by Mario Puzo
I sat down at the long oval baccarat table, and I noticed Jordan at the other end. He was a very handsome guy of about forty, maybe even forty-five. He had this thick white hair but not white from age. A white that he was born with, from some albino gene. There was just me and him and another player, plus three house shills to take up space. One of the shills was Diane, sitting two chairs down from Jordan, dressed to advertise that she was in action, but I found myself watching Jordan.
He seemed to me that day an admirable gambler. He never showed elation when he won. He never showed disappointment when he lost. When he handled the shoe, he did it expertly, his hands elegant, very white. But as I watched him making piles of hundred-dollar bills, it suddenly dawned on me that he really didn’t care whether he won or lost.
The third player at the table was a “steamer,” a bad gambler who chased losing bets. He was small and thin and would have been bald except that his jet black hair was carefully streaked across his pate. His body was packed with enormous energy. Every movement he had was violent. The way he threw his money down to bet, the way he picked up a winning hand, the way he counted the bills in front of him and angrily scrambled them into a heap to show he was losing. Handling the shoe, he dealt without control so that often a card would flip over or fly past the outstretched hand of the croupier. But the croupier running the table was impassive, his courtesy never varied. A Player card sailed through the air, tilting to one side. The mean-looking guy tried to add another black hundred-dollar chip to his bet. The croupier said, “Sorry, Mr. A., you can’t do that.”
Mr. A.’s angry mouth got even meaner. “What the fuck, I only dealt one card. Who says I can’t?”
The croupier looked up to the ladderman on his right, the one sitting high above Jordan. The ladderman gave a slight nod, and the croupier said politely, “Mr. A., you have a bet.”
Sure enough, the first card for the Player was a four, bad card. But Mr. A. lost anyway when Player drew out on him. The shoe passed to Diane.
Mr. A. bet Player’s against Diane’s Bank. I looked down the table at Jordan. His white head was bowed, he was paying no attention to Mr. A. But I was. Mr. A. put five one-hundred-dollar bills on Player’s. Diane dealt out the cards mechanically. Mr. A. got the Player’s cards. He squeezed them out and threw the hand down violently. Two picture cards. Nothing. Diane had two cards totaling five. The croupier called, “A card for the Player.” Diane dealt Mr. A. another card. It was another picture. Nothing. The croupier sang out, “The Bank wins.”
Jordan had bet Bank. I had been about to bet Player’s, but Mr. A. pissed me off, so I bet Bank. Now I saw Mr. A. lay down a thousand dollars on Player’s. Jordan and I let our money ride on Bank.
She won the second hand with a natural nine over Mr. A.’s seven. Mr. A. gave Diane a malevolent stare as if to scare her out of winning. The girl’s behavior was impeccable.
She was very carefully neutral, very carefully a non participant, very carefully a mechanical functionary. But despite all this, when Mr. A. bet a thousand dollars on Player’s and Diane threw over a winning natural nine, Mr. A. slammed his fist down on the table and said, “Fucking cunt,” and looked at her with hatred. The croupier running the game stood straight up, not a muscle in his face changing. The ladderman leaned forward like Jehovah ducking his head out of the heavens. There was now some tension at the table.
I was watching Diane. Her face crumpled a little. Jordan stacked his money as if unaware of what was happening. Mr. A. got up and went over to the pit boss at the desk used for writing markers. He whispered. The pit boss nodded. Everyone at the table was up to stretch his legs while a new shoe was being assembled. I saw Mr. A. leave through the royal gray gate toward the corridors that led to the hotel rooms. I saw the pit boss go over to Diane and talk to her, and then she too left the baccarat enclosure. It wasn’t hard to figure out. Diane was going to turn a trick with Mr. A. and change his luck.
It took the croupiers about five minutes to make up the new shoe. I ducked out to make a few roulette bets. When I got back, the shoe was running. Jordan was still in the same seat, and there were two male shills at the table.
The shoe went around the table three times just chopping before Diane came back. She looked terrible, her mouth sagged, her whole face looked as if it would fall apart, despite the fact that it had been freshly made up. She took a seat between me and one of the money croupiers. He too noticed something wrong. For a moment he bent his head down and I heard him whisper, “You OK, Diane?” It was the first time I heard her name.
