I'd been working on a screenplay from a novel about an Iraq veteran who discovered a letter written during World War II in an old Zane Grey book.
The letter made reference to a treasure of Civil War weapons buried in Missouri. It's one of those interesting and believable tales which sucks you into the plot. It's one of the best I'd worked on in a long time.
I'm enjoying sunshine on the fantail of Lazybuns, a better place to write than my condo on a day like today. "How's your story going, Joe?" Hobby asked.
"It's not my story, Hobby. I'm trying to work it into a script for a movie."
"Does it have Academy Award potential?"
"I just hope it gets produced; I'm giving it my best shot."
Hobby went off to answer the phone while I re-immersed myself in the story. I had a flutter of an idea to bring more excitement to the tale when Hobby interrupted my thoughts. "Joe, that was Jimmy Butler, he's running the next poker party at his place. He wants you to come up with some new wrinkle to make the games interesting."
"I hope you told him I was busy."
"Matter of fact, I told him you'd be glad to." "Oh crap, Hobby. I've got other things to concentrate on right now."
"Maybe you do, but you like our poker parties and since you can't play host at your place, maybe this is the price you have to pay."
He got me. These once-a-month poker parties with his well-heeled friends were a lot of fun and often profitable for me. "You're right. I've got to pay my dues, so I'll come up with something."
I did the driving on the appointed night and parked my modest set of wheels in the expansive driveway of Jimmy's house. "How's your new game for tonight, Joe?" Hobby asked.
"That remains to be seen, but it's different."
After everyone arrived, did some glad-handing, and filled their glasses, we settled down at two tables. "Listen up guys," Jimmy announced, "Joe here-who you know is famous for creating new poker games-has come up with something special for tonight. He'll explain it to you. Take over, Joe."
"OK. We're all starting with the same amount of chips, so first we'll run a little contest. There'll be nine games after which the person with the most chips wins this bottle of 25 year-old Napoleon brandy, donated by Hobby. Of course you keep whatever chips you've won or lost up to that point. As usual, you can buy-in again later, if you want.
"Since hold'em is our game of choice, we'll give it a new twist. There'll be three versions which we'll repeat three times so you can get the hang of it. First we'll play $1-$2 regular no-limit hold'em; next, the same thing except one hole card is face-up; then the same again, but with both hole cards face-up. We'll do three sets and see who can win the most chips. Any questions?"
"Joe, I know you're clever, but what fun can it be if we turn up both face cards?"
"Pete, we're gamblers. Believe me, we'll find a way to make it interesting." Frankly, I wasn't too sure how it would come off, so I was surprised when the "exposed" hole cards created some excitement and spirited wagering.
When the nine-game contest was over, Hobby presented the brandy, and turning to me said, "You've done it again, Joe!" I modestly accepted the applause.
After about three hours at the tables and having quaffed several Captain Morgan's rum and cokes, I decided to take a break and get some fresh air.
I was out front in the shade of large oleanders looking across the valley when a vehicle came up the private drive. The van stopped and three armed masked men emerged. "Holy shit!" I thought, "It's a robbery!" I made my way unseen back to my car and reached through the open window for my cell phone. I called 911.
The driver of the van turned the vehicle around, ready for a quick getaway. I couldn't just wait for the cops. What if they didn't come in time? I picked up a rock about the size of a grapefruit and sneaked up in a crouch below the driver's window. A light tap on the door with my fingernails coaxed out his noggin, like a turtle's head emerging from the shell. Ka-thump! It sounded like a bat hitting a softball. He was out cold.
I pulled the thug into the bushes and drove the van down the street, parking it in a neighbor's driveway. So far so good, but now what? I ran around to the back patio and saw my friends were being tied up as they were separated from their money and jewelry. I didn't want to do anything to provoke shooting. Where were the cops? I called 911 again.
"Cruisers are on the way. Wait for them at the street," I was told.
When the robbers ran down the driveway with their bags of loot, they were surprised to find their van missing, but that was nothing compared to their surprise when all the cruiser's lights turned on and they were confronted by a score of armed policemen.
"Joe, where you been?" Hobby asked. "You missed all the excitement.
We were robbed and the police came just in time to catch the crooks!"
"And how do you think the police knew about it?" "You're kidding, Joe, right?"
"No. Give me a hand with this palooka; he was their lookout and driver," I said as I dragged the bum out of the bushes. "Why, Joe," a surprised Hobby said, "you're the hero!"
"Ho-hum," I said with studied nonchalance.
