Confessions of a Gambler

My Arrival

Pop’s image disappeared at the ding of the elevator. The door opened to a small room where two burly, unarmed black men in suits were waiting. Behind them was a flat-screen TV that had split-screen images of the dozen or so tables in play. They checked my membership ID. They didn’t frisk me anymore; they only frisked the new people to check for contraband such as weapons or booze. Like most places, there was no alcohol allowed inside. If a person showed any sign of being trashed, he was not let in. Although security could police players from bringing in bottles, some substances I’m sure got in. I never smelled any weed inside the club, but I’m sure a finger sweep on the back of the toilet could’ve proven other drugs were being used.

After flashing my ID, security let me in the main door. As I walked into the room, all I could hear were the mumbles of players and chips splashing across the tables. There were about 12 tables running. Almost all of them were full with nine players. There were about a half dozen flat-screen TVs scattered around the light blue, fluorescent-lit room, all tuned to sports stations. They were all muted. There was no music. The only sound was of poker being played.

On average, the house charges $10 from each player per hour, that’s $90/hour per full table. It goes like this: the dealer at each table changes every half hour. When the new dealer sits down, all players put up a $5 poker chip, called “time.” This isn’t for the dealer, it’s for the house. The dealer works on tips. When a player wins a pot, he or she usually gives the dealer a couple of dollars in chips. “I would make around $500 a night,” said the ex-dealer.

Of course, this is why poker parlors are illegal. It’s not the players who are breaking the law, it’s the establishment. According to section 225.10 of New York State Penal Law, “a person is guilty of promoting gambling in the first degree when he knowingly advances or profits from unlawful gambling activity.” When a person receives more than $500 in one day from such an establishment, he faces felony charges. However, most of the charges get dropped to misdemeanors and fines. The ex-dealer, referring to club owners, said, “I’ve never heard of anybody getting a felony.”

Lack of Benefits

Not present for the raid that closed down Playstation, the ex-dealer decided not to take any more chances. He left the scene afraid that he might face fines and community service like his co-workers who had been busted. At the time, the city was cracking down on establishments and near a half-dozen were shut down within a few months. “I felt like my time was coming,” he said.

The possibility of getting busted by the cops was, of course, a common fear for workers. After moving to the city in early 2007, one young woman found it difficult to get a job. Through a friend, the 26-year-old found employment at Straddles as a waitress. She discovered herself in a different world. A world of gamblers who were addicts, and she was blunt about most of them: “They’re the slimiest, most disgusting guys you’ll ever meet.”

Although the place didn’t serve alcohol, she had to remind players to drink fluids. “They’d sit for hours without water,” she said. She explained how gamblers would take bathroom and cigarette breaks—the smoking section was a storage room in the back, filled with chairs and cleaning supplies—in minutes so as to not miss a hand. For a dollar a minute, she’d give shoulder rubs to guys as they sat at the table. According to the waitress, a lot of guys would come in on Friday night and spend the entire weekend at the club, never leaving except to go to the ATM. Although she had heard of robberies, it was the least of her concerns. “I didn’t feel endangered,” she said, “I was in a room with a bunch of tough guys.” It was the club’s reputation of getting busted by the cops that had her worried.

Straddles was unusual in that its east Midtown location stayed in operation for close to two years. In those two years, it’d been busted a handful of times, but remained open to players. She was told that if a bust were to happen during her shift, she should sit at a table and act as a player. She had only been working at the club for two months when on October 19th, a Friday night—prime time for poker parlors—the cops came in.

There was no shouting, no commotion. The waitress got nervous still and didn’t sit at a table as she had been told to do. The players were told to remain at their tables and place their state-issued photo IDs on the table. Law enforcement made copies of each ID before handing them back and allowing the players to leave – without cashing out, of course. Any money the players had in poker chips was seized as evidence. Police declined to comment on any poker parlor busts in the city for this article. How much money was taken as evidence from this raid is unknown.

Straddles, after this raid, was shut down for good. Fairview Elite went down at the same time. When Straddles opened again as City Limits in the Flatiron District, the waitress began working again. Ten days later, on Friday night, her shift ended at nine o’clock. An hour later, the place was robbed and Desena was murdered.

