No House Limit

by Steve Fisher

  “He’s a good man, then.”

  “Yes, he’s a good man. But that’s dirty pool in the midst of a dice session.”

  Joe smiled inwardly. “I’ll speak to him.”

  “Tell him to stay away from me. And tell your piano player to stay away from her.”

  Joe was shocked. “Piano—Mai Davis?”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tell him it’s for his own good.”

  Joe gazed at the large man steadily. “I see what you mean.”

  Bello nodded. “Then we understand one another?”

  “Yes,” Joe said, “thoroughly.” Now he lowered his tone to the point where Bello almost had to read his lips. “But if you ever try anything in my casino—”

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” Bello said aloud.

  “Nine—and the point is four. Four will win it. Come bets, field bets. Three—three craps. The number is four . . . ”

  “Your casino,” Bello said, still needling.

  Joe stared at him.

  “Ever think of selling out?”

  Joe didn’t, couldn’t answer with the rage that was in his throat. Bello had exercised this particular barb as he went over the million mark into Joe’s pocketbook. Bello—the wise and expert gambler. People around the table had tried following his bets but couldn’t—they were too complicated. Sometimes he was with and against the house simultaneously. Tonight he was against it—in a crap shooter’s paradise because the table was “hot.”

  At the piano, overlooking all this, Mai was playing an instrumental when Sunny arrived; she took the end stool. Her face was radiant. And he couldn’t remember when he’d ever seen her look quite so beautiful.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi, Mai.”

  Doc Hoffman had left. And now Kitty Erin said “See you later” and moved away. She had grown tired of listening to Si Shelby, who had now latched on to Cottontop, plying her with more drinks than she was used to—for she had protested the last three, then when they arrived, drunk them anyway. Shelby’s pitch nauseated Mai: he was a talent scout from Hollywood and she was a very unusual type. Cindy Cottontop, the almost-albino, was in a daze, scarcely able to believe that she, of all people, was an unusual type. When Mai couldn’t stand any more of it, he said:

  “Did Si tell you he’s in the used car business?”

  But Cottontop didn’t really hear; and if she had, she wouldn’t have believed him—because she wanted to believe Si: wanted to believe him with all her might.

  “Seven, loser. Coming out again now. New shooter. Do or don’t come. Take the odds on craps and eleven. Five. Five a number. The shooter can arrive with a five . . .”

  Mai thought: Life, and the dice keep on rolling.

  He heard Cottontop ask: “What’s Audrey Hepburn really like?”

  “Honey, she’s one of the sweetest kids you’ll ever meet.”

  The casino was buzzing with a growing excitement—and the noise, all the different and all the combined noises had reached a pitch: a steady, pulsating roar; and the fever, the wildness, the surging giddiness of it was catching. Dee and Sunny were probably his only real piano audience. Dee, who had heard this same roar night after night for endless nights and had immunized herself against it. Mai fell into a crazy sweep of instrumental notes, improvising, adlibbing—background music for a gambling pit: concerto for a casino. The keys were hammering heavy thunder when he faintly heard the voice through the loudspeaker system. He quieted the piano to a whisper and strained to hear the repeat of the message:

  “Mai Davis . . . you are wanted at the telephone. New York City calling.

  He excused himself and a minute or two later was in one of the telephone booths in the lobby.

  “Mai!” It was Harry Muller. “Did I interrupt a hot dice game?”

  In the short time it took to walk to the telephone, Mai had attuned himself to the call—to the really big news it could bring: that taped session at the La Cienega spot in L.A. with enough tunes in it for a big, fat LP album.

  “No—Harry, what is it? Do you have news?”

  “Well, it’s good and bad, Mai. Depends on the way you look at it. Couple of the big companies like you. You, period. The songs are all right—but what they like is the voice. As for the tape we made, they feel it is imperfect.”

  “The background noise?” He felt himself sinking. “The applause and dishes and all that?”

  “No; that didn’t bother them. They thought it was sort of unique. But the tape itself is a little scratchy, and the way it was put together just isn’t mellow. They won’t touch it.”

