“Seven A.M.—if I got anyone to deal to.”
Prick. I take a break from the table to change my luck. In the can I splash cold water on my face and take stock of the situation. I’ll have to force the pace if I’m to get what I need out of here tonight, and there’s only one way to do that. I decide to jack my base bet to a hundred. That means I’ll be laying up to fìve hundred a hand when the count runs in my favor. I could flame out in a hurry at those stakes, but at this point I don’t have much choice. Coming out of here with a few grand won’t do me any good. Either I win big, or it doesn’t much matter if I win at all.
I have a few things going for me. My early losing streak killed any suspicions Gino might have had. He watched me real close at the start, but the more I lost the more he relaxed, and by the time I cashed in my fourth grand he was bobbing up on his heels like a maître d’.
Vito’s dealing helps, too. A lot of casinos will sic a speed demon on you, forcing you to tip your hand by hunching over the cards and blocking out the world to keep the count. Vito is so slow I can chat up the waitress and still count away.
As for me, I’ve done my part. Played the role of the drunk beginner to the hilt. Been taking my time over the cards, as if unsure, and cursing or throwing my hands up when I bust. Been making a show of my drinking, too, by downing the first one real quick and waving my glass around. No question Gino and Vito have bought in. Hell, I have them just where I want them—figuring me for an easy mark. Now all I have to do is prove them wrong.
I ditch the rest of my vodka in the sink and fill the glass with water. On the way back to the table I stop at the jukebox and play all the Creedence and Dead I can find. The next hour could make or break me and I want everything just right. “Fortunate Son” kicks in as I sit back down, and as I slide a hundred bucks into the betting circle I feel cool and focused.
The new shoe opens with a slew of low cards. A few hands into the deck the count is at plus ten. This means a lot of high cards are on their way, which is good news for me. It also means it’s time to put up or shut up. I take a good belt of water and start pushing the big bets out there.
The first time I bet five hundred on a hand Vito turns for the okay and Gino waves him on. I let out a breath. If Gino balks at those stakes, I never get a shot at the tear I need. I sneak a look at him. I know just what he’s thinking, behind those shades. If the kid can drop three grand at a hundred a hand, what’s he gonna leave here at these stakes? Gino’s feeling pretty good right now. He has himself a sucker and he figures to milk him. What Gino’s not figuring on is the count.
My comeback starts with a hand that seems like a goner. I split twos against a fìve, fìve hundred on each, and wind up with a pair of twelves. Vito has a six in the hole for eleven. Looks like I’m out a grand, but he draws an ace to give him twelve and then a face card to bust it. I’m off.
A run of cards is something to see. Most times blackjack is ebb and flow. You win some, you lose some. Over time your luck adds up, good or bad, and you go home up or down. A good run, though, is magic. It comes from out of nowhere, like a twister, and by the time it sets you down again, you’re in the money.
My luck turns and turns hard. Bad as it was early, it’s twice as good now. I win four hands in a row, lose one, then win four more. Still the deck runs favorable and my bets stay high. Blackjacks, so scarce a little while ago, are pouring out every few hands now, and landing in front of me instead of Vito. All of a sudden the guy can’t beat me. If he has 19, I have 20. If he has 20, I have 21. I can’t get my bets down fast enough.
One-on-one with the dealer you can win or lose with stunning speed. Five hundred a hand, three or four hands a minute, it all adds up in a hurry. In no time I’m in the black.
Vito shuffles the decks, stacks the cards back in the shoe and starts in on a new deal. My luck holds. Low cards come out early again, so I keep the big bets coming. I play two hands at once. Five hundred, even six hundred a pop. And I keep winning. Every which way you can, too. Splitting cards, doubling down, sticking on low totals. I’m so hot that when the count evens out again I don’t lower my bet.
As the roll keeps on, the crowd at the table gets behind me, like crowds will behind a winner. Guys high-five me after every blackjack, and whoop it up and bang the back of my chair. A few of the ladies take a sudden interest in the handsome guy with the big stack of chips, and rub my brush cut for luck between hands.
