by Hebby Roman
This was getting stranger and stranger.
She pushed her way through the mob and skirted the table. She stopped beside him and said, “Damian.”
He didn’t move, just kept staring at the action.
“Damian.” She raised her voice.
He started and turned around. His eyes met hers and he smiled. “You’re still here? I thought you’d gone home.”
“And I thought you’d gone to your room.”
His smile faded, and he thrust his hands in his pockets. “Fascinating game, craps.”
“You’re not betting.”
“I, ah, wanted to get the lay of the land. You know scope things out.”
She wasn’t sure she did know. “There are private games in the back, if you prefer. I’d be more than happy to show you.”
“No, that’s okay. I like it here. Like to watch the people winning. They get so excited.”
She peered at him and frowned. Had she heard him right? For a high roller, people, even in a craps game, were merely scenic backdrops. The action was the thing.
“Then let me get you some chips,” she offered. “The dealers can’t change large sums unless they call the pit boss. It will be easier if I okay it, to save time. What do you want, hundreds or thousands?”
His face was a study in naked astonishment. What had she said? She was just trying to be helpful. “If you don’t have the cash on you, the resort is prepared to take your marker for up to fifty thousand,” she explained. “You can settle when you leave.”
He gulped hard, the Adam’s apple in his neck bobbing like a cork. Funny, she hadn’t noticed it before, but then he hadn’t appeared to be swallowing a piano before. What was wrong with him? For a high roller, he had the most peculiar MO she’d ever seen.
“I, ah, let me see.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a hundred dollar bill and thrust it into her hand.
Staring at the lone hundred, her mouth dropped open. Lifting her head, she scowled. Was this some kind of a joke?
When he saw the shock on her face he mumbled, “Uh, just a minute. I thought that was my roll.” Bringing out his wallet, he thrust a wad of seven hundred dollar bills into her hand.
Glancing at him, she expected more bills, but he appeared to be satisfied with the miserly amount of eight hundred dollars.
What was going on here?
Despite his computer image, he must be an imposter. No self-respecting high roller started with just eight hundred dollars. It was late, and she was tired, or she would have returned to her office and pulled up his file. Tomorrow, first thing, she would check him out thoroughly.
Her management didn’t like to be made fools of by imposters, masquerading as high rollers. Beyond the outlay of money for his suite and other comps, there was the Xanadu’s reputation to consider. If word got out that they’d been bilked, they would be deluged by petty gamblers looking for a free ride.
But she didn’t want any more misunderstandings, either. Until she had her facts straight, she would play along, not confronting him until she was certain.
“I think the dealer can change this into chips,” she said.
His face fell and he ran his hand through his hair. She was beginning to learn his “tells.”
The man was nervous. As he should be, if he was trying to defraud the casino.
Leaning over the table, she signaled to get the dealer’s attention and handed over the money to be changed. “Hundred dollar chips?” she asked Damian.
He gulped again. “How about fifties?”
“Whatever you want.”
The dealer counted out the chips, recounted them into four equal piles of four chips each, and then handed them to her. She placed the stack of sixteen chips in Damian’s hand—a hand wet with perspiration.
Damian riffled through the chips.
She watched him sifting the chips through his hands as if he was an expert. Who did he think he was fooling? He wasn’t a high roller. The way he acted, he wasn’t even a wanna be high roller. She swallowed hard and crossed her arms over her chest, waiting to see what he would do.
Another shooter bit the dust. The crowd groaned.
The dealers gathered in the losing bets and paid the few winners. The stickman retrieved the dice and gave them to the boxman for inspection. The boxman looked over the dice and hefted them in one fist, testing to be certain no one had substituted loaded dice during the play.
Nodding his satisfaction, he returned them to the stickman. The stickman pushed the dice across the green felt to the next shooter. The players draped themselves over the edge of the table, placing their bets.
Damian glanced at Adriana and shrugged. “Here goes.” Leaning over the table, he placed one chip on the come line.
Adriana gasped. The come line was for betting after the shooter had established his point.
The shooter hadn’t even rolled yet. What was Damian doing? Before the dealer could remove his improper bet, Adriana leaned down and nudged his chip to the pass line.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Damian’s face. Either he was an imposter or craps wasn’t his game. Even so, if he were a high roller he should know the basics.
Damian’s lips pulled tight. He shifted his weight, stuck his hands in his pockets, and shuffled his feet. A silent apology filled his eyes.
Yeah, mister, you should be ashamed of yourself. You’ve been busted.
But instead of outrage, she felt ... well, honestly? She felt sorry for the guy.
And not only did he not know what he was doing, he was singularly unlucky. The shooter rolled a three, a low probability number and an immediate loss for anyone betting the pass line.
Even though she’d gone with the best odds, he’d lost. Maybe she was the unlucky one.
She moved closer to him and placed her hand on his arm. She pulled on his forearm, wanting to draw him to the side and explain the basics of the game, but he forestalled her by leaning down and betting the pass line again.
Why did she have this overwhelming urge to help, even to protect him? Because he’d protected her from Henderson? But then he’d accused her of being a prostitute.
