Colson Whitehead - The Noble Hustle - Poker, Beef Jerky, and Death

The Cosmopolitan’s nightclub was called Marquee, up on the terrace. It was quite splendid. Hotel clubs like Marquee had a dependable schedule of colada-soaked pool parties during the day, followed by quiet time for disco naps and “What’s up? Oh, nothing” calls home at dusk, and then another hard skid of partying until dawn. I wanted to stay, I wanted to live there. I’d scoop the hair-balls and condoms from the drains in the pool, whatever. Shecky did business. At every new venue he’d say, “I have to talk to this guy for a minute,” yelling so I could hear him above the electro music, and then confer with his opposite number at this establishment. Nodding, yes, yes.

Mr. Entertainment had found a home. Vegas hadn’t changed him — he had always been Vegas, now he was more so. Why shouldn’t an enterprising white guy from Philadelphia create a landmark rap magazine, assemble an empire of honeys, ringmaster the billion-dollar nightlife of a hungry city? Follow his dream. Not the American dream but the desert dream of finding your oasis in the wasteland. To everyone else it is a mirage, a trick of the eyes in the infernal heat. Until you lead them to it, and they taste the waters for themselves.

These were his people, dancing. Seventy-two hours in another city, to try on a new self, this table image. Since the disco was grafted onto a residential structure, access came by way of unadorned fire stairwells, which at peak traffic were inundated with wobbly bachelorettes on stilettos, Jager-blind groomsmen, and leather-skinned jetsetters creaking in crisp designer duds who passed each other up and down the stairs with a delirious urgency. A scene from the inferior American remake of The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie , or lost footage from The Towering Inferno . I still recognized myself here. Monster places for monster people. Like I said, I wanted to move in.

Speaking of Brazil. The Rio had been the home of the WSOP the past couple of years. Like a teenager rolling her eyes at her parents’ cornpone ways, the place rejected the architectural kitsch of old-school Vegas — the miniature cityscape of New York — New York, the Paris’s Eiffel Tower replication — to run the streets with the slab architecture of the new megacasinos. But really, what could the Rio have been shaped like? A twenty-story toucan? I’m sure they thought about it.

The lightly enforced Brazilian theme disappeared altogether once you got to the convention hall, where the World Series had been chugging along for six weeks with a host of lower-stakes Hold’em events, Seven Card Razz, and the like. The declivity of the Hall of Legends was festooned with huge banners featuring the blown-up faces of game greats — devilish Scotty Nguyen, a grim-looking Erick Lindgren, last year’s champ Jonathan Duhamel. Then it was into the rotunda, where you could buy snacks, beef jerky, and WSOP merch. Smack in the middle of the rotunda was a WSOP display, featuring a TV monitor that replayed last year’s Final Table on a loop day and night. When I tried to register the morning of my start, at 6:00 a.m. (I hadn’t been sleeping well, I had been sleeping quite poorly), the announcer’s voice echoed in the empty halls. Nobody there at that hour. Everybody’d seen it already anyway.

The afternoon of my arrival, the hallways brimmed with desperados, the Pavilion and Amazon Rooms awhir. I stepped into the Pavilion. The first thing I noticed — this was before the size of the room assaulted my brain — was the crickets. The chips clicked and clicked, thousands of players fiddled with their chips, stacking them, tossing them into the pot, scooping them up, dealers counting off All Ins, click click click. Cricket symphony.

There were more than two hundred tables, ten-seated, which meant they could shoehorn in a lot of runners. It was Day 1B, and the Main Event was under way in the Green Section, the Black Section, etc., while in one corner players ground through satellite games, still hoping to win a seat in the World Series. The buy-in was ten grand, but pay five-hundred-something bucks in a satellite, make it into the top of the field, and you won a ticket to the Big Game. So while Main Event players were washing out just beyond the velvet rope, these bruisers slugged it out for the opportunity. Some of them had been here for weeks. The clock was ticking. If they got bounced, there was time to enter another one, one more last chance. You can play as many as you like, satellite after satellite. Same principle as slot machines, just a lot slower.

The Amazon Room was smaller, around the corner past the vendors peddling poker primers and arcane table spectacles (“Hide Your Eyes”), the registration areas, and the Poker Kitchen, where you could grab a quick sub or a salad. I assume the name of the joint depended on the current occupants of the convention hall. “Hot Grub” for the entomologists’ annual get-together, and something appropriately farm-to-autopsy table for the forensic scientists.

The Amazon was where the ESPN cameras roosted. The network’s WSOP programming crept up every year to feed the aficionados. They were spitting out unprecedented coverage this year, on cable and multiple internet streams, so the room was exuberantly branded by the sports channel and the World Series’s main sponsor, Jack Link’s Beef Jerky. What, you don’t like beef jerky? You got your Peppered Beef Jerky, Teriyaki Beef Jerky, it’s a convenient source of protein in an easy-seal pouch. Young correspondents from the trades— Bluff Magazine and Card Player —scooted between the tables, here’s a status report on the big guns, can I snap a pic for the liveblog, something for the fans back home? Portly security guards shuffled between the velvet ropes. You’d almost think there was real money on the felt.

TV cameras snipered down on the two Feature Tables, which were situated apart from the regular sections, percolating under garish blue and crimson lights. On Day 1C Brad Garrett from Everybody Loves Raymond did his time at one. He was known for his poker acumen, striking a menacing glare from the cover of Bluff , which was blown up and perched on easels throughout the halls. Headline news: “Black Friday: The D.O.J. Shuts Down the Big 3,” referring to the online sites Full Tilt Poker, Absolute Poker, and PokerStars. Brad and his TV brother, Ray Romano, yukked it up while playing, their TV bond no act and still going strong these long years into undead syndication. We should be so lucky.

Celebrities of various wattage. Jason Alexander, staked by PokerStars, who were keeping up a brave front despite the Feds. Paul Pierce of the Celtics. The rapper Nelly, or so I was told, and Shannon Elizabeth, who was a celebrity, or so I was told. The poker luminaries in their firmament, the guys who wrote the books and cranked out the instructional videos, recognizable from the poker TV shows you may have watched at home or endured in a hotel bar. They were being overthrown, these kings. Was this the Main Event or the Deadliest Game? Doyle Brunson, a.k.a. Texas Dolly (after his collection of vintage Barbies, most of them still in the original packaging), da Godfather, went out two hours into Day 1A. Greg Raymer and Jerry Yang, two former world champions, hit the rails, and Matt Affleck, too. What are you going to do?

Michael “The Grinder” Mizrachi, whose madcappery had livened last year’s TV coverage, was strafed to bits while crawling on his knees and elbows toward a straight draw. His farewell Saving Private Ryan tweet to his three brothers, who also played: “Officially out of the Main Event!! Sour start to the day!! Good Lucky my brothers!! Sorry left you guys behind!!” If they were going out, what chance a wretch like me? About 1,400 runners atomized by the time I played on Day 1D.