Bridge
Below
the Belt

by

Larry Cohen & Liz Davis

Edited by Arthur Jacobs


Thanks to:


Tim Bourke, Susie Cohen, Leta & Rufus Davis,
Jim Houser, John Lewis, Alex McCallum,
Ravindra Murthy and Naomi Sachs

Special thanks to Paul Cohen, Karen McCallum
and Steve Weinstein


Copyright �1997 by Natco Press


All Rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions
thereof in any form whatsoever.


The characters, events, and organizations in this book are fictitious and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental


ISBN No. 0-9634715-5-4

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 97-091842

Table of Contents


The Players 7
Heavy Hearts 9
Fired 17
Dialing for Dollars 27
One Club�I Pass 49
Divine Wrong 77
Mojo 97
The Gilded Ass 117
Ebb and Flow 145
The Queen's Court 157
Rigged Bridge 181
Glory Bids 197
The Honorable Feast 209
The Trap 219
Finesse 233
The Final Trade-Off 237

The Players


The Majors:


Hereford Willis III: Past 60, but powerfully built, and with more oil wells
than scruples; spite, sarcasm, ruthlessness and an unforgiving nature are
some of his more pleasant qualities.

Parson: Hereford's hired bridge pro. Not restricted by ethics or personal
hygiene.

Vanessa (The Contessa): Unpleasant and untalented, she owns Miami's
new upscale bridge club, Trumps, and would also like to own . . .

Ford Maddox: A brilliant professional player and Hereford's bitter enemy.
Closing in on 40, he's known for his puckish charm and gracious demeanor.
He shares a secret.

The Minors:

Meyer: Ford's first bridge partner and long-time pal, a private detective
who is reliable and loyal to his friends.

Penny: Bridge director and programmer, she's thirty-something, attractive,
decent, but unlucky. She desperately hopes that the mistakes of her
carefree college days don't return to haunt her.

Richie: Longtime friend of Penny's; inveterate gambler and proprietor of the
run-down Aces bridge club; can he make a new start?

The Ladies of the Club:

Maura: A good player, much in demand in her circle; she has a constitution
of steel and a fascination with the world of disease.

Prissy: Happy to play with a partner as good as Maura; desperately looking
for her own moment in the sun at the local bridge club.

Eileen: At 68, she still has the voracious appetite of two lumberjacks and a
sense of humor to match.

Gilda: Eternally consumed with her possessions, her status and herself.

--------------------------------

Heavy Hearts


The wind flew through the summer sky, pelting Miami with warm
rain. Wearing a cap of gray curls and matching steel-rimmed
glasses, Maura Bund watched the storm through her front
window as she awaited Priscilla, her bridge partner.

On Maura's fortieth birthday, some hundred years earlier, she had become
acutely preoccupied with her mortality. An intelligent woman, her friends
quickly came to know her as a veritable encyclopedia of disease. Over a
cup of tea, she could speak eloquently on the subject of small intestines or
work herself into a rapture about the colon. And nothing made her eyes
twinkle like the discussion of bowel movements. The size, shape,
consistency, and color all revealed a person's state of health or lack thereof.
Interpreting bowel movements was a fine art, and Maura read them as finely
as a gifted fortune teller read tea-leaves.

She could tell you what disease was most likely lurking nearby (she
experienced all the symptoms regularly, and could easily spot them in
others). Today, for instance, would be ripe for contracting pneumonia. The
thick, phlegmy, tropical air was loaded with pollutants headed straight for
your lungs. The rain was falling so hard it would soak you to the bone. And
as Maura was headed for the bridge club for her weekly game, she would
be sitting at a table all day while air conditioners froze her
bones�everything you need for pneumonia. In preparation for venturing
out, Maura reached down and cinched the belt on her raincoat ever tighter,
hoping to ward off the unruly advances of the grasping wet wind.

By the time Priscilla's silver Mercedes pulled up, Maura's mind had slipped
into replaying one of her favorite death fantasies. When she wasn't
concentrating on symptoms, she frequently imagined her own death filled
with drama and poignancy. The ominous din of the storm was the perfect
backdrop for Maura's daydream. She saw herself heroically walking to the
car, being struck down by lightning, and being taken away in an ambulance.
After imagining her death, her mind flashed to the wake. She saw her
friends gathered around her casket, mourning the quiet greatness of her
modest (but heroic) life. Maura had at least one death fantasy a day. While
they all shared an identical ending, Maura found it profoundly satisfying to
vary the Death's modus operandi. She did not recall whether she had ever
been struck by lightning before. This might be a first.