Guaranteed, he was no high roller. He was defrauding her employer. His paltry fifty- dollar loss wouldn’t even cover the cost of the chauffeur who had brought him from the airport.
But he wasn’t arrogant and grasping like most high rollers. He’d even paid for her dinner and left a very nice tip for the waiter.
That wasn’t the point, though. The point was his blatant deceit and her employer’s reputation. Even more, it was her job to see that high rollers and whales lost large sums of money to the casino. After all, gamblers’ losses were what paid her salary.
How could she even consider helping him?
The shooter had rolled a point of five. The dealers collected the no pass bets, allowing the pass bets to ride until the shooter crapped out or rolled the point.
He placed a chip in the come box. Now he had two ways to win and two ways to lose, but she doubted he knew what he was doing. And she wasn’t going to tell him, either. Let him sink or swim on his own merit. Wedging herself against the side of the table, she folded her arms across her chest and waited for his inevitable downfall.
#
Rafael glanced up to see Adriana watching him. He’d made so many blunders tonight that he knew the masquerade was over. She’d have to be blind as a bat to not know he was a fraud. And Adriana was anything but blind. She didn’t miss much.
No, this wasn’t about the farce his brother had gotten him into, not any longer. Tomorrow he’d confess and pay his debts. But not tonight. Tonight, was a matter of pride. His pride. He didn’t want to look foolish again in her eyes.
He still didn’t fully understand the game of craps. But he knew better than to bet the individual numbers or the elaborate odds in the middle box of the table. The pass and no pass line, along with the come and no come bets, were where he concentrated. They seemed the simplest w
agers to make, and for him, the easiest to understand. Watching his fellow gamblers, he realized they were also the most frequent wagers made.
But he needed to devise a system, so he studied what bets the gamblers with the most chips made, and then followed suit. He focused on one player in particular, an older, heavyset man wearing a flamboyant leopard print shirt. This man had the largest stack of chips in front of him, and his pile was steadily growing.
When leopard shirt lost on the Pass or Come lines, he usually doubled his next bet. Rafael tried that tactic and his pile of chips took a hit. Doubling down didn’t seem to be working for him, and besides, he didn’t have a huge pile of chips to throw away. One chip at a time was a more his speed.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was two o’clock in the morning. His interview was at nine. He groaned inwardly. What the heck was he doing at a craps table at this time of the night and with an interview hanging over him? He glanced up and found Adriana’s gaze still following his every move.
Okay, he might be crazy, but he was no quitter. He was determined to win at this game.
Determined to wipe the smug look from her face and show her that he was capable of winning.
He was sick and tired of looking like a loser in her eyes. She probably expected him to lose, but he was determined to show her that she was wrong.
And to regain his tattered pride.
He lost two bets on the Pass line in quick succession—down to only four chips. Sweat slicked his palms, and the four-story casino felt close and warm.
He’d brought a thousand dollars for spending money. A thousand dollars might not be much for a high roller, but he was no high roller and the thousand dollars represented a lot of skipped lunches and worn out clothes, just to pull the money together from his meager professor’s pay. And here he was throwing it away at fifty dollars a pop, all because he wanted to impress Adriana.
How would he pay his hotel bill if he lost all his money? He’d have to put the bill on his credit card and then it would take him forever to pay it off. The thought of a big debt hanging over him closed his throat and left him gasping for air.
Suddenly, the air was thick and close, made more so by several gamblers’ chain smoking.
He knew the casinos tolerated smokers to get their business, but right now, while he was gasping for air, he wished they’d all choke on their own smoke. Not a nice thought, but he wasn’t in a nice mood, contemplating the loss of his hard-earned eight hundred dollars.
He decided to skip the next bet and try to regain his composure. He dug both hands into the side of the table and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths of the smoky air. Hell, he couldn’t leave the table because he’d lose his place. And if all he could get here was smoke, he’d have to make do. The important thing was to regain control by measuring the steady intake and outtake of his breathing.
After a few moments, he felt better, calm and clear headed. He glanced at Adriana again and painted a fake smile on his face.
She nodded and returned his forced smile.
The stickman passed the dice to a new shooter. Each time Rafael had been offered the dice, he’d refused, preferring to bet on someone else’s luck.
The new shooter—a Dennis Rodman look alike—flashed a gold-toothed grin and flung the dice. They rolled, tumbled, landed. A five and a two.
Seven.
The crowd at the table cheered. Rafael blinked. He’d won! He was on his way again; he could just feel it.
He looked over at leopard skin and saw that his pile of chips had diminished. Not a good sign—time for another strategy. Rafael let his gaze roam the table. Most of the crowd had stayed put, and he had a pretty good idea of who was hot and who was not. With that thought, he devised a new strategy—bet on the shooter. For the few new people, he watched them carefully for a couple of rounds before betting for or against them.
