by JR Carroll
‘Not bad. For a humble student. What … thirty thousand lazy, untaxed dollars a year.’
‘I’d be surprised if it was that much.’
‘You could do considerably better.’
Danny shrugged, then sipped some Riccadonna.
‘He isn’t greedy,’ Victor said.
‘Well, he’s about the only person on this damned planet who isn’t!’ Sigmund exploded with a spray of saliva. ‘Look at that … monolith,’ he said, and Danny turned his head, seeing the host of cranes and the massive new casino complex, rising next to the temporary one, that was almost visibly ascending towards completion by the hour. ‘That,’ Sigmund said, ‘is a shrine to all our false hopes and dreams, lad, a virtual stargate to the next millennium. Enter here for the brave new world. It is in fact an emblem of our times. After thousands of years of evolution that’s what humankind comes up with, Danny boy. You can shove your idealism, your Modigliani and your Veronese, your good works, your brains, your … your fucking education, mate. Pick a card, roll the dice, place your bets. That’s the way to go. That’s what it’s all about in the clever fucking country.’ The last three words were said harshly, with a curl of the thick lip snarling derision. Definitely a middle-European inflection there. ‘The eighties are back, bigger and better and crasser than ever. Only this time it’s more organised, and it’s all legal.’
‘I guess so,’ Danny said.
‘Here, have some more of this nice bubbly. There’s plenty more.’
He walked across, topped up Danny’s glass, and said, ‘It’s dog eat dog, Danny. Life’s a bitch, and it doesn’t get any better than this. You know what that casino says to me? It says, Fuck you, Jack; I’m all right. I’m doing great.’
‘It doesn’t say that to me,’ Danny said. ‘But then I suppose it hasn’t taken me to the cleaners, like a lot of people.’
Sigmund said, ‘Well, a lot of people are very stupid. They deserve to lose their shirts and everything else. But Danny, listen, this is leading somewhere. Question: how would you like to play – I mean really play – using my money instead of yours?’
Danny laughed. ‘Pardon?’
‘Using your system and your skills, your intuition, whatever it is that’s got you this far? Victor has seen you in action. His judgment’s good enough for me.’
Danny said, ‘But why would you want to give me money to play with?’
‘Let’s just say I have an independent income which obviously, as you can see, is not insubstantial. However, it is not infinite, this money supply. For my purposes I need more, much more. I could invest it at, what, five per cent. Big deal. And the arse-end has dropped out of the property market. On the other hand, I could give it you and you could turn it into a fortune.’
Danny swallowed. The word ‘fortune’ rang in his ears and evoked visions of pirates, gold doubloons, buried treasure and uncountable wealth in his mind. Fortune.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ he said quietly, shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe you’re serious.’
‘Oh, I’m serious. I’m a serious person, Danny, despite appearances, and money is the most serious subject there is. No-one I know jokes about money, but people murder and are murdered every day for the stuff.’
‘Look … I realise that. I’m not against making money, don’t get me wrong. I’d like to be rich, the same as everyone else. I just never think in terms of big numbers. Christ, I could easily blow it. Anything could happen.’
‘I’ll bear the risk. Tell you what, we’ll have a trial period. I give you, say, ten thousand – now – you take it over there to the dream factory and see what you can do with it. I’m prepared to write it off, as an experiment, shall we say. Victor will keep you company if that’s all right, won’t you, old fruit?’
‘My pleasure,’ Victor said.
‘Ten thousand, just like that?’
‘Just like that. And if it works out, another ten tomorrow, and so on. You work on a … ten per cent commission, on profits. Is that fair?’
‘Sure thing, but it’s loaded in my favour. I can’t lose, but you can.’
‘Let me worry about that. First, are you agreeable to the plan?’
Danny looked at Sigmund, at Victor, back to Sigmund. They both had dead flat faces, dispassionately awaiting his answer. ‘So … we form a sort of syndicate, right?’
‘Sort of, I suppose.’
‘They’re very conscious of organised syndicates in the casino. They watch them and then they throw them out when they work out what they’re up to. Then you’re on a blacklist.’
