Bragging Rights

“6 double gin and tonics, 3 large whiskeys, 3 vodkas with coke and a pack of cards please, all with ice and a slice.” “What would 52 soldiers of the Devil want with ice, Olav?” I replied and got a blank look.

“Basil, why don’t you join us for a drink and a game of three card brag?” I responded with a cruel comment “Haven’t you lost enough today already?” Olav had lost his wallet in Swanage earlier that day. It contained cash, credit cards, his ID and more importantly to me the hotel door security code and welcome card. It was beyond me to see him both cheerful and about to gamble when he had no money and lost his identity.

Olav was one of three Norwegian guests staying as part of a group of 12 from around Europe. Corporate guests staying at the Elizabethan manor were no rarity but on this occasion these guys and one girl were the only guests, so I didn’t object but declined to join them.

The group formed an ominous circle outside on the patio by the carp pond, which was now surrounded by sharks of the card playing variety. The new anti-smoking laws weren’t popular with these guys because they were forced outside so as not to be disturbed during their game.

Gambling on licensed premises is prohibited unless a special license is gained. But in the depths of Dorset and with no other residents I would turn a blind eye, as Gunnar and Olav told me that the stakes would be low and as they all worked for the same corporation knew the score.

The plumes of cigarette smoke above the table and orders of more drinks became more and more regular; along with the pleadings from the group for the Innkeeper join them. Despite having seen notes bearing the name of my Queen piled high on the table meaning the stakes had clearly increased dramatically, I took out a bottle of gin, whiskey and vodka, some mixers and took my seat at the table with Sybil’s petty cash tin. I was intent on playing it low and slow so as not to risk the wrath of the trouble and strife in the morning. In fact I could almost feel her anger before losing my first hand with a good pair of Jacks.

Winning hands steeple from three cards with no pairs but the highest card counts, to a pair, a flush where the three cards are the same suit, a run where the cards are different suits, a running flush and the best hand a prial, when all three cards are the same number, Aces being tops.
I was never stupid enough to be more than £100 down at anytime but rarely found myself in front. I was now one of the chain smokers and my bravado increased as my personal bottle of Rioja emptied. The group had agreed that we would deal the last hand at 1am sharp, I just prayed my non-PC decision to play wouldn’t mean the emptying of the PC-tin. The problem was the Ante or opening stake had risen to £10 and the group were now betting in bundles and some were going ‘blind’ too. Not looking at their cards meant a big risk, but those that had peaked were forced to bet double. I saw the wisdom in looking but paid the price a couple of times. The other important thing to remember is this, if you have looked at you cards, you cannot ‘see’ or call a ‘blind man’. So you have to continue or fold your cards.

The sodium floodlights illuminated the courtyard and our game just sufficiently to continue but candles from the restaurant were added to improve visibility and the atmosphere, as we headed towards the curfew. I replenished the spirits from the bar and re-took my seat at a table I was starting to wish I had ignored, with another bottle of Rioja. The cards were not falling for me, and when I thought they were ‘a blind man’ took my money with luck.
As the bewitching hour approached I reckoned my lot was about now about £80 lighter than when I ‘stole’ Sybil’s pot and I had also smoked a months supply of cigarettes.

Despite this I charged the glasses and we prepared for the final hand. There were five players left including me, 3 Norwegians Olav, Gunnar and Magnus and a Catalonian called Marti. It appeared at first glance that most of the players had similar pots to play in the curtain closer.

It was my turn to deal, so nervously I dealt three cards to each player. Griping pains of fear now struck me, as I knew money was little object to these rich men on expense accounts. I had seen the way they bet, sometimes laying down £100 before looking at their cards. Then they might bluff a few hundred more and see off the Innkeeper who showed his face of fear before folding his hand.

True to form the Norwegians all opened the betting with a £20 ‘blind’ bet. Marti followed, but I couldn’t risk have my marital rights suspended by Sybil or indeed my tools dismembered had I lost the contents of the hotel float. So I peeled back my cards one by one, the first card was a two, followed by another. So, I had a low pair, not something I would ‘go to town’ with and bet my lot. Trying not to let my face tell a story I started peeling back the last card, it was another two. That was a great hand, three of a kind, a prial, not something we had seen before that night, nor I had ever been dealt with in my life. While it was the lowest prial, I knew I could bet and bet big.

