Cheaters

by JR Carroll

  Danny did something else that morning he didn’t usually do: played blackjack. Partly attracted by the lovely croupier, who reminded him vaguely of Mischa, and partly because of the timely availability of a seat right in front of him, he sat down with a school of players most of whom – going by the sour smell and the bleary, battle-worn eyes – had been there for many hours. To Danny’s mind this was going to be a light diversion, nothing more. He knew he could not play blackjack without counting every card in the shoe, and once it was evident on the video screens upstairs he would be escorted from the premises as a cheat or an undesirable. So he won a little, lost a little, stayed on an even keel. In half an hour he was a couple of hundred ahead, and, predicting picture cards in the upcoming deal, he put it all out in front of him. What the heck. Danny’s card was a king to go with his queen, and the bank drew a ten and a seven. It was just so damned easy. It was unfortunate you could only take winnings from the bank in a casino game, and not from the whole pot: there were three nice stacks showing. Now he had a healthy pile too. There were still twenty-three cards in the shoe, and he knew what they were simply by a process of elimination. No-one could predict how they would be distributed in the deal, but two things could be said with certainty: there were three aces in there, along with nine picture cards. There were going to be some good hands in the next play.

  Danny’s first card was the nine of clubs. He kept it face down on the baize surface, just bending a corner back enough to identify the card, then put out four fifty-dollar chips. In his mind he could see the suits upstairs hunched over the screen, saying, ‘Watch that guy. If he’s not counting I never saw anyone who was.’ His second card fell, and he left it there without touching it, slyly watching the faces of the other players instead. You could often tell, even with an experienced card player, when he had a strong hand. Everybody had little telltale signs in their body language. If someone lit up a cigarette that was a dead giveaway. Likewise if a man seemed to be distracted or uninterested. But if a player’s jaw muscles twitched or he drummed the table with his fingers or shifted around in his seat that told you plenty too. Danny watched them all. He decided that three out of the four other players were holding twenty or twenty-one, which was good. It meant fewer high cards were available for the house. Finally Danny turned the corner back on his second card: a two of diamonds. He felt a surge of adrenalin pump through his heart. One player threw in his hand; the remaining three sat tight. Danny calculated that the odds on him scoring a picture card were about two to one on, so he doubled his bet and accepted a third card. The house turned up twenty, a pair of queens. Then Danny flipped over his last card to reveal a king of hearts in all its silent majesty, marrying perfectly with his nine and two. There were cheers behind him; someone even clapped. Danny raked in the chips.

  Blackjack was a seductive game, as Danny had found. Time slipped by unnoticed. His winnings mounted up – although he was careful to make sure he lost a few hands along the way – and when he looked at his watch it was 1.45. He decided he would play three more hands, then call Mischa. Maybe he could take her out for lunch. Or dinner. Or anything.

  He was working out what he was going to say to her, where they could go, when the player next to him decamped, another man took his place, and without even turning around Danny knew it was Lewis Kenny.

  ‘How’s the luck running, Dan,’ he said, placing a modest bet and picking up his first card. ‘You better fill me in on how we play this. I wouldn’t have a fuckin’ schmick, except we gotta beat that bitch with the nice funbags. Is this any good?’ He was holding up a ten of hearts.

  Danny didn’t say anything. Kenny grinned at him and took his next card: an ace of spades.

  ‘Well, fuck me blind,’ he said, pushing his natty gold-rimmed shades up on his forehead and flourishing his hand for everyone to see. ‘Come in fuckin’ spinner. I know what that means. How long’s this been goin’ on, Dan? Let’s take ’em down, man.’

  Kenny played carelessly, winning when he had the cards but usually betting like a spendthrift with a good sense of humour. It didn’t seem to matter to him what happened, how much he lost, or how foolishly he overplayed his hands. The message was, Don’t mess with me; I don’t give a rat’s arse what I do, see. He also had something of a hypnotic presence, an intimidating aura that kept Danny playing long after he wanted to go. In his mind, to just get up and leave would have been an insult, an act of provocation when it was quite clear Kenny wanted him to hang about, teaching him the rules he already knew and listening to his endlessly crude patter, most of which was directed to the croupier.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind dealing you a quick hand or two, love. What time do you knock off? Do you knock off, that’s the question,’ he told her on one occasion. She handled his crap with spirited, light-hearted aplomb, and Kenny was always careful not to overstep the line between tolerably frivolous banter and outright sexual harassment or abuse. And right throughout Danny had the distinct impression of a threatening signal being sent his way too – one that indirectly involved Mischa.

