The Two of Hearts Puzzle

It is a wintry Friday evening in the late seventies in the digs in Graham Street Narwee, Sydney, that ‘Ton’ Currie and I are sharing, and the usual detritus – Pretty Boy, the Cube, JJ Ryan, Dobber Des, Bouncer Farrelly, and some novices yet to earn nicknames – are blowing in off the streets and depositing around the broken dining table that is the venue for our weekend poker games. The television is playing ‘The Two Ronnies’, ‘Dave Allen’ and ‘Pot Black’ on Channel Two, and Andy Vincent is calling races from a rainy Harold Park Paceway. No one watches, bar a couple of degenerates wagering in silver on the trotting, but the television is providing a comfortably familiar ambience for the cards.

It is well into the night and the grog is loosening the company’s tongues and wallets. An unusually large pot is up for grabs. Only JJ and the Bouncer are remaining in. The former’s low-rise pile of chips is forcing him to ‘have a look’ at what the latter is holding, and he despairs to see a full house, which is most certainly gunning down his three deuces. Bouncer hoots and is reaching for the spoil. But his left hand is upsetting a scotch and coke and, as Murphy’s Law dictates, the spillage is inundating the mosaic of playing cards the contestants are discarding.

‘There is being a fall!’ Bouncer is crying, when it is becoming obvious the cards, already survivors of several boozy sessions, will be requiring retirement. He is flicking a dollar coin at me and demanding a fresh deck. But I am informing him our modest casino operates with a ‘just-in-time’ inventory, and I have indeed not been acquiring a reserve pack of cards this morning. Yet even as Bouncer is badmouthing my operation, I am having a flashback to my visit to the Sydney Easter Show some months preceding. The Cube and I are strolling from the bar near the horse pavilions to the bar adjacent to the main TAB building, which is leading us through the sideshow precinct. I am stopping suddenly to gawk at a large amusement beneath a hoarding that reads ‘Monkey Raceway’. A spruiker in a striped coat and a straw hat is Turkish-delighting players for the next race and indeed the punters are stepping up very quickly. I am grabbing the Cube and dragging him over for a closer look. There are a dozen or more metal poles set perpendicular to the base of the amusement. Clutching the foot of each pole is a wooden monkey, and each is wearing tiny jockey’s silks. At the top of each pole is a small plaque bearing the name of a famous racehorse, as well as a small light-globe. Standing before each pole are the owners in the next, mostly boys who should be attending school, and each is holding a large water pistol that attaches to the counter by a hose. Seconds later, a bell is ringing, and the contestants are squeezing hard on their triggers to squirt water at a bull’s eye that is sitting below their poles, which the monkeys are beginning to climb very jerkily. The accuracy and force of the water hitting the bull’s eye is determining the speed of their ascents, I am reckoning. Meanwhile, the spruiker is giving a good impression of Ken Howard as he is calling the race; the spittle is flying from his mouth like it is a bubbler. Twenty seconds later the winning monkey is reaching the top of the pole and re-activating the bell and lighting a globe. Then the spruiker is identifying placegetters and his assistant is issuing bijou prizes to the three owners.

‘Oh, I am most definitely entering the next event at this Monkey Raceway!’ I am telling the Cube.

‘Be certain you are getting on Gunsynd!’ the Cube insists. ‘He is entertaining a shit-loads better water pressure than his brother monkeys.’ The Cube is occasionally being a plumber, and so I am respecting his reading of the form. I am deducing he is wishing to take part in the Monkey Raceway as much as I am, but that he is lacking the necessary to pay the acceptance fee, and I can by no means be lending it him.

‘Right,’ I am replying, and pushing aside several juveniles loitering around Gunsynd’s stall. I am breasting the counter and waving $2 at the assistant, who is quickly relieving me of it. Then the bell is sounding, and I am soon finding the very centre of the bull’s eye. Gunsynd is shooting up the pole and several lengths ahead of his brother monkeys. The spruiker is confirming Gunsynd’s lead and already calling him the winner. When Gunsynd is nearing the line, I am turning to give the Cube the old thumbs up, but to my horror I am hearing the bell ringing prematurely, and a bright globe is lighting on the ‘wide outside’ of the Raceway. The winning monkey is indeed Rajah Sahib, and the owner being one of these pests I have been shooing from Gunsynd just now. Rajah Sahib has been sneaking down the outside running rail unseen even by Ken Howard. Flabbergasting, I am barely clinging to third place.