As the only ‘open’ player at the table my stake was £80, double my opponents. Round after round we continued at this rate before Gunnar raised to £50 blind, I continued, but now at £100 a round.

Suddenly I started to sweat, the realisation had dawned that as the hotel proprietor this was not a hand I should win. I had no license to gamble, these guests would lose more heavily because it was the last hand and worse I dealt it! I was clearly looking uncomfortable when the normally quiet and polite Spaniard asked me if things were getting a bit too hot for me. This was my first opportunity to ask my fellow gamblers to fold. They laughed, and laughed loud at me. They saw my feeble attempt to force the issue as a bluff. Marti immediately raised the stakes to £100 blind and my heart sank as I emptied the last notes form Sybil’s tin to respond. A moment enjoyed by everyone but me.

After removing a wad of cash from the hotel safe, my wallet and the days cashing up folder as I was now determined, scared, and a little panicked because I was expecting to win despite worrying of the consequences. I made one last effort to get the guys to look at their cards by saying I had done my best to warn them they were likely to lose and that they must suffer the losses and not bleat afterwards. This had only minimal effect, the Norwegians and my tormentor Marti looked at their cards. Magnus folded having seen nothing not to smile about. A few more rounds of betting took the stake to £200 a go, before I made my move. Raising my bet to £500 brought silence to those in our den of iniquity. Not because of my bet, but because a member of the local constabulary was standing behind my left shoulder, unseen by me. He had silently watched my raising stake placed in a pile of notes running into thousands.

His opening words were “Is Olav Gunnerson among this group?” Olav stood looking almost as frightened as me. The copper then said “I have your wallet Sir, it was handed into the station an hour ago, so I thought I would drop it off on my way home.” Followed by, “Can I have a word please Mr Hageman?" Being drunk, at first I wondered how he knew my name, but as I sobered up quickly I realised that it is displayed above the front door as all licensees names are.

I left the table and approached the rotund constable. He made it clear to me that I was skating on thin ice by allowing my property to be used for the purpose of illicit gambling. I protested that the game had started with a few coppers per hand and had gotten out of control, pleading that this would be the last hand and it would never happen again. The policemen said he’d contact me in the morning to discuss the situation and as he left told those seated at the table in no doubt that this hand must be the last.

As he disappeared from sight the gambling stopped. My huge raise in the stake and the sight of the local Bobby had deflated the atmosphere and the egos of my opponents. All of them seemed happy to call me and see what my fussing was all about.

It was a close run thing; Olav had a running flush, Gunnar a flush and Marti a pair of kings. The reason they had been betting so much was that each of them had hands that would win most games we had played that night. To get dealt hands like these on the final deal was astonishing. That thought bounced into my mind like a basketball fired from a canon into a squash court. Would they think I had rigged the deck before dealing?

I turned over my cards one by one to the stunned silence. To my relief I was congratulated by all of them and nobody cast a dodgy eye, drew a gun or pointed finger at the jubilant but green coloured innkeeper. I chose to count my winnings after the group had filed off to bed talking in whispers as they went.

I repaid the petty cash tin and Sybil’s takings folder for the day and refilled the safe and my wallet; the amount I stuffed into my trousers was a little over £3500. I separated about £400 from this to give to Sybil to add more to her shoe mountain in the hope that adding to her Imelda Marcos sized collection might get me off the hook for risking everything. She has never had any idea how much I won that night (unless she reads this).

A sleepless night followed for Basil, as I felt sure the losers would round on me, if they didn’t Sybil would, and then there was the policeman to deal with.
Olav and Gunnar came to breakfast first. They shook my hand and said nothing about the game when staff came close enough to hear about the shenanigans of the night before. When I said I was concerned about sore losers getting even, they laughed and said that had the copper not turned up they would have bet much more. Both said they wouldn’t have warned other players about my decent hand and that that was mad but they were the glad ones! Marti confirmed this view when he arrived full of smiles but with an empty wallet.

Sybil seemed full of it and was trawling the Internet for a load of cobblers fare before the group checked-out. That just left the fat constable.

To this day, his flat feet have never come back through the manor house door, but the fear of him doing so has prevented me trying to repeat the feat.