We picked up Pepe the line handler and re-boarded Lazybuns to start through the Panama Canal. Thanks to Vasquez, the agent Hobby hired to process our paper work, and a little of the green, the customs work went smoothly and soon we were steaming—I should say dieseling—ahead. After entering the Miraflores Locks a huge gate closed behind us and Lazybuns began to elevate with the rising water level until we were at the level of the surrounding waters of Lake Miraflores.
Hobby said, “Joe, we’re heading for the Pedro Miguel Yacht Club. I was planning to stop anyway, but Mike is concerned about a fuel regulator that’s acting up and wants to get a new one if he can.”
“Will it take long enough for us to have dinner and look around?”
“Let’s see what Mike finds out before we decide. There’s still a possibility we could clear the canal today.”
After Mike reported the part would have to be picked up in Panama City, which could take a few hours or more, Hobby announced our gang would go ashore for some R&R, which suited us. About an hour later, cleaned up and in fresh shirts and slacks, we headed ashore for the bar at the yacht club.
“So, what do you think of our margaritas?” The waiter asked as he came back to take another order.
I spoke up, “Frankly, on a scale of one to ten I’d rate them a four.” The waiter was crestfallen and about to apologize when Hobby said, “We’ll order another round if I can tell the bartender how to mix them.” “Si, seňor,” he quickly agreed.
A couple at an adjoining table said, “Yeah, we tried the margaritas too, very disappointing.” Then another group heard the conversation and joined in the debate saying they made better margaritas in Tijuana, or L.A., or even New York City!
When Hobby came back with two pitchers of his concoction I took a taste and said, “That’s it, the perfect margarita.” Hobby replied, “He had all the right ingredients, he just had the proportions all wrong. I heard the discussion here; I’m going let the others sample my margaritas.”
It wasn’t long before the bar was doing a booming business with the new “Hobby-ritas” as they were being called. By the time we made it to the dining room we were a mellow group to say the least. The dinner was not spectacular, but thanks to our earlier lubrication and some good wine we were feeling no pain. I asked the waiter, “Is there a poker game here?”
“No, seňor. But there is a club just five minutes away by taxi. Do you want me to call one for you?” I looked around for some consensus and saw Hobby, Hank, Barry, and Pete were interested. “Please get us a taxi for five people,” I replied.
The Palms Club was more like a small card room with about eight tables and a bar. As we walked in we were greeted by a tall Latino with slicked-back hair and a pencil mustache. ”Gentlemen, my name is Julio, welcome to our club. What is your pleasure?” I asked, “Are you playing Texas hold’em?” “Yes, sir, we have two tables open, $2 and $4, that’s US dollars, and the other $10 and $20.” Hank, Barry, and I went to the $2-$4 table and Pete and Hobby went for the high priced spread.
There were apparently a few Americans at the tables, only one at ours who introduced himself, “I’m Sam, from Houston.” “Sam Houston,” I replied, “that shouldn’t be hard to remember; I’m Joe and my friends are Hank and Barry. We’re from L.A. and Palm Springs.” After nods to other players, we bought chips and the game got underway. Almost immediately there was a lot of table talk among the Latinos. I looked at Sam and asked, “You understand Spanish?” “Very little,” he replied. I knew Barry and Hank didn’t either so I said loudly, “How about knocking off the table talk?” I got some glaring looks but it quieted down. Most of us folded after the flop and the hand ended quickly.
After the next deal the chatter began again, so I said loudly, “Hey, guys how are your hands.” My friends looked at me curiously for a moment and then caught on. Hank said “I’ve got a couple big pictures,” and Barry said “I’ve got suited small runners.” I started to describe my hand when the Latinos started shouting and Julio came to the table. They said something in Spanish to him and he turned to me and said, “You must not discuss your hands, seňores.” To which I replied, “I told our Latino players to knock off the table talk, but when they didn’t, we decided to talk, too.” That brought on a couple rounds of high-pitched Spanish after which Julio said, “Gentlemen, there will be no more table talk by anyone or you’ll have to leave.” That suited us and we settled down for some honest play, but before long some of the Latinos who weren’t doing well left the table.
I hadn’t been paying much attention to Hobby’s table until I saw him stand and walk behind another player. Suddenly his arm shot out and he grabbed the guy’s wrist and yanked him out of his chair. He twisted the hand over and said, “Look, he wearing a shiner. He’s been cheating.” Everyone was standing, looking on in amazement as the perpetrator reached behind him and pulled out a switchblade. Just as the blade extended Hobby grabbed the other wrist and wrenched it. The sickening snapping sound, heard around the room, was followed by a scream, and then the man passed out.
Julio made apologies and suggested we leave as the cheater, Noriega, had many friends. We took that as good advice and soon were safely aboard Lazybuns.
Write to author David Valley at: dvalley1@san.rr.com
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