She nodded. I passed her the shoe. But her hands dealing the cards out of the shoe were trembling. She kept her head down to hide the tears glistening in her eyes. Her whole face was “shamed,” I could think of no other word for it. Whatever Mr. A had done to her in his room was sure enough punishment for her luck against him. The money croupier made a slight motion to the pit boss, and he came over and tapped Diane on the arm. She left her seat at the table and a male shill took her place. Diane sat at one of the seats alongside of the rail, with another girl shill.
The shoe was still chopping from Bank to Player to Bank to Player. I was trying to switch my bets at the right time to catch the chopping rhythm. Mr. A. came back to the table, to the very seat where he had left his money and cigarettes and lighter.
He looked like a new man. He had showered and recombed his hair. He had even shaved. He didn’t look that mean anymore. He had on a fresh shirt and trousers and some of his furious energy had been drained away. He wasn’t relaxed by any means, but at least he didn’t occupy space like one of those whirling cyclones you see in comic strips.
As he sat down, he spotted Diane seated alongside the railing and his eyes gleamed. He gave her a malicious, admonitory grin. Diane turned her head.
But whatever he had done, no matter how terrible, had changed not only his humor but his luck. He bet Player’s and won constantly. Meanwhile, nice guys like Jordan and me were getting murdered. That pissed me off, or the pity I felt for Diane, so I deliberately spoiled Mr. A.’s good day.
Now there are guys who are a pleasure to gamble with around a casino table and guys who are a pain in the ass. At the baccarat table the biggest pain in the ass is the guy, Banker or Player, who when he gets his first two cards takes a long drawn-out minute to squeeze them out as the table waits impatiently for the determination of their fate.
This is what I started doing to Mr. A. He was in chair two and I was in chair five. So we were on the same half of the table and could sort of look in each other’s eyes. Now I was a head taller than Mir. A. and better built. I looked twenty-one years old. Nobody could guess I was over thirty and had three kids and a wife back in New York that I had run away from. So outwardly I was a pretty soft touch to a guy like Mr. A. Sure, I might be physically stronger, but he was a legitimate bad guy with an obvious rep in Vegas. I was just a dopey kid turning degenerate gambler.
Like Jordan, I nearly always bet Bank in baccarat. But when Mr. A. got the shoe, I went head to head against him and bet Player’s. When I got the Player’s two cards, I squeezed them out with exquisite care before showing them face up. Mr. A. buzzed his body around in his seat; he won, but he couldn’t contain himself and on the next hand said, “Come on, jerk, hurry up.”
I kept my cards face down on the table and looked at him calmly. For some reason my eyes caught Jordan down at the other end of the table. He was betting Bank with Mr. A., but he was smiling. I squeezed my cards very slowly.
The croupier said, “Mr. M., you’re holding up the game. The table can’t make any money.” He gave me a brilliant smile, friendly. “They don’t change no matter how hard you squeeze.”
“Sure,” I said and threw the cards face up with the disgusted expression of a loser. Again Mr. A. smiled in anticipation. Then, when he saw my cards, he was stunned. I had an unbeatable natural nine.
Mr. A. said, “Fuck.”
“Did I throw up my cards fast enough?” I said polite
ly.
He gave me a murderous look and shuffled his money. He still hadn’t caught on. I looked down to the other end of the table and Jordan was smiling, a really delighted smile, even though he too had lost riding with Mr. A. I jockeyed Mr. A. for the next hour.
I could see Mr. A. had juice in the casino. The ladderman had let him get away with a couple of “claim agent” tricks. The croupiers treated him with careful courtesy. This guy was making five-hundred- and thousand-dollar bets. I was betting mostly twenties. So if there was any trouble, I was the one the house’d bounce on.
But I was playing it just right. The guy had called me a jerk and I hadn’t got mad or tough. When the croupier told me to turn over my cards faster, I had done so amiably. The fact that Mr. A. was now “steaming” was his gambler’s fault. It would be a tremendous loss of face for the casino to take his side. They couldn’t let Mr. A. get away with anything outrageous because it would humiliate them as well as me. As a peaceable gambler I was, in a sense, their guest, entitled to protection from the house.