Priscilla Bristlemore proudly parked her sleek new car in front of Maura's
house. It had a fine interior, complete with supple black leather and
mahogany trim. This was Prissy's pride and joy�she loved her car above
all else. It was who she was. Prissy flipped down the driver's side sun visor
and clicked on the bright little vanity light. She checked her deep, rich,
burgundy lipstick. The palette of her make-up was skillfully matched with
the hue of her dyed sable hair. Unfortunately for Prissy, her lovely, soft,
70-year-old skin had not also been dyed to match. The combination of
white skin and deep lipstick was startling, if you weren't prepared for it.
Prissy did not yet understand the silver luminosity of graceful age.

The horn honked loudly. Maura dragged herself out of her daydream and
braced for the soggy journey from the house to the car. Giving her belt the
last cinch, she turtled her head into her collar and carefully navigated the
walk. Priscilla pushed the car door open, knowing Maura's frail arms would
struggle with it. The car door hung in the rain. Every raindrop within a
ten-mile radius found its way into the open silver door. By the time Maura
got to the car, the seat was drenched, the carpet was soaked, and the
dashboard had trickles of rain dripping to the floorboard. Priscilla frantically
mopped up the seat with an old towel, grumbling under her breath.

``Maura! For Heaven's sake, get in and close the door!'' Prissy scolded.

Maura sat on the seat, gathered her legs in after herself, and placed both her
hands on the door handle. She pulled. The door didn't move. The rain fell.
``Maura, close the door!'' Prissy yelled.

Maura let out a big breath and pulled the door closed. She peered out from
under her dripping raincoat. ``Whew, I made it. It's dangerous out there,''
she said. ``You know, I could have been hit by lightning,'' she pointed out,
``and in my condition I'm especially susceptible to electric shock.''

Prissy rolled her eyes and sighed futilely. ``Well then, what took you so
long?'' she said, her voice weary with exasperation. Maura strapped herself
into the car seat like an astronaut about to be catapulted into space and
Prissy sped off for the bridge game.

``Prissy,'' Maura raised her eyebrows and paused for effect, ``remember,
the tortoise won the race.''

Priscilla squinted through her glasses. She had received many compliments
on these lenses, because although they were bifocals, the line was not
apparent. It was a much younger look, Prissy thought. They chattered all
the way to the club. For all of Maura's annoying idiosyncrasies, and
imaginary ailments, she was one of the best bridge players at the club. And
winning was very important to Prissy. She would gladly trade listening to
Maura talk about some disease, or morosely ponder her own death, for the
satisfaction of winning at the club. Prissy had evaluated this trade-off
frequently.

By the time they got to the club, most of the other regulars were already
there. Eileen Gready hovered territorially around the luncheon food next to
the coffee machine. She greeted Maura and Prissy between mouthfuls of
spinach dip which she had slathered on an unsuspecting slice of bread.

``Hello there, ladies,'' she said, sending out food-laden spittle like a goodwill
messenger. ``Nice weather,'' she added with a laugh that revealed her
personal favorites from the luncheon selection. Prissy answered with a limp
smile that fell short of disguising her disgust. Eileen turned and steered her
graying bulk toward the far end of the food counter. Prissy immediately
checked her crisp linen lapels for food particles. ``That woman eats like she
plays bridge. She hogs everything,'' said Prissy distastefully.

``Yes, she is a hand-hog, isn't she?'' Maura reflected.

``She certainly is. Eileen steals every hand she possibly can. I don't know
how Gilda can stand it.''

``I would not like to play with her,'' Maura confirmed. ``She thinks she
plays better than anyone else.''

``Yes. I don't know why she feels she has to declare all the hands. Gilda is
a pretty good player.'' Priscilla had a hard time imagining playing with
Eileen.

``Yes, she is a good player,'' Maura said after consideration. ``But she's too
flashy. She tries to make the showy play, even when it's not there,'' Maura
pinpointed her own thoughts.

``Maura, my hair has completely wilted from the humidity and the rain, and
you know how that bothers me. I must go freshen up before game time;
otherwise, I'll never be able to concentrate on anything,'' Prissy stated. She
drew up the well-groomed bearing of her seventy years, head high, chin
tucked, glasses perched, and strode regally to the bathroom. She did not
look in need of freshening.