The waitress has not worked for a card house since the City Limits incident. Although her two months working for the club were filled with scary events, she has no regrets. “I’m glad I worked there,” she said. Then, after a short pause, she added, “I really thought about the wrong and right of it all.” She explained the strict code of ethics the club enforced, that loud-mouthing and fighting, when it occurred, was broken up immediately. “I have a clean conscience,” she said, “because they [workers of the establishment] weren’t hurting anyone.”

Gambling Degeneracy

One of my last hands at Fairview Elite gave me another harsh lesson in the difference between card playing and gambling. It was a late on a weeknight. I sat at a table for a couple of hours unable to get a good hand. I used the time to asses the players at my table.

(Poker is the one sport where the use of stereotypes is mandatory. All player assessments begin as stereotypes. When you sit at a table with a bunch of strangers, it takes a little while to evaluate each player’s game. I tend to label them as soon as I sit down and let my judgments change as I watch how they play. White people try to play smart. Whether they’re smart or not depends on how much they talk. If they talk a lot, they’re not; if they’re quiet, I’m careful. Asians can be skillful or just luck oriented. Black people tend to be more willing to gamble and to bet more liberally. There are also other traits to look at, such as how a player is dressed. If he’s unkempt, he’s probably a loose player; if he’s dressed neat, chances are he’s more conservative and only plays good hands. There are many things a player can look at in an opponent to identify his or her style of play.)

After a couple of hours, I was finally dealt a good hand. In Texas Hold’em, every player is dealt two cards, face down, to start the game. My two “hole cards” were a pair of queens. An Asian man sitting across from me raised the bet to $30. After a couple of players folded, I re-raised to $75. Everybody folded except the Asian man, who called my raise. Until then, I noted that he often over-bet his hands and that he liked to bluff. I assumed that maybe he had a couple of high cards, maybe an Ace-King.

The flop—the first three of five community cards, which all players can use to strengthen their hand—came. The dealer spread a nine of clubs, seven of clubs, seven of hearts on the green felt table. The Asian man checked, he didn’t bet. I knew I had him beat with my queens. With the flop, I had two pair, queens and sevens. I wanted to take the pot with the next bet just in case he had a couple of clubs in his hand. Another club would give him five suited cards, a flush. The pot-size was now $153. I had about $260 in chips; he had about $500—calculations a player is always computing. “All-In,” I said as I pushed my chips forward. I predicted he’d fold and I’d take the pot.

He called. He threw his hand face-up on the table. He had nine of diamonds, seven of spades. He had the full house. The son of a bitch spent $75 pre-flop on 9-7 off-suit: most card players know that low, unsuited cards rarely win any hands. My queens were weak. The only thing I could hope for was another queen, more than 20 to 1 odds. It didn’t come. He gambled and he won. He was given two cards and rolled the dice, so to say.

One thing about losing all your money in poker is that no one sympathizes with you. There’s no one to blame for your losses but yourself. You can bash your head in with a baseball bat after losing everything and no one would care. In fact, they’d probably encourage you to do it. I didn’t beat my head in that night, but I can’t deny that I thought about cracking that Asian man’s skull.

When I think about that hand now, I think about my conversation with Jordan. He hoped that the crackdowns on poker parlors would encourage some sort of change. He explained his optimism that poker clubs may consider smaller venues with tighter circles of players, people who can prove themselves as players before gaining access to a table.

Illegal poker clubs certainly experienced a tragedy with the murder of Frank Desena, but only the real players will shy away from returning to the clubs as they reopen. “Why would I go [to a card house] and risk a bust or robbery,” Jordan said,” when I can just go to Atlantic City and play with better players?”

Though the underground scene has become more dangerous over the years, I know they continue to run. The city never “cleans up” illegal activity. Like prostitution on 42nd Street before Giuliani and Disney, or speakeasies during Prohibition: outlaws just get pushed away. Poker parlors have different names and different locations, but I’m sure the faces haven’t changed much. A few robberies, raids by the cops and a murder will never stop gamblers from playing cards.

But for now, I think I’ll just enjoy the small house games. I don’t mind traveling to Atlantic City if I want to play for more money. I guess my pop’s advice was true—some bets you just can’t afford to lose.