Long before I met Walter Clyde ‘Puggy’ Pearson, I heard him. It was 1988, and I was attending my first World Series of Poker, reporting a story on a guy known as Austin Squatty. I happened across a big cash game, taking place in the middle of Binion’s Horseshoe Casino, and couldn’t take my eyes off a bearded and balding guy, sporting a flat nose, fat cigar, and a wheezy Tennessee accent.
He talked up a storm, throwing in chips, creating action and taking away other players’ money. In a casino full of colourful characters, Puggy, who died on April 12, at age 77, after years of failing health, was a show unto himself. In his day he was also the greatest, most aggressive poker player Vegas had ever seen. He came to town broke and practically illiterate, made millions, lost millions, and eventually wound up a rich and happy man who whiled away his afternoons by playing ‘cheap poker’ in the Bellagio. It was $50-$100 limit, but for Puggy that felt like penny ante.
Over the years, he and I became friendly. Whenever I was in town, I’d visit Pug in his old Vegas home, which was loaded with memorabilia and decorated with photos of long gone poker pioneers like Jimmy Cassella, Nate Lynnette and Johnny Moss. I loved listening to his stories about the old days, soaking up his folksy wisdom and occasionally smoking a cigar with him.
I wrote some stories about Pug, almost got to watch him hustle golf (his opponent failed to show up and, soon after, Pug’s joints ached too much for him to play). He helped me to negotiate the mercurial world of high stakes gambling and dug up some hard-to-find phone numbers when I needed them. Once, while I was doing a story on Stu Ungar, Pug served as my eyes and ears in Vegas, helping me to track down the drugged-out poker casualty. I finally asked Puggy what he thought of Stu; Pug smiled gently and said: ‘He’d lose his shoestrings if he needed a couple dollars. That boy can’t be still.’ A couple of weeks later Puggy loaned Stuey $500. Stu swore on his daughter’s life that he’d pay it back within two days. ‘That’s today,’ Puggy told me over the phone. ‘I lay 100/1 that I don’t hear from him until he needs me again. But that’s okay. Stuey’s all right.’
That was the sensitive side of Puggy. More often than not, though, he was a rambunctious, aggressive guy who did whatever it took to get the other players’ money. Stories of Pug’s angle shooting at the poker table and on the golf course are legendary: big-gambling drug trafficker Jimmy Shagra nearly shot Puggy after he caught the scratch golfer needlessly kicking his ball toward the hole. Eric Drache told me a doozey about his first time playing poker against Puggy. They were sitting at a Stud table, Puggy had made a big bet that would have put Drache all-in. Hoping to get a read on Pug, Drache admitted that he had two Aces and was unsure what to do. Puggy said, ‘Son, I’m gonna speak to you like your father. Fold those Aces and save your money. I’ve got you beat, and I don’t want to see you go broke.’
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Drache did as the older player suggested. But as soon as his cards hit the muck, Puggy brayed, ‘You stupid donkey.’ Then he revealed his hand: nothing but rags.
Puggy Pearson was an unrepentant hustler, bluntly single-minded, and among the last of a dying breed. He’ll be missed by anyone who loves the sketchy romanticism of old-school poker.