by JR Carroll
Donna nodded, sniffing and crying.
‘You’ve run out of credits, love,’ Keith said. ‘Your future is looking very, very ordinary. Look at you. You’re a fucking disaster. You got black eyes, your tits’ve shrivelled up, you got pimples, you’re ugly. You’re a pig.’
Donna bent down to pick up her things and put them back in her bag, but then Keith’s foot scattered them all over the place.
‘You get me this money in a week. You got family, right? Borrow from your dear old dad, your mum, I don’t fucking care. Rob a bank if you have to. I will not have cows like you fucking my business. Are we clear, chicky-bird?’
‘Yes,’ Donna moaned, still crouched on the floor.
‘I didn’t hear you,’ Keith said, cupping an ear. ‘Louder, please.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good girl. Now let this be a lesson to you, Donna. Don’t take drugs. Get that? Don’t-take-drugs’ – he boxed her ears – ‘because they’ll fuck your life.’ He stared down at her intently, his mouth ajar, then broke into a big grin and ruffled her corkscrews. When she looked up again they were gone.
Donna gathered her things, then locked herself into a cubicle and sat down for a quiet cry and to collect her thoughts. How stupid she had been to get involved with big-time drug dealers like Keith Morgan, but prostitution and hard drugs just seemed to go together. She pulled off some toilet paper, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. No-one in her family or any of her friends had access to five grand, and even if they did they sure wouldn’t be crazy enough to give it to Donna. There was no hope of getting the money. She had the night’s earnings, about two hundred dollars so far, and that was about it. She was sure Keith was going to kill her if she didn’t come good. There was nowhere she could run and hide. She had reneged on her third of the rent for the past two months in the house she shared with two other girls, so she’d probably get the flick from there soon. Shit. Keith was right. Her future was horrible. One option was to commit suicide, give herself a hotshot, which she had thought about more than once. Five thousand dollars. Christ, it might as well be five million. You’d reckon a rich prick like Keith Morgan wouldn’t miss it. Then she thought, maybe the casino is the go. People won big jackpots on the pokies there. Why couldn’t she? Donna was no gambler, but she knew how to feed coins into a machine. Why the fuck not. If she blew it – well, tough luck. She couldn’t be any worse off. She got out the little square of folded silver paper, opened it carefully to reveal the white powder, mixed in a small amount of water from the toilet bowl, sucked it all into the syringe, then injected herself into the sole of her foot, to hide the track marks. Then she breathed right out, sat back, went limp all over and allowed herself to be gathered up and carried aloft on golden wings, far away into a soft, bluish haze where no-one and nothing could harm her.
The tall man in the taupe summer-weight wool suit with the reddish hair and movie star looks lounged next to the baize table and absently turned several chips in his hand, repeatedly rotating them end over end. He had on a crisp Brooks Brothers shirt with a thin mauve stripe and a sportsman’s maroon silk tie and matching pocket handkerchief depicting rippling waters from which salmon leapt. People walking by glanced at him as if he were someone they should recognise, but he kept his splintery blue eyes fixed on a slenderly built, black-haired young fellow playing roulette. He was fitted out stylishly in a burgundy polo top, crisp cobalt chinos and tasselled Timberland boat shoes, and was obviously one of those lucky people with the kind of body that always wore clothes well. Equally obviously, he had a system to which he strictly adhered. Mostly he did not bet, observing instead the winning numbers as they successively appeared on the vertical LED display board. Then, at certain times as if responding to an invisible signal, he would decisively place a stack of chips on the third dozen, comprising the numbers 25 to 36. And win. He might play three or perhaps four times running, adding to his stake each time, then stop and study the trend of the game for however long it took for the signal to manifest itself again before resuming his winning ways.
