"Joe, remember I told you Kenny Williams was starting an airline for poker players?"
"Yeah, Hobby. Has he gotten it off the ground yet?"
"Very funny, Joe. Yes, he has. I've got a seat on the maiden flight. Interested?"
"I don't know. Tell me more."
"The first trip is to Monte Carlo for a week. Ten thou for everything including a seat in a $100,000 tournament on the way over."
"How many people going?"
"I don't know, but it's 100 players max."
Since I have never been to Monte Carlo, it was very tempting.
"Okay, Hobby, count me in."
A few weeks later we boarded Air Poker Flight 101. Williams, besides being an innovative entrepreneur, was quite a promoter. He attracted Hollywood actors, well known Las Vegas players, and many well-heeled poker players from L.A. The front cabin of the 727 was outfitted with large plush seats, everything strictly first class. The stews, attractive young ladies in skimpy outfits, were numerous and quick to serve beverages of choice. We had just reached cruising altitude when Hobby, who was seated next to me said, "Glad you came?"
"I'll withhold judgment. Right now I'm wondering how we're going to play poker here."
"I think we're about to find out."
I looked up to see Kenny Williams standing, midcabin, with a microphone.
"This announcement will be short and sweet. You'll get dinner momentarily and after that we go to the rear cabin for poker. Thanks for coming and good luck!"
A dozen full-sized poker tables were spread through the rear cabin. They were fast filling with anxious players. Hobby and I picked different tables; no need to compete with each other.
Each position had stacks of chips worth $1,000. Funny thing, the chips were magnetic and the table felts were underlain with steel. In case of turbulence, the chips couldn't go astray. Seems like Kenny had thought of everything.
The tournament was run by a professional Las Vegas crew and the action moved at a rapid pace. A couple dozen of the 100 starters were eliminated the first hour. I was barely hanging on. I had a good run for a while, but got bad beat by a river card flush when I held a set of aces.
Bad luck destroys many promising hands, but what destroys a player is mooning about it. Or so I was trying to convince myself as I tried to pump up my sagging psyche. Playing with a short stack, I needed a good hand to hopefully double up with an all-in.
With eight players, a pair of nines is not a great prospect for all-in. But I had a hunch...and a prayer. Two other players with fewer chips than me also went allin.
To further diminish my chances, two more players with big stacks called. The flop was a pair of jacks and a seven-not auspicious.
When the turn dropped an eight I had faint hope for a straight and-voila! Down the river floated a winning ten! Suddenly I was back near where I started; far from getting into the big money, but I had a shot.
The new dealer assigned to my table, a thin swarthy type, seemed joyless and out of place. When he leaned over the table to rake in chips something strange happened, a chip stuck to his jacket! He saw it and quickly swiped it off; I don't think anyone else noticed. I thought: what would make a chip do that-except a strong magnetic attraction? I excused myself and went to Hobby's table. I whispered to him, "I think the dealer at my table is packing heat inside his jacket. Keep your eye on him."
The mysterious dealer rotated among tables under our watchful eyes. I tried to dismiss my paranoia and concentrate on my cards, but I steadily lost chips. Cards were not coming my way.
My next all-in bombed and I was all out. Hobby outlasted me, but not for long.
We joined side games as the remaining tournament players slugged it out. The Captain announced we were about an hour from touchdown in Monte Carlo. The tournament would be concluded in a half-hour, if not sooner by attrition.
Our suspect huddled with another dealer who nodded solemnly then headed for the front cabin. "Hobby, something's up; let's go brace this guy."
As I approached he looked at me warily. "I want to give you a tip," I said.
"No. No tips. Thank you," he said as he made motions with his hands to back me off.
Hobby approached from the blind side, lunged for his throat, and gripped the hand that was reaching inside his jacket. Locked in Hobby's neck hold the lug couldn't make a sound as I clutched his other hand, twisting his arm behind his back and snatched the automatic pistol.
Everyone nearby was intently watching the final table and didn't notice as we dragged the man into the nearby galley. After Hobby knocked him out we trussed him up with the jacket he had been wearing.
"Now what?" I said to Hobby when, over the P.A. system, a shaky voice announced. "All passengers go to your seats! This is a highjacking. You decadent Americans will pay for your imperialistic aggression."
There was bedlam among the passengers, but with urging from Hobby and me, they moved into the forward cabin and took their seats.
Up front we could see a gunman with his back to the cockpit door. He wasn't the one I had seen talking to the man we dispatched in the galley. "Hobby, there must be another guy in the cockpit, but first we've got to get this one. I'll try to distract him."
I whined as I approached the gunman, "Oh, please don't shoot. Don't shoot me." He waived me off with his gun as he craned his neck to look for his cohort from the rear cabin. When Hobby was almost in range, I cried out, "Please don't shoot," and dropped to my knees to get his attention.
Simultaneously, Hobby launched himself at the gunman.
Within seconds Hobby had the weapon and subdued the man.
I turned to the stunned passengers and said, "Everyone, please, quiet down until we can figure out what to do."
I put on the jacket of the unconscious rogue dealer and stood in front of the cockpit door so that only a portion of the jacket and nametag would show through the peephole. "Stand by the side of the door, Hobby. I'll try to get the bad guy to come out."
I began banging on the door with the pistol.
"What? What?" I could barely make out the shouts of someone inside.
I kept banging. After more muffled shouts, the door open and a head popped out.
Hobby grabbed a handful of hair, yanked the guy into the cabin, and grabbed his weapon. The front row of passengers pummeled him mercilessly until he was a wilted heap.
Overshadowing the remainder of our trip, Hobby and I were given hero treatment to the point of embarrassment.
But guess what? The poker gods were not impressed; we did nothing but lose at the tables.
"How do you figure it, Joe?" Hobby asked. "I can only conclude, poker is no respecter of status."