  Mai was in a rage. “Why’d you bother to phone? Why didn’t you just write me all this crap?”

  “If you’ll just listen,” Harry pleaded. “I’ll come to the good part.”

  “There isn’t any good part.”

  “The top record company in the business wants you to make an album for them.”

  Mai perked up his ears. “Go on.”

  “They want you to come back here, backstop yourself with a quintet, and feature voice only. They don’t care whether you play piano or not; and they want you to sing standards—something familiar. Like an album of Rodgers and Hammerstein. If that catches on, a few months later they’ll let you record an album of your own songs.”

  “That’s flipping nice of them,” Mai said, and he was ready to kick the phone booth down. “Did you mention to them that a piano player is what I am—and a composer—that as far as I’m concerned, the singing is just incidental?”

  “Yeah—but they say you’re on the wrong kick.”

  “Flip them. I’ve lived this long without them. Is this the end of the conversation?”

  “No—wait. Christ, Mai—will you quit racing your motor? Let’s get back to the La Cienega tape. I’ve got it sold—provided you go for the deal.”

  “Thought you said they didn’t like it.”

  “The big companies didn’t. But the ‘Q’ label will take it . . . and they’re ready to shell out a fifteen hundred dollar advance tomorrow.”

  Mai fell silent in gloom, discouragement. The “Q” label was one of the cheapest record companies in the business. Their 78 rpm’s featured phony names like Lanky Raine, to give the impression it was Frankie Laine, Lori Jay for Doris Day, and blasted with cheap radio advertising that offered three Hit Parade tunes for a dollar. Their more legitimate division sometimes issued 33 rpm Long Playing albums, using the real names of the artists—but always artists who were not yet recognized. They charged a straight six dollars for such a record, but their promotion was poor, and if lightning didn’t strike making it catch on, you’d find it a year or so later in cut-rate drugstores selling for $2.00.

  “Flip the ‘Q’ label.”

  “Is that a final decision?”

  Mai felt almost too discouraged to go on talking. “Give me a week. Let me think it over.”

  “All right, kiddo. You can reach me at the Waldorf.” He hung up, stepped out of the booth and saw both Sprig and Joe waiting for him. They signaled him to a comer of the quiet lobby, but he knew from the way they looked what they wanted: and this was the crusher. One slap followed by another.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “I’d better stay away from Bello’s girl.”

  “Appreciate it that you played ball, though,” Joe told him. Sprig asked: “But why’d you stay in Boulder City so damned long?”

  Mai looked at both of them. “I like her.”

  “You might like certain poisons if you tasted them, but—”

  Mai blew up. “God damn it, he can’t keep her a prisoner!”

  Joe snapped: “That isn’t your worry.”

  “It ought to be somebody’s!”

  Sprig realized that he had a task on his hands. “Joe,” he said, “you’d better get back to the crap table.”

  Joe nodded. “Explain the facts of life to him.”

  When he was gone, Sprig laid it on the line: “You s
ee her any more—and that’s it, brother. Bello’s given his warning. From here on out, there’s no way that I can protect you.”

  “Whole different conversation from the way it was this morning.”

  “Yes—that was an errand I wanted done for Joe. Meet a babe in a cocktail lounge. But now I’m telling you not to risk life and limb.”

  “Thought you said he didn’t kill people?”

  “Maybe I was conning you.”

  “No. You’re conning me now.”

  “Mai, believe me, it could be bad—whatever he’d do!” Mai sighed. “Okay, I’ll watch myself.”

  He returned to the piano wondering: what about tomorrow? That cheap hotel room I’m supposed to rent. Can I risk it? Do I dare risk it?

