One of the last times I saw my dad, we met in Vegas, where he suggested we stay in the Westward Ho motel and take the city bus to Fremont street, where we ate $4.99 buffets at casinos that you've never heard of. Yep. That pretty much tells you everything you need to know about that Vegas trip, save one detail.
We were playing poker at the Plaza, long before TV poker became the fad that launched me out of my poker rooms. I wore a hat so that people would be less likely to surmise that matching hairlines = relatives. Why? Because we colluded when we played. When one of us hit a hand, the other helped him pump up the pot by re-raising. At day's end, we split the winnings. It's not cheating, exactly, but it's close enough to cheating where one uses words like "exactly."
Today, in the eight chair, my father was mostly a spectator. In the two chair, I was on a roll. I was boss at this table, and my luck just ran and ran for hours. My primary victim was one of those people you wish wouldn't sit down at poker tables, the person who obviously cannot afford to lose any money but into whom you must bet anyway. He was a poor player, constantly a bit behind me, and I pounded his weak hands. Clearly a local, he was an older guy, maybe 65, whose skin and clothes were completely sun-drenched. His withered straw cowboy hat was frayed, as were his faded shirt and jeans. What teeth remained were chaw-yellow. His most distinguishing feature, though, was that his left eye had been through some sort of calamity. The puncture hole was just to the left of center, and the eye had long ago shriveled and turned purple-black. He made no attempt to hide the injury.
As I squeezed his chip stack dry, he grew more and more agitated. I blissfully couldn't understand what he was mumbling. And finally, my dad and the dealer called Security, who escorted the man out of the casino. He kicked and screamed like only the psychotically broken can, spitting foam in my direction.
The dealer then explained to me that the man had threatened to slit my throat, among other body parts, and that my dad had seen him fondling something strapped above his ankle. Wow. You try playing on after that. I did, with my dad literally watching my back, but my streak was over.
That night, uncomfortable with the possibility that if the man was staying in a Vegas motel, it was probably the Westward Ho, I resolved to always price him out of my hotel in the future.