  When he finally managed to drag himself away from Kenny it was twenty past two. Kenny just watched him depart with his shades perched on his forehead, the unmoving eyes following him like a reptile’s and that permanent, insidious grin fixed on his face. He didn’t say anything. There was something really off about this Lewis Kenny.

  When Danny reached the public phones they were all occupied. The thought came to him that it was about time he got a mobile like nearly everyone else, and he decided right then to do just that, this very day, from the winnings he’d picked up and kept to himself. It would be worth having one just so he could call Mischa whenever he wanted to. But he was getting ahead of himself – he hadn’t even called her once yet. When a phone became available he dialled Mischa’s number, and when she answered he recognised her voice and saw her face immediately.

  ‘Hello there,’ he said in a nonchalant way. ‘It’s me, Danny.’

  ‘Danny Goldfingers,’ she said brightly.

  ‘That’s the one. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. Are you at the casino? I can hear some noise.’

  ‘Yes, I am. Just finishing up here. Um, what are you doing?’

  ‘Not a lot. Hangin’ out. So – how’d you go today?’

  ‘Cleaned up as usual. Want to help me spend some?’

  Mischa laughed. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Nothing in particular. Whatever you feel like. We could have a drink somewhere, then go out for dinner.’

  ‘Again?’

  Danny felt himself colouring. Was he coming on too strong? ‘Sure, why not? You gotta eat, haven’t you?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘And I’m paying.’

  ‘Even better.’

  ‘How about I come around to your place and pick you up?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yep.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then Mischa said, ‘You got me, Danny. But I have to go for a photo shoot a bit later.’

  ‘We can go for dinner after that.’

  ‘Sounds terrific. I’ll need it by then.’

  Danny stayed cool. ‘I’ll see you in half an hour, Mischa.’

  By the time they’d rung off Danny’s hand was sticking to the phone and his heart was hammering like mad. He felt like running out of the casino hootin’ and hollerin’ and punching the air. But he didn’t. He walked calmly to his car with his hands in his pockets and a big smile spread right across his face, even forgetting about Lewis Kenny for the moment.

  Thirty-nine Kerr Street turned out to be a single-storey terrace with a green picket fence and a small, overgrown front garden. Danny pulled up out the front, cut the motor and looked at the house. Among the shrubbery he could see the maroon Virago, its chromework gleaming immaculately. When he opened the wooden front gate it gave a squeak. There was a brass knocker on the door, a ring through a bull’s nose which he rapped twice. A young female voice inside said, �
�I’ll get it,’ and the door opened. It was not Mischa. Smiling at him she said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Um – is Mischa home?’

  ‘She certainly is,’ the young woman said brightly, and over her shoulder Danny could see someone coming up the dim hall. ‘Is that you, Danny,’ she called. ‘Come on in. Stephanie, this is Danny.’

  ‘Hi, Danny.’

  ‘Hi, Stephanie.’

  He followed the two women into a cosy lounge room with a white flaccato rug on the floor, where he met Janice, the third member of the household. She was sitting on an ottoman with a velvet patchwork quilt cover and numerous cushions scattered over it. Janice was reading travel brochures, and there were Lonely Planet and Let’s Go books by her feet on the floor. Some friendly chatting on the subject of overseas travel ensued for a few minutes, during which Danny learned that Janice planned to backpack solo through such places as India, Pakistan, the Hindu Kush, Afghanistan and Iran if possible, then Mischa said, ‘Well, Danny, are we going out?’

  ‘I reckon. Yep.’

  ‘Where d’you fancy? Somewhere in Chapel Street?’

  ‘Well – let’s just walk down there and see what jumps out.’

