By the time I got around to attending the poker game it was nearly May. My Costa Rican friend who was the organizer was expecting to see me- I’d run into him at church services and let him know I’d be stopping by soon. The beer distributor that hosted the game was located at the end of Court Street, towards Gowanus. It was held every Saturday- a late-late night affair that didn’t really get going until around two am.
The night I made my reappearance, I showed up around three o’clock, bearing a box of Bolo’s cigars and significantly more cash than I’d brought to the dominoes game. This was a much more cut-throat affair. Lots of money splashed about, stronger opportunities for networking.
My church friend, Jhony, was the first person I saw as I entered the basement. I gave him a brief, brotherly hug and held out a cigar.
“Esto es de Panamá, Jhony. Es muy especial,” I said.
“Gracias, Hopeton. Qué bueno verte aquí,” he replied.
I looked around the room- there were three tables going, one main table with six players and two smaller tables with four players each- all playing seven-card stud. The smaller tables were clearly high stakes games, serious players only. I wasn’t particularly fond of dropping unnecessarily large sums on poker, so I pulled a chair up to the main game and waited to be dealt in. In the meantime, I honed in on conversations going around the table. Politics, mostly. This crowd was primarily black Central American- Costa Rican, Belizean, Honduran, speaking a mixture of Spanish, American English and whatever slang was local to their country of origin.
By the time I received my hand I’d already eased into the ebb and flow of talk. I made my move as the topic turned to Panama and the Noriega trial.
“Speaking of Noriega,” I began, “I have a box of Panamanian cigars with me.” I reached below my seat to grab the box. “Would anyone like one?” I handed them around.
“Y cómo conseguiste estos?” the man to my right asked. “Es difícil sacar algo de Panamá ahora mismo.”
“My business partner is Panamanian,” I explained. “He’s one of the few people in New York these days who still has associates coming and going.”
I could tell I’d caught the interest of my fellow players.
“Actually,” I continued, “he’s planning on moving his family back to Panama City in a few months.”
I looked around the table. A few eyebrows were raised. Some heads were nodding.
“That’s a smart move,” one of the men replied. “Your partner just needs to wait for them to lock Noriega up and throw away the key.”
“Things are about to open up in that country,” another of the players interjected, “for anyone who’s connected both here and there.”
Heads nodded.
“I’m ready to see him go,” I replied.
“Your partner or Noriega,” the man to my right asked me.
“Truthfully, both,” I replied. “Everyone needs their freedom at some point.”