Maura methodically made her way to the teapot. She believed many foods
led to a premature death, so, despite her doctor's assurances of good
health, she had placed herself on a very restricted diet. At the club, she
drank decaffeinated tea, lukewarm. She was slowly carrying her tea to the
table when she heard the bold laugh of Gilda Shein reverberating through
the bridge club. Gilda passed out her Hollywood kisses like invitations to a
large, but still exclusive, gala. Midway through the procession her diamond
bracelet snagged someone's sweater, which prompted a comedy of errors
involving everybody's jewelry getting caught on everybody's clothing. This
performance offered the perfect opportunity for the communal comparison
of gems, gold and the occasional strand of pearls. Gilda shone brightly
under the hot light of envy; each plump, milky hand swathed in translucent
rocks and shiny metal.

The din began to die down and Gilda, not wanting to leave the spotlight just
yet, reached into her handbag and withdrew a newspaper clipping. Raising
it into the air like a speaker's wine glass, she proclaimed, ``Wait till you see
this amazing hand! Has anyone seen this hand? It happened Saturday at the
sectional, and I was there.'' She smoothed the clipping out onto the table so
all could see the hand, and began to read,...

	106532		Vul: Both
	--		Dlr: South
	AKQJ10532
	--
AKQJ9874		--
--		--
--		98764
AKQ106		J9875432
	--
	AKQJ1098765432
	--
	--
WEST	NORTH	EAST	SOUTH
			2 !!
7 !!!	7	Pass	Pass
Double	Redouble	All Pass

At last weekend's sectional in Miami, a famous hand somehow found its
way into the tournament. When the South players on Board Four picked up
their cards, they received the shock of a lifetime. Most simply opened the
bidding with seven hearts and were disappointed to hear West overcall
seven spades. Some of the North's doubled, and all around the room
North-South were plus either 100 or 200.

The very same deal, right down to the last spot card, originally appeared in
the classic bridge book, Right Through the Pack, by Robert Darvas. In
the fictitious story, the bidding followed the unbelievable sequence shown in
the auction diagram. The South player, an ``inveterate psycher,'' opened the
South hand with a strong two bid in SPADES! He figured that he'd sneak
up on the opponents and end up getting doubled in seven hearts. West
played a joke of his own by jumping to seven HEARTS! If he got doubled
he planned to run to seven SPADES. Meanwhile, this ``counter-psyche''
had the effect of eliciting a seven-spade call from North! West doubled and
North redoubled. West, suspecting that all the missing spades were in
dummy, led the spade seven. Declarer played low from dummy, and went
on to lose all thirteen tricks. He was down 13 doubled and redoubled minus
100 honors for a loss of a record 7700 points.

It was not known how this famous deal could appear as a
computer-generated hand in the tournament. According to the
Encyclopedia of Bridge, the odds of this occurring are 1 in
52,644,737,765,488,792,839,237,440,000. League officials are
investigating."


Immediately the women's voices sparked the fire of controversy, each
person offering an explanation for the appearance of the hand at the
tournament. The speculations popped and crackled amidst the electric hum
of hand analysis. Priscilla came back from the powder room looking,
ironically, exactly the same as she had when she went in. She fluttered over
to the excitement and alighted near Gilda's shoulder. Prissy looked down
and gulped, ``I think I would faint if I picked up 13 of a suit. Did you
actually play this, Gilda?'' she asked, with a new admiration for her friend.

``I did. When I played it,'' Gilda beamed beneath her perfectly coifed silver
wig, ``I opened seven hearts.'' She waited for the women to coo at such a
gutsy bid (rarely did anybody actually open at the seven level). ``West
doubled me,'' she narrated theatrically, sending a buzz through the crowd,
``and I made 2470 for a top!'' Gilda's pride bubbled out of every pore.
Her friends showered her with congratulations, and quickly returned to
wondering how that hand had come up in the the sectional. Prissy walked
over to her partner and said, ``Maura, I'm not sure I understand that story
from Right Through the Pack. Why would anyone open two spades with
13 hearts?''

``Oh, well, the guy with the hearts was trying to trick the other fellow. He
wanted to get doubled in seven hearts. But his opponent, West, was a
gambler with a sense of humor. So he bid the heart suit as a joke. The
bidding went around, and eventually it paid off for West,'' Maura chuckled
to herself.

``Imagine, plus 7700,'' Prissy said foggily, starry-eyed.

``Yes, imagine. There's something funny about that hand showing up in the
sectional. Mark my words, it's not natural,'' Maura's heavy heart dragged
her voice low.

``Oh Maura,'' Prissy teased lightly, ``it's just a coincidence. Have some
fun.''

END OF CHAPTER ONE

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