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Gabriella
New York is filled with glamorous spots, but this bare room in a basement in Chinatown, illuminated by cheap fluorescent lighting and furnished with scratched particleboard tables and metal folding chairs, isn’t one of them. Underground poker rooms rarely are. I’ve been playing for a long time—first in London, and now in Manhattan—and I’ve learned the decor, or lack thereof, is deliberate. When your business faces the constant risk of being raided by the cops, ambiance is the last thing you invest in.
Sammy, the guy who runs the place, is in his usual spot at a corner of the room, his goons on either side of him. He’s a big guy, Sammy. He used to be a boxer in his youth. He’s fanning himself with a magazine, his face red. His bald head shines with sweat that all the fans in the room haven’t been able to wick away.
It’s not just Sammy who’s sweating; we all are. New York is in the middle of a heat wave, and it has to be a hundred degrees here. I take a long drink of my water, lean back in my chair, and survey the room. As these things go, this is a small club. There are just two tables, which means a maximum of twenty people can play at any given time. Three dealers work the tables, Chris, Paula, and Tony, and they work in thirty-minute shifts.
Most weekends, this place is bustling. Not so tonight. It’s hot enough that many of the regulars are missing. My table only has six players, and I don’t recognize any of them. The two guys who flank the dealer are dressed like investment bankers. The unsmiling young woman to my right wears black from head to toe. Her clothes are nondescript, but she’s wearing a thirty-thousand-dollar Cartier watch on her wrist. Despite her mirrored sunglasses, she’s not much of a poker player, and I wonder how she found her way here. The couple to my left are obviously tourists. The guy’s wearing a Statue of Liberty t-shirt and shorts, and the woman has been clutching her purse as if she’s afraid someone’s going to run off with it.
Paula ends her shift, and Chris takes her place. He’s typically the chattiest of the three dealers, but not tonight. He sets up silently, and then, he deals the cards. I watch his hands move, and the movement is so hypnotic that the room seems to swim around me. I take another sip of my water and pick up my cards. The air is thick and humid, and it’s hard to breathe. A storm is coming; I can feel it in my bones.
I examine my cards. I’m holding a Jack of Hearts and a two of clubs. It’s not a great hand, but it’s also not terrible. One of the bankers gets going, putting a hundred-dollar chip on the table. The girl with the fancy watch doubles it. This is Texas Hold’Em, so these bets are compulsory, a way to seed the pot.
Then it’s my turn. Call, fold, or raise. The cards swim in front of me, and I blink rapidly to clear my vision. My head is starting to ache. I should go home, but even as that thought materializes to the forefront, I push it back down.
I’m here for a reason.
I’m a PR rep. I’ve been working for Karpis & Associates for the last five years. My official title is Senior Consultant, but the fancy title doesn’t come with more money. New York is expensive, and my salary is barely large enough to cover my expenses.
Three years ago, I realized that no matter how hard I worked, no matter how good my annual evaluations were, I’d never get promoted to Account Manager, much less be eligible for partnership. Viktor Karpis—the guy who owns the firm—is a good friend of my father’s. I got the job because of family connections. I’ve worked my ass off since then, but Francisco Suarez, the guy who heads up the New York office of Karpis & Associates, will never see me as anything more than a rich socialite.
Two years ago, I’d decided that the way forward was to quit my job and start my own PR firm. Twelve months ago, I’d gone into the bank to inquire about start-up business loans. That’s when I’d learned that nobody would lend me money. I’m a British citizen, I rent my studio apartment, and I don’t have any assets.
“If your parents would co-sign the loan?” the bank manager had suggested.
They would do more than that. If I ask them for it, they’d give me all the seed money I need and more.
But I don’t want to. Call it stupid pride, call it an obstinate desire to do this one thing on my own. Maybe I’ve internalized Francisco’s contempt more than I’m willing to admit. Whatever it is, I’m determined to succeed on my own merit.
Nine months ago, I realized that something I considered a hobby could actually be a lucrative side hustle. That’s when I joined Sammy’s underground poker room and started playing the high-stakes tables. Some days, I win big. Other days, not so much. But the winnings are slowly adding up. Soon—maybe as soon as six months—I’ll be ready to branch off on my own.
Or even sooner. If Lady Luck smiles on me, I could get there tonight.
The thought almost takes my breath away. I call, adding my chips to the pot. The tourists call as well, as does the second banker.
I take another big gulp of my water. The woman tourist catches my eye and clutches her purse again. Does she think I’m going to run away with it? Good grief. I turn back to the table, and Chris deals the flop.
I’ve got nothing. I should fold. Hell, what I should do is go home and do the dishes piling up in my sink. But it’s been a hell of a week at work, and I’m feeling a little down. None of my girlfriends are free to hang out tonight, and I don’t want to go to a bar by myself. The last time I did that, I’d done something monumentally stupid. I’d met two funny, good-looking guys, Dominic and Carter. I’d spent the entire evening flirting with them, and then, I’d slept with them. Both of them.
It had been the hottest night of my life.
Clearly, I’m not to be trusted on my own.
The two players before me check, adding no new money to the pot. I do the same, but unfortunately, the tourists raise. The woman bets five hundred dollars, and her husband matches. The investment banker to the left looks at his cards again, and at the flop, and wisely folds. His buddy calls, as does the girl.
It’s my turn to make a move. Chris turns to me, his eyebrow raised.
Call, fold, or raise. Those are my choices.
I should fold. That would be a smart thing to do. But the tourists are smirking already, the woman still clutching her purse. My temper rises, and I shove a five-hundred-dollar chip in the center. “Call.”
Four hours later,I stare at the devastation I’ve wrought.
Ninety-eight thousand, five hundred dollars, lost in one night of poker.
Despite the warmth of the room, my skin is covered with goosebumps, and I can’t seem to stop shivering. The adrenaline has finally caught up with me.
One bad hand after the other. A sense of hubris that made me repeatedly ignore the warning voices in my head. I should have bailed, and I didn’t, and now I’ve wiped out all my savings and worse. I’ve undone months of work in a few short hours.