But I am needing to explain to readers this digression: I am recalling, even as Bouncer is haranguing me on card night, that the prize for third at the Monkey Raceway is a deck of cards. No fair-dinkum poker school is entertaining the use of the pack, except as a last throw of the dice, for it is consisting of ‘nudie cards’; that is to say, they are featuring, on their front side, colour photographs of partly naked dames that are being taken, to be judging by their hair styles and occasional item of clothing, in the 1950s and sixties. The models are posing in such a way that the modesty of their lower portions is being preserved. The 1950s models are having large, pointy breasts (a result of their ‘cross-your-heart’ bras, I am thinking), expansive areola and very prominent rib cages indeed. The sixties representatives are favouring pony tails, often with ribbons and flowers in their hair, and rawhide cowboy vests. It is the presence of these nudie cards on the prize shelf of the Monkey Raceway, I am deducing, which is explaining the large population of males nearing puberty in its environs.

I am grabbing this deck of cards from a dining-room cabinet, explaining the circumstances of its acquisition to the others (which is bringing a nod of affirmation from the Cube) and offering them up for use. ‘I am believing you are joking,’ one player is speculating, but as it is clearly a case of nudie cards or nothing, the game is soon enough restarting. There is much schoolboy snickering and digging of neighbours’ ribs with elbows, but as the pot returns to a serious sum, these are ceasing. However, soon after the cards are being dealt for the sixth hand, it seems that the Cube is having a catatonic fit – either that, or he is receiving a once-in-a-lifetime hand of cards. He is staring at it with round, goggling eyes.

‘I am construing, Cube,’ I tell him, ‘that you are holding either a Royal Routine or a hand like a foot.’

The Cube is making no answer, but is continuing to fix his gaze, it is seeming to me, on the card on the left of his hand.

‘We are not having all night, Cube,’ JJ Ryan, who is dealing, is reminding him.

The Cube is pulling himself together, somewhat, and responding, ‘Be giving me four cards, dealer Ryan,’ and he is retaining said left-hand card.

We are taking up the re-deal. The bidding is commencing and the Cube is folding immediately. This is mildly surprising to me, as the Cube is forever bluffing. During the next three hands he is taking no part in play, and immediately after that, he is standing and announcing his departure. This is even more surprising to me, as the Cube is a noted ‘stretch runner’ in gambling venues and is invariably being ‘swept out with the bumpers’, as the saying is, at night’s end. What is more, the large El Diablo from Tony’s Colossal Pizzas is not yet arriving, and the Cube is being very fond of that cuisine, indeed. But he is insisting he must be going over the form for Rosehill and leaving.

There is discussion of this weird development as play is continuing, but after a few more hands Dobber Des, who can easily be making a living counting cards at the Casino, is shaking his head and saying, ‘Something is stinking up Denmark hereabouts.’

The Dobber is gathering up all the cards and counting them. ‘Just as I am thinking!’ he says. ‘There are 51 cards currently being in this pack.’ A quick examination of the floor is failing to locate the fifty-second.

The Dobber is then laying the cards in rows on the table, according to their suits. ‘The two of hearts is missing,’ he is concluding.

While the others are scuttlebutting this second puzzle, I am reflecting on the uncharacteristic behaviour of the Cube post the introduction of the new deck of cards and am beginning to formulate an explanation.

‘I am deducing the Cube “half-inches” the two of hearts,’ I declare as I am revisiting the cabinet.

‘As you are aware,’ I continue, ‘the Cube is with me as I am winning the nudie deck of cards at the Monkey Raceway, but I am not so silly as to open it at that time, as when he is suddenly seeing female breasts, it is essential indeed the Cube be wearing a lugging bit. But what the Cube is not knowing is that I am so peeved at being beaten on Gunsynd that I am returning later alone to the Monkey Raceway for a repêchage. Once more, however, I am finishing third.’

I am turning over my hand to reveal to the company a second deck of nudie cards, identical with the first.

‘Now,’ I am saying, opening the packet, ‘let us have a look at this two of hearts.’

When I find it, I am by no means supressing a lewd ejaculation such as the ‘Cor!’ one is hearing from Kenneth Connor in Carry On films.