  Twenty-three

  Unless you have a credit card, you cannot cash a check in a Las Vegas casino. If you apply on a weekday they will phone the bank in whatever city you have your account. On a weekend, your chances are slight if not impossible. Yet the intake of checks is astronomical, and they are rushed out each morning on special planes—to the banks in out-of-state cities. If after getting home you remember that gambling in your state is illegal (and that gambling debts are uncollectable by law) and decide to put a “stop” on all those checks you signed in Nevada, chances are you’ll find they’ve already been cashed. If not, and you put a stop on them, you will first get a letter demanding payment—after that, two visitors, very gentlemanly, asking for same—with a hint that the next visit won’t be so pleasant. At this point, or shortly thereafter, almost all of the would-be welshers pay up.

  “Coming out. Betting time. Do or don’t come. Will he or won’t he? Is he or isn’t he? Get your odds on craps and eleven. Seven! Seven, the winner. Pay that lucky line. Here we go again—get your bets down. Four, four a number. Take the odds on four. Eight, hard way eight. Your number is four, shooter!”

  It was now 11:51 P.M. Air conditioning was sucking up the layers of cigarette smoke, yet it seemed to Joe the room was in a blue haze. For hours his stomach had felt hollow, and now it was beginning to suffer the pangs of starvation.

  He wiped his hand down over his face to try and snap himself out of it, but couldn’t, and then thought: the hell with it!

  The tally was now under a million. Bello had lost steadily for the past hour. Joe sent for a waiter and ordered food to be taken to the penthouse, then stayed at the dice table for another ten minutes. When he at last turned to leave, Bello regarded him with surprise. Walk away at midnight—when the pit was at fever pitch?

  Sunny was still at the piano, listening to Mai sing, as she had been for hours. When Joe tapped her on the shoulder, she swung around.

  “Isn’t it time we had something to eat?”

  She frowned, glanced toward the dice table. “Now?”

  He said: “I’ll be upstairs,” and kept going.

  Escorting her through the casino would have caused gossip; this way, they had simply been observed exchanging a couple of words.

  Sunny turned back to gather up her purse—and saw from Mai’s eyes that he had guessed the truth of the relationship. She flushed, and the knowing look left his face; he pretended to be carried away in a medley.

  “See you later,” she said.

  “Sure thing, teacher.”

  When she walked away, he watched in awe. He hadn’t heard a word either she or Joe said, but he had seen their eyes when they looked at each other for that brief moment—and he knew. He thought about it a moment, and was even more amazed. He’d never seen Joe that way for a woman. And deserting a big-time game in the heat of it? But that same look was also in Sunny’s eyes. Jesus, what do you know? Mai thought. The day of the big miracle is at hand. Joe? Joe in love? I would have sworn it wasn’t possible! Well, that just shows you. It’s possible for any of us, dad.

  And now his glance shifted to the number one crap table. Dee was just arriving; she climbed up on the stool the casino had provided for Bello; and Mai was suddenly sick inside. He stopped the piano music, sipped a drink; then decided to take a ten-minute break. He couldn’t stay here and go on watching her with Bello, waiting on him, lighting his cigarettes—smiling when she was supposed to: pretending interest in an intricate parlay of side bets that she didn’t understand.

  In the penthouse, the waiter worked deftly, silently; he served salad from a bowl nested in ice, added butter to the steaming baked potatoes, and as a final gesture, whipped the silvered covers from two browned, juicy steaks.

  After he left, closing the door almost soundlessly, Sunny kept looking at the snowy clothed table with its inviting dishes and felt no appetite. When Joe pulled out a chair for her, she sat down automatically.

  “Anything wrong?”

  His face was wan, cheeks drawn in; even with the crew haircut he seemed not only older, but old. Yet he was in excellent spirits and attacked the steak with gusto.

  “Are you winning?” she asked. “Is that it?”

  “Seesaws.”

  “Joe, I know you’re tired—and hungry, but—”

  “Why’d I walk out at a peak hour?”

  “Yes, why?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, then nodded at her dinner plate. “You’re not eating.”

  “I’m not hungry. Anyway, time with you is too precious to spend on eating. I can eat any time. You can’t. So go ahead. Finish that salad, and the potato.”