What got the man, turning chips over in his hand, was the casual air of absolute confidence with which the young gambler went about his business. With each spin he was investing some two or three hundreds of dollars and yet there was no indication of concern in his face or body language. Propped on his left leg and with one hand in his pocket he would simply wait for the white ball to lob into its preappointed slot, then barely seem to notice while the croupier pushed his winnings across the baize surface. He was as relaxed about the outcome as if he were playing with matches, and the man noted too that he only ever increased his wager by modest amounts, and in this fashion steadily accumulated a reasonable pile in front of him. There was an aura about this punter. Even when he wasn’t doing anything he was a class act. The man in the taupe suit had been around his share of impresarios, gamblers, rich trash and egomaniacs in his time, and knew the real thing when he saw it. He’d had the subject in his sights for a fortnight now, carefully monitoring his progress on numerous occasions. Whatever skills he had that made him a successful roulette player, he possessed another quality too, which was just as, if not more, important: charisma. The guy was a natural, and probably didn’t even realise it.
In time the young player called it a day, scooped up his chips and took them to the cashier’s window. The man in the taupe suit followed at a distance, waiting patiently while the hundred-dollar notes were counted out, wrapped in rubber bands, handed across and pocketed. Three bundles: three thousand dollars, probably. Plus change. The young man did not say thank you. He did not smile or speak to the cashier at all. Then, as he turned to go, the dapper man who had been watching him said easily, ‘Excuse me. I couldn’t help noticing your good fortune at the tables. Well done.’
The young man nodded warily, fully aware that sharks, even well-dressed ones, lurked everywhere in gambling houses. Otherwise he did not respond as he made to leave again. That was when the other man lightly touched his arm.
‘Pardon me,’ he said. ‘I don’t wish to be intrusive, but would you allow me to buy you a cup of coffee. I have something to say which may interest you.’
It sounded like a line from a Bogart movie. Now the young man appraised this smiling, blue-eyed stranger more carefully, perhaps trying to work out what his scam was, how he planned to rip him off, or possibly wondering if he was a homosexual on the make. He was expensively dressed and a man of taste. He was handsome, he had poise and charm. He might have been an actor or a playboy, yet there was nothing overtly oily or insidious about his manner. He had the bearing of an aristocrat. And there was nothing sinister or even unusual about strangers striking up conversations with you in a casino.
‘Why would you want to buy me a cup of coffee?’ the young man said.
‘Maybe I want your luck to rub off on me. No, seriously. I appreciate a good player. You were well within yourself the whole time. You could have cleaned up, but you kept to your system, whatever it was. That’s … cool. I like it.’ The word cool jarred slightly, as if he had deliberately used it to tune in to a younger man’s wavelength.
‘There’s always another day,’ the young man said.
‘My view precisely. Now what about that coffee. I promise I won’t hold you up.’
The young fellow cast his eyes around him as if looking for strongmen who might block his path if he tried to leave, then shrugged one shoulder and followed the stranger to the brasserie at the end of the room. But he kept a tight grip on the cash in his pocket.
‘Might I know your name?’ the older man said when they were seated.
His new acquaintance, watching intently for the trap, arched an eyebrow at the quaint turn of phrase and said, ‘Sure. Might I know yours first?’
‘You’re distrustful. I don’t blame you. How much are you carrying?’
‘That’s my business.’
The older man put out his hand. ‘My name is Victor Wineglass. Do you believe me?’
The
young man made a half-amused face, then shrugged to indicate it made no difference to him one way or the other.
‘It’s a stupid name, but it’s my name. What can I do? German ancestry. I can’t be held responsible for it.’ He turned his smooth, pink palm upwards, then produced a tan kid leather billfold from inside his jacket and opened it on the table to reveal tier upon tier of plastic cards. ‘Amex,’ he said, withdrawing it. ‘Here we are. Victor D. Wineglass, see? Diners, Visa, driver’s licence. What else have we got here …’
‘Hey, it’s all right,’ the young man said, somewhat perplexed at this elaborate display and no doubt wondering where it was leading. ‘I believe you. My name is Danny. Danny Gold.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Danny,’ Victor Wineglass said, and this time they shook hands as the waiter arrived with their coffees. When he had gone, Victor folded his arms on the table, exposing topaz cufflinks and a sleek, circular gold watch with what seemed like a completely blank face. A quick second look revealed to Danny a small, red, sweeping dot representing the second hand and two other unmoving black dots, one slightly larger than the other. Danny noticed too that when Victor shifted, his jacket made a luxurious rustling sound, as if it were lined with crepe paper. ‘I have to confess,’ Victor continued, ‘that I’ve been watching you for the best part of an hour, and you didn’t place one losing bet that I saw.’