The two of hearts is a pretty young blonde, delivering a sweet, engaging, wholesome ‘girl-next-door’ smile that even Olivia Newton-John can be envying, at that. She is also releasing two large, perfect, pendulous breasts from her blue cotton cardigan. I am passing the card around to the others, who are also producing somewhat uncouth noises in response. I am also ensuring the last of them is returning the card to me.

‘This is what the Cube is having in his hand when he is channelling Marty Feldman just now,’ I am continuing, pointing at the card. ‘It is also what he is secreting in his pocket prior to decamping.’

‘Is he not realising he ruins the night by knocking off the two of hearts?’ Pretty Boy is enquiring.

‘After a short struggle, the Cube is proving unable to resist the juxtaposition of angel face and perfect breasts the two of hearts is representing,’ I am telling him.

‘Pah! What amusement can the Cube be taking with a single nudie card?’ the Bouncer is wanting to know.

‘You are all aware the Cube is not driving a car these many years. I am laying odds-on that Miss Two of Hearts ends up in the plastic receptacle in the Cube’s wallet, where most blokes are keeping their licenses. No doubt he retains her as a lucky charm. Do not by any means be any of you informing the Cube we tumble his lift, for I am planning to deliver him somewhat a payback.’

I cannot make Rosehill, so I am next running into the Cube at the Picnic Point Bowlo Sunday. He is greeting me warily, but as I am making no reference to Friday night or the missing two of hearts, he is soon relaxing, especially once he is having a few schooners under his belt. So, I am finding it easy to spot the two of hearts in his wallet as he pays the barman for the latest. Once he is having his drink, the Cube is walking onto the veranda, and I am following.

I am at once sitting on the stool next to Pretty Boy, pointing at the Cube and whispering, ‘The Cube holds the two of hearts captive in his wallet there on the bench. If you are distracting him, I am liberating it and replacing it with a ring-in.’ That morning I am sourcing a conventional two of hearts and writing on its face, ‘If you have been asking me for it, Cube, I am giving it you. Now it is too late.’ It is this card I am substituting in the Cube’s wallet.

‘Distracting him – how so?’

‘I am not knowing – though maybe be asking him about the “good-thing-beaten” he is backing yesterday.’

Pretty Boy runs that play and at once the Cube is pantomiming his jockey’s bootless attempts to be unzipping yesterday’s horse from the rails pocket. Meanwhile, I am making the swap. The Cube is still re-enacting his horse’s much cramped run to the line as I am walking past Dobber Des, who is watching intently. I am flashing the two of hearts I am extracting at him and mumbling, ‘I am scarpering before the Cube is realising he is being the fall guy. The conversation may soon be turning ugly hereabouts.’

‘It is bound to be. I will be seeing you later.’

I am running a few errands, so it is several hours before I am returning to Graham Street Narwee. Ton Currie is opening the door. ‘The Cube is calling in while you are out,’ he is mentioning casually.

‘The Cube! What is he wanting?’

‘He is saying he leaves his Best Bets form guide here Friday. He is collecting them, he is telling me.’

‘It is by no means true he leaves his Best Bets form guide here Friday. I am seeing it in his back pocket as he departs.’

Even as I am speaking a nasty suspicion is forming in my mind.

‘You are not leaving him alone in the dining room, are you, just now?’

‘You are spot on. I am doing the washing up you are leaving in the kitchen sink this morning.’

Next moment in the dining room I am seizing said second deck of nudie cards. The two of hearts with its beautiful avatar is indeed missing. Instead, I am finding the very same regular two of hearts that I am planting in the Cube’s wallet just now. The Cube has been erasing my message to him and replacing it with a note he is evidently carving with a thick tradesman’s pencil. It reads: ‘I too am returning to the Monkey Raceway at Easter with the acceptance fee I have been botting as you win the second deck of nudie cards. After you are leaving, I am not running a slot in the event and thus failing to secure my own deck. I am therefore unaware of the matchless beauty of the two of hearts nudie card until I am seeing it in my hand Friday, at which time I am soon deciding I must retain said nudie card. Despite your dirty trick at the Picnic Point Bowlo just now, the two of hearts is still being mine. I am secreting it in a hide-out where you will by no means be lifting it with such facility as you are displaying at the Picnic Point Bowlo just now. Yours, the Cube.’