Playing Poker with a Russian Mobster

It was a back-alley game in San Jose, Costa Rica. Truthfully, I didn’t have the money to afford sitting at their table. It was an act of stubbornness, mainly. I wanted to gamble. I wanted to play. The only light in the room lit up the faces of worldly men; sharks, who smelled blood.

“Sit down, son,” said one man who sounded German.

I said nothing, but watched the game unfold near the edge of the table.

“You wanna play? Pull up a seat,” said the Russian man.

“Okay,” I said.

“What are you, French?” he asked.

“I’m from the US.”

“Ah, an American,” said a Chinese man with a child-like giggle.

“Minimum bet is fifty dollars. You wanna play?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Okay,” said the Russian. He yelled at a boy standing in the corner, who brought me a stack of chips.

“That’s seven thousand five hundred dollars. You good for it?” asked the Russian.

“I’m good for it.”

The dealer dealt me in and I folded several hands. Being nervous is usually a hindrance to playing sound poker, but the cold tension of the room mangled my calm like a hapless animal in the wild. It took everything I had to focus. It’s moments like these you look back and realize, oh, there was a lesson there. All I could think was: I fucking love this game.

“Xan, is that casino of yours open yet?”

“Which one?” asked the Chinese man.

“The one in Managua.”

“Ah, yes. It’s open. We want to open another this year.”

“Another?” asked the Russian incredulously. “Why not build here in Costa Rica?”

“We’ve got casinos here. One in Tamarindo. One in Puerto Limon. Taxes are high in Costa Rica. Nicaragua is good. We expand operation there. That’s plan. Next ten years that country grow very fast.”

Meanwhile, the dealer gave me pocket queens in the big blind. The Russian opened up betting at $200. I raised it to $500. He called and the two of us went to the flop.

My grandpa taught me how to play cards. He never let me win. He was a free-market guy and his lessons never included leniency. I could beat him occasionally by playing recklessly, but even then he’d switch up his strategy and inevitably take all my chips. The game of poker was just a medium to impart wisdom to me on how to win, lose, and manage risk. It was in the challenge that I learned how to play cards. If he’d have given me charity, I never would have improved.

The flop came K-7–2 off suit. A shit flop for my queens.

The Russian stared at me coldly. I checked. He bet. I called.

The turn was a jack of clubs. No help.

I checked; the Russian checked.

The river card was a ten of diamonds. I waited for a moment, then took a shot with a bet of a thousand. The Russian shuffled his chips with calculated precision. He raised the bet enough to put me all-in. I considered it for a couple minutes before deciding to fold. I felt frustrated at myself for needlessly losing half my stack so early in the night.

I had asked the front-desk lady at the hotel where I could find a poker room. She didn’t know, but pointed me across the street to a casino. The casino didn’t have a poker room, but after some time shooting the shit with the floor manager, he gave me an address where I could find a private game. I thought what the hell, I am in San Jose alone — I might as well go check it out. He cautioned me that the game was illegal, but the people who ran it had a descent reputation. As long as you treated them with respect and didn’t run up a big debt, they were cool. I waved down a taxi and gave the driver the address. It was time to play cards.

It was in a surprisingly poor neighborhood. There were no windows in the room. The shabbiness of the interior was all out of proportion to the amount of money being thrown around on the table.

In my last significant hand of the night I was dealt J-Ten. The flop came: 9-K-3. The German had bet small and both Xan and I had called.

The turn was an 8.

I called the German’s bet again and Xan folded.

The river was an off suited 7, which gave me the nutted straight. The German bet big and I went all-in. He took a while to consider, but eventually called my bet. When I flipped over my hand, he chuckled.

“Nice hand.”

“Thanks,” I said, relieved to take down a big pot.

I left the game before it broke up for the night. I sat out on the terrace of my hotel drinking tea, letting the warm city air soothe any tension left in my body and mind. I had been traveling through Central America for the better part of a month, but it felt time to book my flight home. My travels had brought me more inspiration than I had expected and for that I was grateful.