Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

CHAPTER 13 An Offer we Couldn't Refuse

Brazil was fantastic! Being in Rio De Janerio was like being in a Pitbull Video. We were in a hotel right by the beach, which stretched as far as the eye could see. It took the three of us a while to adjust to the heat after a summer of rain in Scotland. I was very pale compared to the locals,  and  drew some looks and giggles.

At one point, we thought they might have recognised me from the videos online, but snooker was a minority, albeit an up-and-coming sport here, and it was unlikely. David Noble was as pale as me, but he rarely took his top off.  Scott already had a bit of a tan. How anyone can get tanned in Scotland is a complete mystery. He absolutely and flatly denied lurking around tanning salons.

We were in Rio for almost two weeks. For about eight of those days, I put on snooker displays at night, either attempting (and getting quite a lot) of 147 breaks, or playing against local talent. I had so many breaks over a hundred, or centuries as they call them,  that they began calling me the 21st Century Boy, and started to play a jingle. It was the sort of music my grandfather would play (I think the song was 20th Century Boy—but imagine that, changing it for me?). It was all good fun.

We didn’t come here for fun, though; we came here for money.

The organisers covered all the hotel bills, including food and drink, They covered all our transport, including flights, but by day seven no money had been paid. By our reckoning there must have been around £20,000 according to the number of 147’s.  We began to doubt they had the funds, not expecting my doing so well.

I refused to play further until we saw some money. All kinds of excuses were given by the organisers, and this person after that person said they had to consult their superior.

About 9pm,  we were invited to meet a certain gentleman in the hotel lobby. He had two body guards, and a couple of lackeys in tow. He was going for the gangster look, alright. Probably because he was a gangster. He had sunglasses on, gold chain around the neck, Rolex watch, etc.

Scott and David Noble, didn’t waste time studying him. They were too busy examining the two steroid kings either side of him, trying to ascertain the  level of violence they could inflict. A threat enhanced by the bulges in the left hand sides of their jackets—the tell-tale signs of Glock 9mm’s.

We were a captive audience.

The gentleman introduced himself  as ‘Mr, Fernandez’, a business man and owner of the hotel. He spoke in Spanish and a lackey interpreted.  (It was actually Portuguese,  but who can tell the difference?) He claimed that one of his employees further down the food chain had overstepped the mark, and promised too much money. This, he claimed, was a great embarrassment, a great shame, especially as he could not possibly honour what had been promised. Times had been hard recently. However, as a sign of good faith he was willing to pay us $15,000 US right here, right now, as long as I continued to play for the rest of the week.

Well, there wasn’t much choice, was there? Although, Scott did try a rather sheepish, “Well, what do you think lads?”

Now don’t get me wrong here. Scott was as tough as they come and a brilliant boxer. At school, he’d taught so many of us the ropes. But here, with those two pumped up and tooled up, he had no chance.

I quickly agreed to accept the cash, and another lackey opened a suitcase and placed it on the table. We didn’t have the effrontery to count it, and averted our gaze looking at ‘Mr. Fernandez’ directly in the eye.

A couple of minutes later, they had left in a haze of handshakes and smiles.

This had been a blow. It was much less than had been agreed. Plus we had hoped for a bank transfer in pounds. Now we were landed with a  wad of cash.  Keeping it in the room safe was out of the question.

“The second we leave that room, we’ll be robbed,” Scott prophesied to the nodding of heads.

There was only one thing for it: a money belt. (It seemed like a good idea when we purchased it from the hotel shop, but Scott did look a little daft  lying on the beach with a money belt.)

Then the rationalisations started.

“Well, it’s money we didn’t have before.”

“Hendry covered everything—no one’s actually out of pocket.”

“If you think about the flights and everything else, it’s not been too bad a deal.”

“A free holiday in Brazil. Now that’s gotta be good.”

“The Masters is just next week, and you’ll win that.”

We consoled ourselves, but in our hearts we knew we had been naïve and caught out like wee boys in the big city; intimidated by local hoods.

The next day we hastily agreed that in future demonstrations we would demand 70% of fees up front by bank transfer before entering the country. This didn’t always work out, but we never got ripped off again as in Brazil.

We never saw our host again, although his two security turned up at a couple of my shows.