Danny sipped his coffee, not averting his eyes from Victor’s unblinking film star’s gaze, then he put the cup down and leaned back in his seat.
‘Danny,’ Victor said, when it became clear there would be no response, ‘I can assure you I am not connected with the casino or the police in any way. When I say I was watching you, I mean with admiration. Do I look or sound like Inspector Plod or someone’s factotum? No. Believe me. I’m a gambler, like you.’ As if to prove the point, he produced the roulette chips from his pants pocket and began turning them over in his hand.
Danny said, ‘I don’t gamble.’
Victor smiled. ‘Good response.’
‘I never put money down unless I know as surely as it’s possible to know that I’m going to win.’
‘Well, there’s no arguing with that system. Tell me, do you know anything about horses?’
Using what appeared to be his favourite gesture, Danny shrugged one shoulder. ‘So high, with a mane and a bushy tail. Leg in each corner. Eats hay. That’s about it.’
‘Do you ever bet on them?’
‘No. Never.’
‘Why not.’
‘Because that’s gambling. It’s tainted from the word go. Too much human involvement, too much going on you don’t know about and can’t control. Too many odds against you winning. And then there’s the X factor.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That’s the one that’ll beat you when you think you’ve got everything else covered. Like … lightning, or the horse has a heart attack.’
Victor brushed a speck of something from his cuff. ‘How old are you, Danny,’ he said.
‘Old enough to come in here. Old enough to vote. Why, how old are you, Victor?’
Victor laughed aloud. ‘Me? Well, as a matter of fact I’m thirty-seven and a half years old.’
‘You don’t look it. You look thirty, thirty-two.’
‘Thank you. Not that I can take responsibility for that either. It’s in the genes, isn’t it. You make the best hand you can from the cards you’re dealt. No, the reason I asked your age is that you appear to be unusually … assured for one so young. As if you’ve been doing this kind of thing all your life.’
Again, the one-shouldered shrug. ‘What kind of thing do you mean.’
‘Danny, I said something before about a proposal that might interest you, and I’m getting to it, but I’d like to ask you a few questions first. Please forbear. If you don’t want to answer them, fine, we’ll give it a miss and go our separate ways. But on the other hand, if you want to make some real money, you may wish to listen. You understand, I can’t go into business with someone until I know something about them.’
‘But I don’t want to go into business, Victor. With you or anyone else. I’m happy the way I am.’
Victor put up a hand. ‘Not so hasty. At least hear me out, since we’ve gone this far.’
Danny sipped his coffee, but it was too cold and he grimaced and put it down again. And how far is that, exactly? ‘All right. Ask your questions if you must.’
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m twenty-two next month.’
‘What do you do for a living? I mean, apart from taking money out of the casino.’
‘I’m a student.’
‘Where?’
‘Melbourne University.’
‘Ah. A real student. Dole bludgers call themselves that too. As a matter of fact I went there myself, although I can’t claim much glory. So what’s your field?’
‘I’ve just finished my third year in honours arts.’
‘Very nice. Majoring in?’ Victor was not being patronising, but seemed genuinely interested to know what made young Danny run.
‘Mathematics. Specialising in statistics. Number theory, statistics, probability, all that stuff.’
Victor’s unblemished face assumed a serious cast, as if he had just kicked into another mode. ‘I see. Now tell me how you win at roulette.’
‘Why should I do that?’
Victor smiled openly. ‘Maybe I want a piece of your action.’ Then, serious: ‘For which I’m prepared to pay handsomely.’
