Chapter 1

I know that I come across as slightly pompous when I say that I'm a poker player, but not a gambler. Gamblers are people who play blackjack, craps, or the lotto. These unfortunate people cannot win in the long term. It is a statistical certainty that they will lose; therefore, they are gambling. Really good poker players only wager on those cards that statistically win over the long term; therefore, since I'm in that group, I am not a gambler.

"OK, smart ass. If you're not a gambler, why were you sitting in front of a quarter-slot machine preparing to throw away your first coin; especially since a slot machine is one of the biggest sucker games of chance in Las Vegas?"

Good question, but I had an excellent answer; I wasn't playing to win money, nor was I bored, and my gambling philosophy had not taken a vacation from me. I was playing the slots for only one, logically consistent reason—to try to pick up the beautiful woman who was playing the slot machine on my right.

My quest had started innocently enough. I was strolling through the casino floor on my way to my office, the poker room, when my thoughts were interrupted by a piercing scream that rattled my eardrums. A 300-pound female tourist had just won a fortune on her slot machine—a $10 jackpot. Her husband, who weighed in at 90 pounds, had glanced at her and then quickened his pace as he pushed quarters into his machine.

I thought, "Why can't they have a back door into the card room to keep the poor gamblers separate from the rest of us?"

My eyes almost made it back to my intended path when they locked onto a vision sitting in the middle of a row of slot machines. She was blond and maybe about five-foot five-inches tall. She was wearing one of those halter-tops that left her shoulders bare down to the beginning of her breasts and then showed eight inches or so of skin at her waist—the eight inches of smooth skin at her waist accentuated her sensual, flat stomach. She had a cute pixie nose with a hint of an upturn. Another jackpot went off and she looked in my direction; she had ice-blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a gold trinket on a thin chain that highlighted her chest and confirmed my earlier observation that she had the breasts of a goddess.

I was between girlfriends, which was my usual condition. One can only do two things at night; you can make love or play poker. Most—no I have to be honest—all of my past girlfriends had failed to recognize the purity of my quest for statistical perfection as it related to poker playing. They somehow had elevated the "cheap physical stuff" one does with the opposite sex at night to a pedestal much higher than my intellectual investment in poker playing. I suggested many times that we do the "cheap physical stuff" in the morning when I got back from the card room. Their answer was always the same, "It's not romantic to roll around at nine o'clock in the morning versus doing the same physical deed at night."

And sometimes another outrageous and highly unfair accusation was hurled at me, "You just want to get off so you can get to sleep easier!"

I always became highly indignant at that crude character assassination of my sexual intent; that there was, on occasion, a tiny sliver of truth in the comment made me even more offended.

So I was between girlfriends and for the last two months or so my body was arguing with my brain that the cheap physical stuff at night might be, at times, of equal importance to trying to extract money from not-too-bright tourists and tough locals at the card table. I hated to use the word "horny" to describe my physical condition, but sometimes one must acknowledge truth.

I stopped a change lady and gave her a gift of $20 in exchange for an equal value of quarters. After mentally discarding several approaches, I walked up to my goddess, pointed at the slot machine on her left and politely asked, "Are you playing this machine too?"

She looked at me with a wry grin and answered, "I donated five dollars to that little sucker without a single winner. It's yours if you want to waste your money."

I said, "Thanks a lot. I'm always careful when I sit down at a slot machine; I've witnessed some terrible fights on the slot machine floor that rival the last Tyson fight. Last week someone 'stole' a machine that the other person was playing. It was horrible—beer throwing and hair pulling; and that happened even before they really got mad at each other."

She was laughing now and said, "I promise no beer throwing; I'm too smart to waste a valuable commodity."

I continued, "Good luck to you. My name is Paul by the way. I'm a no good, rotten-to-the-core person known as a local. I live in this city of sin and sex."

She answered, "Good luck to you too. My name is Darla and I am one of those not-too-bright people you call a tourist."

I grinned back at her and put in my first quarter. Jackpot—$10!

Darla yelped, "Look at that; I warmed up the machine for you with five dollars and with one quarter, you hit a jackpot. Are you always that good?"

My brain did a somersault with a half twist. You cannot be "good" in playing the slots. Good implies there is a skill element involved, and that you used the skill correctly. In this case my skill element was pushing a button—I was too lazy to pull the handle. Statistically, there is no way to make money in the long term in games of chance. My jackpot was a mere random fluctuation.

