Tuesday
The last 48 hours in the service of mr tikay, as he has informed me that our arrangement terminates when he gets in his taxi to McCarran later this week. So I return to my interviews, and my bachelor pad in Kensington Gardens.
Free from the obligations to his employer mr tikay has been at last able to play poker and it is a joy to see him in full cry in the Caesar's Palace. Apparently his results betray a lack of practice and to my mind a slight sense of anti-climax. Secretly, and I can see it in his eyes, and see it in his smile, all he ever wanted and all he's looking for now is to go home, and take at least three hours off before embarking on the M1 and the trip to Feltham.
Last night was not without a slight mishap though. I had only just finished pressing mr tikay's
Sky Poker (thank god he busted, busted thank god) shirt and slacks when he called me through to the room
"Jeeves, we're leaving now. To Caesars. Where are my clothes?"
"Here you are sir" I said, handing him the neatly pressed clothes
I watched him dress, and he carried on with his endearing habit tucking his shirt into his underpants, and then I gave him the once over as instructed.
Pristine as usual, we left the room and moments later found ourselves in the Rio reception.
As we walked towards the front door I noticed a commotion out of the corner of my eye, from slightly behind me
"There he is, there he is!!!" shouted a tall man in a baseball cap carrying an ipod and shades
The man, also wearing an American sporting top emblazoned with logos for something called Ultimate Bet, charged past me and stood in front of mr tikay threateningly.
It stopped us in our tracks. The man was all a bluster
"Hey man!" he said "You are the limey guy who called the floor after that clown called my re-raise with
. What were you doing? It was none of your ******* business *-hole"
The expletives continued as a crowd gathered expectantly
The man carried on
"The ****** floor gave me an orbit's penalty all because of you. I got knocked out of the biggest tournament in the world because of you. You ******** ******* ********"
At that point he paused for breath, and mustering his dignity I could see mr tikay bristling. Slightly embarrassed, slightly reticent and ever so definitely British, the rejoinder was upon us
"Mr Hellmuth, your behaviour was appalling. In England we enjoy playing civilly with respect, decorum and good manners. I felt it my duty as
Sky Poker (thank god he bust, bust thank god) ambassador to call the floor, and report my findings to them"
Mr Hellmuth, as I now knew him, stood mouth agape. Eventually he spoke
"Hey buddy, I'll give you a ********
Sky Poker Ambassador from me!" and he swung at mr tikay, catching him on the bridge of his nose.
"Take that, don't ******** try to relight my fire again, now Shine on and if you ever test my Patience again I'll ********* ******** your ****** you ********"
mr tikay, to his eternal credit did not fall. Blood trickled from his nose and stained his monogram. Reception security came and put the disagreeable Mr Hellmuth under concierge arrest, condemned to listen to six hours lobby muzak as community service.
We returned to the room, I tended to the nose, found new clothes for mr tikay and fifteen minutes later we were on our way, mr tikay doing a very passable impression of Karl Malden in the "Streets of San Francisco", with a nose the size of a small Central American dictatorship. Hopefully temporarily.
Unsurprisingly mr tikay was a trifle subdued that evening. As we made our way home later he spoke to me, wistfully.
"Jeeves, we must not let anyone know what happened tonight. I want you to tell everyone I walked into a glass door. A mere accident. Mr Hellmuth's reputation must not be compromised. If it is I'll have Matusow after me for reporting him previously, and I am not sure I am up for that"
"No sir, Of course sir" I demurred, amazed at the fortitude and professionalism of my soon to be former employer.
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