Poker for Blood

When I lived in Las Vegas, I had a friend who slept on park benches and who ate at the El Cortez, an off-the-Strip casino where you could buy a breakfast for .29 cents and a prime rib dinner for $2.99.

Mike was a good-natured guy who had once worked for record producer Berry Gordy in Detroit's Motown. He was a brilliant song arranger and could direct dance videos as well as television productions featuring Motown's top superstars.

Unfortunately, he also had a couple of serious flaws that affected his life and profession. Their names were alcohol and crack cocaine, a lethal combination anyway you looked at it.

After leaving Detroit, Mike moved to Las Vegas. There he learned to handicap the horses and played poker. When he had money, he rented a motel room in one of Glitter Gulch's sleazy downtown or Strip motels for anywhere from $14.95 to $19.95 a night. When he didn't have the cash, he slept on a park bench or on cardboard mattresses along a sidewalk in a section of town occupied by the homeless.

When Mike and I met, I was a staff writer for Card Player Magazine. As was my habit, I spent a lot of time at Binion's Horseshoe or the Fremont Casino in downtown Las Vegas. Both casinos had sports books where I could bet on the horses or take a flyer on a football or baseball game.

I was a decent poker player who could hold my own against the other limit poker players in town. Mike, on the other hand, was a masterful horse handicapper who wanted to learn to play poker.

We made a deal. He would teach me how to handicap a horse race, and I would teach him how to play winning poker.

Mike picked out a lot of winners for me. He was so good that he could tell you not only which horse would win the race, but by how many lengths. He was correct many more times than he was wrong.

In return for his expert counseling, I taught him the nuances of playing good poker. When I thought he was ready, I even gave him the $40 buy-in for a $4-8 Texas Hold'em game at the Horseshoe one night.

Mike did well, parlaying the $40 into $360. He returned the $40 to me along with a little extra. That made our friendship even tighter. There are a lot of gamblers in Las Vegas, including some of the big name poker players, who never pay back a loan. Mike was not one of them, and our friendship blossomed.

One day he dropped by the Card Player office where I was working on a story. Mike waited respectfully in the lobby until I came over to him.

He had a long look on his face. He told me he was broke and asked if he could borrow some money to play in a noon poker tournament at the Union Plaza.

'The buy-in is $40,' he said. 'This is poker for blood. If I don't make the final table, I'm going to have to go to the blood plasma people and have to sell a pint of blood if I want to keep on eating.'

How could I turn down such an eloquent request for a loan?

I gave him the money and said I would swing by the Union Plaza after work.

'I hope you win, partner, I said, winking. 'I know how much you hate pain and some of those women down at the plasma center use dull needles.'

When 5 p.m. rolled around, I paid my respects to our staff writers and drove over to the Union Plaza. I found Mike sitting at a table in the bar. He was chatting with two attractive women. A bottle of Brut Champagne rested in a bucket of ice. As I walked up to the table, Mike picked up the bottle and filled a long-stemmed glass.

As I sipped the champagne, I winked.

'No blood giving tonight?,' I said.

Mike grinned.

'They gave the blood,' he said. He slipped me an envelope with the comforting feeling of cash. 'Thanks.'

Author: Geno Lawrenzi Jr.

(Geno Lawrenzi Jr. is an international journalist, magazine author and ghostwriter. If you have a unique gambling story to share with him, you may qualify for a cash award. Send your story with all the details to glawrenzi@gmail.com ).