Danny weighed it all up in his own good time: discretion on one side, a young man’s natural desire to skite on the other. Throw in the words ‘pay handsomely’, and the scales were tipped.
‘I wouldn’t mind some more coffee first.’
‘In my experience,’ Danny was saying, ‘there are some tables here that are more susceptible than others. You have to watch them, see how they’re playing. What I do is, I watch for however many spins it takes for a pattern to emerge. The higher numbers, the third dozen, I’ve noticed, tend to hold for a few spins when they start. When I see it start to happen, I get on and play for two or three spins. Inevitably the run will end. The trick is picking when. I try not to push it. This pattern thing can also depend on the individual croupier. I’ve studied them all and I know which ones can be relied on to keep throwing high numbers.’
‘Wait a minute. How can individual croupiers throw numbers predicably like that. It’s all random, surely’
Danny drew a breath. ‘Not random exactly. On the right half of the wheel there are six high numbers, all red. On the left there are six black ones. These high numbers, from 25 to 36, alternate with the lower ones all the way around the wheel. So there’s an even spread, a pattern there. Where the ball is going to stop is a product of the rate of decrease of the velocity of the ball and of the wheel when it’s spinning. If you can imagine them as x and y values on a graph, the point at which the two lines intersect is the number that comes up. It’s not unnatural for the ball to land in the same area for a few throws – croupiers are only human, and they have plenty to think about. It’s intense work. They have to watch the chips and the players. They’re responsible for a lot of money. Where money is concerned, especially in gambling, everything is serious. Croupiers have to make sure the game’s on the square and when the number comes up they have to settle fast, sort and sell chips, watch everyone like a hawk and so on. It’s all up to them. They can’t turn their backs for a second. The cameras are watching their every move. Cheats will try and slip under their guard. The last thing they think about is spinning the wheel and tossing that little ball. It’s all a reflex action while their thoughts are elsewhere. Consequently they tend to do it mechanically, with the same force each time. Especially in the second half of their shift, when they’ve unconsciously settled into a routine. That’s when they’re a bit predictable.’
He sipped his coffee and said, ‘That’s one theory. Another one, and much more likely, is that there is no
explanation. It just happens.’
Victor laughed. ‘I’m more impressed by the first one, however.’
Danny said, ‘There’s this pretty girl about my age working the table I was just at. Nice and friendly, likes to chat with the players, crack jokes and so on. Very popular. About a month ago I noticed when the high numbers started with her they would run for six, seven, eight spins. I watched her a lot, and it was no fluke. She’s so busy socialising she doesn’t notice what she’s doing. It’s just brilliant. So … I follow her around. When she goes off shift, so do I.’
‘She is attractive, isn’t she,’ Victor said, and a big, boyish grin spread across his face. It was when he smiled, which he frequently did, with a sudden flourish as if responding to a movie director’s command, that the creases in his skin showed his extra years. ‘I must say, if I played for long at her table, my concentration wouldn’t be as good as yours.’
Danny tapped the table, smiling in turn and wondering if that remark was intended to show that Victor was not homosexual, that Danny could put his mind at rest on that score.
‘I’ve noticed you here before,’ Victor said.
‘I normally come in three or four times a week. Sometimes more, depending on my financial situation.’
‘All right, let’s talk about your financial situation. Why don’t you play for higher stakes? If you’ve got the game wrapped up the way you obviously have, you could make a squillion instead of pocket money.’
‘Like I said before, there’s always next time. Why rape the system. All I’m doing is putting myself through uni, having a life, so five hundred or whatever a week does the trick. Anyway I haven’t got the game wrapped up – it’s still ninety-five per cent luck. If I tried going gangbusters, I might blow it. Today was unusual. There are days when I lose my limit and go home empty handed. You have good and bad runs. But in general I have a comfortable life. Plus, those video cameras don’t miss a trick. If I started consistently winning big amounts I’d come under inspection. Sooner or later some security heavy would put the arm on me and want to know what I was up to.’
