February 14, 2020

Slow Roll

The club was having a memorial for Zakarian that night, but Lewberg insisted we go to the casino instead.

“It sets a bad precedent,” He said slowly, sipping his drink. “Everybody knew we hated Zakarian. If we show up for his memorial then how are we ever going to skip anyone else’s? People are dying here every other week. It will be a nightmare.”

Lewberg had a point, so when the sun went down we quietly made our way out of the club in his silver Beamer. Hard Rock was about 30 minutes away and we cruised down the Turnpike with the top down.

Kuro, the hip Japanese fusion restaurant, had killer Wagyu beef tacos, but the hostess told us it was a 90-minute wait. I took out my phone and brought up Open Table to see if we could get a reservation elsewhere, but next thing I knew the hostess was leading us to our table.

We sat down and Lewberg put away his gold-plated money clip.

“Are we at war?” he said with a smile.

The tacos were as good as ever and I started talking about blackjack strategy. It wasn’t my favorite but Lewberg loved the ebb and flow of blackjack and he played better the more he drank.

“Am thinking poker,” he said, dipping the California roll into the wasabi.

“Poker?” I repeated.

“Yeah. A little no-limit Texas hold ‘em.”

“Lewberg,” I said slowly, “you don’t play poker.”

“What are you talking about?” he replied indignantly. “Of course I do. You’ve seen me play poker.”

“Exactly. I’ve seen you play poker. Which is why I can say with supreme confidence that you don’t know how to play.”

“You can’t judge me on those home games. The stakes are so low—I can't take it seriously.”

“Lewberg, three of the guys will only play if I say Lewberg is playing.”

“I’ve been watching it on TV. I think I have it figured out.”

“Lewberg. Half of these guys are pros. They start salivating when they see guys like you. Hell, they salivate when they see guys like me.”

“Jesus. Live a little. Zakarian is in the ground. Let’s have some fun.”

“Okay, we’ll play 3/6 limit. Easy game. You can’t get hurt too bad.”

“3/6 limit? That’s the game for the bubbies. I want to play no-limit. All in baby,” he yelled so loud that everyone in the tables next to us turned to see what the commotion was.

“No, Lewberg. We are going to play 3/6 limit.”

But when we got to the poker room, the waitlist for 3/6 limit was 15 people long.

“Are you going to open a new table?” I asked the guy at the desk. He shook his head.

“Doubtful.”

“How long will the wait be?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. These old codgers can nurse their stacks for hours.”

“1/2 no-limit?”

“I can put you on the list. You will be 16 and 17.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“What about 2/5 no-limit?” asked Lewberg.

He perused his list.

“I have two seats. Can get you on right away.”

“Sweet!” crowed Lewberg.

“Same table?” I asked. At least I could babysit and mitigate the damage.

“No, different tables. Number 4, right over here, and number 25,” he pointed to the back of the card room.

“Can you move me to 4 if a seat opens?” I asked as I slid him a 20.

“Will do. You can buy chips over at the cashier.”

Lewberg and I walked to the cashier.

“You want to be folding almost all the time,” I instructed. “Just play premium hands.” I chattered on, trying to give him as much info as I could. But it looked like I was talking to myself.

“Chill, chill. I got this.” Lewberg bought in for $500. I did the same.

“Okay. I will come over as soon as a seat opens up.”

Table 24 had the motley crew I expected to see. Some pros on 18-hour binges, a couple of tourists, a couple of really tight retirees. I sat and folded every hand for two rounds—periodically straining my neck to see how Lewberg was doing. I had won my first pot when my name was called out for the seat change.

I quickly stacked my chips and made my way to table 4.

Lewberg had, in less than an hour, managed to both double his stack and triple the drinks in front of him. The massage girl was working on his neck.

He greeted me with, “Here’s another sucker at the table!”

I sat down, unstacked my chips, and gave my best ‘I don’t know this guy’ look.

The table did not look happy.

I knew Lewberg.

He was not a good loser.

But he was a worse winner. On the golf course he liked to stick it to you. We were used to it. It was all in good fun.

