Affair With A Gambler

The private jet lumbered down the Atlanta runway and staggered into
the air . I hate to fly on the best of time, this one definitely
wasn't the best of times. The plane was bound from Atlanta to High
Point North Carolina. It would be a sad trip, one I would rather not
have made .

I admitted to myself that I was nervous. I almost never flew. I hated
airplanes. I knew, that you are supposed to be safer in an airplane
than in a car. I also knew you can walk away from a car crash. Not too
many people have ever walked away from a plane crash, only slightly
more have been carried away while still breathing
I settled in for the ninety-minute flight. I soon found myself
remembering why I was taking this trip. Her name was Emma O'Toole.
True to her name Emma was an Irish lass. Well, at least two
generations back her family had been from the old sod.

When I first met Emma, she was thirty five years old and trying hard
to be a serious journalist. She was of course hindered by the fact
that she looked more like a model, or hooker than a writer. In fact
when I first met her I thought she was a hooker.

The year was 1980 and I was only one year older than Emma. I was
sitting in an all night diner in a smallish town having breakfast at
four a.m. The diner was about half full. A mixture of cops, truck
drivers, hookers and various other misfits. I noticed her when I
entered the dump. I immediately pegged her as a high priced hooker.

She was well dressed and her red hair hung down in frizzy strings. Not
from neglect, but from an expensive visit to a hair dresser. She had a
long thin face, which would have been milk white were it not for the
heavy makeup she employed to hide her freckles. Her eyes were green
and a little too close together. They sat above a truly magnificent
nose. It was long thin and with only the slightest hook. Her lips were
overly thick for the fashion of the time. Her chin was a little thin.
I know that all this doesn't sound especially flattering, but she was
on the whole a striking woman. All the odd little pieces blended into
a face not soon forgotten.

Since she was seated in a booth, it was impossible to determine what
her body might look like. I did get an impression of trimness, but
nothing else at the time. She caught me glancing at her and smiled. I
returned her smile, then moved to an empty booth. There were plenty to
choose from.

The waitress took my order and walked away with no more than a repeat
of the order. This was probably a very friendly town when the
furniture market wasn't active. I had to be hard to be friendly at
four a.m. even when thing were good. It had to be impossible, with all
the obnoxious assholes visitors taking up your space.

She brought the eggs and sausage, I began work to destroy them. I had
finished and was drinking coffee, when the red head paid her bill and
walked to my booth. I assumed she had pegged me as a market visitor
and was going to proposition me. I had a chance to appraise her body
for the first time. It was almost magnificent. It would have been, if
her breasts were only slightly larger.

"Hi, do you mind if I sit with you a minute?" She asked.

"No, not at all. Would you like another cup of coffee?"

"God no, my teeth are floating now. I won't be able to sleep for a
week," she replied.

"I guess it is the perils of working the midnight shift." I suggested.

"I guess. I have been trying to figure out an approach for meeting
you," she admitted.

"Really why is that?" I asked.

She ignored the question as she began her explanation . "I have been
kind of stalking you. No harm intended, but I have been following you
around for the last couple of days."

I was suddenly concerned. In my line of work, one is not followed
around by hookers. "Why in the world would you want to follow me."

"At first it was curiosity. I recognized you three nights ago in
here."

"Strange, I didn't see you and I usually notice beautiful women."

"Probably not if they are with a couple of cops," she suggested.

"You definitely have a point there. Are you a cop?" I was more than a
little curious by that time.

"Heavens no, I am not that bold. I was interviewing them. You know,
what it's like to work the midnight shift during the market, that sort
of thing."

She paused and I worried. She was a reporter. It was something almost
as bad for my business as a cop. "You said that you recognized me, how
so?" I asked.

"I have one of your photographs, by the way it is truly lovely," she
commented.

She was referring to the hand painted prints. I sold them from time to
time. I had to sell them in order to cover my income from the
conventions. Uncle Sam doesn't approve of tax evasion, or of gamblers.
The IRS will let you declare gambling winnings, but a week later the
FBI is sitting on your doorstep. Most states have laws against
gambling anywhere except their casinos. I never much liked bucking the
house odds, so I never went to a casino.

