Foxwoods: Making Money with Moneymaker

[NUTZ IN YA MOUTH]

It was a troubled life I was living. Back on the East Coast, grinding it out sixteen hours a day at the poker table, sleeping on couches and restaurant chairs around the Taj. Every time I peeked at my hole cards, I was fearful of a hand dropping on my shoulder, two boys in blue flanked behind me, ready to bring me in. In a way, that fear turned into a reality.

After snapping off a flush on a drizzly Friday afternoon to rake in a monster pot, I stepped away from the table to score some lunch. Dressed quite inconspicuously due to my recent delinquency, I thought that even if I was being sought after, I’d be difficult to recognize. Boy, was I wrong.

Walking through a row of slot machines, I felt my left arm get hooked. I closed my eyes and looked towards the sky. “Come with me,” the man commanded in a gruff voice. He was dressed in a long trenchcoat, a 1920s gangster hat, and a pair of sunglasses. “Odd attire for a police officer,” I thought to myself as the man isolated me at a table.

“Alright, lay it on me,” I told him. “What are the charges here so I can call my lawyer?”

The man lit up a cigarette and gazed out the window.

“I’m not a cop.”

The man could see the fear in my face. Obviously confused, I didn’t know whether to stay or flee. Before I could decide, the man continued.

“I think you’ll recognize me,” he said, taking off his hat and shades.
“Moneymaker?!” I exclaimed, incredulously. “What the [censored] are you doing here?”
“I’ve been following you since Jamie Gold’s home game. Saw the stunt with Leibert, the [censored] with Scotty Nguyen, saw it all,” Moneymaker said, taking a long drag from the cigarette.

“But why?” I asked.
“I like your style kid. You’ll do whatever it takes to get the chips,” he replied, putting out the butt in an ash tray. “And I want you to come work for me.”
“Work for you? I don’t think so, Chris.”
“You won’t? Alright then, maybe I should go tell that cop over there what you’ve been up to,” Moneymaker said, starting to leave the table.
“Alright, alright, calm down!” I pleaded with him. “What do I have to do?”
“Here’s how it’s going to work. My bankroll is [censored]. I’m broke. Dead broke. We’re taking a ride up to Foxwoods and rebuilding my [censored]. Come on, follow me to my car. I’ll explain on the way up,” he said.

On the drive to Foxwoods, Chris told me his “genius” plan. We were going to mark various cards with condiments – ketchup was an ace, relish was a king, sweet and sour sauce a heart, etc. It was ballsy, no doubt about that. Chris dropped me off at Foxwoods and said he was going to stay in a motel up the road.

“Yeah, probably a good idea for us not to be seen the night before this [censored] goes down,” I told him.
Laughing, Chris said, “Oh, it has nothing to do with that! I just can’t afford to stay at the casino!”

Early the next morning, Chris and I met for breakfast and reviewed our plan. To conceal his identity, he’d dressed like a woman.

“What are we playing here, Chris? A little 5/10?” I asked.
“Ummm, well…” he said nervously, biting his lower lip.
“Chris, just how [censored] is your bankroll?”
“It’s [censored], dude. We’re going to have to play the $1/2 tables,” Moneymaker responded sheepishly.
“$1/2 tables? You won the World Series less than four years ago! How can all your money be gone?” I asked in amazement.
“The games got harder, damnit!” he snapped back.

Chris sat down at a table and soon I switched over to his. He was going by the name Matilda and told the other players he was a high school French teacher from New Hampshire. About fifteen minutes into the game, “Matilda” orders a hot dog and chicken tenders, and tells the waitress to bring every condiment she can think of. Moneymaker then winked at me.

The plan was an unmitigated success. At one point, I saw the ketchup-stained ace of spades across the table and mucked the second nuts face up before any betting could be done. The other players buzzed in amazement as the other player turned up the nuts. Pats on the back and “What a laydown!” were the norm.

Over the weekend, Chris and I pocketed over $5000 each. With a [censored] eating grin on his face, Chris thanked me as he said goodbye. “Sunday Million, here I come! WHOO!” he screamed excitedly in the parking lot as we shook hands. “Call me sometime,” Moneymaker continued as I walked away, “we should do this again!” Lighting up a cigar, I boarded the elevator and headed back into the casino. The HOE game looked juicy as hell, and I wanted a piece.