It was a measly little game. Innocuous by all accounts. A routine for many. A setting I was familiar with. But this game was different. All thanks to the man sitting next to me. I never did catch his name. I just knew him as the man with one eye.
The Borgata is a place I don’t belong, yet I fit right in. You can assimilate with any crowd when you manipulate their vulnerabilities. The aristocracy here all look at me; contempt in their eyes. Pretentious. They underestimate me. I know them better than they know themselves. Once they reach that sweet spot of inebriation and self-loathing they start to play loose with their money. And that’s when a guy like me takes advantage.
I’m glad I don’t belong.
The game was no limit Texas Hold ‘Em. $1-$2 blinds. I had bought in for $100 at 9:00pm and methodically turned it into about $1,250 by 1:00am. It’s early in the morning, but the casino is still bustling with energy. Saturday’s always bring out the crowds.
I’ve been watching the guy across the table. He’s a shark. He thinks he can win every pot by tripling the current bet. If I bet $10, he bets $30. Every damn time. I love playing with sharks. The aggressive players are the easiest to wipe clean. The conservative players take longer, but in the end I always walk away a winner.
I’m really good at poker.
On the final hand of my night I cleaned his stack by check-raising with a 7-2 off-suit and added another $300 to my winnings, bringing my total profit for the night just under $1,500.
“It’s been a pleasure playing with you all this evening,” I said as I gathered my chips together and prepared to cash out. The shark was pulling out his wallet to buy in again, eagerly waiting for the chance to blow another few hundred dollars. I flipped the dealer a $10 chip before walking away from the table. He held it in front of his face and nodded to say thank you. I nodded back, then turned and headed towards the cashier to collect my winnings and call it a night.
But my night was just beginning.
After cashing out I headed back through the casino towards the exit, passing the blackjack tables while the adjacent slot machines chimed their attractive melodies. I had gotten about halfway when I felt three taps on my shoulder. I spun around and found myself looking at the man who sat next to me at the poker table. He had been there when I initially joined and played ultra conservatively the entire night. I had studied him at the table, assessing my opponent. But he hardly participated during the game. He folded almost every hand, and only played beyond the flop when he was big blind.
“What’d you have that last hand?” He stared at me from behind his sunglasses, slightly tilting his head forward to look out from under the brim of his baseball cap. Typical poker attire for the inexperienced. I let out a short laugh. “Sorry buddy, I never reveal my cards unless I have to. You should have played the hand if you wanted to know.” “C’mon...you can tell me.” I winked at him and smiled. “Maybe next time.” Before I could turn away the man placed both hands on my shoulders and held me in place, still shielding his face with his baseball cap. “You’re quite the poker wiz.” I felt uneasy. “Uh, thanks.” “How’d you like to play a real game?” “I, uh, think I just did.” “You mean the kiddie table? No, not that. I’m talkin’ high stakes, man. $50,000 buy-in. $1,000-$2,000 blinds.” I reached up, grabbed his arms and released myself from his grip. “Sorry bud. I don’t have that kind of cash.” “I do! I can post your buy-in!” He turned his head and looked directly at me. The bright lights of a nearby slot machine shined onto his sunglasses and I could vaguely see the outline of one eye staring at me. The other side of his face appeared to be a dark crater of an empty eye socket. I squinted and tried to make out more of the features that were behind his sunglasses, but he quickly lowered his head. “Why would you cover my buy-in?” He lowered his head further, looking directly at the ground. “I am...not the best at poker. Terrible, actually. But you! You’re an expert!” “I’m not going to play for you, if that’s what you’re getting at.” “No no. You pay back the fifty-K I give you and then we can split whatever you win.” “And what if I lose?” He took off his sunglasses and looked at me, exposing his eyeless cavity in the glow of flashing lights. I winced at the sight. “I’m willing to take that risk.”
Despite his disfigurement, the one-eyed man had dangled a tempting carrot in front of my face. A fifty thousand dollar buy-in that I didn’t actually have to pay for? It was free money. And losing wouldn’t cost me anything. That carrot was far too tempting to resist.
