Odds : A Love Story (9781101554357)

by O'Nan, Stewart

  “And every time we lose?”

  “Doesn’t matter, unless we lose five times in a row. Then we’re done. Then we go home. That’s why I need that extra seven, to make the five in a row six in a row.”

  “Depending on how things go.”

  “Depending on how things go.”

  She discounted his certainty, based, as it was, entirely on theory. He could say with confidence that losing five times in a row was improbable, citing the odds, but what did he know about playing the game? Husbands and wives should love and honor each other, theoretically, till death, but that didn’t always happen either. Planes crashed, banks failed, countries broke up. Since Wendy Daigle, she’d become aware of all that could go wrong, and his plan seemed reckless, doomed. He had no idea what he was risking. She wished she were braver. She wished, absurdly, for everyone at both tables to stay so he’d never be able to sit down.

  He was worried they might have to stand there all night. These were the only high-stakes European wheels in the casino, and the players were serious, working with healthy piles. No one seemed to be losing. Maybe that was why a new croupier took over the wheel on the left, to cool the action. She was a squat bottled redhead with nubby fingers who looked like she should be replenishing the buffet. Intentionally or not, it took her a couple minutes to get settled. During the changeover, several seats opened up.

  “Good luck,” Marion said.

  “Thank you.”

  She stood behind him with her hands on his chair as he unloaded his chips. The croupier counted them twice, watched by a pit boss, before giving him back the exact same number of yellows. While the other players mobbed the board, he took a single chip and put it on black.

  The croupier brought her palms together, then waved a hand over the table.

  The ball dropped, caromed, came to rest: 29 black.

  Marion squeezed his shoulder, and he glanced back and nodded.

  He set aside the chip the croupier slid him and let the first one ride.

  While they waited for the other players to bet, he surreptitiously reached down and loosened his belt a notch. The chocolate mousse had been too much, on top of a heavy dinner, and now his gut was sending him distress signals. Some of it was nerves, which was understandable. While he’d worked in finance his entire life, money wasn’t abstract to him. He was a collector of change, a clipper of coupons, a calculator of mortgage payments. If he felt a little sick, that was natural, but this was bad. It was just a matter of time before he’d have to find a bathroom.

  The croupier closed the betting, and the ball dropped.

  Zero won, the house number. Everyone but an older Chinese man with a pockmarked face lost. The chips clashed as the croupier swept them into the hole

  Art shrugged and doubled up.

  Easy come, Marion wanted to say, but stayed silent, afraid of drawing attention to them, the imposters. She thought her impersonation of a supportive wife was more successful. It fooled even herself. As much as she doubted the future, their hopes had been conjoined for so long, and their losses, that it was impossible not to root for him. As he waited for the wheel to stop, she felt the same helpless protectiveness as when she watched Jeremy playing basketball against bigger, more aggressive boys, so that when the number came up red, a pang of alarm shot through her.

  He doubled up again, setting out four chips.

  He wasn’t worried. He’d faced this situation hundreds of times online. That was the beauty of the Martingale method. One win and all your losses were history.

  Red again.

  As the croupier paid the winners, he was aware of Marion behind him. The pit boss looked on like a cop. A cheer went up from the other table. One more and they’d be down to their last bet. He’d never lost this quickly on any website, and wondered for an instant if the wheel was rigged to foil the method. He rubbed one side of his face as if he were tired and raised the bet to eight thousand.

  11 black won. They recovered everything, plus their profit. They were up two thousand now.

  “Do you have any Tums in your purse?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “It feels like gas.”

  “I don’t, sorry. Want me to get you some?”

  “No,” he said. “Yeah, would you? Maybe you can ask the girl at the desk.”

  Traitorous as it made her feel, she was relieved not to have to watch him. There was the Pepto-Bismol back at the room, but that seemed too far. The hostess said the closest place that might have something was the hotel gift shop, downstairs, right off the lobby.

  The way back to the elevators seemed longer than she remembered, the galleries she passed through skewed and unfamiliar, as if she were stoned. No, there were her grandmothers with their fanny packs, still tapping away. She hustled along, her feet aching, all the while accusing herself of stalling. She pictured herself returning to find him at the bar, in shock, the whole ordeal over. It may have been a crazy scheme, she’d console him, but at least he’d tried. The larger question of what they should do could wait. There was a lot to talk about.