Vito is not taking all this well at all. He keeps turning to Gino, saying, “I can’t believe it, boss. I never seen nothing like it.”
Gino himself stands stone-straight now, his eyes leaving the table only to go to me. The dumb grin on my face says I’m pissing myself at the luck, no idea where it’s coming from. When the waitress brings a drink I won’t let her leave until I lose a hand, then I give her a five for herself and one for the jukebox and tell her to keep the Creedence coming.
Vito deals out the shoe again and starts in on a third one. I lose a few hands early, but then go right back on my tear. Lady Luck herself, it seems, is handing me the cards. I hit a sixteen and pull a five. I stick on a twelve and Vito busts. I double down my soft eighteen and the three of hearts, the very card I imagined, falls to the felt and nudges me to twenty-one.
As my winnings pile up I start cashing in two grand at a time. I’m not about to risk saving all my chips until the end. Gino doesn’t like it, but what can he do? I have a lot more of his money than he has of mine now. If he wants to keep me at the table, he can’t afford to piss me off.
The sweetest point of the night comes when Gino rushes to the back for more dough. I say a silent toast for Atlantic City, for all of us who walked the boardwalk with our heads down or stood desperate at the credit machines, taking out money we didn’t have to win back money we couldn’t afford to lose in the first place. Every gambler dreams of breaking the house, and now I know the feeling.
Gino hurries back with the money, afraid I might leave on him. What a sap. Here he is, desperate to keep me at the table, where I sit three feet away from him, counting my ass off, killing him in his own joint. Taking half the cut from his last hit, probably, while all the while he figures it for a hot streak and waits for me to give it back. No wonder these guys all wind up in the clink.
My run lasts for three shoes and when it finishes I’m loaded. Gino would be on to me if I try to cut out, so I stay put. I’m not about to chance giving back my stash, though. I knock my bets down to ten bucks and relax. Stop counting, even. Just spend the next hour sipping tall vodka tonics and playing basic strategy. I win a little, lose a little, but it hardly matters anymore. I’m like the winning quarterback in the last minutes of a rout, all the big plays behind me and the outcome determined. I’m simply running out the clock.
Only now, once I’ve buried him, does Gino seem to think something’s up. Twice he tells Vito to stop in the middle of the deal and shuffle the cards.
“If you don’t mind,” he says, glaring at me.
“Not at all.”
The second time he does it I go to the can to count my winnings. I count my pile twice before I believe it: $15,225 to the good. I look at the stall door in front of me and let out a breath. Damn near say a prayer of thanks.
Time for me to clear out. When your luck’s been as good as mine, you don’t give it a chance to turn on you. With Gino ordering shuffles, and the sun almost up, I’ve gotten all there is to get out of this place. I weave back to the table and say I want to cash in.
The vibes coming off the Italians are not good. Vito counts out my bills in harsh strokes, glaring at me between hundreds. Gino must have given the word while I was in the can, because the bartenders are rounding up glasses and starting to move people toward the door. It’s almost 6 A.M.
As I put the money away Gino steps from behind the table and I see for the first time how big he really is. Almost as tall as me and a good fifty pounds heavier.
“What’s your name, kid?” he asks.
�
��Alex.”
“Alex what?”
“Kevins.”
“That was quite a run you had tonight, Alex.”
“I’ll say. Can you believe it?”
He steps closer and folds his arms over his chest.
“You ever played blackjack before, Alex?”
“Sure. Just with the fellas, though. Nothing ever like this.”
“You seem to know what you’re doing.”
“He sure did,” Vito chips in. “I never seen nothing like it.”
I give a humble shrug. “Heck, I’ll probably give it all back next week. I just had one of those nights. You saw me—everything I did turned out right.”
“Yeah.” Gino leans toward me without moving his feet. “You got a business card, Alex?” He takes off his shades. “Sometimes we run specials.”
I pat my pockets. “Left all that stuff at home.”
