KILL WITH A SINGLE BLOW

(From Magic Harbor by Don Berry)

 

 

 

If you're tired of hearing stories of well laid plans ganging agley, you might as well skip this one. It's about the best hand of poker I ever played, and how I lost it.

Poker Season is a major phenomenon for some in Eagle Harbor. It usually runs from the time it's dark by 7:00 P.M. until it's light by 7:00 P.M. That is, sometime in October until sometime in April or May.

In addition to a generous hilarity, the poker play is, itself, pretty good. The current hard core players, when we're all in the harbor, are Dale of OBLIO, Peter of UWILA, Tom of M'LADY, and myself.

On the night I played the perfect hand, we also had Tom's brother John, who had just arrived from Kansas, of all non-maritime places. John was starting to take up residence in the harbor by rebuilding an old derelict boat that had been abandoned near the public dock.

Now John is a man of immovable and fine convictions, including strict vegetarianism, celibacy, non-smoking, ecology and other admirable positions. He is also frequently on the wagon, but reluctantly. He'd only been in the harbor a day or two when I had him working on my dead engine. He worked very well indeed, particularly considering the pittance I was able to scrape up to pay him.

John was the first mechanic for whom I've ever had to brew herb tea instead of popping a can of beer. At first it was difficult to figure out what to feed him for lunch, as it couldn't have any animal content. Eventually we arrived at a lunch consis ting of a bowl of mashed potatoes with soy sauce instead of gravy, and maybe a little margarine. This simple dish is amazingly appetizing, and fast. I've gotten to like it better than the more conventional quickies, by a good margin.

I realize this description of John makes him sound more than somewhat spartan. Physically, I guess he is. I get the impression it is partly a kind of atonement for a previous existence of rout and revelry, but wouldn't swear to it.

However austere his physical life, John's mental world is richer than most of us by at least five and a half dimensions. At times the only listener who can keep up with his warp-drive mind careening in and out of hyperspace is himself. Sometimes he will spend the better part of the evening talking to himself quite happily, exploring various philosophies, commenting on present and past company, evaluating the mental, moral and spiritual character of all those present. While there is a current fancy that one must not be judgmental, John has never heard of it.

When he is soliloquizing, John does not seem to require a lot of feedback. He does, however, sometimes require a very strong signal from planet Earth to call him back from whatever star he may be orbiting at any given time.

John is not, of course, the only one of us who needs a good Earth call from time to time. At one point we even had a ceramic bell to be used in cases of extreme absent mindedness. This need often coincided with the presence in Seattle of Southeast A sian freighters, whose crews did a tiny but lively smuggling trade.

But back to my perfectly played poker hand.

Most of our hard core poker players are better than I. The characterization we usually give visitors is that we're four beginners trying to get the hang of the game, but that's just to get their money; we're a bit better than that. I do win from tim e to time, and when I lose I figure the price is negligible, whether you figure the cost per laugh or per hour of entertainment. Any way you calculate, the weekly water rats' poker game is the greatest entertainment bargain around.

Near the beginning of last Season I decided it would be a good idea to devise a scheme of venegeance and trickery; to abandon the moment-by-moment tactical moves for the longer range strategic approach.

My plan depended on being absolutely, uncompromisingly consistent in play. It was, basically, an educational project. I wanted the other players to know exactly what the rhythm of my betting was, how I valued every hand, what every reaction meant. I intended, in short, to be perfectly transparent, an open book, an easy read. And I needed to do it for long enough that the other players had absolute confidence that they understood me backwards and forwards.

This was my chosen persona: I was the guy who always folded early, hated raises, collapsed at the least sign of resistance. The guy who would clearly take no risk whatever. The perfect wimp, the sad sack, the companionable but ineffectual jerk. I was playing, you see, on their preconceptions of my true character.

I played this part, and played it perfectly if I may so observe, for six weeks, all in preparation for The One Big Hand. It did not matter to me how much I won. I was out for soul-destruction; I was out to demolish their faith in themselves, absolutely; I was out to introduce the fatal worm of Doubt into their lives, Doubt that would haunt them in every moment of confidenc e from now until they moldered away in some dusty, forgotten grave. Every time they were perfectly certain of something, they would think of Berry and the perfect hand of poker, and their certainty would blow away like the sands of the Sahara.

I wanted to Kill With a Single Blow.

What I need to complete this scheme was a particular opportunity, and after investing six weeks to set the stage with my poker playing persona, I was willing to wait. I was patient, I was cool, I knew my moment would come.

The opportunity I was looking for is one that sometimes occurs in a game of five-card draw, in the middle of the evening, just after a few hands of nothing-much-happening. The water rats get a little bored and loose and silly. Guards are down.