‘You’re thinking of the Italian gang,’ Sigmund said. He was referring to a high-rolling team from Italy that worked casinos all over the world. One of their roulette strategies was to momentarily distract the croupier and then surreptitiously place winning bets a split second after the ball had come to rest. It was quite a skill, beating the croupier’s eye, but you can’t beat the security cameras. They had tried it in Melbourne, been sprung and given the heave-ho out of the country so fast their noses must’ve run all the way back to Rome, or Sicily. Protesting innocence, naturally.
‘But they were a bunch of crooks,’ Sigmund went on. ‘We wouldn’t be cheating at all. We wouldn’t even be a syndicate’ – he pronounced it distastefully – ‘in the usual sense of the word. It’d just be you, doing what you always do but for higher stakes. There’d be nothing to indicate any organisation behind you. Anyhow there’s nothing dodgy about one party bankrolling another party in this caper, or in any business undertaking. Good Lord, Mr Ferrari doesn’t drive his own racing cars, does he. He puts up the capital and then gets Mr Schumacher or whoever to do it for him. Same thing. Horses for courses.’
Danny thought about it, vainly searching both men’s faces for hidden meanings, or a trap. One thing was plain: if anything did go wrong, he would be the one to wear flak, not these two smoothies. But another factor was influencing his thinking too. ‘I’ll give it a shot,’ he said eventually. ‘But there’s just one thing I’d like to know first.’
‘What is it,’ Sigmund said, expecting perhaps a request for a higher commission.
‘That girl who was here, Pepper. When’s she coming back?’
2
An hour later and Danny and Victor were back where they had first met, among the rancid clothes and body odours and smoke of the packed gaming rooms. Danny was strolling, working the room, looking for his favourite tables and croupiers, absorbing vibes, noting the winning numbers coming up. There was no rush. In his pants pocket he had Sigmund’s ten thousand dollars in hundreds and fifties, folded and secured with rubber bands into wads of a thousand each. After a few minutes there was a shift change and he gravitated, Victor following, to a table at which the vivacious and well-constructed blonde piece he had mentioned earlier came on duty. She chatted and wisecracked with the players, establishing a rapport, checked that all was in order and then called for bets. Danny stood and watched, hands in pockets, fingering the banknotes.
Spotting him, she grinned and said, ‘Hi. Back again, huh.’
‘Can’t live without you,’ Danny said, grinning too. She enjoyed that.
‘All right, let’s go, team,’ she said. ‘Place your bets. Let’s get it on.’
‘Right, coach,’ a Chinese man said, showing off a mouthful of capped teeth.
Obediently chips appeared on the table and arms thrust banknotes at her. Quickly and expertly she exchanged them for chips, pushed the notes through the slot into the box beneath the table, made sure the stacks of chips in front of her were in neat piles, called for bets, engaged in banter, kept the show going. Then she spun the wheel.
Danny watched.
She threw the ball. There was still plenty of time for bets to be placed and no shortage of punters. In fact, the more the ball slowed the more urgently players made their moves, as if this was the last chance they’d have all day.
‘No more bets,’ she said, putting her hands out flat over the table. ‘No more be
ts.’
The ball clattered. No-one moved or spoke.
‘Six, black,’ she said, and instantly brought the glass stopper down, paying out on the handful of winners and raking across the vast majority of lost chips, which she then sorted and stacked in no time.
A sallow-faced, chain-smoking Chinese or Vietnamese man in a cheap green suit next to Danny swore violently and seemed as if he were going to spit on the floor. Danny had seen him many times. The man was a compulsive gambler and a bad, habitual loser, always cursing, but he always seemed to have plenty of good money to throw after the bad. Probably from loan sharks, Danny thought. Triads or whoever. There’d been a thing in the paper about them recently. The man produced a bunch of hundreds from his shirt pocket, peeled off three and thrust them at the croupier, angrily demanding chips.
At the next spin, he put it all on black and lost. He repeated the dose, losing again, then on the following spin switched to red at the very last moment only to see black come up. Then he really did spit on the floor and storm off, swearing and waving his arms and carelessly colliding with people.