Am not sure how he had accumulated all these chips but it did not come from his poker skills.

The table couldn’t figure it out either.

They couldn’t figure out Lewberg.

But that was because Lewberg had no idea what he was doing.

Everything he knew about poker came from film and TV. He wasn’t playing poker. He was playing out a scene.

He raked in a pot and then did his John Malkovich from Rounders impersonation.

“You must be keeking yourself.”

Lewberg thought he was playing in the clubhouse game with a room full of friends.

I picked up pocket Jacks and called his raise with another player—a youngish player with earbuds and a baseball cap who looked like he had been playing for 24 hours. He had a decent stack but I had no way of knowing how many buy-ins. For all I knew, he was stuck bad.

The flop came AK3 rainbow. A bad flop for pocket Jacks.

Lewberg made a big bet and then, inexplicably, raised one of his three glasses and said, “To Zakarian. May his Armenian ass rest in peace.”

I mucked my Jacks and looked down at a coffee stain on the coaster in front of me.

The baseball cap player also folded and Lewberg scooped another pot. He gave half of it to the massage girl and wildly gesticulated in to get the attention of the waitress so he could order another drink.

I tried to catch his eye and motion we should leave. He had had a big night and he could ride that wave for the rest of the year. But Lewberg was having the time of his life.

I, on the other hand, was not having fun. Losing money brings out the worst in people. Losing money to bad winners was a really bad combination.

But Lewberg was oblivious.

I mainly stayed out of the way, folding almost everything until I picked up AK suited. It had been raised and five of us, including Lewberg and baseball cap, took a flop of 3,4,6 two hearts.  It was a terrible flop for AK of spades. The baseball cap bet $50 and Lewberg, chomping at the bit, called out, “I’ll see your $50 and raise you $100.” It was the kind of line, like "I’m with the band,” that many have been wanting to say most of our lives.

The thing is, unlike what we see in movies and TV, that is actually an illegal bet. You can’t call and then raise. That is called a ‘string bet.’ You have to declare a raise right away.

Everyone at the table complained and the dealer, quite rightly, pulled back the $100.

“I’m sorry sir,” he said, and I am sure he was sorry to have to rebuke Lewberg because Lewberg had been tipping him big, “but that’s a string bet. You can only call.”

“What the fuck is a string bet?” asked Lewberg.

“You can’t call and then raise. You have to choose one or the other.”

Lewberg thought about it for a while and then he said, “Okay then, I call.” Then he raised his glass and said, “To fucking Zakarian.”

I folded my hand and watched a 6 hit the turn.

The baseball cap checked and Lewberg immediately said, “All in.” Then he goes, “Was that okay? Or was that a string bet?”

The baseball cap folded and Lewberg peaked at his cards, threw them in the muck, and raked in another pot.

The baseball cap now turned to me and asked, “You guys know each other?”

This was not going to be good.

I said yes.

“Is he signalling you to fold?”

“No. I’m just playing my hand. We have no signal.”

“So what is Zarkian?”

Then Lewberg, who had been dividing his healthy stack of chips by color, piped up and said, “Zakarian. Not Zarkian.” Then went back to sorting his chips.

“Is that your signal? I think I am going to call the floor.”

I started to sweat.

“No. It’s not a signal. It is just this guy we know from the club.”

Then Lewberg said, “We used to know. He’s dead.”

“Right. We used to know.” I was babbling. “The club is having a memorial for him tonight but we didn’t want to go because we don’t, didn’t, like him very much. It isn’t a signal. He is just toasting him.”

Then Lewberg raised one of his now four glasses and said, “Fucking Zakarian.”

The dealer asked if baseball cap wanted to call the floor. He thought about it but then said no.

Nobody wants to be the dick who called the floor. Also, he had to think that there is no way we two bozos were smart enough to carry on a scam.

And then, confirming what I had assumed, turned to me and said, “Is your friend a fucking moron?”

The question sounded rhetorical so I didn’t reply. Instead, I started stacking my chips into a chip holder and got up to leave. Lewberg, on the other hand, ordered another drink.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“I just ordered a drink.”