  “I walked out,” he said, obediently following her order, “because I suddenly thought to hell with it—I’m going to act like a human being—crap game or no game. I’m going to eat, nap a little, and look at beautiful Sunny Guido and talk to her.” He paused, took a sip of coffee. “I like looking at Sunny Guido and talking to her.”

  She teased. “Why?”

  “I’m in love with her.” He laughed now. “Imagine me carrying on like this!”

  “Imagine me being here.”

  “We’re going to be everywhere, Sunny. Everywhere worth being is where we’ll be. Everywhere except Las Vegas, Nevada. In a teahouse in Tokyo sitting on the floor cross-legged making faces at each other. God, I’m walking on egg shells ten miles up in the stratosphere!”

  “I’m up there, too, darling, but—”

  “But what?”

  “Hadn’t you better get back to the dice?”

  He scowled. “Why?”

  “Joe, if anything happens—you’d blame me. You’d say I—I kept you from the game.”

  He relaxed now and looked sleepy. He climbed to his feet, stretched. “You are keeping me from the game.”

  She got up, facing him. “Then please go back!”

  “After I take a nap.”

  “Can’t you sleep later?”

  “Why you little slave driver!” He was angry suddenly, his gray eyes smoky, a cold hardness tightening his lips. “I’m not going to kill myself for him or for anybody else from now on. I’ll take care of my business, you take care of yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes. Your business is taking care of me.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do!”

  The edge in her voice infuriated him. He grabbed her violently, started to shake her, then saw the terror in her eyes and didn’t. He let go of her and stepped back. “Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t like being told what to do.” Eyes wide, she said: “You were going to hurt me, weren’t you?”

  “Did I do it?”

  “No, but—”

  “Look, Sunny, I’m tired, nervous—hardly know what the hell I’m doing.”

  “With a temper like that you’ll kill somebody some day.”

  “I never have yet.” He had taken off his jacket, was unbuttoning his shirt.

  “You said that once before.”

  “What are we—on this again?”

  “No, but—that quick, awful temper of yours—it scares me!”

  He walked over, stood looking down at her uplifted face. “Then I’ll have to learn to curb it,” he said simply.

  “W
ill you?”

  “I’ll try. Can’t have a little thing like temper fouling up paradise, can we?”

  “No.”

  “This is a beautiful dress you’re wearing. Let’s not spoil it, either.” He ran his fingers along the nape of her neck, and then up into her hair, his mouth pressed against her ear as he breathed.

  “Joe—” She tried to push away, but felt weak now. Pulling her close against him, he found the zipper on the dress and opened it, kissing her bare shoulder. Exploring down her back, he found the snaps that fastened her brassiere—and suddenly she knew she couldn’t resist him and was as wanton as he was, kissing him, clinging to him—her vague fears forgotten: the premonition of danger that might come if he didn’t return to the gambling room below.

  “I’ll take the dress off,” she whispered.

  “The slip, too.”

  “Yes, the slip, too.”

  Moments later, the bed sheet was cool against her back.

  Twenty-four

  The two most difficult “points” to make are ten and four, since if you rolled anything above or below on the initial “throw,” it would be eleven—natural, or one of the three “crap” numbers: 12, 3, 2. The house will give you two to one odds you won’t make a four or a ten. If you want to bet that you will not only make your point, but make it the hard way with two twos (or two fives) they will lay you eight to one against it. If your point is five or nine, you can get a three to two bet against either number showing.

  There are no odds on eight or six—it is an even money bet.

  It was now 1:03 A.M., and Sprig was unaware of Joe’s temporary absence from the big game. He and Rux had been at the airport, waiting for the midnight plane. They had a description of the incoming Chicago assassin but could have spotted him without it the moment he came down the metal ladder. He was thickset, a man in his late thirties; flashily dressed in cheap clothes, he was chewing the stub of a cigar.

  When he came through into the terminal, they watched from a distance, made no approach; they were waiting for the real quarry—the man who was going to pay him, the person who knew the identity of the group that was trying to muscle its way into Rainbow’s End. All the Chicago torpedo knew or would ever know was that he was to take a fast shot at a difficult target.