Flushed

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Book excerpt

Chapter One

            Casinos are horrible places. Every facet of a casino is designed to keep people from leaving and throwing their hard-earned money around like they're high-rollers, thinking they're having a good time even though they're losing their shirts.

            That's why whenever I walk inside, I head past the slot machines—those are designed to keep you feeding quarters and maybe get a small payout every now and then, usually less than what you've already put into it. I ignore the roulette and craps tables. These are games of pure chance. I have no use for them. The poker room is what I'm after.

            The room is set up four tables deep and six tables long. There's space for up to ten people at each, but I don't recall ever seeing any of them full. There's usually a max of six or seven, and even that's pretty rare.

            When I get to the tables, I make sure to choose one where I don't recognize any of the other players. When people see you there too often, they catch on to the game and become leery of you. Not only that, but they'll also warn others and it doesn't take long before you build a reputation for being a player.

            Most of the locals tend to stick to the slots. Poker is a slow game and a large investment of time. If you're a decent player, you can be there for hours before you lose your stack. Slot machines are quick. Feed machine. Pull lever. Lose. Repeat.

            The poker tables are most often occupied by tourists. These are never in short supply since Aspen Falls is the only casino for at least a hundred miles in any direction, so there are always new people coming in. I doubt it's likely I'd be recognized by anyone, but it never hurts to be careful.

            I picked a table with five people, not counting the dealer. She gave me a knowing look as soon as I sat down. All the dealers knew me and they knew why I was there. None of them cared. If you're at the poker tables, you're playing with your money and winning someone else's. Everyone brings their own cash to the game. The casino makes money either way since they just rake a portion of the pot as their fee for running the game. The only time they care about players being at the table is when they're cheating, which is harder to do anyway since only the dealers are allowed to touch the deck.

            I always play Texas Hold 'Em. I prefer Five Card Draw, but you don't find it in casinos anymore. You're pretty much stuck with Hold 'Em, Omaha, or Seven Card Stud. Hold 'Em is the lesser evil in my opinion.

             The usual etiquette when you first sit down at a table with a bunch of strangers is to introduce yourself, and they do the same. I dispense with this courtesy since not many of them care who they're playing with. Plus, the less personal you get with them, the easier it is to take their money. This is why I also try to keep the small talk to a minimum. I'm there for one reason. To make money.

            I sized up the competition. Three men and two women. The first guy looked like a trucker. He kept wiping the sweat of his palms by rubbing them on his plaid shirt, then stroking his grey beard. Every now and then, he would tug at his hair out of frustration. If he pulled any harder, it would have come out at the root. The second guy, youngest at the table, would have fit in better in California with his beige shorts, white T-shirt and sandals. Not so much in Northern Ontario. Not in spring, at least. He kept running his fingers through his bleached hair, spiked to several sharp points, as if he was worried the three containers of gel weren't going to hold it in place. The aviator sunglasses were a nice touch, though. They almost took your attention away from the smug grin—a direct result of the large stack in front of him, which he kept rearranging when he wasn't playing with his hair. Everything about him screamed, “Hey! I mooch off my rich parents and I've never had to work a day in my life.” The third guy, remaining calm, kept stroking his well-trimmed beard, deep in thought. And he was always deep in thought when playing. He should have rubbed it down to the bone by now. If he wasn't doing that, he was adjusting his glasses.

            The large, redheaded woman who sat two seats down from me had her hair up in some extravagant coiffure. I'd bet good money she'd been to the salon that very day. Her outfit, purple blouse with matching pants, looked like it cost more than my rent. This didn't include the jewelry she wore. She'd bathed in perfume earlier in the day and the scent overpowered every other in the room. This one had money. Lots of it. She didn't care if she won or lost. She was just killing time until her husband got bored of losing a small fortune at the craps table, and so she could impress her friends back home by telling them she debased herself enough to play a genuine poker game with the local riffraff.

            The last player was the one I'd have to watch out for. A slim blonde wearing a tight mini-skirt and white blouse. The top two buttons were undone, showing off plenty of cleavage. I'd have to keep reminding myself not to let her distract me. She was the type of girl who could lean over the table the right way and make any man sitting there fold their hand because she smiled and asked politely.

            How the smug guy had such a huge stack was a mystery. He couldn't take his eyes off the blonde's breasts long enough to glance at his cards.

            My normal modus operandi, method of operation for those of you who don't watch C.S.I., is to spend the first few hands learning my opponents' tells. Tells are little habits people have that give away what kind of hand they’re holding. Most professionals are able to learn what theirs are and train themselves not to use them. Amateurs aren't normally aware they even have any, so they don't bother trying to dispense of them. The trucker’s biggest tell was so obvious I could see why he was losing. Everyone else must have picked up on it too. Whenever he had a good hand, he snatched up a bunch of checks off his stack, not even paying attention to how much he was betting, waiting for his turn so he could toss them into the center. Anybody with half a brain would see this and fold right away, despite his pretending to hesitate for a brief moment before tossing the checks on the table.

            The redhead had a nervous habit of rubbing her nose. She did this whenever she bluffed. I'd re-raise and she'd fold.

            The young, cocky guy...well, I didn't bother learning his tells. That would have been a waste of time. The guy thought he was one of those poker superstars on TV, which was why he wore the aviators. Many of the pros wear shades because it hides their eyes so they don’t give away their hand. This is also why many of these same pros keep their cards face down on the table and if they need to refresh their memory, they lift the corner of the cards just enough to peek at them. This guy held his cards almost at eye level and I could see them in the reflection.