Vito edges around the table and takes up a spot between me and the door to the front room. I notice that all of a sudden the place is nearly empty. I turn to go but Gino speaks up again.
“Alex, how about stepping into my office a minute.”
It isn’t a request, and it hits me that in all my planning I never gave any thought to an exit. One thing I’m not going to do is spend any time in the back with Gino and Vito.
“I would but I’m bushed, guys. Next time, okay?”
I see from Vito’s stance that he doesn’t figure on letting me by. I try to gauge the best route past him, but his eyes are on me for any moves.
“Hey, it’s the bullfighter!”
Brushing past Vito comes Grace, the blonde Dave cornered here last week. She walks right up to me.
“No fights on Sundays?”
Cindy Crawford never looked so good. I take Grace’s hands in my right hand and with my left around her shoulder I say, “Guys, meet my fiancée. Fiancée, the guys.” I spin Grace to Vito, then back to Gino. “We have to go now. Fiancée needs her sleep.”
Vito stays put. He takes a nod from Gino and pats his coat under his armpit, his eyes still on mine. Grace is working about thirty seconds behind the rest of us. “Fiancée?”
The few customers left in the place have spotted the commotion and are looking over. Now or never, Tom. I step to Gino, drop the grin and slur and speak in a clear voice.
“Here’s how it works. I won my money fair and square. Now the girl and I are leaving.”
The game is over. Gino knows the truth and I know he knows. But I have him. He’ll have to pull a gun to stop me, and he can’t do that, not in front of customers. He looks past me and shakes his head ever so slightly at Vito.
I have a tight hold of Grace now. I pull her past Vito, who doesn’t step aside but doesn’t stop me. Boy, does he look pissed, though. At the front stairs I turn for a last look back at Gino. I wish I hadn’t. His big arms are still crossed, his face red, and his eyes tight and hard on me. He looks like a guy with revenge on his made-up mind. Up on the street I let go of Grace and flag a cab.
“Sorry to drag you out of there, but if I were you I wouldn’t go back. Those men are gangsters.”
“Really?” Her eyes are wide. “So what are you, a cop too?”
“Something like that. I gotta go.” I jump into the cab.
“Hey wait, wait.”
I roll down the window.
“Tell your friend to call me. He said he’d take me flying.”
I tell the cabbie “Brooklyn” and keep my eyes out the back of it until we’re over the bridge. Brooklyn always gets painted as a hole, but she looks sweet to me this morning. I have him take Flatbush to Fourth Avenue, cut up through the Slope, head to Grand Army Plaza, circle the block twice, and let me out at the big statue.
In the early morning only a few people are out with their dogs. I walk down into the subway, buy a token and stand close by the booth till the train comes. I choose the middle car and take a seat by the biggest guy in it.
I pick up an old Post, and with my heart still going three beats a second and twenty-five grand tucked into my crotch, I nod to the Rastafarian across from me and ride home.
I COME IN THE DOOR to an empty apartment and a note on the fridge from Molly. “Off to the Met and more, will return in the P.M.” On the answering machine is a message Dave must have left this morning. He says they’re in the finals, that the stiffs they’re up against don’t know a 7-iron from a hard-on, and that I should consider the money won.
I walk to the bedroom, dump all the cash on the bed and fall on top of it. I toss a few stacks in the air. Man, what a night. I should have been an Old West gambler. Riding from one tombstone town to the next, fleecing the locals in the saloon, and tipping my hat to the madams on the way out. I make a pillow out of five thousand bucks or so, relax and close my eyes.
Dave’s phone call wakes me at noon.
“Just starting the back nine, partner.”
“What’s the story?”
We’re down a little, but nothing we can’t handle.”
“Down? I thought these guys were pushovers.”
“I did, too, but seems Junior’s been practicing. And I can’t put two good holes together. Lucky for me it’s match play.”
“Jesus, Dave. Will Dad still give you the money if you don’t win?”
He laughs. “If we don’t win, Tom, he won’t give me a ride to the station.”
