]MY name is Hank Hatton. I'm a freelance journalist headquartered in Las Vegas. My specialty is human-interest stories.
About a year ago, I was waiting for my friend Gary Kovak to join me for lunch at a small Chinese restaurant on the edge of Vegas' Chinatown. Gary is the guy who keeps the stats of the various tournaments around town for one of the poker magazines. It provides him with a unique insight as to who the consistent winners are.
"Hey," Gary said, slipping into the chair opposite me and waiving the girl with the dim sum cart over to our table. After we made our selection, I asked. "What have you got for me?"
"Ever hear of a guy named Stanley Kinzer?"
"No," I said. "Name doesn't ring a bell."
"No reason it should unless you look at his stats," he said, handing me some pages from the file folder he bought with him.
It was a list of in-the-money player wins in the no limit hold'em tournaments in and around the Strip during the past eleven months. Stanley Kinzer was in the money in thirty-one of them.
"Impressive," I said.
"More impressive is what he took down from those tournaments," he said, handing me another page from the folder. I glanced at the bottom line and whistled.
"That's serious money," I said. "Kinzer is either very lucky or is a 'takedown' man in a team."
"That's not likely in tournament play," Gary said. "But there is a common denominator in his play."
"What's that?"
"He always has the same woman with him at the tables." "A girlfriend sweating it out with him?"
"More than that. Every now and then she gives him a back massage at the table."
I shrugged. "Lots of players have that done. It relaxes them. Costs about twenty-bucks for a ten minute session."
"Some players don't like it. They say it's a distraction. Others claim she's passing Kinzer a read on their cards." "Any indication of that?"
"No. One of the poker rooms had their security cameras work them over and they couldn't spot any evidence of cheating."
"What's his background?" I asked.
"That's the interesting part. No one seems to know. He just appeared on the scene about a year ago. Doesn't socialize. Just plays his game and leaves with his lady."
"Sounds like a story." "That's what I figured." "And lunch is on me," I said.
"That's what I also figured," he said, waiving the dim sum girl back over to our table for refills.
After lunch with Gary, I called around to the poker rooms and asked them to tip me if a Stanley Kinzer signed up for a tournament. The next afternoon, I got a call from Richard White, tournament director at the Mirage. Stanley was scheduled to play in their Invitational Tournament later that evening.
A few hours later I was on the rail watching Stanley Kinzer scoop a large pot. There was nothing special about him. But the lady giving him a back massage between hands was a different story. She was tall, with shoulder length red hair, light complexion and knife edged cheekbones. I guessed she was in her early thirties.
Her hands were like two choreographed dancers moving gracefully to some silent rhythm-and their stage was Stanley's back.
Thirty minutes later, Kinzer was in the money and drew for position at the final table.
A fifteen-minute break was called and I watched as he gave the lady a kiss on the cheek and limp off the floor with the aid of a cane.
I moved from the rail and introduced myself to the lady. She laid her green eyes on me," You want to do a story on Stanley?"
"Yes." I said. Her brows narrowed.
"Why"
"Because he's accumulated an impressive win record over the past year."
She shrugged. "So have other players. What makes Stanley so special?"
"You," I said. "Not many players have a personal masseuse at the table."
She smiled, "No, I suppose not. Why don't you ask him when he returns?"
When Stanley limped back to the table he listened to my request and sighed, "I was hoping we would be able to stay under the radar."
"Not in this town," I said. "Winners attract attention." "What kind of story do you have in mind?"
"About a winning tournament player with his own personal masseuse at the tables. Good human-interest angle."
Turning to the lady, he asked, "What do you think, Velma?"
She shrugged. "Your call, Stanley."
Just then, the tournament director called the players to their seats at the final table "All right, let's talk," he said. "But not here. Tomorrow afternoon-at our place. Velma will give you the address."
Their place was a small, two-story stucco house in the Summerlin area-far enough from the strip that it could be in almost any western suburb.
Velma answered the door dressed in low-cut jeans and a tank top that exposed a pierced belly button. Her red hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her face was clear of make-up.
She led me to a small living room where Stanley was seated on a couch, leaning on the curved handle of his cane.
"How about something to drink?" he said. "Velma makes great lemonade."
"Sounds good," I said.
Velma was back in a moment with the lemonade and a plate of cookies and settled-in next to Stanley while I sat in a chair opposite them. "So," Stanley said. "What do you want to know?"
"How you two got together for starters?" I said. "I sense your winning streak has a lot to do with Velma's massages during your play at the tables." He nodded. "It does. "
I took a bite of cookie and a sip of lemonade and settled back to listen.
To be continued...