I answered Darla with the Machiavellian intent of setting the hook, "Well now you see why I'm so careful when I sit down at a slot machine. When you told me that you had the machine warmed up, I had a strong hunch that I was going to hit it. My hunches are usually pretty good when I play the slots; they are even better at Spin the Wheel.

"I've got an idea that might interest you. The $10 is really half yours since you warmed up the machine for me. I'll donate the $10 into a pot and we could each put in $10 more and play these two machines. We will split any profits.

"Now I have to admit, I'm being a little selfish here. You have warmed up your machine and statistically it is probably ready to pay off just like this one, so I'm taking advantage of you a little."

Darla answered, "But you're putting $20 into the pot and I'm only putting in $10. That's a great deal for me. I'll do it partner."

I grabbed one of those ubiquitous plastic cups that are synonymous with slot machines and put in the 40 quarters I had just won, plus added another 40 quarters. Darla put in her 40 quarters as I thought, "I can't believe I said that garbage with a straight face. Machines are not warmed up, nor are they statistically ready to pay off—it's random chance with no skill. But if that's what it takes to talk to Darla, I'll lower my intellectual principles and say whatever sounds good."

I told Darla, "We'll alternate machines; I just played, so it's your turn."

She put in a quarter, turned to me and confidently said, "I win much more by pulling the handle than by pushing the button."

My brain did a belly flop as I grinned and answered, "I've heard people say that a lot, so there must be something to it."

She turned back to the machine and pulled the handle. She stared at the slot reels turning; I stared at her breasts.

I almost ducked as a piercing scream once again assaulted my eardrums—"JACKPOT—$50!"

It was Darla and she was alternating between hugging me with those splendid breasts pressed against me, and those same breasts sliding up and down my chest as her feet left the floor during her jumps.

I looked at her machine; it really was a $50 winner. "Absolute, blind luck," I thought.

On the other hand there was a certain pleasure in watching 200 quarters clinking down into the coin box at the base of the machine.

Darla had pushed the button to cash out. She told me that a really good slot machine player advised her to never let the credits build up in the machine; always make the machine pay. I thought my brain was doing another belly flop at this latest revelation.

For the next hour we played the slots and talked. Darla had graduated from college a few years earlier and was now a teacher at a junior high in a suburb of Chicago, while earning a masters degree at night. She had been to Las Vegas three or four times with friends, but when her girlfriend backed out at the last minute, Darla had decided to come anyway. Although it was the summer break from her teaching, she could only afford to be here for a week. With adroit questions I found out that she had broken up a few months earlier with her boyfriend of many years. He had a choice to make—marry Darla or marry the boss's daughter. "I came in second," said Darla, "And after thinking what a jerk that guy was, I'm glad I lost."

Darla performed her own inquisition on me and managed to extract information on every ex-girlfriend I'd in the last three years, along with her name, and length of service. Her inquisition was unfair and brutal—she smiled, she giggled, she impulsively touched my arm repeatedly, and she never let her breasts stray too far from my sight.

Finally, she asked a key question, "Are all professional poker players nuts, or do they act nuts to show people that they are professional poker players?"

I defended my poker clique with a question of my own: "What is so nuts about playing cards all night, sleeping all day, and going through girlfriends at a pace of three or four per year?"

My brilliant answer obviously stumped her. She stared at me and then broke into a sidesplitting laugh as she punched my arm. She gasped with tears running down her cheeks, "What a great sense of humor. You said that totally dead serious. I kept looking for you to start grinning at such a nonsensical statement, but you kept your poker face. If only my ex-boyfriend had such a sense of humor."

I took the chicken's way out and said, "Darla, we ran our $30 bankroll to over a $100. Let's go to a quiet bar in the casino and count our quarters and have a drink?"

She readily agreed and I led the way to my favorite bar in the casino—relatively dark, no singers and no tourists.

We counted the quarters. I know; you go to the cashier and she throws your bucket of quarters into a machine and in mille-seconds the machine says how much money you are to be paid. However, tourists like to count their quarters; so we counted, drank, and talked.

I thought, "This is a completely dysfunctional relationship. She believes in luck and I believe luck is the narcotic of a tourist. She talks to slot machines; I hate them. She thinks poker playing all night is idiotic, but that is my vocation. Why am I talking to this female?"

I rationalized, "Because, you idiot, she is the most beautiful female you've met in the last three years, her breasts are not man-made, and you melt when she grins at you.