  Downstairs, the lobby was lined with wedding guests waiting for yet another new bride and groom to emerge from the chapel. Instead of rice or birdseed, they clutched handfuls of confetti. Strangely, they all seemed to be speaking Italian. She skirted them, returning their smiles, and then when she was deciding between Pepto and Rolaids, heard the happy clamor. By the time she paid, they were outside, watching the limo off, the carpet drifted with the mess. In the elevator, she was surprised to find a red piece stuck to her shoe, as if she were somehow, if only glancingly, part of the celebration. She thought of Emma walking down the aisle, and then herself, younger, untried by life.

  The happiest she’d ever been was with him, and the saddest. Was that the true test of love?

  While she was gone, he began alternating his bets on red. The odds were the same, and it kept the wheel honest. As long as he doubled when he lost, it didn’t matter. He plodded along, slowly padding their winnings, only once having to risk eight thousand. His stomach was worse, a cramp like a stitch making him wince and let out a breath. For a second he feared he was going to be sick. There were no empty seats, and he vetoed the idea of cashing out and going to the bathroom. The pain subsided, then returned, urgent. Between spins, he checked the entrance, expecting her, until finally he gave up, concentrating instead on the game. In all, he’d been there an hour and banked six thousand dollars. At this rate, to double their stake, they’d have to play till four in the morning. His stomach gurgled, and the man to his right turned to him, concerned, as if what he had might be catching.

  She showed up in the middle of a spin with a roll of Rolaids.

  “Take over,” he said, getting up. “The bet’s two thousand.”

  “Why’s it on red?”

  “The color doesn’t matter.”

  As she sat down, the ball dropped. He stayed to watch.

  They lost.

  “So put four on whichever color you want.”

  “What color do you want?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Black, red, whatever. I’ve gotta go.”

  As she’d feared, he left her alone. She could see he was ill, but she also knew this was going to happen, that somehow she’d end up having to make decisions and bear responsibilities she didn’t feel were hers. She took a sip of his drink and was disappointed to find it was plain Coke.

  She put the four thousand on black, thinking he couldn’t blame her for sticking with his original plan.

  She won, and won the next one, banking the single chip. She lost a chip. She won two chips. She lost a chip. She was edgy yet bored, sitting there alone. It didn’t feel like gambling, betting so mechanically. She wanted to cover the table like last night, play a half dozen numbers straight up with the high rollers. This way was only interesting when she lost, the anxiety of doubling up providing the missing thrill. And still, when she won, she won just the one chip, her victory incremental, and temporary, since one
chip was the next bet. She’d thought he’d lost it when he’d come up with the plan, that the strain had made him desperate and deranged, but his strategy was exactly like him, methodical to a fault.

  Win one, lose one, win two, lose one. It was a slow form of torture, and when he finally returned she was ready to give up her seat.

  He was pale, and waved her down, shaking his head.

  “That took a while.”

  “I don’t think that was food poisoning you had the other night. I think it’s some kind of bug.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s no fun.”

  “Looks like you’re doing all right.”

  “I don’t want to be doing it at all,” she said. “And definitely not by myself.”

  “Want me to take over? I can.”

  “Are you well enough?” She was going to suggest they quit while they were ahead, go home and start over, but obviously he wanted to continue.

  “How much are we up?”

  “Fourteen thousand.”

  “That’s great. Add in last night and we’re more than halfway there.”

  As encouraging as this was, she thought it was bad luck to mention it.

  “Plus,” he said, as if he’d forgotten, “two more and we get that sixth spin.”

  “Why don’t you take over? I’m sorry, I don’t have your patience. I’m ready to jump out of my skin here.”

  “What’s the bet?” As always, his reasonableness shamed her.

  “Two. Can I get you some water or something?”

  “Please. That would be great.”

  She didn’t need to know that he hadn’t quite made it in the bathroom, so that immediately he had to move to another stall, or that it had been coming out both ends. He’d kept the second trio of Rolaids down, otherwise his stomach was empty, burning with juices. This was his one chance. He wouldn’t miss it because of some stupid flu.

  As if to rebuke him, the ball stopped on 0.

  The man with the pitted face clucked in disgust and stood, defeated. The man beside Art took advantage of the extra room and slid down a seat.

  She came back with his water and a white wine and sat beside him.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the croupier said. “Seats are for players only.”

  “We’re together,” he said.

  “That’s fine as long as both of you are betting.”

  “Here,” he said, giving Marion a chip to put on his.

  They both won, meaning they both had to bet one the next time.

