The Jack Finney Reader

Home > Other > The Jack Finney Reader > Page 31
The Jack Finney Reader Page 31

by Jack Finney


  Ben put down a dollar, and the new shooter, a hard-looking, shirt-sleeved man in his thirties, glanced appraisingly at the two women. Then, in five rolls, he twice made his point, and again there were four dollars stacked before Ben, and he left them untouched. The man rolled nine, eleven, three, seven, and again Ben's little stack disappeared from the table.

  But with his three-dollar reserve solid in his hand, he slid another dollar to the Line, starting over, and waited for the woman beside him to select her dice. Then she threw a point, tossing the dice skillfully, soon made it, and Ben's dollar became two. She rolled seven, and now there were four silver dollars before Ben. Now, he urged her silently, do it again, and the dice flew out, rolled and stopped; two aces. Crap, a loser; pays double in the field.

  Ben put another dollar down, annoyed now. This woman — all the players — seemed inept, able to make two straight passes, always failing on the important roll; and Ben suddenly wanted the dice himself.

  The woman made a point, carefully ignoring the eyes of the man at her right, and Ben's dollar was doubled. But he had no belief, now, that this woman would repeat even once, and he watched as she rolled a point, then presently seven, a loser, and again his bet disappeared.

  It was Ben's turn now, and he put his dollar on the Line, his right hand empty, ready for the dice. If he built this dollar to eight, he would quit six dollars ahead, and he thought, with a rush of excitement, of telling Rose about that. If he lost — and he knew this was true — he would stop.

  The dice were scattered before him, and he selected two at random, feeling them hard and angular in his fist. Then he threw. The dice bounced, tumbling onto the cloth, and one stopped immediately, showing a six. In an instant, the other stopped, another six up. Crap, a loser! Pays triple in the field. The gray-haired man began gathering up the Line bets.

  Ben shrugged and for a moment, to no purpose, stood staring down at the green cloth. Well, he thought, and started to smile, I've had my fling. Then a stab of fear shot through his stomach, for the moving stick was guiding the dice back toward him again. And now he remembered — a player kept the dice until he'd lost on a seven. Everyone, he realized — the stick man, his partner, every person at the table — fully expected him to shoot again; he'd seen no one who hadn't. And if, instead, he turned from the table, it seemed to Ben that everyone around it would smile in contempt, or even break into laughter.

  In panic and confusion — the eyes of the stick man now regarding him questioningly, the two dice motionless on the cloth before him — Ben hesitated, then reached out helplessly and picked them up. For an instant, frantic for escape, he simply stood holding the dice. Then he slid one of the four dollars in his left hand onto the Line, and threw the dice down the length of the table.

  Sick and angry at his predicament, he had no interest in the dice and didn't bother to watch them. Crap, a loser; double up in the field and beat the come! He swung his head and stared at the ace and deuce on the dice. It was impossible — he wanted to shout out in anger at the callous cruelty of what had happened.

  Knowing that no one could stop him if he turned away, he stood unable to do so under the eyes of these silent people. Thinking wildly of Rose upstairs, he could only — hating every moment — put another dollar out and pick up the dice. Then he threw them out, desperate to lose and get away. Five is the point, the stick man announced, and his partner shifted the marker.

  Wanting only to get it over with, he was simply irritated when the dice showed an eight on the following roll. Then he shot six, a four, a nine, and finally a seven, and his bet was picked up, and he stood in weak, discouraged. anger, bitterly regretting four dollars gone so suddenly, senselessly, and for nothing at all.

  But he did not turn away; he needed a moment before he could make a move to return to Rose. For now his loss was more than he could make up himself; now it was a loss they would feel. He knew how impossible the words were going to sound to her: I lost four dollars playing craps.

  A smartly dressed woman with prematurely gray hair — the sunburned farmer had gone — came out with seven, a winner. Not touching her money, Ben observed dully, she rolled a point, made it, then removed all but a dollar from the table. Now she'll lose, he thought without interest, and presently she did, and it occurred to Ben that she had played more sensibly than he. For three passes in a row — this had been his amateurish mistake, he felt now — was too big a gamble for a man with only a few bets in reserve. Two passes, then take off your winnings, was the only sensible plan for a man with a small stake. Too late, now, he knew that if he had played that way he would be ahead, instead of four dollars behind.

