Delgaudio - Amoralman: A True Story and Other Lies

It was 3:00 a.m. Seated directly across from me was a brutish Armenian with a bad habit of scratching the stubble on the side of his head whenever he held a decent hand. The disgruntled look on his face had everything to do with the puny stack of poker chips in front of him. The rest of his chips, along with the chips of six other opponents who had been vanquished, were piled high in front of the only other player remaining at the table, an older man with silver hair and skin so red it looked hot to the touch. He was seated to my left and puffing on his third cigar of the evening. This is the man who had arranged the game. He was the man who had hired me to deal.

The game was held in a back room on the ground floor of a Beverly Hills mansion. Every week, poker players from all walks of life flocked to that house looking for serious action. The initial buy-in was ten thousand dollars, but guests were welcome to lose as much as theyd like.

I call it a game, but thats not really accurate. Games involve luck and skill. You can win a game because the end is unwritten. But at that poker table, at my table, the outcome was decided before anyone even sat down. It was my job to decide it.

There are various words to describe my role: Cheater is a broad but appropriate term. Card mechanic, or simply mechanic, would apply. Cardsharp and cardshark are interchangeable, both suitable. However, the precise, most accurate title is bust-out dealer; I was a card mechanic secretly hired by the house to pose as a professional dealer and cheat its customers. I made sure they went bust.

On this particular occasion, I was having trouble finishing what we had started several hours earlier. My boss, who was going to be the big winner that night, was annoyed that it was taking so long to collect. What he didnt know, what I didnt have a chance to communicate to him, was why it was taking so long: The Armenian wouldnt stop staring at my hands.

Plenty of guys had stared at my hands before. Thats just part of the hell of being a card cheat: You can never know why someone is watching you intently or what they are seeing. Is he onto me or just lost in thought? What did he see? What does he know? Why wont he look away?

I learned to suppress such unhelpful voices in my head. Anytime someone studied me as I shuffled or dealt, and Id feel the fear start to creep in, Id remind myself what my boss told me: These people are addicts and youre their dealer. If they are staring at your hands, its not because they think you are cheating, its because they are waiting for their next fix.

That private affirmation wasnt working as the Armenian stared at my hands. It felt too risky to move under fire, thinking that would put him at ease. But it didnt help. He just kept staring, and I grew increasingly uncomfortable.

Unfortunately, I wasnt hired to play it safe. While the Armenian was staring at my hands, my boss was giving me the universal look of Hurry the fuck up and cheat already! I understood his frustration. The night was getting away from us. I was tired. I couldnt tell if my eyes were dry from the smoke in the air or because I hadnt blinked since the sun had gone down.

Not to mention, my hands were so cold it hurt to shuffle cards. It wasnt the temperature in the room that was the problem, nor was it the events of this particular night; my hands were always freezing in that house. It had affected my ability to focus so I looked into it and discovered: Cold hands are the result of the bodys fight-or-flight response. When the mind perceives a threat, adrenaline is released, increasing the heart rate and shuttling blood to the vital areas of the body. One of the first places that loses blood is the hand; as the blood leaves it takes its warmth with it. Cold hands were my bodys way of telling me to flee.