Low Stakes Poker
Crown Casino is filled with hustlers and punters, glam girls and the occasional rail bird. Late at night, rich Vietnamese women are running around to talk to other Viets. They’re trying to sell a $10 000 ring for $3 000, to put the money on a baccarat table, and win their original stake back so their husbands don’t kill them. Down in the basement, there’s the cardroom. At the far end, there are high stakes tables. $5/$10 no limit hold ‘em. $2/$2 pot limit Omaha. In the middle, there are the grinder’s limits. $2/$3 no limit, $1/$2 no limit. On the near end, there’s the low limits, and there’s me, Jones Brixton. I’m playing on the $0.50/$1 electronic PokerPro tables, trying to establish a bankroll enough to move up to the grinder’s limits.
On my left is a congenial fellow, maybe at one stage he was a regular, because he asks Mandy: “Where is your friend Israel?”
“He went back to Israel.”
“Oh, right.”
His name on the screen is Kenks.
To his left, is a sexy brunette, wearing blue jeans and a plain white T. If I looked at her objectively, I might think there is nothing special about her. Her mouth is too big. When she smiles, it reveals a little too much gum. Her nose is slightly crooked. But there is something about her. She has a tight body and a pleasant face. I’m fascinated. Her name on the screen is K-Fresh.
I make a squeeze for eight and a half big blinds, from the small blind. Kenks folds.
K-Fresh looks at me, then her cards, then me again. I put both of my thumbs up and give her a big cheesy grin. She smiles. She folds. The kid on the end hits top pair jacks and I stack him with queens.
“K-Fresh? Is that your real name?”
“What can I say, that’s how I roll.”
She threw up her set, some random arrangement of fingers.
“Throw up yo set. Go like this,” I said, my thumb pushed to my ring finger, with my index, middle and pinkie extended. She complied.
“Hell yeah. Two in the pink, one in the stink.”
“What??? That’s disgusting – how could you make me do that!??”
“Just needed to know if you were into it.”
An Aussie drunk waltzed over and asked if he could sit. “Ah. That one is broken my friend.” He stumbled off.
“We should make room for him,” said Samuel. “He looks profitable.”
“You want to kick off the nits and bring in the drunks, huh?”
I got up to go to the toilet, and when I came back I tried to insert my card to log into my terminal, but it was obstinate.
“You should come sit next to me,” said K-Fresh
“I’d have to log out first.”
I sat there inserting it and removing it until it worked. “In and out,” she said.
“Right on.” I said. She giggled.
“Damn, how come everything I say or do gets turned into something dirty.” She laughed.
Kenks was sitting on $130, more than doubled up. K-Fresh lost her stack of $20 to him when he flopped two pair.
“Come on, let’s go,” said Kenks.
“What? Already?”
“I just took your stack. That means it’s time to go.”
As she stood up next to me, I could see her white shirt revealing the bottom of a tight belly, and a straight scar. It appeared to be indicative of a Caesarian section. I shook K-Fresh’s hand, grappled it and clicked my fingers.
“Whoa… That is too gangster for me. Bye,” she smiled.
I shook hands with Kenks and they left.
“Are they friends of yours?” said Boriska.
“Nah, I just met them tonight… The girl is hot.”
“She is – she’s gorgeous. A lot of girls that come in here are very blonde, bleached blonde. False, sequined messes. She’s different – there’s something very intriguing about her.”
“I agree.”
“Though I’m not sure if it’s the best way for a relationship, to take your girlfriend to a poker table.”
“I don’t think that was her boyfriend. She was flirting with me in front of him.” Should have asked. Should have gotten her number.
A voice rang out from two tables away: “LISTEN, YOU FUCK!”
I jumped up immediately to my feet. The drunk from before was swinging at a Lebanese, about to do the same hugging dance that boxers do when they get too close. A surge of adrenalin rushed through my veins. My first instinct was to take responsibility, to run over and grab one of them to separate them. I was afraid. Instead I yelled out “SECURITY!!!”
Five Agent Smiths filled the space. They escorted the drunk out as he said to his girlfriend “I got him a good one!” Neither of them were even bleeding, which I thought was odd considering how hard they’d come to blows.
I guess it was some dispute over a twenty dollar pot. I called to Samuel, “Aren’t you glad now, that he didn’t sit at our table?”
In walks 105 kg of Irish man-meat. They call him the Can Crusher. He’s roughly 28 years old, 25 kg overweight, boisterous, and whenever I see him, drunk.
He bought me a drink “I’m up $2500 on 2-3.”
“Are you serious? Do you play the same way there as you do here?”
“Yep hahaha. My favourite play I ever made was when this guy pushed all in preflop, and I called with absolute shit. When the entire board was dealt, neither of us had connected. I talked so much that I convinced him I had him, and he mucked. It was about a $250 pot.”
I laughed “You son of a bitch!”
“Hey Crusher, what happened to your hand?” I noticed the bandage.
“This kid in Perth came up to me and asked me for a cigarette. I refused, and he stabbed me.”
“The kid asked you for a cigarette, and then stabbed you?”
“With a ballpoint pen. He didn’t exactly ask. He just demanded: give me a cigarette. I said no, and he launched. Have a look.”
He took off the bandage to reveal three or four stitches. It looked like it had been a deep wound. Damn.
“Yeah. I thought about rubbing the blood in the little bastard’s face but nah. I left him in pretty bad shape. In a storm drain somewhere.”
“Are you serious?” said the 19 year old at the end of the table.
“Nah,” said Crusher, and then turned to me. “But seriously, that kid will probably spend the rest of his life with mental retardation. I left him in a storm drain somewhere.”
“Didn’t the police have anything to say about this?”
“I didn’t tell the police.”
“Didn’t the medical staff at the hospital have something to say about this?”
“They didn’t ask any questions. It’s fine. Plus, the hospital is free. What do you call it, Centrelink paid for me.”
“Medicare.”
“Medicare paid for it.”
“Are you an Australian citizen?”
“No.”
“Are you a permanent resident?”
“No.”
“Then how can you get Medicare?”
“I have it – I didn’t say it was mine, but I have it.”
That night, I finished down $100, plus the extra $40 that Crusher staked me. The drinks guy came around and I offered to buy Crusher another drink.
“No thanks,” he said as he downed the last quarter of his pint. “I’m driving.”