"I certainly am glad you like my photo. How did you happen to come by
it?" I asked."I bought it on a visit to Myrtle beech," she replied.

"Oh you're the one," I said with a laugh.

First she laughed. "At the time I wondered how you could sell
something that wonderful for the ridiculously low price. I mean, you
must have spent hours working on that thing, and I bought it for only
two hundred dollars."

"Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a man who sold
hay. He bought it for a dollar a bale on one side of the river. Then
he rowed it across the river on his boat. He sold it on that side of
the river for a dollar a bail. One day a man asked him why it did it.
'I don't make much money,' the man said, 'but I got one hell of a
business.' That's how I do it."

"That is what got me curious about you. I mean you were selling those
prints way below their value. I wasn't curious at all, till I saw you
three nights ago. It was about this time of the morning. You were
eating breakfast like a man who had been partying. The only thing is
that you were stone cold sober, and your suit jacket still had it's
press."

"God you are observant," I said.

"Then, I got to wondering exactly what you were doing here. At first,
I thought you might have a booth. I really just planned to stop by the
next day to see your display. I thought there might be a story in it.
You know, an artist sells to business. Maybe even get an interview
about an artist selling out to the mercantile world.

I called around and found that you don't have a space. If you aren't
showing, I had to wonder what you are doing. Are you showing somewhere
around here?"

"Actually, I am scouting for next year. I am thinking of maybe doing a
display somewhere." I said it hoping that she would buy it.

"Damn you are slick. Anyway, I picked you up by accident night before
last. You were headed into the Radisson. Since it was around dinner
time, I thought you might be heading into the restaurant so I
followed. I still thought I might get an interview. I would have
believed that bullshit story then. Too bad you didn't go to the
restaurant. I watched you give the bell man twenty bucks while the two
of you talked."

"Tipping a bell man, isn't really news you know?"

"You are right about that. Of course, you aren't registered in that
hotel. You rode the elevator to the tenth floor. When I rode the next
elevator up you were not to be found. Would you like to explain that?"
She asked.

"Simple explanation, Hooker," I said.

"Sorry, I followed you to breakfast at three last night. There is only
one all-night restaurant in town. I sat outside so that I could follow
you home. I am not good at following people, you gave me the slip."

I always drove home erratically for that very reason. I never knew
when I was being followed. There are people in this world, who are not
good losers. If someone like this young lady followed, they would just
assume that I was a lousy driver. I worked pretty hard to master the
technique of driving like a jerk. You know sudden stops, turns without
signals, and various speeds. I could usually spot a tail without him
ever knowing that I had been looking.

"Fascinating, but hardly noteworthy. She was a good hooker." I knew
that it wouldn't wash, she had done her homework."

"You are slick, but try this one. I followed you again. I waited in
the lobby of that hotel all afternoon hiding behind a newspaper."

"Of course, the old hiding behind the newspaper trick," I said with a
laugh.

"Low and behold guess who came in around seven?" she asked.

"Prince Charles?"

"Edward E. Edwards of course," she informed me.

That is not the name I was born with, of course. That name had been
gone so long I almost forgot I ever had it. Under that name, I did a
twenty-nine-day stint on a South Carolina work farm. Of course, it was
for gambling. Never, but never, take a deputy Sheriff for all his
money. That happened before I knew any better. I changed my ways after
that little experience.

"Well, Mr. Edwards?" she asked.

"Call me Ed," I said while trying to regroup my thoughts.

"Okay Ed, would you care to explain?" she asked again.

"I like variety in my hookers?" I tried

"Not good enough. I tipped the bell man fifty to tell me what was
happening on the eighth floor tonight. It seems there was a rather
high stakes poker game on the eight floor."

"Gee, that is a coincidence." I was already making mental plans to
head home that next day, there was only a couple of more days left
anyway. The true high rollers had already gone home. My take had gone
down considerably, since the size of the pots shrank, as the player's
moved down the corporate ladder.

"I want to do a piece about gambling during the market. I want an
interview," she demanded.

"I'm sorry Miss?" I asked it as a question.

"Emma O'Toole, call me Emma," she replied with a winning smile.

"I'm sorry Emma, but I am leaving just as soon as I finish this cup of
coffee," I replied.