  ‘Right. I know a nice place. Shouldn’t be too busy this time of day. Let’s go. Bye, guys.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Have a nice time.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Danny followed her back up the hall, and when they reached the door she went into the bedroom to the right, pushing the door wide open. So this was Mischa’s room. It contained a large bed, a wardrobe, a dresser, clothes strewn everywhere. She ran a brush through her hair, using the wardrobe mirror, then said, ‘It’s not very nice today, is it.’

  ‘It’s quite cold,’ Danny said, looking at her. She was wearing a white skivvy that fitted her fabulously, and black corduroys with a black studded belt. She finished brushing, tossed the brush on the bed and grabbed her black leather jacket, which was hanging on the wardrobe door.

  ‘Will we walk or drive,’ she said, putting the jacket on but leaving it unzipped at the front.

  ‘Let’s walk,’ Danny said, and she gave him a smile.

  ‘Good. I haven’t been outside the house all day,’ she said. She gave herself a last once-over in the mirror, then they went out into the street, past the Virago and through the squeaky gate.

  ‘No-one’s stolen it yet,’ Danny said.

  ‘Not yet. They’d have to be pretty damn good to knock it off from there, right outside my window. And there’s the noisy gate.’

  They started walking towards Chapel Street, a couple of hundred metres away, and automatically Danny hooked his arm through hers, as he had done outside the casino. It seemed less personal, less presumptuous than holding her hand. And she didn’t mind at all. In fact, she seemed to expect it. Danny was feeling pretty damn cool about himself as they walked along in step.

  ‘So you did all right today,’ she said.

  ‘I did. Played blackjack. You wouldn’t believe how easy that is to crack.’

  ‘Really,’ she said, and in the next few moments Danny could tell she wanted to know how much he’d won, but would not ask.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘the thing is, I’m carrying a heap right now. And I was thinking, seeing you’re worried about it, I should let you have a long-term, interest-free loan so you can insure the bike.’

  ‘Is that what you were thinking. I couldn’t do that, Danny. Thanks.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because … Just because.’

  ‘That’s not a very good reason, Mischa. What if I insist?’

  ‘I hardly know you, Danny.’

  ‘You don’t know your bank manager, either, when you borrow from him. Just think of it as a business arrangement. We can sort the details out over this drink. Which I’m looking forward to.’

  Mischa was shaking her head, laughing to herself. She wasn’t going to argue the toss any more, but she wasn’t saying yes either. Danny let it go for the present. If she would let him lend her the money, that would give him a decent toehold, and a reason to firm up their friendship. Thing was to let her have some line right now.

  They arrived at a smart-looking cafe-cum-bar called Petite Fleur, which was staffed by sleek, insouciant young waiters in black ties, white shirts and white starched aprons that reached down past their knees. Mischa was right: it wasn’t crowded at this time. They chose a table against the wall and sat down facing each other. Mischa had her back to the street. It was actually the first good look at her Danny had had that day, and he didn’t let the chance slip by. Those tropical aquamarine eyes were out of this world. Fake as they were, they got your undivided attention.

  Mischa removed her jacket just as she had done at the Chinese restaurant, sliding her arms out and letting it fall from her shoulders onto the back of the chair, pushing out her chest as she did so. Danny made himself look away, but not before he’d experienced a little stab in his gut. Then a waiter sort of swished up to their table and broadsided as if on skates, pen and notepad poised.

  ‘Hi. You guys ready to order yet?’

  Danny hadn’t even looked at the menu, but didn’t need to. ‘What’s the best champagne you’ve got?’

  ‘The best. Well, the Billecart Salmon, I’d say, without a shadow of doubt.’

  ‘Fine. We’ll have a bottle of that.’

  ‘Wow,’ Mischa said. ‘I was just going to say house white.’

  ‘No chance. I told you I killed ’em today. House white’s for losers, Mischa,’ he said with disingenuous sternness.

  ‘I’m not used to luxury,’ she said. ‘But I’d like to be.’

  ‘All it takes is money,’ he said with the authority of a financial expert. Mischa looked seriously at him as if he’d uttered an incredibly wise remark, running a hand through her hair and letting it fall back over her forehead. She was a very attractive woman, whatever she did and however she did it.

  ‘I wish I could do what you do,’ she said. ‘But I wouldn’t have the nerve, even if I knew how. It was fun last night, but I’d be too scared to do it for real.’