            I got my stack up pretty high in record time. I'm careful not to win too much. You have to lose a hand on purpose now and then to make it look good. With these people, I didn't see the point. None of them knew how to play. They knew the general rules like how to bet and the hierarchy of hands, but they didn't know how to bluff, and they definitely didn't know how to read their opponents.

            Most people criticize my strategy. You'll notice as soon as the first two cards are dealt to each player, most people at the table will fold right away if they don't like their cards.

            I stay in until at least the flop is dealt. The reason for this is simple: if my opponent is dealt an ace/king and I get a two/three in my hand and the flop comes down with either a two or a three, or both, I have a good chance of winning as long as no ace or king comes up in the turn or river. I mean, I'm not stupid about it. I'm not going all in on a two/three before the flop, but I hate folding until I at least see those first three cards.

            I always play the low stakes tables too. I don't play high stakes because I don't like gambling with that much money at one time, and I'm not looking to try and make huge amounts of money. Even at a low stakes table, I can come out with a hundred or two by the end of the night. Making that much two or three nights a week gives me rent for the month and keeps me in TV dinners. I didn't need much. I wasn't married and I didn't have any kids. The only person depending on me was me.

             As the night wore on, the cocky guy was getting pissed off with me. I watched his smug grin disappear a little bit with each hand, his stack getting smaller and smaller. The guy had a temper on him and he was starting to lose it. I have no idea why he didn't just walk away. That's what causes most gambling addictions. Most people refuse to quit when they're down. They want to at least win enough back to break even. But when they're up, they can't quit because they're on a roll. This guy was on his way to becoming a full-fledged addict, if he wasn't one already.

            One particular hand where I took thirty bucks from him, which is pretty decent for a low stakes table, he slammed his fists down hard enough that my stack shook and almost toppled over. The dealer had to tell him to calm down a few times. I've seen security escort people out of the casino for this type of behavior enough times that I wouldn't call it a rarity.

            The irony is, no one was having a good time—other than me, of course. I think the whole point of casinos is the experience, and to have fun. Apparently a “good time” is only had when you're making money. Which would mean there aren't a lot of people having fun in any casino.

            I have to be honest; even though I was winning, I wasn't really on my game that night. I was a bit distracted and it had nothing to do with the blonde and her tits. It did involve a woman, though.

            There was a girl who came into the poker room about a half hour after I'd sat down. Other than the poker tables, there isn't any place to sit. No one comes in unless they intend to play. Anyone who just wants to watch doesn't bother to come all the way to a casino. They flip on the TV at one o'clock in the morning and watch the pros.

            But this girl didn't sit at a table. She wandered around the room like a lost child looking for her parents. Every once in a while she'd stop and watch a game for a bit, then continue on. One of the first things I noticed about her was that she was the type not many people noticed. 

            Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, making her face look rounder than it already was. The flower-patterned dress she wore was long enough to reach almost to the floor. It didn't suit her larger body type, but showed enough cleavage that most guys probably wouldn't care she was overweight. 

            I kept my eye on her. I couldn't help it. She eventually found herself at our table. She lingered longer than she had at the others, intent on the game.

            I surprised myself. It normally takes quite the breathtaking woman to distract me while working, but this one managed to do it without being the type to turn heads. I think it had something to do with her eyes; they were sad and lonely. The eyes of someone who'd lived a hard life and it didn't look like it was about to get any better.

            Whatever it was, it wasn't her smile. I never saw it. She didn't have much to smile about.

            I waited for her to leave—or at least move on to a different table—but she kept hovering over our game. She kept stealing glances at me, watching each decision I made with an interested eye. I had to leave. She seemed too interested in the game and it bothered me. She only spent a minute or two at any of the other tables, but once she got to ours, she set up camp and stayed for at least fifteen. I was too distracted to continue, and up a little over a hundred bucks. Not the best take I've ever had, but it would have to do.

            The girl's eyes followed me, as I walked back into the main part of the casino to cash in my checks. The cashier gave me a shy smile as she counted.

            “Slow night?” she asked.

            “You could say that.” I didn't return the smile. I kept looking around to see if the girl had followed me out of the poker room. So far she hadn't.

            “You coming back tomorrow night?”

            I just shook my head as I took the money and started to make my way back through the labyrinth toward the front doors.

            Five or six waitresses offered me a free drink but I ignored them. I come to play, not drink. It had very little to do with them.

            I exited through the front doors and breathed a sigh of relief. The casino was unusually warm, and it was nice to have the cool night air hit me.

            Aspen Falls is one those towns that's big enough to have a casino, yet small enough to not have much of a night life. There are a few bars in the downtown core, so there's quite a bit of activity in that part of town on Friday and Saturday nights. But other than that and the casino, which is open twenty-four hours, not much happens. I don't mind. After listening to the cacophony of noises in the casino, I looked forward to some peace and quiet as I walked home.

            There are no buses after eleven. The city council doesn't see a need for it. The transit system seems to be the biggest complaint among Aspen Falls' residents, and I tend to agree. I often enjoy the walk home, which only takes me about twenty minutes to a half hour, but some nights it would be nice to be able to take a bus and get there quicker. Though I'm not sure why. I wasn't going home to much. I lived in a small apartment, which is fine since it was just me. Once there, I'd pop a TV dinner into the microwave and sit in front of the television to see if there was anything good on. If not, I'd pop a movie into the VCR—yes, I said VCR—and pass out in the chair. Not much point in getting up and walking over to the bed. My easy chair, the only piece of living room furniture I owned, was comfortable enough.

            This was my existence. I wouldn't call it a life. Since my wife left, I hadn't had much of one.