Black Jack Blues
September 8, 2000

So here I am Raiford Starke with my band the Wet Blades on stage in the middle of a crazy calliope of musical gaming machines, roulette wheels and green felt blackjack tables. We are high above the bar, in front of a big screen TV, at Fitzgerald's Casino on the banks of the Johnny River, in the middle of the cotton-growing delta, in God bless Starkansaw. I was on a roll tonight - a lucky roll. The Wheel of Fame was spinning and I was along for the ride. I decided to take a radical departure from playing the usual loungy casino standards and stepped into a new Starke country classic:

You don't see Dolly Parton without her falsies
You don't see Johnny Cash not dressed in black
You don't see Willie Nelson without his toupee
And you don't see Raiford Starke without his hat. . .

The crowd just stood there in gestalt-like silence. The silence of awe shucks. Skip, the house sound-man, came running up to me. "Is that your song Raiford?" "Why yes," I said.

"Sha-za-yyamm! That thar's a boner-fide hee-yit! You really flashed 'em out with that one, good buddy. You might as well quit while yer ahead..."

"What do you mean?" I said, "We still have three more sets to go. . ."

"Truth is," Skip said, "the management wants y'all to knock off early." He handed me an envelope with our pay. I opened it up and $74 dollars cash fell out. I took my $24 band leader's pay off the top and paid the other four guys $12.50 a piece.

As I'm putting my guitar in the case the drummer approaches me. "Look," he said, "I don't want you to get the wrong idea - this isn't me that's talking, it's the rest of the band. I - I mean - they want to know why we're only getting $12.50 each instead of the $200 a man that you promised us?"

I looked at him and shook my head. "I said . . that if you play your cards right, each of you guys will make $200 dollars a night at this gig. On top of that, if you really play your cards right, heck, they just might ask us back to play here again. So here's a little gambling money. Now go hit those blackjack tables and - I'm tellin' ya son - walk away when you hit 200!"

The drummer's face was as red as a Ruskin tomato.

"Oh ye of little faith," I said as I flashed him a gambler's grin and led him and the rest of the boys in the band over to the blackjack tables. I ponied up a 10 spot. "Deal me in!" I barked to the gentle-lady dealing the card game.

She gave me two, $5 chips and dealt me a jack and a four. Her hand was showing a king "Hit me, baby!" I said as the boys in the band gathered around me. She dealt a seven. That makes 21! She busted, making ol' Raiford Starke $10 richer.

"Well it looks like it's your lucky day," the dealer half-smiled, passing me two more chips. I bet all four chips and got dealt an Ace and a King. Black Jack! I got back six more chips - giving me a total of 50 bucks. After about a half-hour of Blackjack, I had accumulated piles of chips and was over $800 richer. My band-mates - even the drummer - were awe (shucks) struck, cheering me on: "Raiford! Raiford!" I even noticed Phil the casino owner, who'd been watching me for the last few minutes joining in the celebration. There was no doubt about it, I was unstoppable. "You want your 200 bucks, guys?" I said to the band, "I'm gonna get it for ya!"

And with that I got them to each hand me back the $12.50 I had paid them and put it all down on the table. I could hear ol' Phil. "Yeah Raiford!" he said, "Go, go, go buddy! I smell another Black Jack! Put it all in there!"

It was double or nothing. She dealt the cards. I had an Ace and an eight, that makes 19. Not a bad hand, especially since she was only showing a six. I was going to stay with what I had.

She drew a king and a four. That gave her 20. Just like that I had lost almost $900. I could hear Phil cheering while the once euphoric band members converged on me. I had to get another chance to win that money back. I scoured my wallet and pockets for any dead presidents or statesmen that might be hiding around. All I could find was a 100 franc note. "Sorry we don't take French money," Phil said.

"C'mon, Phil buddy, you gotta give me one more chance. . ." I pleaded.

After a minute or two, Phil decided he was gonna bend the rules a little. We made a deal. The house would take the 100 franc note and give me one chance to redeem my lost winnings. If I lose, then five months of indentured servitude as the house band at Fitzgerald's in Starkansaw.

Phil winked at the dealer. A couple of mean bodyguards moved in adjusting their hearing aids. All eyes were on me as I cut the deck. Just before she began to deal, I put my hand out. "Shuffle it one more time," I ordered, winking at my boys in the band. I could tell they were impressed.

She dealt me a king and a jack and she had an ace showing. "Would you like to buy Blackjack insurance?" she said.

I remembered the sage advice of Sunset Beach Pete: Never buy Blackjack insurance. It's almost always a bluff. I could feel the guys in the band looking over my shoulder. I could almost hear them counting their winnings. "We don't need no stinking insurance!" I defiantly slapped that king and jack on the table.

She flipped over a jack. A black jack. Phil doubled over in laughter. Me and the band? Well the bartender said we were as white as an albino's belly button.

So here I am again, Raiford Starke with my band the Bad Hands on stage above the bar in the middle of Fitzgerald's Casino. The money machines are pulsing in my head like a Chinese music war. Yeah, five months can seem like a lifetime when you're strumming a "D" chord against a din of gaming machines that are in the key of "C" - six hours a night, seven days a week. Call it the Uninsured Gambler's Gig. Well folks, I've got to go. It's break time and the drummer has called a band meeting...

-- Raiford Starke is a Fort Lauderdale blues man who long ago hit a soft 17.

© September 8, 2000, The Seminole Tribune