He gave me an address and instructed me to meet him there in thirty minutes. It was just outside Atlantic City on Route 40 at an auto body shop. When I pulled up the place looked deserted. Beyond rows of mangled cars I could see that the building had no lights turned on. I sat in my car and observed the perimeter. Not a sign of life anywhere.
A sudden knock on my passenger side door startled me. I jumped in my seat when I turned and saw the gaping hole in the face of the one-eyed man staring back at me. He held up a large brown paper bag. “I’ve got the cash!” His voice was slightly muffled from the other side. “There’s no one here!” I yelled at him. “It’s around back.”
I’d heard of shady backroom poker games before. They always depict them in movies as places where someone gets caught with cards up their sleeves and gets shot in the chest. I didn’t think I had anything to worry about. The people that get shot at these places are usually the ones cheating. And I don’t cheat.
I exited my car and walked with the one eyed man through the lot of totaled cars. We circled around the building and approached a large steel door with a small rectangular slit that was covered by another piece of retractable metal.
“Here, take the money,” he said, handing me the paper bag. I grabbed it and peeked inside, revealing stacks of $100 bills. While I had an uneasy feeling about this place, I must admit, holding that amount of money in my hands gave me a bit of a rush.
The man pounded a fist on the door three times and almost instantly the metal window slid open. All I could see on the other side was two eyes staring back at us.
“Back again, are ya?” A deep voice from the other side of the door bellowed. “Brought another chump to try to win back what you’ve lost?” “This is my secret weapon,” my one-eyed confidant replied. “He knows the stakes?” “Yes yes, he’s been briefed. Let him in already.”
The window slid closed and with a loud metal clang the door slowly opened.
“That’s Bruno. Go ahead and follow him, he’ll take you to a table.” “Wait, you’re not coming in?” “They don’t allow pairs. Afraid someone will cheat. But you don’t need me. You’re a stud! You’ll be fine.” I gulped and took a step forward, then stopped and turned to him. “How will I find you afterwards?” “I’ll be in my car, right behind where you parked yours.”
I gave him a nervous nod and walked through the door. It sounded like a prison cell when it closed behind me.
Inside, Bruno peeled back a black curtain revealing a room filled with a plume of smoke from cigars and cigarettes. Through the thick smoke I saw four different half-circle tables, each one with between five and six men seated in front of a topless female dealer. The tables immediately struck me as odd. Not the topless women. That part I instantly liked. It was the half-circle that threw me off. Typical poker games are played in a circle or an oval. These looked more like blackjack tables, except they didn’t have the traditional green felt. Instead they were covered with an over-sized white sheet that concealed the legs of the dealer, almost like an upscale Italian restaurant.
“You got the cash?” Bruno asked. Being so transfixed on the room I had almost forgotten about it. I handed him the bag. He peeked inside, then quickly closed it. “Looks good. We’ll count it in the back room. You can go ahead and take a seat at that one.” He pointed to a table with five other men. “The chips are already set up at the end chair.”
I walked to the table, took a seat and made a quick assessment of my opponents. An old man smoking out of a pipe who looked like he hadn’t shaved in ten years. Two young, clean cut snobs that looked like they were mooching off daddy to afford the buy-in. A middle-aged man in a suit and tie. And a biker guy with a black leather vest and a handlebar mustache.
I sat out the first few games, waiting for the dealer button to pass me before entering play and watching how the other men played. They all seemed to play loose with their money. Something I was very happy about.
On the last hand before the button passed me the biker was pushed all-in on the river by one of the young snobs. The cards on the table were an 8♦, 9♦, 9♣, 7♠, & Q♦. It was a hand with a ton of possibilities. Three of a kind, straight, flush, full house. The biker contemplated his move for about five minutes, staying deep in thought the entire time. He finally pulled the sheet from under the table and reached below, pulling up a small cooler on placing it on his lap.
“I call and raise.”
He pushed his chips forward and then opened the cooler. I stared at him confused. He kept extra cash in a cooler?