  Not quite able yet to make the movement from the table that would turn his loss into finality, he stood with his fingers idly sliding the two silver dollars in his hand one against the other. He glanced down at them. They seemed, now, to be only the remnant, in unfamiliar coins, of his creased and genuine five-dollar bill. He begrudged that bill, once so securely tucked in his wallet; and now as he stared at the shiny, unreal coins in his hand, a thought lay full-born in his mind. To bet one of them on just two passes, and win, would leave him exactly a dollar behind — just as he'd planned when he entered this room.

  The strength of the temptation frightened him — already his mind was frantically reminding itself that again and again he had seen two passes made. For a moment of utter clarity, he was able to observe his own mind and emotions and, for just that moment, understand the terrible hold of gambling. It offered, as life seldom did in any other way, the lure of a tiny miracle. For it was a fact that in a matter of seconds he might be able to turn from this table smiling, able to tell Rose casually that he had lost a dollar at craps and that was all.

  To accept his loss as final, instead, to turn and walk upstairs to Rose, seemed utterly empty and barren now. He shut his mind against consequences, and slid a dollar onto the Line as the fat young man in the Hawaiian shirt selected two dice.

  He won; the man rolled a ten and repeated it a few rolls later, and Ben stood, his dollar in his sweating fist, his eyes on the two dollars now on the table, waiting to win just once more and leave. The fat young man rolled ten for a point again; then six, then five, a six, an eleven, and a seven, and Ben's two dollars were scooped up.

  There was nothing else to do; it required no thought; Ben put the last dollar down. Now a new player — a young man in a tweed jacket who laid down a ten-dollar bill as his bet — rolled a point and made it, and Ben stood staring at his doubled bet.

  The tweed sleeve reached for the dice again, and Ben suddenly reached out and picked up his two dollars. For if this bet were lost, his loss would be final, and suddenly the risk was too much to bear. He watched as the young man threw eleven, a winner, and he very nearly moaned aloud. He would not bet, now, on a third pass, and stood watching as the young man rolled a point, then lost with a seven.

  Two passes in a row and stick to it — stick to it, damn it! — Ben put down a dollar as the next shooter, a young Mexican, picked out two dice. Then the man rolled, crying, Huh! as the dice left his hand, and soon made a point. Ben let the bet stand. Huh! — the man rolled a point, then lost on a seven the very next roll, and Ben put down his last dollar. Huh! — a five. Then four more rolls of the dice, then a seven, and Ben's last dollar was gone.

  Frantic images flared up in his mind — himself reaching out, snatching six dollars from the racks, then running from the room and down the street till he could not be found; himself, all shame ignored, pleading for the return of his money; or sidling around the table, and sneaking six — He made himself stop, forcing himself to think about what had happened to him. He simply could not afford to lose six dollars.

  He stood and saw the dice roll eleven, saw the young dealer reach out and count the dollars, ten of them, lying stacked on the eleven-square, marked 15 to 1. Then, unbelievably — his attention focusing — he saw the dealer slide stack after stack of silver dollars across the green cloth to the cigar-sm
oking man who had bet on eleven — an incredible mass of silver, a hundred and fifty dollars, won on a single roll of the dice. It seemed to Ben bitterly unacceptable that so much money should be paid out unquestioningly by the very people to whom his six dollars had gone.

  He put his hands on the table ledge and, hearing nothing of the sounds around him now, planned the phrases that would explain to Rose that now they were below the minimum, that there simply wasn't enough money left. There had never been quite enough, and now they faced the necessity of his finding a job almost instantly.