  ‘There’s nothing to it,’ Danny said. ‘I can make as much as I like.’ It was probably true, but he’d never said that before and it sounded as if he was big-noting. ‘As long as I stick to the game plan and play the percentages. The trick is to set a target for yourself, and be satisfied.’

  ‘It must be like being able to see the future,’ she said, rather dreamily. It was an unusual way of looking at it, but it somehow suited her.

  ‘Would you like to be able to see the future, Mischa?’ he said.

  She grinned suddenly. ‘No way,’ she said. ‘That’d take away all the fun.’

  ‘But you’d be rich.’

  ‘I want to be rich. And I want to have fun.’

  The waiter came and poured the wine expertly, using a linen napkin to catch the drops. Then he set the bottle in a plastic cooler next to the table. Masses of tiny pinkish bubbles swirled and rose in the two flutes. Danny picked his up. It was perfectly cold, the glass already condensing on the outside.

  ‘Here’s to you, Mischa,’ he said.

  ‘And you, Danny Goldfingers.’

  They touched glasses, maintaining eye contact. Before he’d sipped the drink Danny found himself saying, ‘I can make you rich if you want me to.’

  ‘Can you. Why would you do a thing like that.’

  ‘Just because. Because … I like you.’

  She sipped, his eyes still fixed on hers, locking her into his train of thought. At last Danny took a mouthful of the wine and swallowed it as if it were water, not tasting it.

  ‘Do you always like people as soon as you meet them,’ she said.

  ‘Nope. No way.’

  She ran a finger along her lips, then tapped the lower one. ‘Who was that man who called out to you last night,’ she said. ‘Outside the casino.’ She had a few surprises in her.

  ‘His name is Lewis Kenny,’ he said, stra
ight up. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. You don’t want to have anything to do with him.’

  ‘What’s his interest in you?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure. But I saw him with Victor Wineglass. They seemed to be friends, or associates of some kind.’

  ‘Victor Wineglass is the type who has associates rather than friends.’

  ‘Yes, I remember you said that. Has he ever tried anything on you?’

  Again, she ran a finger along her lips. ‘Pass.’

  ‘Sorry. None of my freakin’ business. How’s the wine?’

  ‘Full on. Beautiful. I love it.’

  ‘Have some more then.’

  She did. Danny topped up her glass, then his own. The wine was making him feel like opening up to her, but he didn’t intend rushing things. She was resting her hand on the table. He had a terrific urge to reach across and casually place his on top of it, but didn’t. He asked her what she would do if she were rich, and she said she wanted to travel the world, especially Europe, stay in the famous hotels and dine in the famous restaurants and leave big tips and be treated like a queen wherever she went. Most of all she wanted to stay at the Ritz in Paris. One of her pastimes was to go into travel agencies making inquiries and collecting brochures, but now, although she had spread herself around, many of them knew she was a time waster. Her people originally came from Latvia, she said. The actual name was not Fleming but something unpronounceable. They were White Russian Jews who had originally fled from the Ukraine because of persecution. Danny had heard of White Russia, but didn’t know what it meant: what other colour Russians were there? There was royalty in the family, she said – a countess, who was a cousin of Mischa’s grandmother. Mischa had seen an ancient snapshot of her, draped in rich furs and jewellery. There had been money, serious money, a palatial summer house by a lake, everything, but it was all confiscated by the state during Stalin’s time.

  Her family was forced to emigrate after the war, she said, taking nothing other than some bric-a-brac, a few mementoes and their clothes. Her grandparents arrived in this utterly foreign place, Melbourne, penniless and unable to speak a word of English. First of all they boarded somewhere in Carlton, the whole family sleeping in a single room, but then when they became established, both of them working day and night, they built a house in the suburbs where there was a Latvian community. Mischa could just remember, as a very young child, the parties, the vodka, the singing and dancing, the love of home. Stories would be recounted over and over, old photographs trotted out and passed from hand to hand. From an early age Mischa always remembered that picture of the beautiful countess, looking proud and haughty in her finery. She assumed that was where the yearnings for luxury came from – it was in her breeding.