He shuffled around inside the cooler; the sound of ice being shoved around and banging against the sides echoed through the room. Once he found what he was looking for he pulled his hand out, grasping the item in a closed fist. He shook the excess water and ice off his hand, then tossed the item into the pot.
Rolling over the chips and across the table was a severed human finger.
All the other players around us stopped and gawked at our table. Some of the other men had wild excitement in their eyes. The biker kept a straight face as I stared down at the finger mixed among the chips, both perturbed and horrified.
“I call.”
Loud commotion from the other players engulfed through the room as everyone jumped out of their seats and rushed to surround our table. My eyes went wide from disbelief. What the hell was this?
The biker smiled and flipped the two cards in front of him. 10♦ & J♦. Straight flush. He had the nuts - the best possible hand with the cards already on the table.
The crowd erupted with cheer, eventually falling into a chant of “Cut it off! Cut it off!” while some of them pumped fists into the air. The young snob placed his cards face down on the table and mucked; his face turning white in the process.
It all became clear to me. This was more than just high stakes poker. They weren’t only betting cash at this place. They were betting human body parts.
Bruno quickly emerged from within the chanting crowd wearing latex gloves and holding a partially rusted hacksaw, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his mouth. One of the topless dealers followed him with a large smile on her face carrying medical supplies. She placed a stool next to our table and a metal tin positioned underneath.
“Index finger. Give it.” Bruno ordered the snob. He gave the order in such a casual tone, like he had done this before.
The snob raised a shaking arm and presented his hand. Bruno moved quickly, grabbing the snob’s finger and yanking it over to the stool. In the same motion he raised the saw and instantly went to work sawing off the finger. Droplets of blood flew through the air as the snob screamed from the pain.
My mind raced as I watched it all unfold. I was in trouble. I couldn’t just up and walk out of the place without playing a single hand. Leaving so suddenly would arouse suspicion. Obviously what these men were doing wasn’t legal. They might think of me as a possible snitch. And there was no telling what the man with one eye waiting for me outside might do if he found out I abandoned the game.
Bruno threw the freshly severed finger of the snob to the biker while the topless dealer went to work applying a tourniquet with fishing line, then she used a metal sheet with a wooden handle heated with a blow torch to cauterize the stump. The crowd dissipated back to their tables as the biker picked up the finger on the table and stored it away in his cooler. I shuddered at the thought of what else was in that cooler.
The night moved on from there like a regular poker game. Every so often someone would reach under their table and bet a body part. An ear. Part of a tongue. Skin from someone’s shoulder. A toe. Most of these hands were met the same enthusiasm, but the result was usually a fold. One guy called and wound up having a molar pulled out of his mouth with a pair of plyers. I dumped my usual style of play and resorted to a more conservative approach. I fully admit, I was scared. Still, I managed to pull in about $5,000.
After two hours people started to cash out and leave. I thought it might be a good opportunity to make my way out. I was sure the man with one eye expected me to come out doubling his investment, but $2,500 profit was better than going back out there empty handed. No pun intended.
On what I decided would be my final hand for the night I was dealt an incredible hand: pocket kings. No starting hand in Texas Hold ‘Em is ever a guaranteed win. But I liked my odds. The only possible starting hand that was better than mine would be pocket aces.
The biker raised $5,000 pre flop; my entire profit. I had been watching his game all night. He was smart. He knew when to fold and when to raise. He won the majority of the hands I had witnessed. And he used the contents of his cooler under the table to intimidate and bring an entirely new element of strategy to poker. Admittedly I admired his play style, and his raise was an indicator that he had a strong hand. But my hand was likely stronger. It was worth at least calling and seeing what the flop would bring me.
I tossed $5,000 worth in chips to the center. “Call,” I said out loud, trying to sound confident.
The dealer laid out three cards on the table. J♠ K♦ 8♠. I had flopped three of a kind; fairly decent, but not the nuts just yet. The other two cards left a lot of possibilities. If the biker had four to a straight or a flush he had pretty good odds at beating me with the last two cards. There was also the chance he had pocket jacks or 8’s and wound up with four of a kind.