Danny looked at Victor with an amused air and a slightly contemptuous toss of the head, then moved up closer to take the man’s place. Up came 24, then 11, 29 and 28. All the while the croupier kept up a steady flow of jokes and badinage with the players. Sexual fantasy played a big part in gambling. Mindless punters were always more inclined to put their money up for a spunky chick, as if they thought they were impressing her with their nerve and daring, as if they were James Bond. But she was just doing her job, and she was very good at it.
Removing the rubber band, Danny gave her one of his wads and asked for fifty-dollar chips. Ten of them, the maximum bet allowed, went straight on the third dozen.
‘Thirty-two, red.’
Danny took the winnings, leaving his original stake in place.
‘Twenty-seven, red.’
And again.
‘Nine, red.’
Danny scooped up his chips. He had turned five hundred dollars into three thousand, and Sigmund’s profit for the day so far was two point five. Not bad in ten minutes.
‘That might do for now,’ he told Victor, who had stood wordlessly at his side throughout.
‘Fine,’ Victor said, shrugging, making his jacket rustle. ‘You’re the man.’
‘I might just go for a wander. See you back here a bit later, all right?’
‘No problems,’ Victor said, and sloped away to watch Caribbean Stud, a game that attracted an enthusiastic following of regular players. The popular croupier was a burly, fun kind of guy in a tropical shirt and a Panama hat pushed back on his head. He had flashy white teeth, a round, ruddy face and bleached hair, giving the impression he spent most of his time on the beach. He looked like a young version of John Singleton, and, like the adman, was brash and full of bonhomie and witty throwaway lines.
His routine was to sling off good naturedly at all the players, most of whom he knew by name, and get a rise from them in return. It was part of the show, part of the bonding process, all designed to keep the punters amused and happy and thus distract them from the pain of losing. ‘Who’s in, who’s out. Gentlemen, are we having a good time,’ was his rallying cry, and the loyal troops would answer in unison, ‘Yes, sir, no, sir,’ saluting and laughing and getting into the spirit of it all.
Danny did a couple of laps of the room, taking in the scenery, observing the idiosyncrasies of various punters and mentally classifying them into types. His plan was to have another burst at the tables and win another two and a half thousand, making Sigmund’s overall profit five thousand and his own commission five hundred. Not a bad afternoon’s pay for not much effort. He would hand over the full amount to Victor and let him sort out the details, although nothing had been said to him about how the money was to be accounted for, and they didn’t issue receipts at the cashier’s window. It seemed they were prepared to trust Danny, which was slack but fine by him. He could have done anything with the money.
Presumably Victor was supposed to keep an eye on his transactions, but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen at the moment. Then, looking across the room, he spotted him standing next to a row of poker machines. He was talking to a man who had dark hair along the sides but nothing on top, and whose left arm was in a sling. The man, who was nodding at something Victor was saying and simultaneously extracting a cigarette out of a pack and lighting it one-handed, looked sharp in a dark blue sports shirt and pleated khaki slacks and a captain’s reefer jacket with gold buttons, the left sleeve draped over his shoulder. He was also wearing a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses with round lenses, which were certainly unnecessary in this dull, artificial light.
Danny glanced away for a second, distracted by a noisy Caribbean Stud player, and when he looked back both men were staring straight at him though the crowd while a number of people crossed their field of vision. Then Victor touched the man’s good arm and they parted company. Danny thought he’d seen the guy before somewhere, probably in here. He didn’t look the gambling type, however. He seemed too cool and aloof somehow to be here – or anywhere – purely for pleasure. The man had ‘business’ stamped all over him. Standing there alongside the high-spirited Caribbean players Danny experienced a slight frisson, accompanied by a moment of naked clarity in which the thought came to him, What in the hell have I got myself involved with here? Who are these people?