“Let’s go,” I repeated.

“Okay. Okay. Jesus. Don’t be such a bitch. One more hand.”

The dealer looked up at me.

I nodded.

Lewberg, looking totally nonplussed, drank his drink and stacked his chips.

The baseball cap looked at the dealer and said, “Tony, I'm $1000 behind.” He then placed ten $100 bills on the table.

He was asking the dealer to buy $1000 more in chips before the hand started.

The dealer called out, “$1000 behind,” as he deftly scooped up the bills and counted out 40 green $25 chips.

The cards were dealt and I quickly folded. For the shortest of seconds it looked like Lewberg was going to fold too. We were going to get out of here with money in our pockets and not having the shit kicked out of us. He made to fold and then pulled his arms back in. “What the fuck,” as he tossed in some chips. “Last hand.”

Everyone folded to baseball cap who made a raise.

Lewberg called.

The flop came K43 with two hearts.

Lewberg checked and baseball cap bet $200.

‘Fold you piece of shit,’ I prayed to myself. ‘Fold so we can get out of here.’

But Lewberg called.

The turn brought a third heart. The 7 of hearts.

Lewberg checked.

The baseball cap made a big show of counting and recounting his chips and then announced, “All in.”

Tony the dealer counted it out. It was just over $2000. Almost exactly what Lewberg had in front of him.

He took a sip from one glass. Then a sip from another. He shrugged his shoulder and then, almost sheepishly said, “What the fuck. I call.”

The river was the 9 of hearts and Lewberg cried out, “Fuck!” Like when he hit a ball in the drink on number 16.

The baseball cap turned over two black Kings for a set of Kings.

Lewberg took another look at his cards and said, “I missed. Fucking up and down straight draw and I fucking missed.”

And then Lewberg did something which made me want to kiss him. Lewberg was drunk. There was no question about it. But he somehow still had his wits about him. On the way to the cashier I had told him, “Lewberg, if you aren’t sure, just turn over your cards. In poker, cards speak. All you need to do is turn over your cards and the dealer will call out your hand.” Maybe he had been paying attention after all.

And so Lewberg gently turned over a 5 and a 2.

It was true.

He had an up and down straight draw.

And it was also true.

He had missed the straight.

But the 2, oh the 2, was a 2 of hearts.

And Lewberg had made a flush.

Tony the dealer called out, “Flush,” and pushed the massive stack of chips to Lewberg.

Baseball cap looked stunned. There is literally nothing worse you can do at the poker table than declare you have lost and then turn over a winner.

That was called a slow roll.

Men have been killed for less.

A lot less.

Lewberg looked up and said, “Hey sorry man. I never saw the flush. I was just looking for the straight.”

He said it sober-faced. As if he had been drinking cream soda all night long. He said it with such sincerity, like an undertaker expressing his condolences, that the baseball cap could only tap the table and say nice hand.

I walked silently with Lewberg to the cage where he cashed out his chips. We then went to the bathroom and peed silently side by side at the urinal.

Valet had the Beamer up within minutes and Lewberg tipped him $100 but stepped aside to let me drive.

“Top down?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “It’s still a nice night.”

“Music?” I asked.

“Why not?” said Lewberg reaching down to adjust the car stereo. We hit the Turnpike with Van Morrison belting Caravan at the top of his lungs.

Then Lewberg reached down and turned off the music.

“I’m going to miss him.” 

I wasn’t sure who he was talking about. Van Morrison was still alive.

“Van Morrison?” I asked.

“No, Zakarian,” he said.

“Zakarian was an asshole,” I said.

“Yeah, but he was our asshole,” he replied, somehow displaying a glass of vodka he must have hidden in his pocket.

“Yeah. I guess I know what you mean.”

Lewberg turned the music back on and we soaked in the tunes and the cool late night Florida air.

I then reached down and turned the music off.

“Hey, did you know that you had the flush?”

Lewberg smiled, took a sip of his drink and answered with a question of his own.

“Is your friend a fucking moron?”

The end.