#464 - WSOP Notebook #37 - Greetings from Mesquite!

I don’t know if Tony Holden was kidding when he mentioned over breakfast that David “Devilfish” Ulliott had been spotted at the Rio asking about me. I couldn’t afford the luxury of joviality, only of flight. After making (phony) plans to meet Holden at the Mirage Showroom to throw those Englishmen - assuming they are all in league - off my scent, I hightailed it to the Venetian.

Des Wilson was no help. I joined him in the Venetian tournament because I thought he might reciprocate by staking me to a shower. Not only was no offer to use his bathtub forthcoming, but it suddenly dawned on me that this man was Devilfish’s biographer. How could I have been so foolish to cast my lot with someone who, for all I know, was keeping tabs on me for the Ulliott enterprise?

As soon as I busted out of the tournament, I ditched Wilson, and made a quick and stealthy trip to the Compound.

The Compound was hot, and I don’t mean that the air conditioning had been shut off. There was no water and the internet connection was hanging by a thread, but the a/c was functioning fine. By “hot”, I mean that I can’t chance that the Countess - a disgraced minor member of the royal family of Monaco or Morocco (which was never clear) - was already putting the Devilfish on my trail.

I grabbed a few vital possessions: my computer, some journals and index cards (but no pen, which was why I had to bill $850 on the Full Tilt account at the Montblanc store at Palazzo for the sterling-silver barley-finish LaBoheme rollerball). I also took the least dirty of my two bath towels, turned the air conditioning temperature to fifty-eight degrees, opened the door to the balcony, and fled.

But to where? I had no idea.

What I needed was someone with their own place, a kind heart, and a history of tolerating me. There were only two suckers of this caliber in the poker world, and it was way too risky to go to the Rio to bother Mike Matusow in the middle of Day 3 of the Main Event to ask for a bathroom pass.

So I did the next best thing and contacted Clonie Gowen.

I figured Clonie Gowen owed me. Here is a brief summary of our history:

* I introduced myself under the pretense of promising to write a profile on her for a major magazine, though I’ve never actually gotten around to writing it, or even proposing it to a major magazine.

* I arranged for her to play heads-up hold ‘em with Andy Beal after she’d been drinking.

* I climbed into bed with her at the Bellagio.

* I tried twice, without success, to steal her underpants.

* I posted her measurements on my blog.

* I gave her a way-too-long hug to find out if her breasts were real. (Good news, guys!)

OK, well maybe she doesn’t “owe” me, exactly. But if she’ll even take my calls after three years of that kind of abuse, I have a shot.

I sent her an text message designed to get a fast response:

Clonie - Wanna get together for dinner and/or a shower?

Two minutes later, she called me.

But it wasn’t for dinner or a shower. She was driving in her car, lost. What I should have done, I realize now, was meet her, my in-person charisma being more persuasive, or at least my in-person stench being more pity-inducing. Instead, I gallantly gave her directions, courtesy of the navigation system my family has dubbed “Whore III”.

She told me the name of the business she was looking for. I think she said it was a gift store for pets, but the reception wasn’t good and I didn’t want to blow a chance to inaugerate the shower of her new luxury high-rise condo.

Changing the subject, I tried to make small talk about the Series as she drove toward the designated exit. I noticed that she busted out on Day 2, like me, so we had that in common.

“I guess this Series wasn’t a great experience for either of us, huh?” I said, trying to commiserate.

She made a brief, polite response that I didn’t quite catch, especially due to the reception. This was when a quick detour to the Hendon Mob Database set me straight. Clonie cashed 4 times at this Series, including the Heads-Up Championship, the NLHE with Rebuys, and the PLO with Rebuys. She also won a bracelet for taking down the $5,000 NLHE event at the Bellagio Cup between Days 1 and 2 of the Main Event.

This wasn’t going like I had hoped. I muttered something about how, I guess, $473,000 at the Bellagio Cup wasn’t a bad consolation prize, but I was only getting myself in deeper.

I decided to just move in for the close: “Clonie, how about I buy you a nice dinner, you know, to celebrate? Then you can show me your new condo. How’s the water pressure? Robust, I presume. Do you use Aveda shampoo?”

Then the bombshell dropped a bombshell on me: She already had plans. Just because some dude came from Germany to visit her, I had to eat dinner alone and wallow in my own filth while scurrying around like a hunted animal.

“I hope you wind up in Pahrump!” I yelled, hanging up the phone.

Pahrump, indeed. Pahrump does have the advantage of having Death Valley to the west, but only 60 miles from the Rio is a little close for my comfort.

Jackpot, Nevada, I learned, has a daily 9 PM tournament at the Excalibur, but according to Poker Player Newspaper, it’s $25 + $10. I’ll become Devilfish’s punching bag before I’ll pay that kind of rake.

I finally settled on Mesquite, which, though only 90 miles away, abuts the border of Utah, a place no gambler would ever venture. If I get low on funds, they have an 11 AM $15 buy-in tournament for me to build a bankroll or write about if Uncle Tilty wants to know why he’s not getting more tournament coverage in this blog.

My room here is a little spartan, though I’m not complaining. It has a shower, for one thing. And though the bedspread is stained in many places, it’s stiff enough to possibly have the same bulletproofing properties as Kevlar. In addition - though I’m not sure if this is on-balance positive - they have a Gun Club on the premises.