losing anyway. Bad-beats happened to even the best players and the most seasoned pros, but they had the finances and good grace to accept these things as part of poker’s rich tapestry. They had the money to ride out bad beats and wouldn’t be forced to live on tins of Soup 4 One for a week. Jaqueline lost almost all of her redundancy pay on such a hand when her two pair had been beaten by a fat idiot who made three fours on the final communal card, when he should have folded long ago. He made it worse by saying, No hard feelings darlin’, with a self-righteous grin plastered all over his pudgy face. She’d wanted to slap him.

After that, Jaqueline had to start from scratch. She took this job at Toni’s to keep the bank manager happy, and slowly built her bankroll back up in cheaper games, and the $5 / $10 tables in online poker sites. She thought she was pretty good, she won more than she lost, but she wasn’t quite ready (financially) to quit this job and not quite ready (ability-wise) to turn poker pro, not yet, in her opinion.

Jaqueline! Jaqueline! she was snapped out of her reverie to find Tony her boss, at her elbow, Swap with James, he whispered urgently, we need you on a different table.

Despite the fact the casino was spelt Toni’s, Tony the person was with a Y. The substitution of an I (to seem more continental) had originally struck Jaqueline as cute when she’d started this job, but now seemed as fake and lifeless as the plastic pot plants deposited around the room.

Jaqueline, all smiles, nodded to the customers, and stepped away from the table. Another croupier, James, took her place with his own fixed smile already in place, and his well-practiced table repartee already running, Evening gents, or should we say morning… and then she found herself being dragged through the casino by the arm by Tony, who had a thick grip that belied his diminutive statue. Even with the shoe lifts (that he thought no one knew about) Tony still only came up to Jaqueline’s chin. We need you in the private room, quick! he hissed.

OK, ok, I’m coming, you don’t have to drag me.

He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. We’ve got a big fish in tonight, for a private game. Specifically requested a female dealer.

Fine, I’m happy to deal poker, said Jaqueline.

I had Suzanne lined up to do it, y’know, Suzanne? Yes, she knew Suzanne. Suzanne, with her pneumatic breasts and cheap bright fake nails, coy flirting and her habit of wearing uniforms just ½ a size too small. Unsurprisingly a big hit with a lot of the casino’s male high rollers. Suzanne usually got to croupier the bigger games, and therefore the choicest tips. Without waiting for her to answer, Tony continued his rambled explanation, Suzanne usually deals these tables, but she’s called in sick. I’ll sack her. I swear on my life, I’ll sack her this time. Jaqueline ignored him. Tony threatened to sack Suzanne at least twice a month. I could have had James or Brian deal the table, they’re the usual poker croupiers, and they’re good with the customers. But they’re not girls. God, why couldn’t James be a girl?

I’m sure I can manage, said Jaqueline. Outwardly, she maintained her professional composure, but inside she danced a little jig, mentally thanking her stars that Suzanne had finally mistimed one of her migraines (aka Hot Dates). And at last, Jaqueline was getting a break from the bores at the blackjack tables.

You’ll have to do Tony said, continuing his march through the casino without paying any attention to her.

Gee thanks, said Jaqueline, but her sarcasm was lost on Tony and his hurry to get the Big Fish’s table staffed.

Don’t mess up! he hissed at her, before finally leading her into the side room reserved for private card games. Gentlemen, boomed Tony, in what he thought was his customer friendly voice. "This is the lovely Jax. She will be your dealer tonight. Now, I’ll leave you in her capable hands. With that, Tony slinked away from the room, barely concealing his desperation that the Gentlemen" would continue to patronise his casino. Jaqueline took up her position behind the table, expertly split the seal on a fresh pack and began shuffling the playing cards.

Around the table there sat a different calibre of player compared to the casino’s main room. These were the Big Fish. The guys at the blackjack tables were weekend warriors, hopped up on payday drinking, stimulated by loud talk and their selective memories of games won. The people around this table were the real deal, the serious mercenaries, who played for real money. These were the players that Jaqueline wanted to emulate. She’d only been in on one Big Fish game before, and on that night she had been restricted to fixing drinks in the bar in the corner while Suzanne and her chest dealt to the Fish. Jaqueline always liked to imagine these rooms and these games as the Casino Royale type of affair where fortunes were passed back and forth as the players competed in high stakes games. Poker as war masquerading as sport.

Looking around the table, Jaqueline tried to mentally work out who was what. In almost all of her how to play poker books, the authors insisted that you play the player, not the cards and as her fingers danced effortlessly with the deck of vinyl-finished cards, she tried to get the measure of the assembled fish. Typically, they were all men. Women poker players did exist, and some even made an impressive living from the game, but they were rarely found in Toni’s. Jaqueline herself had a picture of Liv Boeree, looking all cool sexy and confident, torn from a page of a poker magazine that she kept on the wall above her computer. When she played online she often looked up and wondered, What would you do?

Liv had said in an interview that for a woman to break into the poker world was as tricky as flopping a full house, as the men at the tables either felt threatened by a female on their side of the table, or would think she’d stumbled in on them by accident, and would demean and patronise her at every opportunity. The next problem, if a woman had the audacity to actually win a game (or, heaven forbid, a tournament) was the accusations that she’d been working her womanly wiles at the table and had distracted the guys with her cleavage, or by fluttering her eyelashes when she was trying to bluff. Jaqueline wasn’t saying that men were bad losers, but…

Poker was indeed a man’s game, but that didn’t stop Jaqueline wanting to break into it.