"You can continue to pretend that skill is part of gambling; that you have a 'feel' for slot machines, and that maybe you could discipline yourself to play cards only half the night, if your reward were this goddess in your bed doing the 'cheap physical stuff' when you came home from the tables."

"That's impossible; you can't lower your standards that much," the right side of my brain screeched.

The left side of my brain, which controlled the lower part of me said, "Don't be so quick to kick this beauty out of your bed... don't be a chump."

The center part of my brain said, "You've got to be shitting me; you're already kicking her out of bed when the most you got so far is some breast contact when she won a jackpot... give me a break."

To say the least, I was confused.

We sipped our drinks and counted our quarters. We had run $30 of quarters into $103. Darla was excited and said, "This is the most I've won in Las Vegas ever! It was really a lot of fun, and you made it happen. How can I thank you Paul?"

"That's easy. We take these quarters to the cashier and turn them into real money. We take the real money to a small, local's restaurant and have the best dinner in Las Vegas that you'll ever experience."

Darla gave me a grin, which I already had named "that look." She said, "Fantastic; I agree."

I paid the bill and we walked with our quarters to the cashier. I was thinking that I had to dispel her idiotic idea that slot machines could be beat. I knew a relationship based on her belief that playing slots was a game of skill was doomed to a very unsatisfactory conclusion.

I spotted my beginning tactic—the progressive slot machine isle was located next to the cashier's cage where our quarters were going to be changed to real money. The flashing sign said that the progressive jackpot was now $212,169. I pointed at the flashing sign and said, "Last week the jackpot was at $8 million plus dollars. A little old lady with a walker and bottle of oxygen put in three dollars and won the jackpot. It's amazing how luck is everything in playing slots."

Darla said, "That's not completely true Paul. You played our two machines like an expert. You knew that they were ready to pay off, and they did! Some people have the feel for that, but most don't. You have a wonderful gift."

I thought, "Fantastic! What a great opportunity to show her how silly this whole skill thing is. Really ham this one up Paul."

I turned to Darla and said, "I rarely get a strong feeling on something like this, but right now I just know the progressive jackpot is going to pay off. Normally it takes months before another winner comes along, but this thing is going to pay off soon.

"We have $103 in our partnership. Let's each donate $1.50 and play the progressive for one pull. We will be partners on this—right down the middle. It's just this strong hunch I have, and of course we probably won't win, but what the heck."

I thought, "What absolute bullshit I am putting out to stay close to this goddess."

Darla looked at me and grinned as she said, "Go for it partner."

I fed the machine three dollars, but just before I pushed the button to get the reels turning, I looked at Darla and said, "You told me it's much more profitable to pull the handle then push the button, so why don't you pull the handle?"

She reached for the handle as I thought, "This is just one small step to show her that there is no skill in playing the slots. Three dollars down the drain is such a cheap lesson."

Now those of you who are afflicted with the slot machine disease know that when you pull the handle, the reels turn. When the first reel stops, the others stop so fast that you see them, but your brain doesn't connect immediately. So when the first reel stopped on the jackpot symbol, the siren noise and the lights flashing hit me before my brain registered that all the reels had stopped on the jackpot symbol. We hit the jackpot!

Darla was screaming and doing that thing with her breasts against my body again. This time she added a kiss that must have shattered a world record somewhere for intensity.

The manager of slot machines quickly walked up to us and introduced himself. He said, "Folks, this is always a bit of a production, so let me explain what is going to happen. The first thing we will do is a physical check of the machine to verify that there really was a jackpot and not a machine malfunction. At the same time we will be looking at the film of you winning the jackpot to make sure everything was on the up and up. Then we get into the paperwork phase—are you two married?"

I answered, "No, just friends."

He asked, "Did one of you win the jackpot or were you partners?

Darla said, "We're partners right down the middle."

She squeezed my hand and then grinned and gave me another kiss. "But close partners," she continued.

The manager said, "Well, that means we'll have two 1092 forms made out for the IRS. I'll need to see picture identification, get your social security numbers, legal address, and full names. Once all that information is completed, we'll cut you a check for eighty percent of the winnings for each of you—twenty percent is withheld for tax purposes. And of course you'll have to report your winnings at the end of your tax year to the Internal Revenue Service.

"Let's see... the jackpot was $212,169, which means each of you won a bit over $106,000, and that means you'll each receive a check for about $85,000 after we withhold Uncle's share.

"Finally, our public relations department will want to take a picture of you for the newspaper. You don't have to agree, but generally most winners don't mind it—we never give your address or home town; we just give an approximate location where you live."