Murderer's Row?

"I always keep a roll of duct tape and some rope in the trunk of my car."

I was doing my best not to look at the guy while he talked. I already knew what he looked like. Closely-cropped hair, a few pock-marks on his face, and arms that looked like he used to be either really muscular or really fat, but was neither anymore.

"You never know when you're going to have to make a trip to Alabama and drop someone in the bayou."

We were back at the Spring Hotel. G-Rob was in the three-seat. I was in the six. We'd agreed, following a hellish five days, that we wanted to sit and think about nothing but poker for a few hours.

When we pulled down the wooded, gravel driveway, it was clear that it was no ordinary night. It was only 8pm and parking was scarce. By the time we reached the door, two tables were running and a third was on the way. We drew seats in the back room and saw only a few familiar faces. Everybody else, including the strange-armed dude in the ten-seat, were new to us.

Over the years, I'd heard my grandpa use the term, "honey hole," and I always thought he was talking dirty. Because, frankly, if I needed a euphamism for the holiest of holies, I'd call it a "honey hole" every day of the week and twice on Independence Day. But, Grandpa meant a place where he could go fishing and always catch a mess fit for fryin'.

Last night, the Spring Hotel was a honey hole I'd be proud to show to my closest of friends. It's the type of thing that good sense tells you to keep a secret. But, if my blogging breathren were to come to town (the ones that can exploit a good game and fly under the radar like nobody's business--and I have a couple of you in mind), I'd take them in and let them run wild.

Since I somehow managed to walk out a loser (no need to go into how that happened), I'll let G-Rob tell you how he mopped up the game. Me, I'm more concerned about the ten-seat. He was the type of guy that would raise 35 times the big blind under the gun with a pair of sixes. He was the type of guy who would bet into a three-spade, paired board with nothing better than second pair and then call an all-in (have you seen my queens full, friend?).

See, I had a read on the guy like few reads I've had in my life. While I couldn't tell you his holding, I knew when he had a winner and when he had a loser. This wasn't a special talent on my part. I brought in Stevie Wonder and he picked up on it, too. In fact, after betting the hell out of my AK on a high-high board, I was overjoyed to lay down my hand when a third heart fell on the river. The ten-seat shook his head, muttered something about me hitting the flush, and then pushed all-in (this, after check-calling through the flop and turn). Like I said, Helen Keller was reading this cat.

So, I knew when to believe the guy and when not to believe him. And then he drops, '"I always keep a roll of duct tape and some rope in the trunk of my car."

I was eying up the Middle Eastern guy with the sweet cigars in the two seat, but I stole a glance at Mr. Tell. He was muttering, presumably for the nine-seat's amusement, about tying up girls and using duct tape to cover their mouths. He was forcing a bit of humor into his whispers, and finished up with, "Aw, I'm just kidding."

But, I had a read on the guy, you know.

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