“Yeah, I worked for the Mob and my job was to deliver $5 million to Chicago.”
Says the guy in the No. 4 seat in a poker game on one of those days ending in “y.”
He’s playing a pretty good game and talking an even better one.
“And I got two thousand for my trouble,” he says.
Nobody bats an eye.
There’s a break in the chatter when I pick up pocket kings and raise.
“How much more?” the Mob guy wants to know.
The dealer rolls her eyes and repeats the size of the raise.
“I know you’re strong,” he says to me. “I know you’ve got a good hand.”
The Mob guy calls. As does the guy in between.
The board runs out J-9-x-x-8 and my pocket kings go up in flames to the guy in between who called with 10-7.
The Mob guy continues chattering away, telling everybody that he’s nearly 90.
That’s believable. He’s wearing a rumpled shirt and no socks and has a tattoo on his forearm. Maybe he really was a Mob guy. And maybe he’s just telling stories. You never know in Vegas.
He wins a pot, crams some chips in a rack and proudly exclaims with a big grin that he’s “almost even.”
On the next lap, he’s involved in a hand and wants the dealer to read the board to him.
“I’ve only got one good eye,” he says.
A few laps later, the guy in between raises from under-the-gun. I look down at kings again and make it three bets to go. The guy to my left decides to cap the betting with the last raise and we see a flop six-handed. The board runs out 7-3-3-9-10. One guy had a seven, the guy in between had pocket jacks and the kings hold up.
“Yeah, I worked for the Mob, and my job was to deliver $5 million to Chicago,” the Mob guy says again.
The dealer rolls her eyes again, drops the deck into the automatic shuffler, grabs a fresh deck, cuts it and starts pitching the plastic cards around.
“And I got two thousand for my trouble.”