"That wouldn't really be a good idea. You see, if you do that, then I
will have to inform the vice squad," she threatened.

"Too bad I won't be here for any raids they might plan," I tried to
inform her.

"I wasn't thinking about that. You see there are a couple of things
they do with known gamblers and hookers. Next year you might find a
man on your tail. Anywhere you go would be subject to a real hard
look," she said it with a sly smile.

"I guess, I won't be setting up a display here after all. Too bad it
seems I have at least one fan here," I replied trying to be upbeat.

"They will also alert your hometown police to keep and eye on you.
There is in addition, a list that is sent around, with pictures, to
other convention towns. You know how the boys in blue love to keep in
touch," she said with a lovely smile.

"So let me understand this, is blackmail we are talking about here?" I
asked knowing the answer.

"I don't like that word much. I really prefer coercion," she replied
with that warm smile.

"If I give you the interview, I am burned in this town anyway," I
tried to explain.

"I won't use your name, but people will know there are card sharks in
town, yes."

"Get one thing straight. I am not a card shark. I play the game
straight. I see someone cheating I leave the game," I commented
angrily.

"Well then, how do you win if you don't cheat?" she asked.

"Let me try to explain. Most of these men play poker once a year. Some
play once a week, but even those aren't making a living at it. They
play for relaxation. I play for money. I don't care about anyone
particular hand. I count out only at the end of the night. I play the
odds and human nature. I see a hell of a lot more of both, than any of
the players I meet. I win the same way the casinos do. The odds are on
my side," I explained.

"How do you figure that?" she asked.

"I haven't agreed to an interview yet, and I certainly don't agree to
an interview in a restaurant. We need to set some ground rules before
we go on. I figure, I have a couple of more nights of work here. How
about this, I finish up this market then I talk to you on the
condition that my name not be used. You know who I am, so there isn't
much chance that I will skip without settling this with you. Why don't
we meet on Thursday at my place around three?"

"Okay make it five, and you got a deal. But remember this, I can get
your ass banned from every convention town on the east coast."

"Not banned sweetie, but you can make it awfully inconvenient for me,"
I admitted.

"The next I saw of Emma was at my travel trailer on Thursday. I
answered her knock on the door. "I almost gave up and left without
talking to you," I said. "You are late. I had hoped you changed your
mind."

"Not a chance, this could be a great story. I am looking for a great
story to get me out of here," she admitted.

"Really you don't like small towns?" I asked.

"Hell no, I want to move to New York. That is where the action is,"
she admitted

"Well I like small town life myself," I commented.

"So where do you live?" she asked.

"First we agree to the terms of the interview. No names of course. You
wait a month to publish the story."

"Why?"

"I want a chance for the market people to be gone. I am talking about
the vendors. I want to make sure everyone possible is out of town
before this thing runs. When I say no names, I mean no location names
and no people's names," I demanded.

"I assume, I can describe the location as long as it is vague. You
know like Mr. X lives in a small South Carolina town. That sort of
thing."

"Yes, that's fine. I also want it in writing. I want a way to hang
your gorgeous ass, if you screw me."

"Done." She wrote a quick agreement on a page of her note pad and
signed it. "Now where do you live?"

"A small South Carolina town," I replied.

"Funny," she said.

"Not at all, I'm serious. If you check, you will find that I live in a
town about ten miles inland from Myrtle Beach. I actually live in a
small mobile home down there," I admitted.

"You're kidding me?" she asked.

"No, I really live in a can. It is not a hell of a lot bigger than
this one."

"Why, I mean, you must make plenty of money?" she asked.

"I don't think anyone makes all they want, but I guess I do all
right," I admitted.

"So how much do you make?" she asked.

"Do you expect me to answer that honestly?" I asked in return.

"Of course you have nothing to lose by being honest." She was right of
course.

"Okay last year, after expenses, I made about eighty grand."

"So you took in something over a hundred thousand dollars and you live
in a trailer." she asked.

"That's right. I live in a trailer," I replied shortly.

"So what about all that money. Got it in a Swiss bank account?" she
asked.

"Close, but not exactly. I don't have social security. I am saving it
for my retirement," I admitted.