Now I saw the ladderman opposite me reach down the side of his chair to the phone attached to it. He made two calls. While watching him, I missed betting when Mr. A. got the shoe. I stopped betting for a while and just relaxed in the chair. The baccarat chairs were plush and very comfortable. You could sit in them for twelve hours, and many people did.
The tension at the table relaxed when I refused to bet Mr. A.’s shoe. They figured I was being prudent or chickenshit. The shoe kept chopping. I noticed two very big guys in suits and ties come through the baccarat gate. They went over to the pit boss, who obviously told them the heat was off and they could relax because I could hear them laughing and telling jokes.
The next time Mr. A. got the shoe, I shoved a twenty-dollar bet on Player’s. Then to my surprise the croupier receiving the Player’s two cards didn’t toss them to me but to the other end of the table, near Jordan. That was the first time I ever saw Cully.
Cully had this lean, dark Indian face, yet affable because of his unusually thickened nose. He smiled down the table at me and Mr. A. I noticed he had bet forty dollars on Player’s. His bet outranked my twenty, so he got the Player’s cards to flip over. Cully turned them over immediately. Bad cards, and Mr. A. beat him. Mr. A. noticed Cully for the first time and smiled broadly.
“Hey, Cully, what you doing playing baccarat, you fucking countdown artist?”
Cully smiled. “Just giving my feet a rest.”
Mr. A. said, “Bet with me, you jerkoff. This shoe is ready to turn Bank.”
Cully just laughed. But I noticed he was watching me. I put down my twenty bet on Player’s. Cully immediately put down forty on Player’s to make sure he would get the cards. Again he immediately turned up his cards, and again Mr. A. beat him.
Mr. A. called, “Attaboy, Cully, you’re my lucky charm. Keep betting against me.”
The money croupier paid off the Banker’s slots and then said respectfully, “Mr. A., you’re up to the limit.”
Mr. A. considered for a moment. “Let it ride,” he said.
I knew that I would have to be very careful. I kept my face impassive. The slot croupier running the game had his palm up to halt the dealing of the shoe until all bets had been made. He glanced down inquiringly at me. I didn’t make a move. The croupier looked to the other end of the table. Jordan made a bet on the Bank, riding with Mr. A. Cully put a hundred-dollar bet on Player’s, watching me all the time.
The slot croupier let his hand fall, but before Mr. A. could get a card out of the shoe, I threw the stack of bills in front of me on Player’s. Behind me the buzz of voices of the pit boss and his two friends stopped. Opposite me the ladderman inclined his head from the heavens.
“The money plays,” I said. Which meant that the croupier could count it out only after the bet was decided. The dollars and Player’s cards must come to me.
Mr. A. dealt them to the slot croupier. The slot croupier threw the two cards face down across the green felt. I gave them a quick squeeze and threw them over. Only Mr. A. could see how I made my face fall slightly as if I had lousy cards. But what I turned over was a natural nine. The croupier counted out my money. I had bet twelve hundred dollars and won.
Mr. A. leaned back and lit up a cigarette. He was really steaming. I could feel his hatred. I smiled at him. “Sorry,” I said. Exactly like a nice young kid. He glared at me.
At the other end of the table Cully got up casually and sauntered down to my side of the table. He sat in one of the chairs between me and Mr. A. so that he would get the shoe. Cully slapped the box and said, “Hey, Cheech, get on me. I feel lucky. I got seven passes in my right arm.”
So Mr. A. was Cheech. An ominous-sounding name. But Cheech obviously liked Cully, and just as obviously Cully was a man who made a science of being liked. Because he now turned to me as Cheech made a bet on the Bank. “Come on, Kid,” he said. “Let’s all break this fucking casino together. Ride with me.”
“You really feel lucky?” I asked, just a little wide-eyed.
“I may run out the shoe,” Cully said. “I can’t guarantee it, but I may just run out the shoe.”