  He knew that up there in the quiet room, away from this table, she would simply not understand how he could have done what he had. He knew how it had happened, he felt. Staring at the green cloth, he could feel it, but he could not find the words to make it real to Rose. It had something to do — he wondered if this would mean anything to Rose — with committing himself to only one more dollar each time he had lost. For a conviction lay in him that if, in the beginning, he had walked into this room committed in his mind to a six-dollar stake, he would have won. A solid reserve in your hand, without everything depending on any one bet, would see you through the losing bets and into the winning ones.

  Knowing this, he knew how he could get his six dollars back; but he knew it without excitement or anything but hopelessness, for it was an impossible thing to do. He knew it would work. With a betting reserve of twenty dollars, he would be quite certain, at one point or another, of running into the winning throws that would suddenly restore all his lost money.

  But, standing with his hands on the table ledge, he did not move. His heart was starting to pound, but he could not bring himself to take out his wallet. For those very bills had been saved over months, and they were real, and needed.

  Then his mind swung to the alternative; in less than a minute to be speaking to Rose. The thing was — his hands clenched on the ledge — he knew how to get his money back; but to make even the little movements necessary to begin took all the strength he had. Unbuttoning his hip pocket, he slid out his wallet and removed one bill. Then he tossed it onto the table before the dealer, who picked off a two-inch stack of silver dollars and handed it over to Ben.

  Instantly, Ben's body relaxed and he could actually feel the tenseness flow out of his muscles. Now, finally, he was off the thin ice. It no longer mattered what happened on the next or any one bet. Only the long run counted, and he was at last prepared to wait it out.

  Coming out for a point! Again he was aware of the sights and sounds around him, and he saw that the shy, middle-aged woman had the dice. Ben put down a dollar, lost it, and then lost another, almost cheerfully. Casually, he slid his next bet onto the Line, the reassuring weight of seventeen silver dollars heavy on his palm.

  The young Air Force corporal rolled a point and quickly made it. Then he came out with seven, a winner, and there were four dollars on the table before Ben, and he carefully took three of them off. There were twenty dollars back in his hand now and another on the table; already he was better off than he had been before he took out the twenty. He had taken the first step toward getting back his money, and the very moment he did get it back, Ben knew he would turn from the table. He allowed himself the pleasure of deciding to have his money changed, at the cashier's window across the room, into precisely the units — a twenty, a five, and two half dollars — that he had passed across this table.

  The dice moved from player to player; the elderly man in the sombrero; the handsome sun-tanned woman; a salesman who stopped at the table for two minutes. Ben won and he lost. Craps, a loser! Seven, a winner! Six, the hard way; front-line winner! Threw crap, front-line loser, pay the field! Made a nine, pay the line! He held twenty-four silver dollars in his hand and had to think about quitting only two dollars behind, but it seemed important now to leave this room with no loss at all.

  The young man in tweed threw craps three times, then failed to make his point on the following roll. But this run seemed freakish, and several players commented on it. Then, through four more players, no one made two passes, and he was down to sixteen dollars, then fourteen; then, when the dice changed hands again, up to eighteen. Through six players he neither won nor lost; the dice were dead, and the shirt-sleeved man remarked on it.

  Ben was confident; lightly tense, but confident. It wasn't possible, betting only a dollar at a time, to lose the heavy mass of silver, that lay in his hand. He followed his plan; two passes in a row, then take off the winnings. He was confident, yet always, at the back of his mind, lay the terror that something would go wrong.

  Too many people were monotonously making only one pass, and the stack lay lighter in his hand; he could close his fingers around it. Then the Hawaiian shirt made four straight passes; twice Ben took off three dollars' winnings, and the stack in his hand was heavy again. Then, around half the table, out of seven shooters, five made not even one pass, and no one made two; Ben counted his stack; he held eleven dollars. Then he lost two and had nine, and when be put down his bet, there were eight silver dollars in his fist.

  In his turn with the dice, he made two passes, collecting three dollars, then rolled four for a point and lost. When the dice reached the Hawaiian shirt again, there were six dollars in his hand, and he knew in his stomach that he would lose them.