“How far are you down?”
“Gotta go. I’ll call you from the clubhouse.”
I hang up and lie awake, looking up at the ceiling. I hate to sound greedy after the night I had, but I could sure use this fìve grand. At three the phone rings again.
“I hope your bank takes third-party checks, Tom.”
“You won?”
“Never in doubt. The one-hole playoff was just for show.”
“Christ. And Dad? He came through with the money?”
“But of course.”
“Dave, you’re a champ. How’d the lecture go?”
“I wish I had a tape of it. It was in the top fìve.”
“You done good, Dave. Speaking of fund-raising, though, I haven’t had a bad weekend myself. I paid Gino a little return visit.”
“Gino?”
“Yeah. If you weren’t so busy bird-dogging young women, you might have noticed he runs a blackjack game in the back. I took a crack at that game last night.”
“And?”
“And I took the bastard for fifteen grand.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Swear to God.”
“Jesus, Tom. You took fifteen grand off of Gino? And I thought I was kicking some ass.”
“Not bad, huh?”
“I’ll say. Goddamn. Tom, he doesn’t know where you live, does he?”
“No.”
“Keep it that way. You have any idea who he’s connected to?”
“I can guess.”
“You guessed right. Trust me, you don’t want to be on a first-name basis with that crowd. They play for keeps.”
“Don’t worry—they’ve seen the last of me.”
“Damn, Tom. Fifteen grand … So, what’s the tally?”
“Well, if my math is right we’ve got ten grand to go.”
“And five days to raise it. Any ideas?”
“Yeah. Actually, I’ve got one that might put us in the clear.”
“Run it by me.”
“Tell you what, Dave. Let me see if it’s any good first. I’ll give you a call tomorrow. If this pans out we’ll be all set. If it doesn’t, we’ll have some brainstorming to do.”
“Sounds good. I’m off for some celebrating here. The sister of the guy we beat can’t take her eyes off me, and I’m in the mood to do a little consoling.”
“Good luck. And thanks, Dave.”
“What’s a friend for?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I’M BRINGING the team in for a grand apiece.
Only thing is, they don’t know the money’s on the dart match. They think it
’s going on a horse.
I’ve told the story four times now and it sounds so good I half believe it myself. The horse’s name is Spirit, and the sure tip comes straight from his trainer. Spirit has been hurt all season and is sure to go off a long shot. Spirit is healthy, though, and running times in his workouts he never came close to before the injury. More than that, Spirit is a mudder. The track is wet already, more rain is on the way, and the other mudder in the field pulled out last week. The clincher? We’re only betting him to show. Knocks the profit way down, sure, but at these stakes we need a lock, and you could sleep at the track all season and not get wind of a better one.
The gang trusts me because a few months ago I really did come through on a horse. We got smashed one dart night and I talked everyone into tossing twenty bucks on a French flier I had a hunch on in the Belmont. We bet her to win, she came across at 4–1 and I looked like a genius. So when I called around last night and laid Spirit on real thick, everyone came aboard. Pretty shitty, I know, but I’ll make it up to them. We’ll win the dart match, I’ll cut them in, and no one ever has to know the difference.
So now I’m in a booth at Pete’s Tavern Monday night, waiting for Claire. She’s due here any minute with her thousand. I order a pitcher and two mugs from the waitress, and when she brings them I fill one and take a long sip.
There’s always been a little something between me and Claire. We met sophomore year in math. I was better at it than she was, prepped her for a couple of quizzes, and soon was flirting in the casual way you can with some girls. I was in one of my stretches at the time, I remember. All semester without a whiff.
One night at a frat party I got loaded and came on to her. I was none too subtle, apparently, but instead of slapping me one Claire just held me off in that cool way of hers and struck up a deal. Don’t ask me how we got from point A to point B, but the upshot was we’d meet every Wednesday for Scrabble. If she won I had to do her math homework, and if I won she had to fuck me.
Balling the Jack Page 14