An Excerpt from Hillbilly Hustle

Abstract

An Excerpt from Hillbilly Hustle Wesley Browne (bio) Knox Thompson first crossed paths with the man who would ruin him at a poker game above the arcade in downtown McKee, a forsaken place he had made it a point to avoid. After finding out about the game from one of his Porthos regulars, Knox couldn't resist. It was said to be frequented by a herd of donkeys spilling money, and that proved to be true, but [End Page 90] making money and keeping it aren't the same thing. Especially not in Jackson County. He knew better than to go to that sketchy-ass game, but by mid-2011 the poker boom of the aughts had cooled, online poker was illegal in the United States, and most of the good live games had dried up. At the apex, he had his choice of games in Richmond and Berea, but when poker waned, so did his options. The worst part about it was the shittiest, most casual players were the first to give it up. They say poker lessons are expensive, and it's true. Knox tried to teach at least two nights a week if he could. He had come to rely on poker winnings to keep his pizza shop and his parents afloat. The worsening drought made him reckless. It drove him up the narrow stairwell with puckered, peeling paint into the dense smoke of the apartment over the arcade in McKee. He had told Darla, his girlfriend, and himself that if the game wasn't on the level or if things went bad, he'd just bail out. Making his way up, Knox didn't recognize the country music that played. The steps were shallow and about every third one sagged like it was held up by wet sponges. The apartment at the top was a studio with a table and ten chairs in the middle. Off to the side was a kitchen with appliances as old as he was and a sink full of dirty dishes. A feeble folding table teetered under the weight of two Cherry Master video– slot machines. The poker table, which appeared to be from an old dining-room suite, had green felt over the top and stapled tight to the undersides. It was ringed by men, sitting in mismatched chairs that looked to have come from ten different grannies' kitchens. They wore dull flannel or black t-shirts, jeans, and boots or high-top shoes, and most were stoking cigarette cherries or had tobacco spit cups or bottles alongside. The smoke in the room was thick as white gravy but the smell of damp still pierced through. Only one person [End Page 91] was vaping. It hadn't fully grabbed hold in Jackson County just yet. There was one woman at the table, heavyset, wearing glasses and a faded denim shirt. She appeared to be neither smoking nor dipping. She had a half-full twenty-ounce bottle of electric-blue Mountain Dew game fuel and an open bag of Funyuns on the table beside her. Once Knox cleared the landing, all eyes lighted on him, like a strange car passing down a country road. They had no way of knowing what he was: a guy who had built his game reading and rereading dozens of poker books, and playing countless hands live and online. He had worn his white Adidas slides with white socks—one with a Nike logo and the other without—loose mesh shorts, and a threadbare, powder-blue "Trampled by Turtles" t-shirt. He had one tattoo, a full-sleeve of fighting robots in grayscale. The most he'd done all day to his receding, curly black hair and sloppy beard was run his fingers through them. If he had any tells at all, he made sure his appearance wasn't one of them. The table went back to the hand playing out. It ended with a bet followed by folds and a burr-headed fat kid with a chinstrap beard and diamond-looking stud earrings raking a small pile of chips and adding them to his stack all while dragging from a stubby fag. He couldn't...