  There was nothing to do about it, and he did not consider doing anything; the coins in his hand were nothing but bets. Each time he won or lost, he added the sum, hopeless now, that these remaining few coins must somehow bring back. Several times the dice made two successive passes, and he was back to eleven dollars. Then he lost almost steadily, occasionally taking off three dollars' winnings but, in between, paying out a dollar at a time, down to six, five, then four dollars in his hand.

  He did not understand it. It seemed impossible that the dice could keep on winning once, losing again, winning once more, then losing again; so rarely winning twice in a row. But they did. He had three dollars, then two, then watched seven, a loser, come up, and he slid the last dollar onto the Line, his hands impossibly empty.

  And then he lost it, and turned away, toward the elevators, to tell Rose simply and bleakly, no longer hunting for phrases, the impossible news that be had lost twenty-six dollars and there was simply not enough money to go on to San Francisco. …

  She was asleep. Ben was astounded, standing in the open doorway, to see Rose motionless on the bed, breathing quietly. He glanced at his watch and saw that he had been gone only thirty-five minutes.

  Crossing the room on tiptoes, he sat down in the big chair facing Rose, grateful for the reprieve, yet dreading the wait. After a moment, he dropped his head back, staring at the ceiling, and presently he had decided what they would do.

  Rose must go home. The one bill in his wallet, plus the refund he could get from his bus ticket, would send her back to friends who would at least give her shelter and food. Meanwhile, he would stay here in Reno and work, at anything he could get, keeping not even money for his next meal till he found a way to earn it.

  If Rose should want to stay here? Both of them to work, anywhere, at anything, until they could move on again? He would not allow it. Just over the mountains from San Francisco, they had to turn and go back. The loss of twenty-six dollars meant just that. Rose had to go home.

  And now he gave himself up to hopelessness. From the moment Rose should wake up, there was nothing but hopelessness in the future. For even when, finally, he should be home and working again, where would they be? Only back where they'd been a month after he'd gotten out of the Army in 1945. Then to save up, once again … The road back was too long, and, slumping in his chair, watching Rose breathing quietly on the bed, Ben wondered if he were seeing her for the last time.

  Sitting, waiting, he badly wanted a cigarette, but he was desperately afraid of any sound that might wake Rose up. For, his decision made, he dreaded the moment of facing her with it. And, like an animal in a pit, his mind began to leap against the walls of his predicament, scrabbling for
escape: and the idea, apparently out of nowhere, to go downstairs again and bet their last twenty dollars, all at once, do or die, almost made him moan in despair.

  But his heart began pounding, his breath suddenly short, and he could not stop his brain from playing frantically with the idea. To actually do it, to win — not three times now, or even twice, but only once — would turn the impossible back into the possible. In two minutes he might have doubled their money, turned despair into wild hope, and he knew what he would do then. He would eat only once a day. He would tell Rose what had happened, and no matter what she said — there was an exultant smile on his face — he would make up six dollars by eating once a day; the cheapest, heaviest food he could find. Then, once more, they could live for a week in San Francisco, and he would find a job in that time if he had to hunt twenty hours a day.

  He wanted to do it; now; bet this last bill! He was sick with the violent urge to cross this room, step into the hall, then actually run down the corridor before the reaction of cold reason could kill this final reprieve. But be made himself think. What if he lost? At the same time, deliberately building the frightened excitement, he had taken out his wallet, and was staring down at the single twenty-dollar bill, and suddenly there were pricklings of sweat on his forehead. If he lost? There was no answer; it was an unthinkable situation to consider.

  Then the pendulum of his mind swung to the alternative, and nothing could beat down the raging, heedless impulse to bet this bill just once and win. Closing his mind off from everything but the minutes ahead — in a frenzy of fear and exultation — he stood up. Then he crossed the room and soundlessly opened the door. …

  The big room and its sounds were unchanged. Most of the players were still at the table. There were two new players: a pale, plain girl smiling brightly at the novelty of gambling, and a man in a pink sport shirt. He had slick black hair, and a lined, deeply tanned face. After a moment, Ben recognized him as a minor movie actor whom he no longer saw in pictures. The man was betting five-dollar chips.

 

‹ Prev