I tapped a finger on the table indicating a check. The biker quickly went to his stack and pushed forward a stack of chips.
“$20,000.”
A bead of sweat dripped down my forehead as I thought more about the possibilities. At the moment I had the best hand. The next two cards would dictate whether it stayed that way or not. Usually in this scenario I would make a large bet to try to force the other player to fold, protecting my lead and eliminating the chance of my hand being beaten with the turn or the river. The fear of potentially losing a limb kept me from making that play all night.
I decided to trust my years of experience. My instinct. “I’m all in.” I said waving the back of my hand over my chips. I was sure he would fold.
The biker stared me down from across the table, studying me while he shuffled chips in his right hand. He held that position for a good three minutes that felt like an eternity. I, meanwhile, tried to act as though I hadn’t a worry in the world. My heart was pounding so hard I worried it would be a tell.
“You came here with that one eyed man, didn’t you?” he asked me. “I might have.” “How do you think he lost his eye?” I didn’t react, not wanting to give him any sort of indication of my hand. “How’d you like to win his eye back?” He reached below to table and pulled out his cooler. “I call and raise.” He shuffled around inside his cooler, looked up at me, and tossed an eyeball into the table. It rolled over the pile of chips and eventually came to a stop with the pupil staring right back at me.
The risk of losing my eye was too great. I may be winning right now but that could easily change. My gut told me to fold, but it meant I would be leaving with nothing. And it meant the possibility of a far worse punishment from the man with one eye.
“I call.”
The remaining crowd moved in on us. I flipped my cards displaying my pocket kings. He flipped his cards. 10♠ Q♠. He had both four to a straight
and four to a flush. An ace, a nine, or any spade meant I would lose.
The dealer burnt a card and laid down the turn. 5♣. It didn’t help either of us and my chances of winning became greater. I stood up and rubbed my eyes, worried that it would be the last time I’d get to see out of one of them.
Then the river. Q♦.
Relief swept over me. He had a pair of queens. I had three kings. The crowd clapped and I let out the breath of air I had been holding. I got to keep my eyes. And I had just won a pot worth more than $100,000, at least $25,000 of which was all mine.
“Well played,” the biker said. "I’m sure your partner will appreciate having his eye back, even if it doesn’t work anymore.”
How the hell am I going to transport this eyeball? I thought to myself. “Just one minute!” Bruno yelled across the room. “Don’t give him those chips or that eye!” I squinted at him, confused as he moved briskly to our table. He peered at me as he walked, a stack of cash in his hand. “There’s a problem with your money.” “What do you mean? It’s all there!” I yelled back. “Oh it adds up, alright. Only problem is...” he waved the cash in front of him “...this money is counterfeit!”
I was in complete shock. The one eyed man had used me. No wonder he didn’t care about losing the $50,000 he gave me. I was his patsy.
Bruno moved in on me and grabbed me by my shirt, pulling me right in front of his face. “Thought you could pull a fast one on us?!” He raised his other arm and I briefly saw a shiny object held firmly in his fist. Before I could make out what he was holding he plunged his fist downwards and I felt the object pried into my left eye socket, wiggling its way to the back of my eye. “You’re not leaving here with any money. Or one of your eyes.”
Two months later and I was back at $1-$2 table at The Borgata wearing a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap, sticking to games much more low key. My days of being an active participant in high stakes poker games are over.
But tonight I’m watching the chubby man across the table. He’s good. He’s accumulated about $2,000 worth of chips in just a couple of hours. He was worthy. My perfect patsy.
I followed him when he excused himself to use the bathroom, waiting outside for him to come back out. As soon as he exited I approached him, placing my hand on his shoulder to stop him in his tracks.
“You’re pretty good. How’d you like to play a real game of poker?”
I’ll never be able to see out of it again, but I’ll also never get any sleep at night knowing that someone got the best of me. And that my eye is sitting in a cooler that belongs to a biker with a handlebar mustache.
You can’t trust a man with one eye.
Survival Procedure
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