He lost some rolls but won more than he lost. To his relief, his stack of chips started to grow. When he got back to his original bankroll, he was tempted to double his bets. But that was way too scary. He could win twice as fast, but he could also lose twice as fast. Sure and steady, bet on the shooters’ luck—that was the ticket. He’d never concentrated so hard. He didn’t take his eyes from the table, not even to see how Adriana was reacting.
After three straight wins, he mentally counted his chips. He’d doubled his original stake!
He swiped his brow and let out a long steady breath. He’d arrived. This was more than enough to prove he could do it. He didn’t want to be greedy and ruin everything. Now he could look Adriana in the eye with the knowledge that he was a winner.
He grabbed his chips and looked over to where she’d been standing. But she was gone.
Where she’d been was an empty spot. It was past three a.m. and the crowd had been thinning for the past hour. He craned his neck and raised himself on tiptoe, scanning the table. Nothing. She’d left before he’d proved that he could win.
His shoulders slumped. What a letdown.
He hefted the chips in his hand and tossed the boxman and stickman a tip like he’d seen other winners do. Slowly, feeling the exhaustion of the day washing over him, he walked to cashier’s cage and cashed in his chips.
It was over. Time to go to his room and get a couple of hours sleep before his interview.
Tomorrow was going to be a tough day. First, the interview and then he’d have to come clean and end his high-roller masquerade.
He wished tomorrow was already over.
#
Adriana arrived early at work. It had been a late night, but she didn’t feel tired. She felt energized and expectant. Spring break was starting, and she’d finished her thesis ahead of schedule. Now, all she had to do was await revisions from her consulting professor. The break would give her more time for her job.
More time to unmask a fraud.
Grabbing a cup of coffee, she headed straight for her computer, saying a quick hello to her coworkers as she walked by. When she got to her desk, she found a stack of phone messages waiting for her. One was from Mr. Bennett, her manager. He wanted her to come to his office as soon as she arrived. She had a fair idea why he’d called. He would expect her to explain about one very disgruntled whale, named Henderson.
Checking her watch, she decided she was still on her own time. She would call her manager first thing, after she researched Damian Escobedo. Flicking on the computer, she ignored the flashing notifications for waiting emails and went straight to the client files.
Pulling up Escobedo’s file, she skimmed through the likes and dislikes section this time and started with his background. She noted the computer company he worked for and his term of employment. She scrolled through the names of his parents, one older brother, two younger sisters, and another brother named Rafael who just happened to have the exact same birth date.
Jackpot!
Damian Escobedo was a twin. What was the chance that this twin brother, this Rafael, was an identical twin?
Sean, one of her co-workers, stopped at her desk, coffee mug in hand. “Hey, Adriana, good morning.” He leaned over her computer. “Say, what are you doing? Mr. Bennett wants to see you right away. And he was pretty worked up about it. You should probably—”
“Not now, Sean, I’ve still got a few minutes until I’m officially on the clock, and I’ve got a very important loose end to tie up. If the boss asks again, tell him that I’ll be right in to see him. Okay?”
Sean shrugged. “Sure. No problem. He’s in the management meeting right now anyway.”
“Perfect. Thanks, Sean.”
She hit print on her computer and waited until Damian’s background sheet printed out.
She grabbed the sheet and rose from her desk.
“See you in a few, Sean.” She hoped he would get the message and buzz off. And he did.
He turned and walked back to his own desk.
Picking up the hotel landline, she punched in the number of Escobedo’s suite. Heari
ng the phone ring, she felt no qualms, no uncertainty. A surge of adrenaline hit her, and she was like a predator going in for the kill. How dare Escobedo try to defraud the resort and make a fool of her?
Waiting for the phone to be picked up, she would have bet her last pair of pantyhose that it was Rafael Escobedo, not Damian, occupying the suite on the twenty-first floor.
Chapter Four
Rafael threw the last folded shirt into the suitcase and zipped up the garment bag. So far, his luck from last night had been holding. He’d received a phone call at eight this morning from the Dean of Humanities’ administrative assistant telling him that his interview had been postponed because the Dean had been called away on a personal emergency at the last minute.
The Dean’s assistant had offered for him to return home over the weekend, and at the university’s expense, fly him back next week for the interview, which had been postponed until next Tuesday. He declined her offer, telling her that he’d be staying over the weekend and available on Tuesday morning.
Now all he had to do was face the music, end the masquerade, and pay his bill for the suite. But should he go straight to Adriana or deal with the front desk and then tell her? He ran his hand through his hair.
The bank of phones in his suite shrilled. He crossed to the nightstand and picked up the nearest one. “Yes.”
“Ra ... er, Damian, this is Adriana. May I come up?”
“You want to come up?”
He couldn’t believe it—more good fortune. She’d made the choice for him, and somehow, it felt right. He should confess to her first. It was like an answer to a prayer he hadn’t dared to utter.
“Please.” He pushed at his glasses, stopping their slide down his nose. “Be my guest.
Come up.”
The phone clicked off in his ear. That was strange, kind of an abrupt ending. He adjusted his glasses and wondered if he had time to put his contacts in? Probably not. He was still awkward with them, and it took forever to get properly settled in his eyes.