With one exception, the men at the table were all over 40, and most were over 50. The youngest was an orange-tanned man of about 30, in a shiny suit so sharp it looked like the creases could cut you. He also sported a ridiculously thin moustache and a pair of be-jewelled and wrap-around sunglasses. Some players liked to hide their eyes behind shades, but Jaqueline couldn’t get past the idea that you were wearing sunglasses indoors. The older men all wore suits. Nice, sensible, dark suits, with heavy, expensive-looking watches and signet rings. The men all ignored her, content to ruffle their chips and try to read their opponents, which was exactly what she trying to do to them.

Shall I deal? Jaqueline asked.

What? No, not yet. One of the men muttered.

Jaqueline suddenly felt a bit stupid, standing at the table with a fully shuffled pack of cards in front of her and no idea what was expected of her. Then it struck her. They’d requested a female dealer. If they were regulars, they were probably expecting Suzanne (and her chest) and while Jaqueline wouldn’t describe herself as flat-chested, she clearly wasn’t in Suzanne’s league. That was it! The men had decided they wanted a top-heavy dolly bird to deal their game, and she wasn’t enough for them. So, as they couldn’t come right out and say it, they would probably just play a token handful of hands before shuffling off to some late-night lap dancing club, saving their cash for the plastic smiles of the dancers. And Tony would blame Jaqueline for not keeping the men at the table. Brilliant, thought Jaqueline. Her first chance to deal a Big Fish game, and she was going to mess it up. But what was she supposed to do? Go up a couple of cup sizes by sheer force of will? Jaqueline made a supreme effort not to blush but could feel her stomach knot with awkward embarrassment.

The double doors to the private room swung open and Jaqueline heard an easy Irish accent,

Sorry I’m late… said the owner of the voice. He was a grey-suited man in his thirties as he bounded confidently into the room, a relaxed smile on his face. I couldn’t find my tie, he continued, by way of explanation, although the statement seemed to be directed to the room in general rather than any particular person. A tiny smile played on the corners of Jaqueline’s mouth; the new arrival did have a tie with him, but rather than being round his neck it was stuffed carelessly into the breast pocket of his suit, leaving his collar open and exposing a flash of bare, clean-shaven neck. The new arrival effortlessly twisted into the last empty seat at the table, smiling and nodding at the assembled fish. He looked to be the only one genuinely happy to be there and their steely gazes and clipped hellos did nothing to dissipate his bonhomie.

I believe, began the shiny suited man at the table, making a visible adjustment to the tight knot of his own sombre tie, there is a dress code in this establishment. He stared at the new player at the table for a moment from over the tops of his glasses. The new arrival met his gaze steadily, with an unchanged expression on his face. The implication that he wasn’t dressed correctly hung in the air, before the shiny suited man positively rasped, a dress code that requires a tie.

I have a tie, said the other man, without looking away from the small vicious eyes above the reflective lenses. Jaqueline noticed a smooth musical lilt to his voice, and she put him and his accent as definitely Irish.

We are all wearing ties, Shiny Suit hissed.

Shall we play some cards? said one of the older men, in a feeble attempt to dissipate the rising tension at the table.

I believe standards are important, and if our friend doesn’t feel… Shiny Suit began.

Shall we ask someone here? the grey-suited man asked in a tone of voice an octave more serious than everything he had said before.

Shiny Suit looked away from the table to the bar where one of the staff stood ready to dispense drinks as required, but the new player swung his gaze up to Jaqueline, and asked, How do I look?.

Had Jaqueline not been expecting the question she might have blurted out "lovely! Because this guy really was something else, and when he turned his emerald green eyes on her, she felt as if he looked all the way inside her.

And it wasn’t just his eyes.

He looked strong but not too muscly, and his hair had a casual irregular look to it that should have been at odds with his suit, but instead somehow worked. Quite simply, he was the most attractive man Jaqueline had seen since… she didn’t know when. Fortunately, she had seen the question coming, and answered simply, You look fine to me.

See? Up to scratch, he said to the table at large with that same easy smile on his lips, and then to Jaqueline with (was it?) a slightly broader smile, thank you.

Jaqueline looked down and gave the cards another shuffle. She had to remind herself that she might now be in trouble. Ties were required attire in the casino, as Tony desperately wanted to give the impression of it being a high-class joint. He even had posh Molton Brown bottles in the customer toilets, which amused the staff no end because they all knew that Tony was too tight to keep them filled with Molton Brown products; they were topped up with the same pound store hand scrub that the staff used. But fake hand-soap aside, by rights she should have told the new player that, while he looked very attractive, casino rules did dictate that ties should be worn by all patrons. Then again, he had made it all the way to the table, and that meant the bouncers and the receptionist had already forgiven his indiscretion, so perhaps she could too? In fact, that was her story. If Tony asked, she’d say she presumed that because he was in a private room, he deserved special consideration, and as he’d been admitted dressed as he was, that meant he was OK. That was the plan.

The game is Texas Hold ’Em, table stakes and pot limit? the grey-suited man asked the table in general, as he brought out a handful of chips.

No limit, snapped Shiny Suit, causing all heads but one to jerk in his direction.

As you wish, said the suave newcomer. While his expression didn’t change