  “I’m sorry, seats are for players only.”

  “For God’s sake,” Marion said, getting up. “There’s nobody here.”

  She stood behind him, fuming, her frustration blooming into anger. When he lost, he asked her to sit, but she refused. Now she wanted him to win to teach the croupier a lesson, but the pace of the game and the nature of his strategy were against her. He won, but so little that it didn’t matter. It was like watching someone play solitaire. She finished her wine and asked him to order another from the server. She expected the croupier to say beverages were for players only.

  “Change these into fifties for her, please?” he asked the croupier, pushing two chips across the table. He patted the seat beside him. “Come on. Do what you did last night.”

  “What about your sixth spin?”

  “Already got it.”

  The chips the croupier gave her were gray—a subtle dig, she thought. Four stacks of ten. She resisted the urge to blow them all on the first spin. She spread them around, craning over the table in an arabesque to place her bets rather than let the bitch touch them.

  The contrast between her randomly scattered chips and his neatly centered one was too perfect, and made her laugh.

  “What?”

  “It’s like a personality test.”

  “So what does that say about me?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  They both lost, then both won when Emma’s 17 came up.

  “That’s my girl!” she cried, for the croupier’s benefit.

  “Well done,” he said

  “How much is that?”

  “That’s going to be seventeen fifty.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” She was just rubbing it in now.

  “Minus whatever you put out.”

  “Still, not bad. Not bad at all.”

  She banked a thousand of her winnings and meted out the rest, covering most of the board, while he switched his single chip to red.

  “Very bold of you.”

  He won. She hit a corner at 8 to 1, but didn’t make back her stake.

  “This redistribution of wealth is trickier than I thought,” he said.

  “Exactly.”

  Now that she was playing, he could stop worrying about her. They were close, only a few thousand away from doubling their money. His stomach was going to make it. He was amazed at how easy it had been. The method actually worked better than it did online.

  When he lost the four thousand, he thought maybe he should stop, just cash in what they had, but she’d won, and with the slack they had, they could cover the eight thousand easily.

  When they lost the eight thousand, there was no question they had to make it back.

  When they lost the sixteen thousand, they were barely breaking even. It was as if they hadn’t won anything, as if they were starting over from zero.

  The bet was thirty-two thousand on black. Or red.

  This was what they’d come to do, yet now he doubted himself. They would have absolutely nothing.

  He looked to her, half hoping she’d tell him to stop.

  “First thought best thought,” she said.

  He chose black.

  “Maximum bet is twenty-five thousand,” the croupier said.

  He’d researched the casino. It was a no‑limit table, that was why they were there, but for a moment he thought she might be right, the rule might have changed. There was no sign posted.

  “Can you please check on that for me?” It was because he was using a system, he was sure of it.

  She conferred with the pit boss, who’d been lurking. The boss got on a walkie-talkie, then conferred with her again.

  She came back over. “I’m sorry, sir. The limit is twenty-five thousand.”

  “Then I’ll need to change these,” Marion said, pulling a handful of chips from her purse and spilling them on the table.

  “Look at you,” he said.

  “Look at me.”

  “I guess we better win then.”

  “I guess we better.”

  The last five spins had come up red. The odds of this one coming up black were the same as any other, not quite even, thanks to the 0.

  “Don’t tell me that,” she said.

  “It doesn’t change anything.”

  They held hands as the croupier waved a palm over the board. Behind her, the pit boss watched with his arms crossed.

  She couldn’t look, and bowed her head, pumping his hand like a blood pressure cuff. As with so many decisions in her life, she’d led with her heart, foolishly perhaps, unsure what she truly desired, just trusting in the rightness of the moment. If it was a mistake, she would have to live with it.

  He knew what he wanted—what they’d once had, what he’d ruined out of selfishness. If she believed in him again, after everything, maybe he could too.

  The ball dropped, hopping across the slots, kicking into the air, the gates batting it so it rolled up the bowl and down again, slowing as it skipped and clattered, nearly spent, bouncing out of 15 black and into 19 red, then onto the milled steel rim separating the numbers from their trays, its momentum ebbing, overtaken at last by the wheel’s so that it wobbled along the divider like a drunken cyclist on a tightrope, their future together at the mercy of the smallest forces, until the ball teetered and dropped sideways, finally and decisively coming to rest with a pebbly click on 4 black.

  “We won!” he cried, hugging her.

  “We won!” s
he cried, hugging him.

  But of course, they’d already won.