Part Six — Mexican Nights
Chapter I El Cosmopolita
El Cosmopolita is Chihuahua’s fashionable gambling hell. It used to be owned by Jacob La Touche—“The Turk”—a fat shambling man, who came to Chihuahua barefooted with a dancing bear twenty-five years ago, and became many times a millionaire. He owned an extravagant residence on the Paseo Bolivar, which was never called anything but “The Palace of Tears,” because it was built with the proceeds of the Turk’s gambling concessions, which ruined many families. But the wicked old man slunk away with Mercado’s retreating Federal army; and when Villa came to Chihuahua he gave “The Palace of Tears” to General Ortega as a Christmas present, and confiscated El Cosmopolita.
Having a few idle pesos from my expense account, we used to frequent El Cosmopolita. Johnny Roberts and I stopped on our way from the hotel to take a few hot Tom-and-Jerries at a Chinese bar, run by a hoary Mongolian named Chee Lee. From there we proceeded to the gaming tables with the leisurely air of Russian Grand Dukes at Monte Carlo.
One entered first a long, low room, lighted with three smoky lanterns, where the roulette game was.
Above the table was a sign which read:
“Please do not get on the roulette table with your feet.”
It was a vertical wheel, not a horizontal one, bristling with spikes which caught a flexible steel strip and finally stopped the wheel opposite a number. Each way the table extended twelve feet, always crowded with at least five rows of small boys, peons, and soldiers—excited and gesticulating, tossing a rain of small bills on the numbers and colors, and arguing violently over the winnings. Those who lost would set up terrible screams of rage as the croupier raked their money into the drawer, and often the wheel was quiet for three-quarters of an hour while some player, who had lost ten cents, exhausted his vocabulary upon the treasurer, the owner of the place and his ancestors and descendants ten generations each way, and upon God and his family, for allowing such injustice to go unpunished. Finally he would take himself off, muttering ominously: “Á ver! We shall see!” while the others would sympathetically make way for him, murmuring: “Ah! Que mala suerte!”
Near where the croupier sat was a worn place in the cloth with a small ivory button in the center. And when anyone was winning largely at the wheel the croupier would press this little button, which stopped the wheel where he wished, until the winner was discouraged from playing further. This was looked upon as perfectly legitimate by all present, since, carramba!, there is no sense in operating a gambling house at a loss!
The most amazing diversity of money was used. Silver and copper had long since been forced out of circulation in Chihuahua because of revolutionary hard times. But there were still some Mexican bank-bills; besides those there was fiat money, printed on ordinary writing-paper by the Constitutionalist army, and worth nothing; scrip issued by the mining companies; I.O.U.’s; notes of hand; mortgages; and a hundred different valés of various railroads, plantations, and public service corporations.
But the roulette table did not long interest us. There was not enough action for your money. So we shouldered our way into a small room, blue with smoke, where a perpetual poker game was going at a fan-shaped, baize-covered table. At a little recess at the straight side of the table sat the dealer; chairs were distributed around the circumference where the players sat. One played against the bank, the dealer scraping into the drawer a tenth of every pot—the house’s commission. Whenever anyone began to plunge, and displayed a large wad, the dealer would give a shrill, penetrating whistle and two suave gentlemen, who were employed by the house, would come running and take a hand. There was no limit as long as you had chips, or if your stack was underlaid with bank-bills. The gentleman in possession of the “buck” had the say whether it was to be draw poker (cerrado) or stud (abierto). Stud was the most fun, because a Mexican could never realize that the next card would not give him a magnificent hand, and he bet increasing amounts on every card with wildly growing excitement.
The strict rules of the American game, which so restrict freedom of action, were absent here. Johnny and I would lift a corner of our cards as soon as they were dealt, to show each other. And when I seemed to be drawing ahead Johnny would impulsively push his whole stack over to me; with the next card Johnny’s, hand would seem to have more promise than mine, and I would push both stacks back to him. By the time the last card was dealt all the chips would be laying neutrally between us, and whoever had the best hand bet our entire joint capital.
Of course nobody objected to this way of playing, but to offset it the dealer would whistle shrilly to the two house players and slyly deal them each a hand off the bottom of the pack.
Meanwhile a Chinaman would be dashing madly between the table and a lunch-counter across the street, bearing sandwiches, chile con carne, and cups of coffee to the players, who ate and drank loudly during the game, and spilled coffee and food into the jack-pot.
Occasionally some player who had traveled extensively in foreign lands got up and walked around his chair to dispel a run of bad luck; or asked for a new deck with an off-hand, expensive air. The dealer would bow politely, sweep the deck into his drawer and produce another one. He had only two decks of cards in the house. Both were about a year old, and largely decorated with the meals of former players.