At moments like this a kind of jocular, high stake betting suddenly jumps up on the first deal, a kind of "Come on, let's make this interesting" attitude. Everybody raises on their dealt hand, even before the draw, then raises again, and as the mood gets sillier the bet can go around four or five times. It degenerates into a nine-year-old "Oh, you're pretty proud of that hand, huh?"

Everybody knows it's a joke, but when that little fever strikes the table, you can built up a pretty good pot (by our standards) before the draw.

This was my moment to strike. The pot was the largest I'd ever seen accumulate before the draw. I went along with the betting rounds, raising a little, keeping it going, milking the cosmic cow, but not getting too far out of character.

This all went perfectly. None of the other players had any notion I was controlling the game with an absolute authority that made Genghis Khan look like a pimply adolescent. This sense of power, this clear evidence of superiority, must be the reward of the great scammers of history, and I was about to join those ranks.

Finally I allowed a round of calls to stop the betting, and called for cards. As best I remember, John drew three, Tom two, Peter three, and Dale three. All that incredible betting had been on lousy pairs. I had them. They were in the palm of my hand. All that remained was, metaphorically speaking, to push the Big Red Button.

"I think I'll play these," I said.

Dale was dealing. "Knock it off, Berry," he said. "How many cards?"

"None," I said. "I'll stand pat."

Peter looked at me, then looked at his own hand. Tom's hand stopped cold in the middle of raising a glass of rum, and he looked at me over the rim. He put the glass down carefully on the table and picked up his cards. "You stand pat?" he said.

Dale, sitting next to me, squinted sideways. John, who was about 23 light years away in outer space, paid no attention at all. He was looking up at the overhead deck as though there were a magical television screen up there. The table got pretty qu iet.

"Stand pat, huh?" Dale muttered.

My hand, of course, was absolute rubbish. I hadn't even looked at it, and don't remember anything about it. I think there was a black deuce someplace, but that's about it.

I was sitting next to Dale, the dealer, and after the draw the bet was to me. Conspicuously trying to look inconspicuous I said, "Check."

The table was really quiet now. I had their full attention, and tried not to meet their eyes.

Finally Tom sighed, and without taking his eyes off me, he said, "A nickel," and pushed five pennies forward one at a time as though he were depositing a million bucks in a Swiss bank account.

The others called, and pretty soon the bet was back to me. Now I know what it is like to be a movie star. Nobody takes their eyes off you for even a second.

"Think I'll raise," I said, studying my garbage hand and trying to look innocent.

Dale grunted. "Uh-huh," he said. "And how much?"

I finally looked up at them and met their eyes. "Think I could get you to go a quarter?" I said. Nobody answered.

"Maybe even four bits?" I said, letting just a trace of triumphant glee enter my voice. Nobody answered.

"Well, hell," I said. "Let's get rid of this damn clink-clink and hear some paper rustle. I'll raise a buck."

I reached in my pocket and elaborately extracted a dollar bill, smoothed out the wrinkles, and deposited it carefully atop the pile of coins already in the pot.

"I fold," Tom said.

"I fold," Peter said.

"I fold," Dale said.

John said nothing. He was still staring at the ceiling and smiling to himself. His lips were moving.

We waited for a long moment. "John? Hey, Earth to John! You in this? Berry just raised a buck."

John gradually refocussed his eyes. "Oh, yeah," he said. "Sure, why not? I'll raise you thirty-seven cents."

"John," Tom said patiently, "Berry just stood pat and raised a buck."

"Yeah, right," John said. "I'll see that and raise thirty seven cents."

John had barely glanced at me when he returned from hyperspace, but to my horror I saw in his eyes that -- he Knew. He Knew I had a garbage hand. He Knew it had nothing to do with the cards. Somehow the bastard had returned from his outer space adv enture with the perfectly clear knowledge that I had nothing at all.

"I'll see your thirty seven and raise another buck," I said bravely. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"O.K.," said John cheerfully. "And I'll raise that twenty eight cents." He smiled his ingenuous, vegetarian, celibate, ecological, non-smoking, hyperspace smile.....

.....and I was dead. Oh, I muddled around a little, but it was clear from the moment he re-entered atmosphere he wasn't going to quit. He Knew the truth of the matter. John didn't appreciate the implacable logic I had laid down, the superb history I had established, the profound knowledge I had shown of my partners' psychology. The son of a bitch wasn't paying enough attention to be affected by any of that.

He beat me with a pair of nines. God, how I hated it.

There are two morals to this story:

(1) You cannot con a man whose mind is in outer space, no matter how well you play.

(2) You can get a hell of a lot of entertainment out of a buck if the game is right.

 

end

 

Kill with a Single Blow
©1995 Don Berry