"I imagine you plan to live pretty good till then thought?"

"In a trailer, not likely, I do the things I enjoy doing. I make
photographs, but that isn't all that expensive. Actually they are a
business expense," I explained.

"How so?"

"I told you I have to have and income. You remember the print you
bought for two hundred bucks. I probably carried that on my books for
two-grand. That is how I show an income that satisfies the
government," I admitted.

She was taking notes furiously. She had at first tried to tape me, but
I refused to allow it. I could dispute what she wrote from her notes,
but not from a tape. "So how did you get started in this business?"

"In the Army, I had a lot of time on my hands. Poker is the game of
choice with soldiers. I lost a lot of money before I decided there had
to be a better way. I went to the base library. There I found a book
on poker strategy. The book had been read maybe a dozen time in its
thirty years in the library. It amazed me then, and still does today,
that people don't do any research on a subject which is so simple to
learn. I took the strategy to heart. I played the way the author told
me, and I never lost money again. I might loose on one night when the
odds were all to hell. You know like on a full moon or something, but
over a week's time I always won money. Not a lot, because there wasn't
a lot of money available, but enough." I paused since I had answered
her question.

"Okay don't stop there. You learned to play in the Army. So how did
you wind up playing at conventions?"

"I mustered out of the army, then enrolled in college on the GI bill.
I played poker at night and attended classes in the daytime. I
actually went to a pretty expensive school. I needed the extra money
to get by. I was older than most of the students so they didn't like
losing to me all the time. I soon had to find new opportunities to
make money. In the town where I went to college, the school was so
small that the town didn't even know it existed. I found a pool hall
that ran a back room poker game. I actually played with men who did
little else. Of the five men playing at a table, two might play for
the house and three would be fish. I managed, even then, to make money
every week. The owner of the pool hall finally included me in the
house men. I didn't work for him, but from what ever table I played he
removed one of the house men. There was no sense spreading the
sucker's money too thin. I made more and he made more, since he could
move his man to one of the other two tables.

Several times a month there wouldn't be enough fish to fill a table,
so we would play each other. I held my own, but not much more. They
talked and I listened. Remember I believe in research. I learned from
their conversations how to find a game in a strange town. Then how to
pick the town. Finally I learned the real business end of running a
successful operation from the owner. Fat Charlie was his name. He was
more or less retired from the business. He got tired of the lousy food
and the long hours, so he bought the pool hall and ran the games."

"Are you hungry?" Emma asked.

"Sure, I haven't eaten since breakfast at four AM. Do you want to go
to dinner?"

"Sure, I'll even buy."

"How about this no questions over dinner, you pick the restaurant and
I will buy?" I asked.

"Okay, but you should let me pay, I have an expense account," she
suggested.

"Not unless you get a story. I'm afraid this is going to be so boring
you give up on it," I replied hopefully.

"I doubt that, but you can buy anyway since it fits your macho image .
"

"Me, hell honey, I'm a wimp. Everybody, who knows me, knows that."

The interviewing ceased during dinner. I actually found out a few
things about her. For instance, she was divorced with no children. She
lived alone, without even a cat for company. She was deadly ambitious.
She claimed to have trouble dating men. Not getting dates, just
getting them to let her go. She didn't want a husband, especially not
a small town husband. She planned to move ahead and didn't want to be
tired down to anyone. Consequently she didn't date much.

She managed to drag my personal life out of me, even though it wasn't
an interview, right. She found, that I had never been married or even
engaged. My life style wasn't exactly the type to lend itself to a
wife and family. Like her, I found dating too much trouble. I usually
wound up with a hooker once a month, or so. It wasn't a very enjoyable
experience, but one I didn't find all that bad. I had become used to
them in Asia, so sex with a stranger didn't bother me that much.

"Too bad women can't find hookers as easily as men." At first I
thought she was putting me on, but a long look convinced me she was
serious. "I love the sex, I just don't much like the men." she
confided.

Over dinner, I found her witty and honest. Most people who are honest
take themselves entirely to seriously. I really enjoyed her humor,
though there certainly was nothing self deprecating about it. She held
herself in very high esteem, I liked that about her .