“Let’s go,” I said. I put a twenty on the Bank. We were all riding together. Me. Cheech, Cully, Jordan down on the other far side of the table. One of the shills had to take the Player’s hand and promptly turned up a cold six. Cully turned over two picture cards and on his draw got another picture for a total of zip, zero, the worst hand in baccarat. Cheech had lost a thousand. Cully had lost a hundred. Jordan had lost five hundred. I had lost a measly twenty. I was the only one to reproach Cully. I shook my head ruefully. “Gee,” I said, “there goes my twenty.” Cully grinned and passed me the shoe. Looking past him, I could see Cheech’s face darkening with rage. A jerkoff kid who lost a twenty, daring to bitch. I could read his mind as if it were a deck of cards face up on the green felt.
I bet twenty on my bank, waited to slide the cards out. The croupier in the slot was the young handsome one who had asked Diane if she was OK. He had a diamond ring on the hand he held upraised to halt my deal until all the bets were made. I saw Jordan put down his bet On the Bank as usual. He was riding with me.
Cully slapped a twenty on Bank. He turned to Cheech and said, “Come on, ride with us. This kid looks lucky.”
“He looks like he’s still jerking off,” Cheech said. I could see all the croupiers watching me. On his high chair the ladderman sat very still and straight. I looked big and strong; they were just a little disappointed in me.
Cheech put three hundred down on Player’s. I dealt and won. I kept hitting passes and Cheech kept upping his bet against me. He called for a marker. Well, there wasn’t much left of the shoe, but I ran it out with perfect gambling manners, no squeezing of the cards, no joyous exclamations. I was proud of myself. The croupiers emptied the canister and assembled the cards for a new shoe. Everybody paid his commissions. Jordan got up to stretch his legs. So did Cheech, so did Cully. I stuffed my winnings into my pocket. The pit boss brought the marker over to Cheech to sign. Everything was fine. It was the perfect moment
“Hey, Cheech,” I said. “I’m a jerkoff?” I laughed. Then I started walking around the table to leave the baccarat pit and made sure to pass close to him. He could no more resist taking a swing at me than a crooked croupier palm a stray hundred-dollar chip.
And I had him cold. Or I thought I did. But Cully and the two big hoods had miraculously come between us. One hood caught Cheech’s fist in his big hand as if it were a tiny ball. Cully shoved his shoulder into me, knocking me off stride.
Cheech was screaming at the big guy. “You son of a bitch. Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am?”
To my surprise the big hood let Cheech’s hand go and stepped back. He had served his purpose. He was a preventive force, not a punitive one. Meanwhile, nobody was watching me. They were cowed by Cheech’s venomous fury, all except the young croupier with the diamond ring. He said very quietly, �
�Mr. A., you are out of line.”
With incredible whip like fury Cheech struck out and hit the young croupier right smack on the nose. The croupier staggered back. Blood came billowing out onto his frilly white shirtfront and disappeared into the blue-black of his tuxedo. I ran past Cully and the two hoods and hit Cheech a punch that caught him in the temple and bounced him off the floor. And he bounced right up again. I was astonished. It was all going to be very serious. This guy ran on nuclear venom.
And then the ladderman descended from his high chair, and I could see him clearly in the bright lamp of the baccarat table. His face was seamed and parchment pale as if his blood had been frozen white by countless years of air conditioning. He held up a ghostly hand and said quietly, “Stop.”
Everybody froze. The ladderman pointed a long, bony finger and said, “Cheech, don’t move. You are in very big trouble. Believe me.” His voice was quietly formal.
Cully was leading me through the gate, and I was more than willing to go. But I was really puzzled by some of the reactions. There was something very deadly about the young croupier’s face even with the blood flowing from his nose. He wasn’t scared, or confused, or badly hurt enough not to fight back. But he had never raised a hand. Also, his fellow croupiers had not come to his aid. They had looked on Cheech with a sort of awestricken horror that was not fear but pity.
Cully was pushing me through the casino through the surf-like hum of hundreds of gamblers muttering their voodoo curses and prayers over dice, blackjack, the spinning roulette wheel. Finally we were in the relative quiet of the huge coffee shop.
I loved the coffee shop, with its green and yellow chairs and tables. The waitresses were young and pretty in spiffy short-skirted uniforms of gold. The walls were all glass; you could see the outside world of expensive green grass, the blue-sky pool, the specially grown huge palm trees. Cully led me to one of the large special booths, a table big enough for six people, equipped with phones. He took the booth as a natural right.