Of course, the American game was played. But there would sometimes enter a Mexican who was not intimately acquainted with the subtleties of the American deck. In the Mexican deck, for example, the seven, eight and nine spots are omitted. One such person, a pompous, pretentious Mexican, sat in one night just as I had called for a hand of stud. Before the dealer could whistle, the stranger had produced a great wad of money—all sorts, sizes and denominations, and bought one hundred pesos’ worth of chips. The game was on. I drew three hearts in rapid succession, secured Roberts’ pile, and began to play for a flush. The stranger gazed at his cards for a long time as if they were new to him. Then he flushed the deep red of intense excitement, and pushed in fifteen dollars. With the succeeding card he turned quite pale and pushed in twenty-five dollars, and when he looked at his last card he turned red again, and bet fifty dollars.
By some miracle I had filled a flush. But the man’s wild betting scared me. I knew that a flush was good for almost anything in stud poker, but I couldn’t keep up with that pace, so I passed the bet to him. He rose at that and protested violently.
“How do you mean ‘Pass the bet?’” he cried, shaking both fists.
It was explained to him, and he subsided.
“Very well, then,” he said. “Since this fifteen dollars is all I have, and you will not let me buy any more chips, I will bet everything,” and he pushed it into the center.
I called him.
“What have you got?” he almost screamed, leaning trembling over the table. I spread out my flush. With an excited laugh he banged the table a great blow.
“Straight!” he cried—and turned up four, five, six, ten, Jack.
He had already reached out an arm to gather in the money when the entire table burst into a clamor.
“It is wrong!”
“It is not a straight!”
“The money belongs to the Gringo!”
He lay sprawled out on the table with both arms round the pot.
“How?” he cried sharply, looking up. “It is not a straight? Look here—four, five, six, ten, knave!”
The dealer interposed:
“But it should have been four, five, six, seven, eight,” he said. “In the American pack there are seven, eight and nine.”
“How ridiculous!” sneered the man. “I have played cards all my life, and never, never have I seen a seven, eight or nine!”
By this time most of the roulette table throng had swarmed in at the door. They added their clamor to ours.
“Of course it is not a straight!”
“Of course it must be! Is there not four, five, six, ten, knave?”
“But the American pack is different!”
“But this is not the United States. This is Mexico!”
“Hey! Pancho!” shouted the dealer. “Go at once and notify the police!”
The situation remained the same. My opponent still lay upon the table with the jack-pot in his arms. A perfect pandemonium of argument filled the place; in some cases it had developed a personal note, and hands were stealing to hips. I unobtrusively pushed my chair against the wall. Presently the Chief of Police arrived with four or five gendarmes. He was a large, unshaven man whose mustaches twisted up to his eyes; dressed in a loose, dirty uniform with red plush epaulettes. As he came in everybody began explaining to him at once. The dealer made a megaphone out of his hands and shouted through the din; the man on the table turned up a livid face, insisting shrilly that it was an outrage for Gringo rules to spoil a perfectly good Mexican game like stud poker.
The chief listened, curling his mustaches, his chest swelling with the importance of being the deciding factor in an argument involving such large sums of money. He looked at me. I said nothing, but bowed politely. He returned the bow. Then, turning to his policeman he pointed a dramatic finger at the man at the table.
“Arrest this goat!” he said.
It was a fitting climax. Shrieking and protesting, the unfortunate Mexican was led into a corner, where he stood facing the table.
“The money belongs to this gentleman,” continued the Chief of Police. “As for you, you evidently do not understand the rudiments of this game. I have a mind....”
“Perhaps,” said Roberts, politely, nudging me, “the Señor Captain would like to show the gentleman....?”
“I should be only too glad to loan him a few chips,” I added, raking in the pile.
“Oiga!” said the Chief. “I will be glad to do so. Superlative thanks, sir!”
He drew up a chair, and, out of politeness, the buck was given to him.
“Abierto!” he said, with the air of an old hand.
We played. The Chief of Police won. He rattled his chips like a professional gambler, slapping the buck to his neighbor, and we played again.
“You see,” said the Chief of Police, “it is easy if you observe the rules.” He twisted his mustache, ruffled the cards, and pushed in twenty-five dollars. He won again.
After some time one of the policemen approached him respectfully and said:
“I beg you pardon, mi capitan, but what shall we do with the prisoner?”
“Oh!” said the Chief, staring. He waved his hand casually. “Just release him and return to your stations.”
Long after the last wheel had been spun on the roulette table, the lamps blown out, and the most feverish gambler ejected into the street, we sat playing in the poker room. Roberts and I were down to about three pesos apiece. We yawned and nodded with sleepiness. But the Chief of Police had his coat off and was crouched like a tiger over his cards. Now he was losing steadily....