Not long afterwards Danny returned to the tables, selecting a different one this time and waiting half an hour for the time to strike. Close to the end of the croupier’s shift the thirty came up, and he very deftly slipped five hundred on the third dozen. Curious eyes immediately turned towards him. Twenty-seven, red. Another five hundred. This time it was 32. A third spin: 30. He was about to take his chips and go when a voice inside his brain whispered, Go on, keep going. One more time. Danny hesitated. He was unused to straying outside his strict rules, which was the difference between a good and bad gambler. But he allowed the five hundred to ride, and whistled soundlessly with relief when 36 came up on the board.
At the cashier’s window he stuffed the money into his pockets and looked around for Victor, who was nowhere to be seen. Some watchdog. So he took himself to the brasserie for a coffee, and while there surreptiously tallied up what he had under the table. Sigmund’s original ten grand was now eighteen and a half, almost double, and Danny’s cut was eight hundred and fifty dollars. But where was bloody Victor? He checked his watch: nearly three. His coffee came and he drank it slowly, had another, then went back into the steamy pit. ‘Who’s in, who’s out’, barked the Singleton lookalike. ‘Come on, Lee, you’re the millionaire around here.’
‘Oh, yeah? I wish.’
‘No more bets,’ another croupier commanded. ‘Hands clear of the table, please.’
Wheels were spun, dice thrown, domino tiles identified and sorted with the brushing of a thumb over the indentations. Cards were shuffled and dealt, then furtively examined, corner by corner. Eyes popped, darted and strained. Jaws were rubbed, noses tapped, throats thoughtfully stroked.
Danny moved through the undulating waves of babble and banter, of vibrant concentration, absorbing sour adrenalin smells and the sudden ejaculations of triumph and defeat in response to yet another moment of truth. Past the pressing, stale flesh of punters and the youthful, tray-carrying waiters, he walked on towards the front steps and the bulky security men, who all looked like weightlifters. There he turned and faced the spectacle.
Strange, unreal places, casinos. They had the ability both to transform and transport people, and to blur all dimensions. At nine in the morning you saw the marathoners – those who had been there all night and would stay on into the day – drinking beer with their breakfast, regrouping and gearing up mentally and physically for the next arduous session. It was a timeless, disconnected experience, like being in a plane at thirty thousand feet or in a transit lounge anywhere in the world. Normal rules did not apply, which was doubtless part of th
e allure.
Victor showed up.
Danny didn’t see where he’d come from. He’d just sauntered into view, hands in pockets as usual, eyebrows raised.
Danny said, ‘I couldn’t find you.’
‘I was in the Platinum Room. Fascinating stuff. Geoff Egan, the jockey, was there.’ Egan was a top hoop who was notorious for his love of punting as much as for his bold, often reckless riding tactics. Originally from far northern Queensland, he was known variously as a colourful identity, a character, a ratbag or an unprincipled rogue, depending on where you were coming from, whether you had backed his mount or not, and had broken his bones in falls and fallen foul of the stewards many times over the years. He was also a fixture and a drawcard in the casino – along with a number of other high-profile types – and the leader of a kind of ratpack of racehorse people and other sports and media celebrities who habitually punted heavily at the tables and whose personal lives could usually be counted on to fill column inches in the magazines and tabloids.
‘I saw him drop twenty grand in a single blackjack hand,’ Victor continued, ‘and he just said, “Well, I’ll have to win the bloody Cup now, won’t I?”’
He was referring to the Melbourne Cup, which was due to be run in less than a fortnight. Egan was lucky to be riding in it. He’d been rubbed out and given a stiff fine for some rough stuff in one of the major lead-up races, but had won a stay on appeal. And his mount in the Cup was a genuine chance. If he got up he would collect around a hundred and fifty grand for three and a half minutes’ work, not counting slings.
‘So how did we go?’ Victor said, and Danny told him. Victor was suitably pleased. He checked his timepiece and said, ‘Let’s get back. That little friend of yours might be there now.’
The timing couldn’t have been better. As soon as they had stepped from the taxi outside Cricklewood Close, Pepper turned up on a spanking new maroon Yamaha Virago motorbike which she parked on the footpath. She removed her helmet, shook her hair and then saw Victor and Danny.
